Time to answer some of your questions. What I have done is read everything I got from you, and then swiftly erase it so as to make only the most striking and fundamental questions rise to the top of my memory. As you might guess, many of these questions revolve around a central theme: How do I define myself? It's a fair question to ask, after all, here I am bagging on hipsters, a 'naysayer', but where the hell do I get off, right?

Simply put: Every situation I have encountered with hipsters, every conversation I have ever entered, has been a complete disappointment, a repulsive disgrace. Why you ask? Because hipsters don't know how to speak, they only know how to mimic. Every syllable is as hollow as a chocolate bunny, and what's more, instead of keeping their miserable mouths shut until they DO have something to say, they twist and tangle genuine expression into an embarrassingly ill-concocted 'ironic' sludge. I suppose I first noticed this trend five or six years ago when upon striking up a little chit-chat with a roundly tattooed and chain-walleted fellow at a coffeeshop (Eugene), every communication hinged upon some matter of taste: This band, that 'film,' what type of beer I drank ('dude, you should really try Black Label') and on and on and on and on and on he dragged me around this barometric tether of trivia. I shook my head, and finally (against my good instincts) I agreed to attend a gathering of his friends. It would be nice to say: 'Little did I know ...' but of course Eugene made it abundantly clear that I was (by this lucky fluke) about to enter at the very top of the hipster food chain, on the very cutting edge of cool, on the precipice of pragmatism: I was invited to his Guided By Voices listening party. This was an affair I shall never forget: the Pollard story, the Pollard pose, the Pollard shirt, the Pollard drink, the Pollard sing-along, the endless stream of homoerotic jokes (rendered all the more pathetic by the near absence of women). There was one other woman there: 'Ophelia,' a tweedy, frumpy, spectacled, couch-bound little wench who thumbed ferociously through a copy of Art Forum the whole time. An affair to remember, indeed. One especially contemptuous pug of a man who smelled of moth balls and wore a tucked-in western-cut polyester button-down (yee-haw) and a pair of thick, black-framed specs set himself to the task of 'documenting this party,' with his Polaroid (how very quaint) and as I left he endowed me with a pile of shots (most taken at reverse arm's length with his throbbing little face squashed against another stoically posed hipster) and said in shocking earnestness, hushed whisper: "hang on to these Aimee, someday they'll be worth something."

These are, of course, the self-styled artists of our time. And I left that party with the one giant question about hipsters, one that I still have not been able to answer, the one that drives me to cringe at their very presence: How in God's name could a group of people so fanatically guided with being critically tasteful, possess such a profound retardation of taste? When it comes down to things as basic as conversational skills and genuine interaction these people rely on quoting Sixteen Candles and Evil Dead II. So you ask: How do I identify myself? I believe we define ourselves primarily in opposition to others, and since I don't readily identify myself positively with any group, my only instinct is to ally myself in the way that comes naturally: I am an Anti-Hipster. I don't know any other way to put it. This is to say that I struggle to find a mode of expression that does not rely on bending the mental refuse of popular culture (song lyrics, movie lines, advertising jingles) into some kind of ironic code that can only be interpreted by those who 'speak the language,' because I find those who speak the language absurd, and I find the language itself absurd.

And like the hipster lingua franca, the hipster environ (think Disney's Mainstreet U.S.A) is replicated in the Mission Districts and Williamsburgs of America, its residents (think giant plush Mickeys and Minnies, and Plutos and Snow Whites) staggering along the vapid streets around bartime chanting Ted Nugent songs and dangling copies of Paper and Shout and the Village Voice and the Weekly from their little purses Sunday afternoon, cackling their way to mimosa brunches to argue the finer points of the post-punk scene. I have slowly grown to despise them.

It's time again for my New York City Hipster snapshot of the week:

Roughing It — A Loft Somewhere in East Williamsburg (via telephone), Oct. 23, 2001

So I was looking for a new apartment and I was getting pretty fucking sick of tearing the little tabs from the posters rendered in the wonky, bubbly hand of hipsters holed-up all along Bedford Ave. And I was getting so desperate that when I saw one that looked promising (i.e. no digital pictures of the room, no need to be 'cool' or 'laid back' or a 'quiet non-smoker,' no exclamation marks!!!) I tore the whole goddamned thing down and stuffed it into my bag — I didn't need anymore competition. I paid three bucks for a cup of coffee. They didn't leave room in the top for milk, they only had the little individual sugar packets (fair-trade my ass), and I couldn't find a fucking bench to sit down on. All the seats inside the cafι were occupied, all aglow with the undisturbed throbbing luminescence of the Apple I-Books. Goddamned hipsters.

