Stuff Hipsters Hate

Feb 01
Festival Lineups
Too mainstream, too ’90s, too replete with worn-out garage rock/soulless EDM/bands that Pitchfork wants to bang — YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO SATIATE ME.
(NB: Coachella poster used simply for illustrative purposes. Hipster lament could be applied to Pitchfork, Bonnaroo, Random Festival Bro Throws In Backyard To Benefit Asthmatic Dogs, etc.)

Festival Lineups

Too mainstream, too ’90s, too replete with worn-out garage rock/soulless EDM/bands that Pitchfork wants to bang — YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO SATIATE ME.

(NB: Coachella poster used simply for illustrative purposes. Hipster lament could be applied to Pitchfork, Bonnaroo, Random Festival Bro Throws In Backyard To Benefit Asthmatic Dogs, etc.)

Jun 11
Spin-Offs? Spin-Offs… Spin-Offs
B got bored and started this blog the other night. It’s called Hipster Dream Date. It might be maintained, or it might die a rapid, soundless death, much like the career of many an Internet-born rapper.

Spin-Offs? Spin-Offs… Spin-Offs


B got bored and started this blog the other night. It’s called Hipster Dream Date. It might be maintained, or it might die a rapid, soundless death, much like the career of many an Internet-born rapper.

Mar 27
FLASHBACK: When You Ask The DJ For Requests

The FLASHBACK is being deployed for a very specific reason, namely to let you know that we will be DJing on Friday, March 30, at Glasslands Gallery in Brooklyn at the so-called “Brass Magic Party.” Other DJs will include French Horn Rebellion, Golden Pony, Tiny Victories and Rx. See the flyer above for all the details and, remember, should you try to request ANY songs from us, the following scenario will likely unfold: 

Jenny: Hey! Do you think you could play some Madonna or Michael Jackson or something?

DJ Infinite Heaviness of Beans: What? I can’t hear you.

Jenny: [shimmies into the DJ booth] Oh, I was just wondering if you could play some ’80s music or something. 

DJ (totally not gonna repeat that name every time): Uh. I’m working.

Jenny: That’s cool. Sorry. Just wondering if you take requests.

DJ: I have my playlist. It’s all set up.

Jenny: Yeah, man. But you just played “Horse with No Name”…

DJ: [withering glare]

Jenny: I mean, that’s an awesome song… If you like quirky funeral dirges, but, you can’t dance to that.

DJ: Fucking person from Porlock…

Jenny: Excuse me?

DJ: You know “Kubla Khan”?

Jenny: Was that the song you played after all those weird Caribbean gospel jams?

DJ: No, asshole, it’s a poem, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. An epic poem that he composed while in an opium-induced haze. It was like his fucking masterpiece. About Xanadu. And a pleasure palace. And polo. Or something. Anyway, the point is, Coleridge was, like, all fucking tripping out on opium and his creative juices where just bursting from his body like fucking beaujolias nouveau wine grapes bursting under the stately feet of French maidens… when some asshole, some dude from some place called Porlock, just burst in and killed his flow. Then, when he came back to his poem, he had lost it. Lost it fucking all. That’s what you are, lady, a fucking person from Porlock. Killing my ever-loving flow.

Jenny: But… you’re not even spinning vinyl… You’ve just got a fucking iTunes playlist open on your desktop…

DJ: Get out of my area.

Jenny: And… what’s the title there? “John’s Chill-Out” music?

DJ: Get the fuck out of my area.

Jenny: Dude, did you even make a playlist for tonight? Or is this just what you listen to when you’re high?

DJ: Fuck you. Get the fuck out my fucking pleasure palace.

Jenny: Look! No one’s dancing! Everyone’s leaving!

DJ: Whatever. Classless masses. Music isn’t for everyone. Obviously they lack my poetic sensibilities. Imma just turn the speakers off and jam here with my headphones. Y’all can go straight to hell. Or Porlock. Wherever the fuck that is.

