Here's my answer to question 3 from the below inquiry:

Hipster characteristics: Given the exclusive and nearly incestual nature of hipsters, they do tend to develop somewhat distinct characteristics based on their geography. Williamsburg is the throbbing womb of hipsterdom, spawning many, many different hipster varieties, which over time migrate out into new and more specialized enclaves, as a dandelion spreads its seeds. One of the more bizarre outcroppings is the homestead hipster, what we might also call the staking-a-claimster.

He first marches proudly along Bedford Ave. sipping his soy chai and reading Krishnamurti and Thoreau until the call of the wild whips him into a frenzy and he becomes repulsed by what he deems the 'mainstream feel' of Bedford. The homestead hipster dreams of never-ending abandoned loft spaces crowned by water towers and perched staunchly in the center of cracked-black, garbage-strewn parking lots in 'ethnic' neighborhoods. You may catch a glimpse of the staking-a-claimster dragging broken pieces of rusted air ducts and kitchen appliances down the street in his paint-splattered Carhart reinforced pants and combat boots trailed by the wormy cats and one-eyed hounds who live on his roof, where he's building a gazebo. Very resourceful, these hive building, sideburned, ladder climbers. They construct their scaffold palaces in places like Fort Green, Bushwick, Prospect Heights, Redhook, East Williamsburg, and Brooklyn Heights. They are sculptors, mostly: At once the very picture of drunken manliness, yet tamed by their liberal arts over-education. Homestead hipsters have items tucked away in their cupboards and studio spaces that mere city dwellers cannot understand: Pickled cactus shards in jelly, soy caviar, tile caulking, industrial-sized vitamin bottles, decaffeinated tea, canned hams, ball-peen hammers, dehydrated scuttlefish, soldering guns, wet-naps, packing peanuts, hard hats, R-Kelley records etc. They have serious problems with simple matters of hipster irony. They don't see the sneering subtlety of it all, 'Just fucking super-size that bitch!' That's what they think. You can find some awful nice stuff on the street, so why not drag everything home with you? 'Fuck dude! I'll just use that bitch in my next sculpture!' Why not build your whole fucking house out of discarded crap? Why not fucking camp out in a parking lot? Why not live off of chick peas and challah bread for two months? Why not piss in a Gatorade bottle? As for income, the staking-a-claimster's entrepreneurial spirit pushes him into the rare niches of handyman, man-with-a-van, 'renovations,' floorwaxing, loft-building, personal training and occasionally security and bouncing.

The remarkable thing about the migratory patterns of homestead hipsters is their penchant for trying to move away from other hipster enclaves. Whereas the hipsterati or mussy-head indy-rock variety spend their time pushing to get into a particular neighborhood, to be close to Manhattan, the homestead hipster seems inclined to push ever further into shittier neighborhoods and if at all possible, never enter Manhattan. In a sense the staking-a-claimster is responsible for the major hipster inroads in the Boroughs. They are a hipster anomaly: On the one hand they struggle to get away from people, or at least people who speak English, (aren't they the ones who moved to New York City in the first place?), but on the other hand they almost always claim some rabid populist beliefs (shared groceries, paintball guns). As for the particular hipster characteristics described in number 3 of the below inquiry, most of these of these can be firmly nailed to the homestead hipster.

Gucci Rush: This is a curveball. Homestead hipsters tend to either not wear deodorant ('dude that shit gives you cancer') or else they wear only patchouli or sandalwood oil. But they are a less predictable breed than most hipsters and it is quite likely that their taste for useless crap could expand seamlessly into the rush of an afternoon at one of Chinatown's many imitation fragrance stands. This is also a likely scenario: Their guerrilla tactics led them into the throws of a department store fragrance fight.

Razor Scooters: Though homestead hipsters do have a inclination toward mechanics this usually leads them toward motorized bicycles and self-propelled scooters, but it is not unlikely that these particular hipsters may have opted for the razor scooter in a misguided attempt at irony. Also, they tend to have a bully streak lurking in their past and perhaps after five or six bottles of Czech Rebel they punked the scooters off some neighborhood kids.

Restaurant Manner: Since homestead hipsters tend to be ideologically allied with activist beliefs and own at least one Rusted Root album it is not at all surprising that they would be finicky eaters, and this coupled with rampant hipsterdom easily translates into being a major pain in the ass for a waiter. Homestead hipsters, like all hipsters, are consumers first and foremost and so they express their political muscle in the grocery store and the restaurant. Plus, they're usually vegetarians or vegans, and we all know what a pain in the ass they can be.

I'm skipping the headphones and poor manners parts because I don't want belabor the obvious: Hipsters are fucking annoying.