Jennie, I'm told by a mutual friend, has a room available in her "beautiful loft" somewhere in Williamsburg. I've heard this name before, Jennie. This is Jennie with whom I would "get along well," who has "great taste," who is "really really cool."
So I call — Jennie.

"Hello?"
"Hi, I'm trying to reach Jennie, is she around?"
"Hold on okay?"
(drilling sounds, falling planks, Strokes)
"Hello?"
"Yeah, hi! I'm trying to reach Jennie about the room for rent?"
"Oh, I didn't know they had a room for rent."
"Oh, well, I'm not sure …"
"But that doesn't mean they don't have a room for rent," (British man's voice, panting, seething.)
"Okay, um. Is Jennie around?"
"No I think she went to pick up some gesso."
"Okay … I'll just try back,"
"Hold on, She might be here," he says. "Uri! Hey Uri! Is Jennie here?"
"James! Jaaaaames! Is Jennie here?"
"Manuel! Have you seen Jennie around?"
"Esmerelda! Esmerelda! You haven't seen Jennie around have you?"
"Kevin! Keeeviiiin!! Did you happen to see Jennie around?"
"Sorry, doesn't look like she's here. I'll have her call you though, what's your name?"
"Would you tell her Aimee called, Anna's friend Aimee. Okay?"
"Will do, I'll tell her. Does she have your number?"
"Yeah, she should."
"Okay, Cheers."

LATER

"Hi, I'm looking for Aimee?"
(A note on Jennie's voice: Everything she says ends with a question mark, a Californian I suspect. And her voice is deep, and it sounds like she's chewing on something rubbery.)
"This is she. Is this Jennie?"
"Yes," she said. "Hey, sorry about earlier, Jimbo was trying to put up some sheet rock and he was like totally into it."
"It's okay. Thanks for calling back; it's good to finally talk to you. I've heard a lot about you from Anna."
"Yeah totally, can you hold on a sec?"
(clinking glasses, laughing)
"Okay sorry. It's Aimee right?"
"Yes," I said
"Okay good. Sorry, I'm like totally at a bar and it's totally loud. So you want to move in or something right?"
"Well, yeah, maybe. I'm looking for a room and Anna recommended you, she said you have a great place somewhere in Williamsburg."
"Yeah, it's totally cool," Jennie said.
"So, can you tell me a little bit about it?"
"It's a beautiful 2,000 square foot loft in East Williamsburg. We just moved in a few months ago. Umm, we'd have to figure out something for you because the rooms aren't exactly all ironed out yet. But when are you looking for a place?"
"By the end of the month."
"Oh, okay. Hmm, we'll have to figure some stuff out because I have a friend coming in from San Fran next week and he might be here for a while, and Esmerelda has her boyfriend here, but he's never even there because he plays in a band and I think they might be going on tour for a while or something. She might be going with them so I dunno what's up with that. You could, if you wanted to, sleep on the couch until we get it all figured out …"
"So," I asked. "How many rooms are there?"
"Well, like I said it’s not exactly ironed out yet. We're still putting up sheet rock and stuff and … but the place is awesome, you'd love it probably."
"But there is a room available right?"
"Well, it's like kinda complicated right now. It's like I have to give Jimbo something for building all the walls and stuff and I don't get to pick up my check until the first of the month and he kinda needed it for his rent money and so then I'll have to get another check for rent and his rent will be late, so I was kinda thinking of just asking him to move in until I can get enough for him to cover his rent, but then the room would kinda be taken up, but like I said we're still kinda building rooms and stuff …"
"What's the neighborhood like out there?"
"Oh, it's very cool. It's a mixed bag, there's a hasidic community and a growing Colombian population, there's the old Polish neighborhoods and the Cubans too. It's completely safe if that's what you're wondering about."
"Okay, what about nightlife?"
"Nightlife … well we aren't really into the whole 'bar scene' thing."
"But are there bars around?"
"There's some stuff, but it's pretty isolated out here. We're kind of roughing it. There's no stupid yuppie crap, if that's what you're wondering about."
"Okay. Umm, and how much is rent?"
"It's probably around like seven or eight hundred."
"Okay. So what do you do?"
"I'm a freelance graphic designer and a writer/musician/playwright. I also do digital editing and run a website. I actually also run this zine called 'Focus Impact,' you probably haven't seen it, it gets distributed on the West Coast. I'm also a musician, I play covers of seventies sitcom themes, but, like, electronic versions, kind of like Cowboy Bebop, ya know?"
"Oh, sounds interesting."
"Totally. I kinda gotta go, so like how long are you needing a place for?"
"Well, probably no less than a year."
"Oh, hmm, that sucks. Really?"
"Yeah. Why?" I ask.
"We only need somebody for like two months, max."