FLASHBACK: When You Ask The DJ For Requests

The FLASHBACK is being deployed for a very specific reason, namely to let you know that we will be DJing on Friday, March 30, at Glasslands Gallery in Brooklyn at the so-called “Brass Magic Party.” Other DJs will include French Horn Rebellion, Golden Pony, Tiny Victories and Rx. See the flyer above for all the details and, remember, should you try to request ANY songs from us, the following scenario will likely unfold:

Jenny: Hey! Do you think you could play some Madonna or Michael Jackson or something?

DJ Infinite Heaviness of Beans: What? I can’t hear you.

Jenny: [shimmies into the DJ booth] Oh, I was just wondering if you could play some ’80s music or something. 

DJ (totally not gonna repeat that name every time): Uh. I’m working.

Jenny: That’s cool. Sorry. Just wondering if you take requests.

DJ: I have my playlist. It’s all set up.

Jenny: Yeah, man. But you just played “Horse with No Name”…

DJ: [withering glare]

Jenny: I mean, that’s an awesome song… If you like quirky funeral dirges, but, you can’t dance to that.

DJ: Fucking person from Porlock…

Jenny: Excuse me?

DJ: You know “Kubla Khan”?

Jenny: Was that the song you played after all those weird Caribbean gospel jams?

DJ: No, asshole, it’s a poem, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. An epic poem that he composed while in an opium-induced haze. It was like his fucking masterpiece. About Xanadu. And a pleasure palace. And polo. Or something. Anyway, the point is, Coleridge was, like, all fucking tripping out on opium and his creative juices where just bursting from his body like fucking beaujolias nouveau wine grapes bursting under the stately feet of French maidens… when some asshole, some dude from some place called Porlock, just burst in and killed his flow. Then, when he came back to his poem, he had lost it. Lost it fucking all. That’s what you are, lady, a fucking person from Porlock. Killing my ever-loving flow.

Jenny: But… you’re not even spinning vinyl… You’ve just got a fucking iTunes playlist open on your desktop…

DJ: Get out of my area.

Jenny: And… what’s the title there? “John’s Chill-Out” music?

DJ: Get the fuck out of my area.

Jenny: Dude, did you even make a playlist for tonight? Or is this just what you listen to when you’re high?

DJ: Fuck you. Get the fuck out my fucking pleasure palace.

Jenny: Look! No one’s dancing! Everyone’s leaving!

DJ: Whatever. Classless masses. Music isn’t for everyone. Obviously they lack my poetic sensibilities. Imma just turn the speakers off and jam here with my headphones. Y’all can go straight to hell. Or Porlock. Wherever the fuck that is.

Mar 18
Luddites… But Also Techies… But Also Luddites
Apps and shit. My feelings about them vary with the winds… and how inebriated I am. Please just tell me how to feel down there with that link. I’ll do the opposite.

Click here to take survey

Luddites… But Also Techies… But Also Luddites

Apps and shit. My feelings about them vary with the winds… and how inebriated I am. Please just tell me how to feel down there with that link. I’ll do the opposite.

Click here to take survey

Dec 19

GUEST POST: Customer Service

Editor’s Note: Our guest writer, Christiaan Van Vuuren, is Australian, so we can’t really verify whether or not his assertions about Bondi Beach are correct. Also, they didn’t teach “Australian” at my private school (and those Outback Steak House commercials were no help at all), so we basically have no idea what he’s saying above or below. Since fucking when is “heaps” an adjective? Peace.

Bondi Beach is a beautiful little corner of Sydney, Australia. It’s a place where people come from all over the world to enjoy the sun, sand and surf… Not to mention the excessive party life. As a former resident of Bondi, I have watched many a stable person move in and become an overnight alcoholic. It’s a wonderful place.