Quid Pro Quo: This righteous babe has featured me, so make haste dear readers.

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

Before I begin I'd like to wish a very happy birthday to Oscar Wilde who would have been 148 years old today.

Core As Hell — Corner of Bedford Ave. and 7th Street, Oct. 13, 2002

"Dude! Check it out! I got a copy of Peter Frampton Comes Alive on fucking vinyl! Can you believe that shit?"
"Oh, man, totally core."
"Yeah. It really, really is."
"Where'd you get it?"
"Off one of those street guys in Union Square."
"Totally core. How much?"
"Five bucks dude! And it's fucking mint!"
"Wow — core. Absolutely."
They bumped into each other on the corner. The short one, the girl, with the frosted Joan Jett fashion mullet and the white bullet belt was coming out of Pita Power, drinking wheatgrass. The other, the guy, with the pierced chin and the corduroy hat and the black-framed glasses was rolling a cigarette, but it was taking him a long, long time. He was bobbing his head, slowly, with his bulbous earphones and thirty-foot AC cord dragging from his Yak Pak. Oops. Ripped the cigarette paper. They hugged and kissed: 'mwah, mwah' on the cheeks.
"Dude," he said. "What’s your name again?"
"Mel."
"Oh yeah, totally."
"What’s your name again?"
"Billy."
"Oh yeah."
"Didn't I meet you that night at Doug's?"
"Ummm. Doug from Kansas City?"
"No. I was thinking Doug from Omaha."
"Oh, shit. Do you know Nicole?"
"Nicole with the red Jack Purcells?"
"No, she has some red Chuck Taylors though."
"Oh. That's core."
"Yeah."
"Hey," Billy said. "Did you go to Sarah Lawrence?"
"No. I went to St. John's."
"Core. I hear their humanities program fucking rules."
"I dunno. My major was Memory," she said.
"Core," Billy said. "I went to Oberlin."
"Oh, cool. My old boyfriend went there."
"Core."
"What did you study?"
"Musicology," said Billy.
"That's core as hell."
"Whatever," he said.
"Whatever," she said.
"Totally," Billy said. "So, you ever listened to much Frampton."
"No but I heard he's so fucking awesome. Completely revolutionary."
"Yeah he's pretty core," Billy said. "I was totally bummed when I heard he died. I was in my loft droppin' some beats and I was totally sampling from Crazy Framp when I just got this like completely Zen kinda feeling, like something just said 'Peter Frampton is no longer with us'"
"No shit?" she said. "I didn't know he was dead. That's totally sucks."
"Yeah, heart failure. It was just last month."
"Holy shit. I swear when I saw the cover I said to myself 'You-need-to-get-this-record,' I swear."
"Totally core dude."
"Yeah," she said. "Check out the cover! Awesome huh? The fucking hair! Awesome!"
"Totally," Billy said. "Man, why did they put some white dude on the cover."
"That's not him?"
"No way!" Billy said. "The Framp was black. But he got in a fucked up car crash in the Bahamas in the 70s and I think they had to do all kinds of fucking skin graphs and shit, so maybe he just looks white."
"Is that why he sings through that voice box thing?"
"Totally," Billy said. "But he used to play the vibes man, for Louis Armstrong."
"Wow, that's totally core."
"Yeah Framp played with all the greats, Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa, Charlie Mingus."
"Yeah," she said. "'Baby I love your way,' is sooo fucking core."
"Completely. He was like the first to record on the vibes."
"Yeah? That's core as hell! I'm so excited to listen to this!"
"Man," Billy said. "You gotta listen to 'Framp's Boogie Woogie,' and 'Hey Ba-Ba-Re-Bop,' that’s the real shit."
"Yeah," she said. "I love that song 'Show Me The Way,'"
"Totally. The vibes are so fucking cool."
"Totally," she said.
"Frampton's a fucking legend. I can't believe you haven't listened to him. You know the story of how he started playing the vibes?"
"How?"
"He was playing drums for Louis Armstrong at a session in 1930 and Satchmo asked him to play the vibes, and he did. And he was so fucking core that he just kept on playing the vibes. That's how the legend of Peter Frampton was born dude."
"Whoa."
"Yeah. You just don't hear that shit everyday either."
"Wow, that's totally core."
"You ever listen to Milt Jackson?"
"Oh totally," she said. "I love that song 'I'll Be There'"
"Yeah, great fucking vibes player."
"Jazz is so fucking core," she said.
"Totally. Core as hell."

Quid Pro Quo: These good folks out west were kind enough to throw me a bone. If you enjoy the stuff here, you'd do well to check them out.