What is a Hipster?

This is a question that has been coming up a lot in emails. This is a question, alas, that I knew would become more relevant as I proceeded along this anti-hipster path. The answer to this question is not simple, indeed, it is largely a rhetorical question. Considering that through thousands of years of written record we humans have still not been able to pound out exactly what it means to be human, to be conscious, to be male and female, to be alive and dead, it should not come as a surprise to anybody that I cannot pin-down precisely what is means to be a hipster. I can say that the aim of this site, in part, is to help give shape to this insidious creature — the New York City Hipster. I have a friend from back home, a registered Republican, a conservative, who always said the same thing to perceived 'liberals' during an argument, and it always seemed to shed some light on the conversation. He said: "You Liberals! The problem with you Liberals is that you always know what you're against, but you never know what you're for!" The thing that he always overlooked is that by railing against something, you end up finding out a whole shitload about it. So, in a sense, this site is not only about how stupid hipsters are, it's also for learning more about hipsters, so we can learn to understand hipsters, to walk in their Chelsea Boots and their 'Jack Purcell's' in order that we may more precisely locate their weaknesses and exploit them, so we can make more jokes about them and pick them out for ridicule more easily.

To this end, I have begun gathering a collection of Hipster websites, that I am calling 'The Stinkiest Hipsters,' so please feel free to add your suggestions for appropriate sites.

Off the top of my head I have come up with a Top Ten Most Deplorable Hipster Attributes (this is not confined to one area of identification, but rather spans everything from what they wear to what views they hold and where they reside, and this is by no means set in stone): Here we go!

10. Hails from the Midwest, lives somewhere in Brooklyn.

9. Owns at least two Guided By Voices albums.

8. Firmly believes that Ralph Nader should have won the 2000 presidential election.

7. General arts over-education (i.e. has either designs to attend graduate school, is in graduate school or has gone to graduate school)

6. Parents shoulder some of his/her financial burden.

5. Owns at least three too tight T-shirts adorned with dated symbols (usually fuzzy or shiny/decal) with which he/she has absolutely no knowledge or connection.

4. Can readily and willfully recall the theme song from at least one television sitcom that was cancelled before his/her birth.

3. Will consciously muss and/or neglect to wash hair in order to achieve a 'look.' (male only)

2. Is of the opinion that 'Pet Sounds' is the greatest Beach Boys album (a comment generally follow by this statement): 'rivaling the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'

1. Insists on calling movies 'film,' insists on calling concerts 'shows.'

So I've been getting some very positive email from people, thanks for that shit man. I know I've been getting off the strictly anti-hipster-tip lately but goddamn, there's so much fucked up shit around right now, hipsters really seem too ridiculous to address solely. I want some challenges though, so all you stinky hipsters out there in your plush little Williamsburg lofts, try putting down the Complete Sam Beckett (you don't get it anyway) and defend yourselves!

Also take note of my handsome new design.

Here's the thing:
Getting back to my reaction to this terror 'hoax' story out of Florida (the beginning of which you can read in my post from 9/14) the administration said this was a GOOD example of how the new beefed-up American security works. A good example? How could this be a good example? Do I sound like Bill O'Reilly yet? Am I intimidating you? I think this is a good example of just how BAD everybody involved could possibly handle a supposed threat. As I said before, Shame on Eunice Stone for mindlessly calling the authorities before either confronting the Arab men who were allegedly discussing plans for an attack, or thinking about the situation for five minutes before she deemed it appropriate to call the cops (remember that she wasn't in a dark alley here, she was in a diner). And Shame on those Arab dudes for making whatever jokes they were making. But to their growing credit, the latest reports coming out are calling into question the 'fact' that they were even making jokes after all. According to some sources they were coordinating car travel plans, and when they allegedly mentioned 'having ENOUGH to bring IT down' they were referring to MONEY and a CAR not DYNAMITE and a BUILDING. Incidentally, another piece of information that seems to be shifting the circumstances of this story is the allegation that these men ran a tollbooth, which presumably is why they were pulled over in the first place. According to an NPR report, they actually paid for the fucking toll after all. So I may have to correct my standing Shame On Them.