But the young people of today are changing as a result of information technology. Being part of some kind of easily categorized sub-culture group has become increasingly mainstream, and the harder that people try to be unique and different, the more they conform to a particular mould. 

As a result, a new social formula has emerged, from three different sub-cultures, and they have been taking over… 

Emo + Metro + Hobo = Hipster.

On every street corner, Hipsters spread themselves out in neat little groups, leaning on old graffitied brickwork, occupying bus shelters, jamming on their ukuleles, spinning vinyl records at every opportunity, dominating garage sales and generally looking heaps fucking cool. Hipsters are a product of their environment. They try very hard to look like they don’t give a shit about anything, but they give a shit about everything… They give a shit, about not giving a shit.

We know this isn’t just an Australian thing, it’s a global thing, and people from every major city in the world will complain that Hipsters are taking over… You only need to google it online to see the hundreds of blogs that are dedicated to Hipster culture (take this blog for example) or search it on Youtube to see how many people are commenting on the Hipster way of life.

They are easily identifiable, and have a very interesting view of the world… To both celebrate this culture, and show what a contradictory lifestyle it can be, we have recently created a Youtube web series called “Hipsters” (yes, very creative name, I know). It’s about two Bondi boys, Dom and Adrian, who are trying to get their own hipster fashion label off the ground… Dom and Adrian think that they are making the world a better place, but it’s pretty clear that they are part of the problem.

We wanted to make our web series something that would stretch beyond the obvious flaws of this sub-culture, and really take the piss out of it, playing on what a contradictory lifestyle they live.

Fashion, Technology, The social scene, Partying at the coolest spots, DJ’s, Drugs, Organic Foods, Yoga, Pilates, Exercise and self improvement, Retro music, The 80’s and 90‘s, vintage, underground, The environment, Popular politics, Social media…

In each of the above areas of the Hipster life, there are interesting contradictions… Take their political views for example. Hipsters like to consider themselves to be very environmentally aware, and they are constantly talking about ways they could minimize their environmental footprints UNLESS it infringes in any way on their lifestyle. They will still drive 4WD’s, smoke cigarettes, leave empty beers bottles laying around, and put recyclables in the wrong bin… Then take their own personal health for example. They will spend all week eating healthy organic foods, doing Yoga, Pilates and working out at the gym, then come the weekend they will binge drink and party from Thursday through Sunday, skip meals, snort lines, eat fast food, and hardly sleep. It’s a lifestyle of extremes, and we want to have fun making videos around that.

We are creating more of the Hipsters videos in January, so feel free to submit ideas here at “Stuff Hipsters Hate” and we will consider them for future episodes!

Dec 16
Annnnd here’s a post that is NOT a guest post (in that it was written by me) because I saw a picture of a puppy today and felt benevolent. 
Christmas Music
Jesus fucking Christ, I hate Christmas music. Yeah, that’s right. I took the Lord’s name in vain, and I’ll do it again, too. Seriously, some of that shit is the most disturbing fucking garbage ever. I mean, take “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.” Really? We’re all supposed to feel all holly and jolly listening to some jam about an old person being mowed down by a horned beast? The mental image of her bones crunching under Rudolph’s galloping hooves is enough to put me off my Christmas dinner. If I manage to make it dinner this year. Last year I just got super drunk, argued with my uncle about whether or not Obama is a real American citizen, and retreated to my horribly preserved childhood room. The dust of childhood is insidious… But I digress.
"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"? For real? What child of divorce would ever utter the words: "Oh, what a laugh it would have been if Daddy had only seen Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night"? Are you shitting me? That would have been fucking traumatizing. Like that scene from IQ84. (I won’t explain. Read the fucking book.) Your mom is cheating on your dad with an obese mythilogical creature? Oh, yeah, that’s fucking hilarious. Maybe Santa can bring me $1,200 so that I can cover my therapy costs this year. That would be nice.
And don’t even get me started on “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” “Say, what’s in this drink?” Yeah, that would be roofie, honey, enjoy your unwanted Christmas child. God, it’s like all these songs are just super sinister subliminal messages that serve to explicate the horrors that are everyday life, packaged in bright, shining boxes that only belie their utterly macabre inner workings. Merry fucking Christmas, baby.
Now, if you would excuse me, I have to go write another think piece about Odd Future via my Facebook status. It’s almost 2012, at which point that shit will be even more irrelevant than it already is.
(Photo)

Annnnd here’s a post that is NOT a guest post (in that it was written by me) because I saw a picture of a puppy today and felt benevolent. 

