it's about time i grow a beard

Welp, it’s official:

I’m a hipster.

It all happened so quickly. One moment I’m loitering about in nondescript Nikes, ill-fitting pants and a lame button-down; the next, I’ve fought my way into a pair of skinny jeans, laced my Chucks (low-cut, black) and bused to Williamsburg, off to dance like a white person in a club that may or may not be spinning Hercules and Love Affair. As things stand at present, I’m whiplashed, disoriented, demoralized. I’ve joined the enemy.

This coming from a fella who’s spent the better part of two years making fun of hipsters for their superfluous ornamentations, insular music snobbery and humorous attempts to eternize their half-realized “artsy” and “esoteric” aesthetic! Let’s face it: Hipsters, when you get right down to it, are kind of clownish. In the same way many punks identify as such by adopting the uniform (leather, safety pins, mod boots, angular haircut, etc.), so, too, hipsters tend to flaunt their hipsterdom by treating life like a macro game of Dress Up whilst steadfastly adhering to all the unwritten hipster behavioral rules (i.e. swilling PBR from a can, frequenting thrift stores, liking Animal Collective, etc.).

That--the shameless perpetuation of a stereotype--has always been my main beef with hipster culture. Why would anybody wish to subscribe so fully to a well-demarcated clique? If you’ve just paid $6 for a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses with neon orange arms or whatever the hell you call the part that wraps around your ear, originality ain’t one of your predilections.

Ditch the trucker hat, I say, and develop your own look! Consciously eschewing the established stylings of your demograph is more punk/hipster/arty than any tried-and-true hipster outfit you might scare up. (“Hipster outfit,” of course, is a liquid concept that ain't at all definable; I realize I'm firing Nerf arrows here.) Adopting semi-funny, wholly ironic digs does not a hip cat make. Pairing multi-coloured (always preferred the British spelling) scarf, fedora and checkerboard shoe does not a hip cat make. What it makes you, friend, is a clone.

A real badass (admittedly, I am not said badass) would make like George Costanza and drape themselves in velvet, head-to-toe. In my eyes, that would be infinitely more hip (adj. 1. Keenly aware of or knowledgeable about the latest trends or developments) than anything going on on Bedford right now, since you'd be subverting expectations and offering a progressive take on that scene.

Enough about that. I'm talking out of my ass.

Despite my seeming aversion to the lifestyle, this weekend I took the hipster plunge. For proof, check out my activities from those 70-odd hours:

1) Did not leave Brooklyn. Divided my time between Crown Heights, Williamsburg (a hipster’s natural habitat) and Greenpoint.
2) Wore my Chucks out on both Friday and Saturday night.
3) Purchased the aforementioned skinny jeans (yep, hipster staple) at a thrift store for sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents.
4) Drank copious amounts of PBR.
5) Attended a Dan Deacon concert. (Not liking Deacon, by the way, predicates certain exile in hipster circles). I happen to like Dan Deacon. Dan Deacon is A-1.
6) Attended a rad dance party in Williamsburg.
7) To be clear: I attended a DAN DEACON concert (if you’re wondering who Dan Deacon is, please reference Wikipedia, an online encyclopedia that is entirely 100% factual) in skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors with PBR in hand. Dear God, what have I done?!

(long pause)

Erm. But wait…I’m not really a hipster. (Not that it matters one way or the other, of course. This blog has devolved into a childish wordplay exercise. Press on, Mike. Press on...) The more I consider, the more I realize the math don’t jive. I’m A) not living off my parents, B) would not consider myself an apathetic person, C) am not an indie music nerd (though I certainly appreciate some “hipster” bands), D) do not imbibe coffee or puff from hand-rolled cigarettes, and E) keep my keys in my pocket, not on a carabiner hooked to my belt loop. Oh, and I’m F) completely indifferent to Cat Power and TV On The Radio.

Looking back at the drivel I just spilled on this page, I’m taken by my own hypocrisy. In the last hour, I’ve G) claimed to be a hipster, H) bashed hipsters for not developing a fresh look (while I sit in Nikes, boring pants and a standard shirt), I) fallen prey to semantics by obsessing over the term “hipster” as if it’s a static designation that means anything, J) made a number of bad lists involving seemingly random lettering and numbering systems, and K) then, incredulously, upended the original premise of the blog by concluding that I’m actually NOT a hipster.

Now’s the point in the blog where I contemplate scrapping the last hour of work entirely and moving on to a fresh topic that ain’t so rife with inaccuracies and misdirected accusations. I've gone and painted myself a fool. (And, ironically, managed to lose--badly--an argument with myself.)

(long, long pause)

Screw it, I’m publishing it. My apologies for wasting your time.
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