Anyway, now I'll address the authorities: They are stupid fuckers too. They are stupid because they didn't scrutinize this call a little more, and I won't recap what obvious considerations they should have gone through before they shut down the goddamned highway for an entire day because I already did that (see 9/14). Well, that part was easy, and I don't suppose I have to do much convincing to make everybody who reads this believe me when I say that the authorities are stupid. Now we can dovetail into the media situation. When the police started giving their little roadside press conferences they kept repeating the same stuff: The men had run a tollbooth, they were Arabs, and they had 'attitude' and were initially uncooperative, refusing a search of their car by police. I got the feeling the cops were throwing all this character sketch information out to cover their asses and make it seem as though these Arab men were 'up to something,' because deep in their powdered-sugar brains they had a suspicion that this was COMPLETE BULLSHIT. What do either of these pieces of information have to do with a terror threat? And it seems like the media received this bullshit story with the same open arms as everybody else as it filtered through the annals of idiocy, from the Miss Stone, to the cops, to the networks, and nobody stopped for even a second to think about the feasibility of it all. In the beginning at least, it looked like there might have actually been something ominous going on. But then the details started leaking out.

The press soon dubbed the story a terror 'hoax,' which seems to be how this episode will go down in history. But if this was a hoax, my question is this: Who was the hoaxer and who was the hoaxed? The implication seems to be that these shifty, beady-eyed Arab men were the evil hoaxers, making their sinister jokes and scaring the shit out of this poor God-fearing stupid white woman who had her emergency speed-dial ready. And by extension, the Arab men had played a joke on the cops, the media, and finally, on us, the public, who had to endure this story for several days' worth of headlines. But I'll tell you what: I don't fucking laugh at jokes that aren't funny and I certainly don't fucking blame the comedian because I laughed at a stupid joke, you catch my drift here? The only one's who were hoaxed in this situation were the Arab guys (American citizens I might add) who were detained for 17 hours, and arguably, the American public who had to pay for the incompetence of the goddamned authorities. And the hoaxers were most definitely Miss Stone, the police, and the media: the people who are supposed to be in charge of filtering what jokes are worthy of laughing and what jokes are not. AND THEN, after the cat is out of the bag what do they do? They pat themselves on the back for a job well done. They spin it to look like this is the way things are supposed to go. Good job you fucking imbeciles! You just wasted a shitload of my money, demonized some innocent people, blew up their luggage, caused countless people to be late and stranded, and for what?

Here's the first of what will be my New York City Hipster snapshot of the week:

Making Music More Complicated Than It Is — A Rooftop Somewhere In Greenpoint, Sept. 15, 2002