Christmas Music

Jesus fucking Christ, I hate Christmas music. Yeah, that’s right. I took the Lord’s name in vain, and I’ll do it again, too. Seriously, some of that shit is the most disturbing fucking garbage ever. I mean, take “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.” Really? We’re all supposed to feel all holly and jolly listening to some jam about an old person being mowed down by a horned beast? The mental image of her bones crunching under Rudolph’s galloping hooves is enough to put me off my Christmas dinner. If I manage to make it dinner this year. Last year I just got super drunk, argued with my uncle about whether or not Obama is a real American citizen, and retreated to my horribly preserved childhood room. The dust of childhood is insidious… But I digress.

"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"? For real? What child of divorce would ever utter the words: "Oh, what a laugh it would have been if Daddy had only seen Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night"? Are you shitting me? That would have been fucking traumatizing. Like that scene from IQ84. (I won’t explain. Read the fucking book.) Your mom is cheating on your dad with an obese mythilogical creature? Oh, yeah, that’s fucking hilarious. Maybe Santa can bring me $1,200 so that I can cover my therapy costs this year. That would be nice.

And don’t even get me started on “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” “Say, what’s in this drink?” Yeah, that would be roofie, honey, enjoy your unwanted Christmas child. God, it’s like all these songs are just super sinister subliminal messages that serve to explicate the horrors that are everyday life, packaged in bright, shining boxes that only belie their utterly macabre inner workings. Merry fucking Christmas, baby.

Now, if you would excuse me, I have to go write another think piece about Odd Future via my Facebook status. It’s almost 2012, at which point that shit will be even more irrelevant than it already is.

(Photo)

Dec 16
GUEST POST: Showing Their Uncool Cousins Around TownWell, this is a bit of pickle dipped in an inconvenience wrapped up  in a culture clash. You agreed to this family hang as a favor to your  Mom because she asked you to take your Republican-ish cousin Brad from  Akron, Ohio out on the town while he’s in the city for a work-related  function. You tried to weasel your way out of it, but she wore you down  with a guilt trip. "It’s only four hours out of your life, so quit your whining and  just do it," she said sternly which made you groan because really where  can you take this guy? He’s sure as hell not gonna enjoy going to any of  the dimly-lit, low scene dive bar rat holes you frequent. Even if he  says he wants to see "how the other half lives" and insists that you  guys pop into your favorite haunt for beers, he doesn’t mean it. He  wants to go somewhere that he can either a) watch sports on a large  television b) stuff some kind of cheesy popper in his mouth and/or c)  look at bimbos. This is the holy trinity of entertainment for him!  Anything less than that is gonna be a big time letdown for his big night  in the city.  He’ll show up in an Ohio State baseball hat, a crummy, blue Old Navy  sweater with a horizontal white stripe knitted across the chest, boxy  light blue jeans, and a pair of off-white Reeboks. Yup, good old Brad.  Just looking him over you know that he’s gonna hate anywhere you take  him to.   If you do decide to take him to your favorite spot because you can’t  think of anywhere else to go, he’ll look around nervously as he leans  against a wall with one hand jammed in his front pocket and one hand  wrapped around a Bud Light beer bottle and unleash a string of running  commentary about the other patrons’ fashion choices. "Cool ear plugs, guy," he’ll sarcastically crack at some dude you’re  actually friends with, which will make you consider how mad your Mom  would get if you just straight-up walked out of the bar and hightailed  it home. Yes, ear plugs are weird. They make people’s ears look wonky. I  got the memo about that, Brad, You’re such an astute fashion critic!  Tell me more about your thoughts on the employment prospects for people  with neck tattoos while you’re at it. Thank god you only have to put up with him for one night. You might  even lie and say you have to turn in early to cut the hang short. Maybe  you’ll even fake a yawn or look at your watch all, “Jeez! It’s getting  late. I should really get to steppin’.” But we all know that as soon as  you guys part ways, you’ll roll into the party all your buddies have  been texting you about and believe me, you will never be so happy to see  your friends and taste that first sip of microbrew beer on your lips.  It’ll feel like you’ve just been released from prison or something.  You’ll hug everyone you see and smile so fucking wide at being reunited  with your crew that your cheeks will hurt.
Anna Goldfarb is the publisher of Shmitten Kitten, a a blog about dating for people who would probably never read a blog about dating.
(Photo)

