Dude, I was at Lady Jay’s with Micaela the other night and this twee-ass country song came on and she got all nostalgic, did you remember she’s from Georgia? I know, me neither, no accent, but she got all fucking starry-eyed and started asking if I knew this song and that song by Kenny Chesney and Tim McGraw and Travis Tit or whoever the fuck and like, singing them by herself in the bar, right? And then last night we all had dinner at Sonja an’ Stumper’s place and she got drunk and insisted on like playing us all these fucking terrible music videos. Dude, have you ever watched a contemporary country-western music video? They’re like six-minute-long green-screen packed odes to ugly-ass Trixies with visibly hard nipples and assholes in bootcut jeans and long bleach-blond man-manes.
I mean, bluegrass is kinda rad, but douchebags with weird facial hair wearing tight shirts and stupid headgear, strumming at the guitar and singing whiny and depressing songs about alcohol with put-on accents? Fuck. to the. no.
Oh hey, you were gonna lend me that Wavves EP. Is it around?
It’s one of the biggest cliches about hipsters on the record books (quaintly known as “blogs”) — that they are drawn like so many ill-fated flies to that most drone-like of workplaces, the Genius Bar.
Well, dear readers, it’s time to strike that fallacy from the zeitgeist. Yes, many hipsters, not to mention literally hundreds of millions of contemporary human beings, own Apple products. But a hipster would sooner work at a Starbucks than stoop to don a blue polo and entomb himself in the whited sepulcher that is the Apple Store.
First of all, the Apple Store represents a kind of rabid fan boy-ism that hipsters just don’t truck with: Rampant consumerism that impels one to wait in long, winding lines for the chance to stroke the white plastic casing of mass-produced opulence? The reverent manner with which true believers greet the periodic intoning of one Steve Jobs, booming words that seem to come from the very heavens, foretelling riches untold? Nah, they’ll save that fevered, before-the-oracle prostration for this year’s SXSW lineup. (But they’re actually kind of over that fest, anyway, come to think of it.)
Secondly, those who are inclined toward the technical realm would much rather work at one of the smaller shops catering to those who bash and smash and dump Tecate on their keyboards. Shops that recall simpler days of yore, when one worked as a humble apprentice to a true master. Shops sandwiched between the dusty storefronts of ancient Russian cobblers and Polish pharmacies — shops where the proprietors take pride in their trade and value hard work and knowledge above the latest foolhardy gadgetry.
And — bonus — such proprietors don’t really give a fuck if you kick off for an hour to smoke a joint in the alley, thereby forgetting to finish fixing that logic board (and possibly damaging it further after accidentally spilling loose tobacco into its coiling innards).
They’re upon us again, folks, rambling listicles of journalistic fluff that defy the very nature of hipster hate: It’s an entire numbered column dedicated to stuff people like. Fuck that. We bring you 2010’s Top Ten Top Ten* Lists Hipsters Hate.
Listen up, children of questionable intelligence, January 1 — as well as the previous calendar date — is just a day. It is by no means akin to a magical eraser, wiping clean the chalkboard of the soul so as to sketch in this year’s specials.
Just because you drunkenly toast your pals at midnight (whilst drinking in the plasticine glory that is Ryan Seacrest on your hulking television set) and subsequently hook up with your best friend’s ex in a bar bathroom does not mean that you will suddenly gain the ability to, say, lose your burgeoning beer gut or get your tragic love life in ship-shape. No, you’ll likely just wake up, confused, sad, your cheek frozen painfully into the tangle of glitter and beer that has pooled on your front stoop.
That’s why I’m saying: Fuck New Year’s Resolutions. Tell me what you aim NOT to do this coming year. What promises will you let fester and molder like so many mouse carcasses entombed behind a mildewed wall?
I’ll post the best — or, you know, the most pathetic — on Friday.
Commercialism, fucking annoying holiday music, flagrant overconsumption of electricity for stupid pimped-out light displays, spending money on other people for something other than coke, weird relatives, guilt, forced church/synagogue attendance, the falsified existence of an omniscient fat-bellied altruist designed to induce paranoia and compliance in snot-spattered children, attempting to spell “Hanukkah” whilst trashed on Manischewitz, Salvation Army ringers, getting your pipe past airport security and God. All that and hipsters still don’t hate the holidaze.