From a rather repetitive anti-hipster Adbusters article which, stoner-like, states really obvious things as if they are profound realizations, at least this observational gem emerged: “The dance floor at a hipster party looks like it should be surrounded by quotation marks.” I instantly imagined this delightful hipster party in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials universe, the air above the dancefloor thick with quotation mark dæmons all glowering at each other.
While I try to find the time to write about the Bangkok tranny who laughed out loud at the immensity of my hips, and the go-go boys who played soccer with their dicks, you may wish to partake of some rather more refined knob jokes. I present to you hipster erotica:
“Sufjan Stevens and I sat on the edge of my bed and talked for hours about everything. It sounds dumb to say it, but he actually gets me. He said that I was one of the most genuine people he’d ever met, and that I was actually cool, not like one of those people who obviously wants to be cool, but who just is, like a coolness that comes from deep within and is as much a refutation of cool as an embrace of it.”
As usual, I woke up late, threw on some clothes, grabbed my bag and headed out for my morning lectures. Later, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and was slightly horrified at my indie conformity – black Sonic Youth T-shirt, black plastic specs, bedhead hair, copy of Garden State in my hand. If I were a jock, I’d beat me up.
So tomorrow I’m wearing an orange halter-neck top and skanky hoop earrings. Better ho than hipster.