John, 25, is a classical musician. Billy, whom John and I just met, is a hipster and a self-described 'musicologist.' John, a violinist, was educated at Juliard. I rarely ever get a chance to see him, but he happened to be free this night, and we happened to find ourselves at this house party, which was relatively hipster-free until we got to the roof. John's smart and handsome, but he's definitely not a hipster, and he doesn't like to tell people he's a violinist because he thinks it makes him seem dorky. Billy turns to us, his feeble little mop-head swinging languidly on his pale Midwestern neck, and slurps from his beercan. "You guys listen to music?" The tone is one of classic hipster faux-nonchalance, think James Dean thumbing his sideburns (gag), burping, smiling about something we don't know about, shaking his head. And this is chit-chat, this is back and forth, at least one would think so. But it's not, and I can already tell this isn't a question. This is a monologue; this is Billy's monologue, dressed up like a question. But John isn't a hipster. He doesn't have the pop culture burden that I have inexplicably gathered, one that allows me — that forces me — to differentiate between these 'types' of people. John's not cynical like me. Whereas I would have answered "No, I don't listen to music at all," John answers, enthused, "Yeah man, definitely!"
Billy's head swings again toward us, "Good, music's cool."
Billy's wearing a black T-shirt with a tear near the bottom, on the front it says "Dragons '86" in crumbling white silkscreen. He's wearing blue jeans and expensive diesel sneakers. He's got a 'tribal' tattoo on his right arm, which he's holding himself up with.
"Yeah, definitely," John says.
"So, what kinda music do you guys like?" Billy asks.
"Oh, I dunno," John says. "Rock I guess."
Billy sneers. He's getting warmed up.
"Cool man. Very cool," he says smiling. "So, ah, what kinda rock do you guys listen to?"
"Well, it's not just rock," John says. "I mean, I listen to all kinds of stuff. You know, a little of this, a little of that."
Billy switches arms. He's closing in on us, he's smiling.
"That's totally cool man, totally cool," Billy says.
"I guess so." John says, and looks at me, questioning. I shrug.
"So, like, what bands do you guys like?" Billy asks.
"Oh, uh, I like… well, hmm. I've been listening to all kinds of stuff lately. I like Radiohead."
Billy tries to look respectfully at John, but he can't. He's like dog taking a shit, once he's started, he can't stop. "Yeah, Kid A was alright," Billy says, his eyebrows raised in simulated empathy. "I mean, it was kind of a rip-off of Aphex Twin, but whatever."
"Um-hm," John says. But he's never heard of Aphex Twin, he's never heard of Kid A either, but he gathers it's some Radiohead song. "I dunno, I mostly hear them on the radio, so I don't really know any song names or anything. I like the guy's voice though."
"Oh yeah?" Billy asks. "Tom York, what a pud. I didn't know they put out any singles for that, since it was kind of avant. Fuck, I don’t listen to the radio, so I wouldn't know. I don't even have a TV."
"Oh yeah?" John asks.
"Yeah man," Billy says. "I'm kind of a musicologist."
"Oh, great!" John says. "So, uh, what kind of music do YOU listen to?"
"Shit man, I listen to everything. You guys listen to Emocore?"
"I dunno," John says. "What is that?"
"You ever hear of the Get Up Kids?"
"I don't know" John says.
"Oh, how about Death Cab For Cutie?"
"Nope." John says.
"Oh," Billy says. "Well, Emo is like, it's like Emotional, you know?"
"Like how do you mean?"
"Like, have you guys ever heard of Sunny Day Real Estate?"
"Don't think so," John says.
"Oh. Well Emo is like pretty hard stuff, with emotional lyrics."
"Oh." John says.
"Yeah, it's cool. You guys ever heard Jimmy Eat World?"
"I don't think so." John says.
"Shit man, what about At The Drive-In?"
"Nope" John says.
"Minor Threat?"
"Umm, I've heard of them."
"Embrace?"
"Nope."
"Hot Water Music?"
"No"
"Weezer?"
"Oh yeah!" John says. "Didn't they have that one video with the Happy Days thing?"
"I dunno." Billy says. "I don't watch TV."
"Oh yeah."
"Well, Emo is like pretty dynamic and shit. It's kinda like Indy rock, but it's more like Post-Punk, like Progressive and stuff."
"Hmm." John says.
"What about Rites of Spring?"
"Nope." John says.
"Yeah," Billy says. "Weezer's like the most commercial of the Emo bands, they're new album kinda sucks."
"Oh yeah?"
"Totally."
"They got that dude from that one group, you know that 80s band, The Cars?"
"Yeah," John says. "The Cars."
"Well they got that singer to produce this album and it totally sucks."
"Oh, too bad." John says.
"Yeah, but they sold out anyhow."
"Oh." John says.
There's a break in the conversation now; the three of us stare up at the sky. Billy's looking contented and ready to continue educating us about music.
"So shit man, you should check out some Emo dude," Billy says. "I guess you don't listen to music much huh?"
"Yeah. Maybe." John says.
"So like, what do you do anyway?"
"Oh," says John. "I'm a professional musician."

In my post from a week ago about how Hipsters are humorless sonsofbitches because their parents made them listen to too much NPR when they were little, I made an off color reference to Oliver Stone as an example of a humorless Old Liberal. Well, this weekend I watched the DVD of Platoon because I had this nagging feeling that perhaps I unfairly pegged Ollie. And after watching not only the movie, but also every bit of special feature on the goddamned DVD including the 'Making of Platoon,' the original trailer, the production notes, the photo gallery, interviews with all the actors, and the credits in full, I've decided to extend this correction: Oliver Stone did gallantly serve his country in the Vietnam War. He dropped out of art school and volunteered to go to the war. He was a fresh-faced high-falutin' suburban kid, but he came out a murderin,' pot-smokin,' mud-covered, blood-covered stony-gazin' American man. Goddamn, Oliver. So, though I was not in error to label Mr. Stone a humorless Liberal, his case seems unique because he's such a fucking badass. Mostly I just regret lumping him in with those whiny fucking alarmist pussies over at the Village Voice. Sorry Ollie.