GUEST POST: Showing Their Uncool Cousins Around Town

Well, this is a bit of pickle dipped in an inconvenience wrapped up in a culture clash. You agreed to this family hang as a favor to your Mom because she asked you to take your Republican-ish cousin Brad from Akron, Ohio out on the town while he’s in the city for a work-related function. You tried to weasel your way out of it, but she wore you down with a guilt trip.

"It’s only four hours out of your life, so quit your whining and just do it," she said sternly which made you groan because really where can you take this guy? He’s sure as hell not gonna enjoy going to any of the dimly-lit, low scene dive bar rat holes you frequent. Even if he says he wants to see "how the other half lives" and insists that you guys pop into your favorite haunt for beers, he doesn’t mean it. He wants to go somewhere that he can either a) watch sports on a large television b) stuff some kind of cheesy popper in his mouth and/or c) look at bimbos. This is the holy trinity of entertainment for him! Anything less than that is gonna be a big time letdown for his big night in the city. 

He’ll show up in an Ohio State baseball hat, a crummy, blue Old Navy sweater with a horizontal white stripe knitted across the chest, boxy light blue jeans, and a pair of off-white Reeboks. Yup, good old Brad. Just looking him over you know that he’s gonna hate anywhere you take him to.  

If you do decide to take him to your favorite spot because you can’t think of anywhere else to go, he’ll look around nervously as he leans against a wall with one hand jammed in his front pocket and one hand wrapped around a Bud Light beer bottle and unleash a string of running commentary about the other patrons’ fashion choices.

"Cool ear plugs, guy," he’ll sarcastically crack at some dude you’re actually friends with, which will make you consider how mad your Mom would get if you just straight-up walked out of the bar and hightailed it home. Yes, ear plugs are weird. They make people’s ears look wonky. I got the memo about that, Brad, You’re such an astute fashion critic! Tell me more about your thoughts on the employment prospects for people with neck tattoos while you’re at it.

Thank god you only have to put up with him for one night. You might even lie and say you have to turn in early to cut the hang short. Maybe you’ll even fake a yawn or look at your watch all, “Jeez! It’s getting late. I should really get to steppin’.” But we all know that as soon as you guys part ways, you’ll roll into the party all your buddies have been texting you about and believe me, you will never be so happy to see your friends and taste that first sip of microbrew beer on your lips. It’ll feel like you’ve just been released from prison or something. You’ll hug everyone you see and smile so fucking wide at being reunited with your crew that your cheeks will hurt.

Anna Goldfarb is the publisher of Shmitten Kitten, a a blog about dating for people who would probably never read a blog about dating.


