It's Time Again For My Hipster Snapshot Of The Week.

Obscure Hipster Halloween Costume Party — A Kitchen Somewhere In Williamsburg, Oct. 31, 2002

"Dude! Is that an eyebrow on your chin?"
"No man, it's a beard!"
"Oh, what are you? Like Hitler or somethin'?"
"No, I'm Trotsky. You know, Leon Trotsy."
He fingered his faux-bearded chin as thoughtfully as he could.
"Oh sweet."
"Thanks. What are you?"
"I'm a dictator dude! Check it out!"
He slung open his beige trench coat to reveal a coat hanger bent awkwardly around his waist and a potato impaled on the end, hovering just over his crotch.
"Get it dude? Dick-Tater,"
"Oh man, very subtle," said Trotsky.
"Right on dude. I read War and Peace a few years ago in college, it fuckin' rules!"
"That's Tolstoy, actually. I'm Trotsky."
"Oh," said the Dictator. "Sorry dude."
"Did somebody say Tolstoy?"
A guy came trotting over wearing what looked like a discarded Santa Claus beard and a big sheet of muslin with a hole cut in the top.
"That's me!" he said chewing on a little corncob pipe.
"Dude!" said the Dictator. "You look like that old freaky guy from Home Alone! You guys remember that shit? Oh man, I took this film class one time and we fucking watched that! That guy shoulda won an Oscar! Scared the shit outta me."
"Yeah?" said Tolstoy thoughtfully. "Roberts Blossom. He played Dr. Gatz in the Great Gatsby. He was also in Slaughterhouse Five. Where'd you go to school?"
"Bennington," said the Dicatator.
"No shit. I went to Wesleyan."
"Right on bro," said the Dictator.
"Yeah, it was a John Hughes film. Man, can he put together a family comedy! Great fucking commentary on the Modern American Family," said Tolstoy. "I wrote a paper about it in my Cinema of the Suburbs course. He directed Pretty In Pink too."
"No shit?" said the Dictator.
"Actually," said Trotsky breaking in. "John Hughes wrote Home Alone. Chris Columbus directed it."
"Oh, you're right! How could I forget that," said Tolstoy.
"Did somebody say Columbus?"
Another guy in a chopped-up muslin sheet walked over to the group. But he had a long peace pipe and a plastic Indian headdress and was wearing brown leather moccasins. His face and body were splattered with gooey fake blood and he had a shiny plastic tomahawk with fake skin dangling off of it.
"Columbus was a fucking slave trader!" said the Indian. "He killed my people! He filled our blankets with white man's diseases and poisoned our berries, Tatonka!"
"What dude?" said the Dictator.
The Indian was pumping the keg and smoking a cigarette. "Man, haven't you ever seen Dances with Wolves dumbass! It means Buffalo in Indian."
"Actually it's Sioux," said Trotsky.
"Whatever," said the Indian.
"Who exactly are you supposed to be?" asked Tolstoy.
"I'm Sacagawea man! The fucking Indian warrior!"
"More like sack-a-the-weed-a, dude!" said the Dictator.
"You got any?" said the Indian. "I need something to fill this peace pipe with."
"Sacagawea was a woman, actually," said Tolstoy. "And I think you of all people should refer to them as Native Americans rather than Indians."
"Where's fucking Columbus man! I'll kick his Spanish ass!"
"Actually we were talking about Chris Columbus," said Tolstoy.
"And?" said the Indian.
"No. We're talking about Chris Columbus the film director."
"Who the fuck would name their kid that?" said the Indian.
"You're a moron," said Tolstoy.
"Whatever, Mr. Fucking fascist," said the Indian.
"Tolstoy wasn't a fascist, dipshit."
"Did somebody say Fascist?"
Another guy walked up. He was wearing a scratchy looking dark green army uniform with little red patches at the shoulders and shiny combat boots. He had a giant crooked fake nose with a bushy moustache perched above it and a long wooden smoking pipe.
"I'm the original fascist dudes!"
The Dictator slung his arm around Joseph Stalin.
"See, this guy is the real shit man!" he said, flicking the crooked nose affectionately. "Where's your glasses man?"
"What?" asked Stalin.
Then the Dictator danced a little Vaudeville swagger and put on a swanky voice: "You know: 'I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception!'"
"Fuck off," said Stalin.
"No dude," said the Dictator. "You're Groucho Marx right?"
"Jesus Christ Dude! I'm fucking Stalin."
"I'll say your stallin' man, where's the fucking weeed dude!" said the Indian.
"Did somebody say Marx?"
Up walked a guy with a big puffy moustache and beard and a wooden tobacco pipe.
"What's up St. Nick!" said the Indian.
Marx just glowered at him.
Then Trotsky, Tolstoy and Marx all filed off together into the living room leaving the Indian and the Dictator pouring great pitchers of Budweiser foam from the dying keg into the sink.

"It kinda sucks that nobody recognizes my costume," said Trotsky.
"Tell me about it," said Tolstoy. "I wrote the first novel for fuck's sake."
"That ain't shit," said Marx. "I'm even recognizable and nobody gets it."
"Maybe you should just paint a giant hammer and sickle on your face," said Tolstoy.
"Yeah, and you can just dress as a goddamn copy of Anna Karenina."
"Fuck off," said Tolstoy. "Just cause these fucking retards don't get it doesn't mean they're not good costumes."
"That fucking Dictator … " said Trotsky.
"Hey, what's shakin' guys!"
Another guy walked over to the group. He was wearing a stiff looking heavy gray woolen jacket and puffing on a wooden tobacco pipe. The collar was up and he had a black band around his bicep.
"What up," said Trotsky gesturing limply.
"Oh, just chillin," he said. "Like my costume?"
He took a little fashion twirl and then shot his skinny clenched fist into the air ala Black Power.
"Umm, yeah," said Marx. "Very cool jacket."
"Totally, I like the armband." said Tolstoy.
"Who are you supposed to be?" asked Trotsky.
"I'm Henryk Erlich!" he said. "You know? The Bundist!"
"Oh, yeah," said Marx. "That's cool."
"Yeah," said Tolstoy. "The Bund and all that, right?"
"Isn't that like a Russian thing?" asked Trotsky.
Then Henryk pulled a thin pile of papers from his small bag and handed them out to the group. On the sheet was a small black and white photo of Erlich and a short biography.
"Great fucking idea," said Marx. "I'm doing that next year."
"Totally," said Tolstoy.
And they all chomped their pipes and read silently.

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 clich้ 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.