Claire writes:

dear aimee plumley,

May I submit a question here? do you know about this thing, those hipsters enamored with the abstract notion of math and science? Maybe it's related to the mathy thing of a few years ago? They tell me they like math and science, get my hopes up that i could converse and relate to and learn from a pop-culturally literate smartster. Once anything legitimately mathy arises, they back down, sheepishly, and I come to understand that they tell people they like math and science on the risk that everyone is too intimidated to test its verity.

what a let down.

your site is the first i've seen in a long while to which i would openly align myself as a fan.

pretty please, don't lampoon me. you inspire fear.

xoxo,
claire


Mathy – A Kitchen In Williamsburg, Jan. 1 2003

"So Claire, Aimee tells me you're a Nobel Prize winning physicist," he says, approaching you at the refreshment table.
"Yeah," you say. "Hey, do you know if there's any more ice in the freezer, I hate drinking warm vodka. Especially straight like this."
"Hmm, I don't know, but wow, that’s pretty impressive. Most people at this party are just out of college, and fuck, I’m impressed when I run into an abstract math student. But a Nobel? At your age? That’s got to be a record. Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to chew your ear off, but frankly, I’ve always been fascinated with math and physics,” he says, sliding his black-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, yeah?” you say, smashing the icetray on the kitchen counter.
“Totally. All in all, I would say I'm pretty mathy,"
"Hmm," you say. "So what’s 2 plus 2? Ha! Just kidding."
"No, no, it's cool," he says. "It's 4, actually. But you’ll have to forgive my ignorance, I haven’t really been following the field lately, much less the Nobel.”

But Claire, you’ve heard all this before. Guys are always trying to get into your pants just because you’re a beautiful 25-year-old Nobel Prize-winning female physicist. They think they can just throw out a few names and work out a couple of differential equations and then it’s off for doggy-style in the den. What a joke. But can you really blame them? Fuck yes, you can. Blame the shit out of these Brief-History-of-Time-memorizing, Einstein poster-worshipping, Scientific American-subscribing, Mensa-rejected, nerd wannabes.

“Hey, I just finished reading the Elegant Universe," he says. "It's pretty amazing, the strident leaps they're making with Unified Field Theory, huh? I mean, I've always been more focused on quantum mechanics myself. And I don't know if I buy the whole 'master equation' or whatever he calls it, but Greene does lay out some pretty compelling examples to resolve the whole relativity/quantum mechanics tension," he smiles and leans coolly against a wall, crossing his legs at the ankles. "So, uh, what do you think?"

Your eyes widen. Could this be it? In your drunken stupor you wonder: Is it even remotely possible that this bespectacled mussy-haired hipster could be genuinely interested and, daresay, even slightly knowledgeable in physics and not just Guided by Voices and the digital/analog debate?

"I haven't read that one yet," you say.
"Oh, you really should," he says. "It's absolutely riveting."
"I'll check into it. So, uh, are you a physics student?" you ask, hesitantly, hopefully.
"Well, no not formally," he says. "I'm actually a freelance journalist/playwright/filmmaker/painter/poet/cartoonist/nature photographer, but I've always considered myself an informal student of physics."
"Oh … that's, uh, interesting," you say, still cautiously smitten; your full, pouty lips glistening and curled into the cutest little smile.
"Yeah, it really is," he says. "Man. Yeah, wow. Physics is just so fucking, you know, elemental and all that, I mean, how could anyone not be into it. It's like saying you're not into eating or something."
"Yes," you say, sipping your vodka. "You're right. So, um, you say you're into quantum mechanics?"
"Oh, totally, I'm all about it," he says. "I mean, I haven't really followed it lately, but…"
"There was some cool stuff going on this year," you say. "Nesvizhevsky's work with ultra-cold neutrons to test quantized states of matter under the influence of gravity was definitely awesome."
"Yeah, hmm. Ya know, I think I actually read about that," he says, gripping his stubbly chin. "I can't remember, I just read so much stuff ya know? I'm just, like, constantly reading."
"Oh really?" you say.
He stares off blankly for a moment.
"Hey, have you ever seen that documentary Ghengis Blues?" he asks.
"No, I've been busy in the lab working on the B-E-C."

He straightens, and for a second he looks dumbfounded, but then suddenly he smacks himself in the forehead in a mock 'eureka' gesture and points his finger at you, rapidly, smiling and nodding.

"Ohhh, I get it," he says, crossing his arms. "That's fucking hot! I've never heard him referred to like that before. Did you read that in Spin or something? And with the whole 'lab' thing too, hmm, very Bowie, very mad scientist. I'll have to try that one. What do you think of his new album anyway?"
"What?" you ask.
"Sea Change!"
"Who?"
"Beck! Oh, wait," he winks and nudges you. "Or should I say: the 'B-to-the-E-to-the-C.'"
"What the hell are you talking about? B-E-C stands for Bose-Einstein condensate. It's the new state of matter that I helped produce. That's why I got the Nobel."