(Photo)

Dec 14
GUEST POST: Missing an Opportunity to Peacock with Literature
I recently attended a panel called What Is the Future of the Independent Bookstore? that may have more aptly been named Oh Sweet Jesus E-Readers Are Going to Kill Real Books Forever. Panelist (and hipster hero) Jonathan Ames went so far as to predict that books will become antiques. 
But as this blog has already astutely pointed out, “p-books” (physical books, natch) fulfill a function that e-readers cannot: They help h-kids impress people. (Not that they care what you think.)
Therefore, I’d like to present a Handy Hipster Gift Guide for books. (And, obvi, buy at your local second-hand or indie bookstore. Maybe even hand it over in the bag so he or she will be physically able to accept it.)
To score chicks/dudes on the subway: Two things to remember here: The title/author needs to be clear and readable (how else will someone write a Missed Connection about her?) and the book has to be light enough to hold in one hand (nothing sadder than a dude struggling to hold up a ginormous hardcover copy of Moby Dick—yeah, we get it, you’re reading Moby Dick). In terms of content, your pal needs to attract attention. One tack: appropriating a book that has been championed by the opposite gender. Another is reading something that was once banned (especially helpful if you’re looking strictly for some action—subversion is sexy).
Wishlist: Give Me Your Heart by Joyce Carol Oates (for male readers). Anything by Bukowski (for female readers—though be warned, she may reel in a dude who’s into vomiting/crying). Naked Lunch by William Burroughs. The Story of O. 
To be better liked at work: It doesn’t appear that your bud’s bleary coffee breaks, bedhead and strong smell of smoke are doing him any favors at the office. (Hipster at the office, you say? Oh yes. Every office has one.) Here’s your chance to get him to read something borderline mainstream, if only so that a supervisor will see it displayed in his cube and strike up a convo. But it still has to be good enough that he doesn’t hate himself post-5 pm.
Wishlist: A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. Zone 1 by Colson Whitehead. Chipmunk Seeks Squirrel by David Sedaris.
To display on the coffee table: The coffee table affords your hipster friend the opportunity to impress both her under- and over-literate friends. The best picks are quirky debut novels by Brooklyn-based authors, who, oh yeah, she always sees at her favorite brunch place in Greenpoint.
Wishlist: We the Animals by Justin Torres. Swamplandia by Karen Russell. The Adults by Alison Espach.
If you get a slight smirk and nod of acknowledgement, you’ve done your job well. Just don’t expect anything in return. Your hipster friend will most likely pull a George Costanza, only instead of pretending to donate to a fake charity in your name, he’ll instead promise to commemorate you for all time in one of his songs/novels/poems. Uh, thanks.
Julia Bartz is the creator of Book Stalker, where she writes about readings around New York.
(Photo)

GUEST POST: Missing an Opportunity to Peacock with Literature

I recently attended a panel called What Is the Future of the Independent Bookstore? that may have more aptly been named Oh Sweet Jesus E-Readers Are Going to Kill Real Books Forever. Panelist (and hipster hero) Jonathan Ames went so far as to predict that books will become antiques.

But as this blog has already astutely pointed out, “p-books” (physical books, natch) fulfill a function that e-readers cannot: They help h-kids impress people. (Not that they care what you think.)

Therefore, I’d like to present a Handy Hipster Gift Guide for books. (And, obvi, buy at your local second-hand or indie bookstore. Maybe even hand it over in the bag so he or she will be physically able to accept it.)

To score chicks/dudes on the subway: Two things to remember here: The title/author needs to be clear and readable (how else will someone write a Missed Connection about her?) and the book has to be light enough to hold in one hand (nothing sadder than a dude struggling to hold up a ginormous hardcover copy of Moby Dick—yeah, we get it, you’re reading Moby Dick). In terms of content, your pal needs to attract attention. One tack: appropriating a book that has been championed by the opposite gender. Another is reading something that was once banned (especially helpful if you’re looking strictly for some action—subversion is sexy).

Wishlist: Give Me Your Heart by Joyce Carol Oates (for male readers). Anything by Bukowski (for female readers—though be warned, she may reel in a dude who’s into vomiting/crying). Naked Lunch by William Burroughs. The Story of O.

