Here's my fourth, and final, answer to the now way, way, below inquiry:

Hipster Nightwear: Think of it this way. Hipsters, like almost all kids of our generation, grew up wearing Underoos. Only hipsters never really stopped wearing them. In fact most hipsters ' Underoos habit spilled out into the daytime, and I can only imagine the smirking delight on the face of any hipster who happened upon a pile of my play-doh stained Yoda and Superwoman Underoos that my mother probably gave to Goodwill in 1986 or so. I guarantee they'd be sold for top dollar at some fucking boutique in Williamsburg or the Lower East Side, and the Play-Doh and Cheetos stains would be left as is for an extra $100. I can't even imagine what kind of money my piss-stained Star Wars bed sheets would nab. Could this really be true? It sounds as if I'm writing about some bizarre alternate universe where the value system is completely swapped. Do we eat through our asses now and shit out our mouths too? Do we say 'no' when we mean 'yes'? Anybody who doesn't buy my Underoos argument need only look as far the Biggest and most recognized hipster cliché available this side of Black-Framed specs — the ironic T-shirt. This is the Underoo for people who fancy themselves too mature and sarcastic to wear Underoos anymore.

I get a lot of inquisitive mail from this site and now I've got a question of my own for all the shiteating hipsters out there: When you squeeze your badly tattooed ass into those children's-sized corduroys and that alligator T-shirt do you ever get the feeling that there's some fatal flaw surrounding your fashion choice? Is there ever a shred of counter-intuitive tow? Do you ever ask 'Is this me? Is this really me?' My guess is that the lot of you started out that way, like a burglar might just before the first break in. But then you just shut your instincts down and did it until it became you. But you're too far-gone, the most of you, to do anything about it. You've got CMJ shoved so far up your ass that you're spewing Paris Texas and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Well here's your fucking wake up call: Neah Neah Neah!

However, hipster fashion dictates seem to point to not wearing any pajamas at all but instead wearing your clothes to bed — mesh trucker cap and all — in order to get that tousled and well-worn look so prized by the fashionista. And forget about Underoos, I think it's safe to say they're now Overoos. And what do hipsters dream about? Here's a couple of possibilities: Hanging out in a beachside cabana doing acid with Brian Wilson and the Maharishi who are both 'woofing' like dogs and talking about how great the I-Pod is when suddenly a wood-paneled Studebaker pulls up on the sand carrying the rest of the Beach Boys and they're singing 'God Only Knows' to you. Then Brian Wilson starts dancing around in a grass skirt made of shoelaces and tells you he's leaving the band so you can have an exclusive interview with him, and meanwhile the rest of the band has morphed into the cast of the Lord of The Flies and they start chasing the Maharishi around with giant flesh-covered Crayolas and you wake up feasting on the Maharishi's sucking thigh. Or, drinking Black Label out of giant aluminum grails in a nameless Midwestern garage with Bob Pollard, but the garage is also a classroom and Pollard is forcing you to practice your cursive and recite your name and address and he keeps calling you 'little boy' and instead of a tennis ball hanging from the garage ceiling there's a shotgun and the garage door is a shooting range. When you try to leave Stephen Malkmus tells you there's land mines all over the lawn and that you can't have your allowance this week because he fired his drummer and he hops off the riding lawnmower and tells you you'd better get started mowing and you wake up after you cut your lip on the edge of one of the giant aluminum beer grails because you hit a landmine while mowing the lawn. Or, wearing leather pants and walking down Ludlow street before hopping into a graffiti-covered limousine where the Strokes are all circle-jerking onto a sun-dried tomato pita in the center of an empty Jacuzzi and singing the Dr. Pepper theme song with their dirty locks tossing around aimlessly.