He's definitely drifting. He seems to be humming to himself now, and swaying slightly. Jesus Christ, he looks like he might puke.
"Man, Sea Change is fucking great," he says. "So somber, so lush, ya know? Oh yeah! So you know who Richard Feynman is right?"
"Yeah."
"So like, that documentary film Ghengis Blues I was tellin' you about: I guess like Feynman was all into this Tuvan Throat singing and shit and so during the movie they have this séance to summon his spirit, and, like, they superimpose this clip of him drumming over the part where they're having the séance, anyway, Feynman was so fucking cool, don't you think?"
"I guess so," you say.
"Yeah, wow," he says. "Did you know that he was from Rockaway Beach?"
"Nope."
"It must be a pretty cool place, I mean Feynman came from there, and the Ramones wrote that song about it."
"Hmm," you say. "That's fascinating."
"Oh dude! I have these awesome old photos of fuckin' Oppenheimer standing out at Los Alamos when they were making the bomb! You should see them sometime. Man he was one freaky looking dude. But he smoked a pipe. That's pretty cool."
"Yeah," you say. "Hey. It was good talking to you, but I'm gunna go okay?"
"Aww, shit dude!" he says. "We didn't even get to talk about fuckin' Einstein! He's like my favorite physicist. Ya know, it's not every day you get to talk to a real physicist about this kinda shit."

Hey Dudes, like check it out. I'm like totally fucking literary now! Seriously, isn't that so fucking core?

My Dear Wormwood,
Apparently it's difficult for some readers to understand, but the New York City Anti-Hipster Forum does not promote hatred or extremism of any kind, least of all hatred toward hipsters, if you can swallow that. By and large, my readers seem to grasp the infinite subtlety in life, the volumes of half-truths and contradictions that we cannot avoid in our everyday lives, much less in our written lives. So you, my common-sensical readers, understand that for instance, I might have a site called the anti-hipster forum, but that does not mean that I actually want to harm hipsters in any way. The true reason I started the Forum was because I think humor is the only savior. And yes, because I think hipsters are extremely annoying too. And come to think of it, I started the Forum because I think hipsters represent something much greater than just stupid ugly mesh-trucker caps and ridiculous belt buckle-irony: They represent a profound absence of common sense, and that is exactly what I despise. But before I get to the point at hand I will also add that certain moral quandaries have been lately lobbed at me from concerned and some not-so-concerned readers about the sticky good will of the content contained here. Sure, I might have good intentions, they say, and sometimes I might even make somebody laugh a little, but by God, laughing at somebody else's expense is no better than pushing an old woman down a flight of stairs. Haven't you ever read the Screwtape Letters? Is every Anti-Hipster word I write as good as another brimstone down the staircase to hell? Is every reader's snorting snicker another step in the devil's waltz?

Give me a fucking break!

What am I a fucking Mormon? Hell no, I don't believe this tripe either, and it's not as though I just shrug it off and forget about, I really do think about these things. And here's what I came up with: The only people who will find this Forum funny; the only people who can possibly understand the jokes or even understand what a 'hipster' is, are hipsters! They're laughing at themselves! And I'm sure God is smiling down on us too! Ahh, you must know what it feels like to be surrounded by idiots. One the one side I've got a person calling him/herself an Anti-Hipster 'follower' like this is some kind of fucking cult, and on the other side I've got some crazy moral crusader who's worried about saving my mortal soul. Lighten up! Or am I the one who needs to lighten up? This is the email that kind of freaked me out, flattery notwithstanding:

Dear Aimee,
First, I just want to say that I love your work. Your writing is dynamic and interesting, and you have new ideas and original ways of conveying your ideas, which is always refreshing. I came upon the Anti-Hipster forum by chance a couple of weeks ago, and it's become on of my favorite websites.
So now down to business: Though your website has been thoroughly entertaining for me, it has also, indirectly, totally bummed me out. Let me explain. I'm a recent college grad and I've decided to move out of California, where i've been for 22 years, to NYC. I've been wanting to live in ny for 3 years (i lived there one summer in 1999) but things have always impeded it. So now, i finally have my one-way ticket and i'm out of this degenerate state for good-- this month. My dilemma: Mover's Remorse (like Buyer's Remorse or cold feet before a wedding, i imagine). The Reason: Vice Magazine. I swear to god, i was all set to go until I read some articles in this mag and viewed the 'dos and don'ts' articles. Now I feel like i'm moving to the dullest, most superficial, stuck-up place on the planet. Furthermore, I'm moving to Greenpoint temporarily-- before I move to Manhattan. I'm an artist but certainly not a hipster--that is, if vice magazine represents the typical nyc hipster. How silly is it that this dumb piece of shit publication bothers me? It's just that, honestly, if i sat in my room for an hour each morning and religiously contemplated which of my eight camo tees would look best with my delicately 'stressed' denim skirt and homemade synthetic-mohair purse, I think I'd kill myself.
I have a theory that if Vice did not exist, there would would be less hipsters in new york and the city would be a better place over all. So, if you, and all of your followers (I being one of them) truly hate hipsters, maybe you should go head on and attack at them at their source. After all, hipsters obviously spew out regurgitated bullshit, they do not possess ideas of their own (this seen in their fashion). Without a source telling them what to think, drink, and wear, hipsters are lost.
This magazine is a breeding ground for hipsters. Let's destroy it, and others like it.
C

Here's my reply to C: Powerful writing, but I hope you're joking. Also, sorry I called you an idiot. I didn't mean it, really.