To be better liked at work: It doesn’t appear that your bud’s bleary coffee breaks, bedhead and strong smell of smoke are doing him any favors at the office. (Hipster at the office, you say? Oh yes. Every office has one.) Here’s your chance to get him to read something borderline mainstream, if only so that a supervisor will see it displayed in his cube and strike up a convo. But it still has to be good enough that he doesn’t hate himself post-5 pm.

Wishlist: A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan. Zone 1 by Colson Whitehead. Chipmunk Seeks Squirrel by David Sedaris.

To display on the coffee table: The coffee table affords your hipster friend the opportunity to impress both her under- and over-literate friends. The best picks are quirky debut novels by Brooklyn-based authors, who, oh yeah, she always sees at her favorite brunch place in Greenpoint.

Wishlist: We the Animals by Justin Torres. Swamplandia by Karen Russell. The Adults by Alison Espach.

If you get a slight smirk and nod of acknowledgement, you’ve done your job well. Just don’t expect anything in return. Your hipster friend will most likely pull a George Costanza, only instead of pretending to donate to a fake charity in your name, he’ll instead promise to commemorate you for all time in one of his songs/novels/poems. Uh, thanks.

Julia Bartz is the creator of Book Stalker, where she writes about readings around New York.

(Photo)

Dec 12
GUEST POST: Decorating for the Holidays
Christmas is a ridiculous time where the big, cheesy, goofy kid in all of us comes out.  We’re normal people for the majority of the year, but when December rolls around, we all turn into that lady from QVC’s Quacker Factory.  Christmas lights!  Tree-shaped sugar cookies!  Santa!  Hot Chocolate!  Rudolph!  We’re excited for it ALL.  But those goddamned hipsters just can’t get on board.  I get it: it’s hard for them to express any sort of holiday cheer when they’re trying to appear sullen and joyless all of the time.  While people across the globe are joining hands and singing “Joy to the World,” all they want to do is sit in front of their computer and take unsmiling sepia-toned photos of themselves.   It all seems pretty ridiculous—the idea that they can’t embrace the time of year when even the biggest assholes try to act sort of nice.  But, let’s be fair: we’re looking at it from one side.  Maybe there’s a point to all of this eye-rolling about Christmas that they’re doing.  And so, I give you an internal monologue of a Hipster who refuses to decorate for the holidays: Yes, I see you people.  You and your rosy cheeks and scarves,  carting home pointsettas and Christmas lights and bags of fake snow.  Let me  tell you this: I’m not giving in to your commercialism.  I am not  decorating for Christmas. I’m well aware that my decision to not decorate for Christmas turns me into a caricature of the Grinch.  Someone who can’t embrace things such as cookie baking, tree decorating,  or wasting an entire Saturday afternoon assembling a snowman in my front yard. I’m not trying to be an asshole, I have several reasons why I won’t decorate for Christmas: 1.  I know you think that my tall, skinny frame and my weird, gangly arms  would make me the best possible candidate for stringing Christmas  lights, but I assure you that I can’t stand up for more than 10 minutes  at a time.  Why?  Because all I ate today was a spoonful of hummus and  45 cups of black coffee.  2. While I can appreciate the irony of an “Ugly Holiday Sweater”  party, you will never see me goofing around in a Santa hat.  Santa Claus  was created to instill greed in children as soon as they’re old enough  to start articulating a wish list.  I know this because I Wikipedia’d  the history of “Saint Nicolas” on my iPad that my parents bought for me  last Christmas.  3. People with big Christmas displays make me sad.  I mean, why are  you trying so hard?  WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE?  There’s nothing more  pathetic than trying at life.  I’d rather sit here with my mulled cider  and look out the window wistfully.  I am so mad.  SO MAD AT THE SNOW.
4. I’m going home to my parents’ mansion in Connecticut and they  decorate it really beautifully.  I can’t wait to see it!  Uh, I mean:  I’M NOT GOING HOME.  I’M AN ORPHAN.  MY NAME IS OLIVER.  OLIVER TWIZT.   Hey, that would be a great DJ name. I don’t even care anymore. Whatever,  bye.Amanda Waas is a regular contributor to F’d in Park Slope.  She is also the creator of the douchey gift  blog You’re Welcome.  Follow her on  Twitter for more vaguely amusing commentary. 
(Photo: YellowBugBoutique/Etsy)