Newsflash: We got this fucking crazy white bitch down in Florida calling the FBI over a conversation some Arabs were having over an omelet. They closed down the fucking highway and brought bomb robots (ROBOTS!) out to blow up some suitcases. So instead of turning around and asking these Arab men what they just said because she thinks she heard them say they're going to blow something up, she calls up the FBI and they spend all day and god knows how many thousands of dollars of taxpayers' money to have them find out that, oops! It was JUST A JOKE! These guys were fucking with this dumb bitch because they were likely being sweated by everybody in the diner. For Christsakes! I would have been messing with these stupid fucks too! And at the impromptu press conference held out on the highway the surly Florida sheriff made sure to mention that these men ran a tollbooth (oh my god!) and they were "uncooperative," that they had bad attitudes and initially (until they had a gun pointed at their heads I suspect) they refused to allow a search of their vehicle. And (god help us) the fucking media gobbled it all up hook line and sinker and recycled these bits of periphery information until it was in every news report in the world. There are so many elements of this story, even in just the little bit I've laid out so far, that need explaining. But just to prime you a little bit, my overarching point here is THIS FUCKING COUNTRY IS GOING CRAZY ... First I'd like to take aim at this woman who called the cops in the first place.

Eunice Stone overheard three Arab men making jokes and "alarming" comments about 9/11. Poor Eunice, I do not envy her position. Being called to duty as an American citizen to act vigilantly and make the judgement call that could mean the difference between, potentially, life and death. I would have been alarmed too. Here, however, with all the bright lights of the 9/11 anniversary still blinding us, we absolutely must take stock of how normal human beings act, both to judge our own actions and those of our fellow humans. These were obviously Arab men, they were eating breakfast, they were surrounded by other customers, who were all eating breakfast too. This is a strange time for Arabs in this country and I'm sure the temptation to scream is overwhelming for some of them because they get scrutinized everywhere they go these days and if it isn't the fucking police or the FBI staring at them, it's a bunch of do-good heartland fools who have no idea what they're looking at. And I can relate to them for making jokes. So, they made a few jokes, they had a little fun scaring the natives, so what? Well, I'll tell you what, this was not a good idea. They had no idea what they were getting themselves into. These men acted stupidly by underestimating the freakish ignorance of the average American, at this moment in time. There are several tell tale signs I can easily peg that these men were not serious, never even having heard what they said. First, did it ever occur to Miss Stone that Islamic terrorists planning an attack on America, especially right now, might not come to fucking Denny's to talk logistics? Did she ever consider that they might do it at home? My god, I feel I am stooping to a level of thought too rudimentary for words here. Secondly, if these guys were terrorists, and they were daft enough to casually sit around talking Jihad during the morning rush at a bible belt Denny's, don't you think they might speak their native language? I wonder if Miss Stone realizes there is another language besides English? Did the thought ever cross Miss Stone's pea-brain that these guys might not want anybody to know about their terrorist plot until, say, WHEN THEY CARRIED IT OUT? There is something very wrong about the way this woman reacted. I know we've been fed all the information about the sneaky 'sleeper' cells hiding away in regular old America, assimilating, wearing golf shirts and walking the fucking dog or whatever 'regular' Americans do, but I can assure you that they want to keep their Jihad activities on the Q-T, I mean, after all, they're giving up the luxury of living in the land of the righteous brothers for years in order to slum it out with the godforsaken infidels in the belly of the beast just so they can become martyrs, I'm sure they don't want to fuck it up. But these things obviously did not occur to Miss Stone before she flipped out and called the police. Shame on her. And I'm not saying she should have just shuffled it off as a joke and left it at that either. What she should have done is treat them like the juvenile jokesters they were and asked them very seriously what the hell they were talking about. I bet they would have explained and apologized. She should have said she heard them talking disrespectfully about something very sensitive to her and that she didn't want to hear it. Also she could have mentioned to them that, for their own sakes, they had better keep their traps shut in the future because not everybody would be so kind as to assume they were joking about it. Unfortunately these three guys happened to run into Miss Stone before they were warned, but they should have known. Shame on them too. I suppose Miss Stone may have suspected that these men were joking from the very beginning and just really wanted to teach them a lesson. I'm probably giving her too much credit now. But, frankly, I can relate more with these three Arab men than I can with this woman (I can practically hear John Ashcroft's footsteps behind me already).

Next time I'll take up the dumb fucking cops who didn't take these factors into consideration either, and the dumb fucking media who has pushed their common sense so far up their fat asses that they've practically become a PR machine for the dumb fucking administration.

Oh yes, I forgot. Here is Miss Bess' website: www.citywriters.com/chalance. (I swear I will learn to make links soon so you can just click on the damn thing) Check it out, you might learn something.

So this morning on WNYC's Brian Lehrer Show they had a little five-minute debate concerning the possibility that Conservatives have a better sense of humor than Liberals. And, in a way, this goes straight to the heart of my anti-hipster argument. Or maybe more like the liver or spleen. So, Brian Lehrer, in his unnervingly calm and probing voice had the editor of the L.A. Weekly on the phone. The editor had been comparing recent issues of The Nation and its Conservative counterpart, the Weekly Standard, and finally ('against his good judgement' as Brian put it) he came to the conclusion that reading the Nation was like forcing a box of dry musilix down your throat, whereas reading the Standard was, well, better. They didn't offer any analogy here but I'm guessing it's something like eating an Egg McMuffin or taking a bong hit or something. And to my surprise, most people who called the show actually agreed with the guy. The quick explanation they came to was that the Left has lost its sense of humor because they're too worried about offending people. They're too 'PC.' That's true. Also, I would add, because the Old Guard's all got heartburn from too much Southern Comfort back in the day and they look back at their politically 'significant' youth with rose colored granny specs and they would not dare to make a joke out of the great work they did. This is not hard to understand, fuck, look at Oliver Stone, look at the Village Voice. I don't want people making a joke out of shit that I hold dear either. Anyway, my point is this: All of these crusty, curly old hippies had children and moved to the suburbs, got hemorrhoids and mortgages, and all of their children grew up, got drunk, nabbed the checkbook and moved to Williamsburg. I'm trying to make a point, but it's unraveling slowly here. Bear with me.

Let us agree on one thing: Young Liberals walk around like they have a load of shit in their pants, and if you've ever had a load of shit in your pants you know what I'm saying: Your mind strays no farther than your own ass.

Let us agree on another timeless premise: Parents are good at setting examples of behavior but they are generally very bad at explaining these examples.

Now then, all the Old Liberals have lost their sense of humor, and this humorless sacred cow attitude translated onto their children, who adopted and emulated it. (I know it's counterintuitive to think that kids would like to imitate their folks, I generally think of each generation as growing up to rebel against its forebears, but in this case I believe it simply because the sixties was probably pretty cool, what with all the music and fashion and attitude, and of course, who doesn't like drugs?) And whereas their parents may realize they they've lost their sense of humor, and perhaps could even extract some wisdom from it, tucked away in their burned brains somewhere, their children are not equipped with the tools to do this, because they never experienced the things their parents did, the things that inspired their parents to burn their bras and fuck like rabbits, the forces too that eventually crushed their parent's ideals into a model home in lazy acres. The children are awash in a sea of protest posters and tofu and irony and do not have a lifeboat. All they have is the face of compassion, their posturing, which they took from their folks. They cannot escape the sacred cow attitude even though they don't know exactly why they have it or where it came from. They are humorless beyond the point of return. So they scramble to find something of authenticity, something with meaning. This is where we find vintage clothing piled to the sky, this is why hipsters wear gas station attendant uniforms and trucker hats, this is why hipsters dress like construction workers and soldiers and why they wear archaic horn-rimmed glasses and nerdy librarian shawls, this is bobby socks and cigarettes, this is poodle skirts, this is the beat-up cowboy hat, this is (recycling, it's true, and I do like the glasses, I think they're quite sexy sometimes) But this is also the young hipster, spawn of the old hippy, cut off from experience that it so wants to find, nowhere in time, trying to 'strike a vein' : driving to the levee, when the levee, alas, is dry.

It's true, there is no Truth, there are no great causes anymore, no great battles ahead, no rallying wars, no expatriated soldiers, no romance, no wounds, there is 'no fucking fun,' as Sid Vicious once said it. (Unfortunately, but very apparently too, there is no imagination either. For Fuck's sake, we've been post modern and meaningless since the end of WWII and at least the fucking hippies could come up with something relatively new looking to rally behind, all the hipsters do is fucking imitate.) So the hipsters try to find authenticity the easy way, the way they've gotten everything in their stinking little lives, by walking the walk. Sucking the teat of authenticity like the beginning with their parents. Dress in an old shirt, you become old and informed, dress like a writer, you become that writer, dress like a Rastaman (and this one is really difficult to swallow) you, your white-Ohio-oatmeal-eating-cracker-ass, becomes that Rastaman. And I think we begin to approach the absurd now. And let me remind you that the absurd is not necessarily funny. It could be, in fact I think it damn well should be, and that's what this whole loss-of-humor discussion is about, but try telling that to the dude in the Ralph Lauren dress shirt and polished creepers and horn-rimmed glasses and the manicured sideburns (gag) slumming it for change with his $10,000 Tuba down in the Bedford stop on the L train. If you don't believe me, go up to him and say this: "Hey asshole! Why are you here?" You know what he'll say? "Physics!" Meanwhile we see another man digging through the garbage looking for empty bottles.