GUEST POST: Decorating for the Holidays

Christmas is a ridiculous time where the big, cheesy, goofy kid in all of us comes out.  We’re normal people for the majority of the year, but when December rolls around, we all turn into that lady from QVC’s Quacker Factory. 

Christmas lights!  Tree-shaped sugar cookies!  Santa!  Hot Chocolate!  Rudolph!  We’re excited for it ALL. 

But those goddamned hipsters just can’t get on board.  I get it: it’s hard for them to express any sort of holiday cheer when they’re trying to appear sullen and joyless all of the time.  While people across the globe are joining hands and singing “Joy to the World,” all they want to do is sit in front of their computer and take unsmiling sepia-toned photos of themselves. 

It all seems pretty ridiculous—the idea that they can’t embrace the time of year when even the biggest assholes try to act sort of nice.  But, let’s be fair: we’re looking at it from one side.  Maybe there’s a point to all of this eye-rolling about Christmas that they’re doing.  And so, I give you an internal monologue of a Hipster who refuses to decorate for the holidays:

Yes, I see you people.  You and your rosy cheeks and scarves, carting home pointsettas and Christmas lights and bags of fake snow.  Let me tell you this: I’m not giving in to your commercialism.  I am not decorating for Christmas.

I’m well aware that my decision to not decorate for Christmas turns me into a caricature of the Grinch.  Someone who can’t embrace things such as cookie baking, tree decorating, or wasting an entire Saturday afternoon assembling a snowman in my front yard.

I’m not trying to be an asshole, I have several reasons why I won’t decorate for Christmas:

1. I know you think that my tall, skinny frame and my weird, gangly arms would make me the best possible candidate for stringing Christmas lights, but I assure you that I can’t stand up for more than 10 minutes at a time.  Why?  Because all I ate today was a spoonful of hummus and 45 cups of black coffee. 

2. While I can appreciate the irony of an “Ugly Holiday Sweater” party, you will never see me goofing around in a Santa hat.  Santa Claus was created to instill greed in children as soon as they’re old enough to start articulating a wish list.  I know this because I Wikipedia’d the history of “Saint Nicolas” on my iPad that my parents bought for me last Christmas. 

3. People with big Christmas displays make me sad.  I mean, why are you trying so hard?  WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE?  There’s nothing more pathetic than trying at life.  I’d rather sit here with my mulled cider and look out the window wistfully.  I am so mad.  SO MAD AT THE SNOW.

4. I’m going home to my parents’ mansion in Connecticut and they decorate it really beautifully.  I can’t wait to see it!  Uh, I mean: I’M NOT GOING HOME.  I’M AN ORPHAN.  MY NAME IS OLIVER.  OLIVER TWIZT.  Hey, that would be a great DJ name. I don’t even care anymore. Whatever, bye.

Amanda Waas is a regular contributor to F’d in Park Slope.  She is also the creator of the douchey gift blog You’re Welcome.  Follow her on Twitter for more vaguely amusing commentary.

(Photo: YellowBugBoutique/Etsy)

Dec 08
GUEST POST: Hard Right Angles
Phil Edwards is the creator of Fake Science, the world’s preeminent source of illustrated science lessons.

GUEST POST: Hard Right Angles

Phil Edwards is the creator of Fake Science, the world’s preeminent source of illustrated science lessons.