See, the hipsters have lost all context of reality. And this is dicey territory, I agree, because I like listening to 'music' in the Subway too, hell, I like looking at a fucking tuba, I like Carhart pants, I'm not an outspoken advocate for the poor and the homeless, I like 'bohemia,' but at some point, I think we must all come to grips and realize that this stuff is no more REAL than the name 'Bob' embroidered on the 1967 pep-boys button-up shirt purchased by an Oberlin fine arts graduate named Dave who's never changed a car's oil in his life. But here I am again, preaching to the choir.

Wrapping up here (I know you all have a place to be), I think we can trace the loss of humor of the Old Left to the repulsive absurdity of the New York City "Hipster," fashionably speaking, of course. But then, what else is there? Da-ha-ha-ha-ha!

ON A LIGHTER NOTE: I got my first piece of fan mail today! Hooray! A girl named Bess who lives in Greenpoint ("mecca of all things Urbn Hpstr") By the way, I like the vowel omission, very cute. She relates, or at least says she relates, with my anti-hipster mission. Thanks Bess, you're the Bess-t! It's good to know there's somebody above ground who relates with me. And I must toot my own horn very blatantly here by quoting from Bess' letter: "Your writing is highly, highly entertaining."
QUESTIONS, COMMENTS? EMAIL ME, BITCHES! (we're cultiviating the sense of humor here, you see?)

Ok, so here I am at work and I forgot my copy of The Sun Also Rises, so I've decide to launch my rant on NYC Hipsters unprepared. Anyway, lemme see here, I'll think of a good little anecdote to get the party started right. To begin, let me tell you a little bit about myself. I am 24, my tastes cover the general hipster gamut, I like hip music, Yo La Tengo, Belle & Sebastian, Modest Mouse, Flaming Lips, Kruder & Dorfmeister, and fuck if I can't help liking those little fuckers the Strokes, I don't want to, you see, because they, in a sense are at fault for this hipster explosion of late, but the little knotty headed bastards can write a great hook, gotta give that to them. So anyway, I read a lot, and I suspect I read a lot of stuff that so-called hipsters read, Hemingway (duh?) Henry Miller (although I think Miller might be a little inflammatory for a lot of the P.C. hipster fucks out there) I like the Beats here and there, I like Rushdie, Kundera, blah blah blah ... anyway, my basic point here is that if you saw me on the street, you might think I'm actually sort of a hipster, but, of course, I'm not.
AND I'LL TELL YOU WHY:
I don't wear (I don't even own) any ridiculous trucker-style caps with mesh screen, I certainly don't fucking wear them backwards, or sideways, I do wash my hair and like to keep it relatively trim, I don't own any big sunglasses, I don't have any of those little T-Shirts that say things about little league football teams from little nowhere American towns, or funny Jesus quips, or glittering iron-on Dukes Of Hazzard decals, I don't have any tribal or comic book related tattoos, (I don't have any tattoos, if you must know) I don't hang giant pictures of paint-by-number art on the fresh sheetrock walls of the Williamsburg loft (that I don't have) that my parent's (don't) rent for me. I don't go to art school, I don't come from the Midwest, I don't think Andy Warhol was brilliant, I don't think the Velvet Underground were "totally underrated," I don't own any lunchboxes from the 1970s (or 1980s) I don't have any piercings (although during a confused stage of college I did have one briefly) I don't believe that communal living is a workable idea, I don't carry a digital camera everywhere I go shooting pictures of my other dumb hipster friends and putting them up on my dumb hipster photolog site (but you of course see the undeniable hypocrite in me here because I am participating in the 'push-button publishing revolution' after all, I do apologize for the muck-up, but it must be acknowledged here that by venting about hipsters I am quickly coming to the realization that they are not as easily defined as I generally let on) I do not 'go to shows' I do not think it's cool to drink shitty beer and shitty wine, I also do not think it's fun to get 'brunch' every Sunday, I do not think it's funny that rashes of hipsters are driving lots of long time residents of "diverse" neighborhoods out into more "diverse" (i.e. poor and cheap) neighborhoods because they're sick of "yuppies." I do not understand why Annie's Organic Macaroni & Cheese is any better than Kraft, I do not necessarily believe that the government is trying to conspire against us, I don't want to talk about Francis Ford Coppola, I think loafer shoes are fucking ugly, and I do not think that Pet Sounds was the best fucking Beach Boys album!!!!! Until next time.