Many of you know of my profound distaste for hipsters. I lived among them for a year in the Mission (apparently San Francisco’s version of Williamsburg), dodging them as they wheeled their bicycles languidly through crowded sidewalks, trying not to listen to their purposely loud accounts of how hard they partied the night before. Oh my GOD, I feel like shit today. I must have had, like, ten beers last night. Are my eyes still dilated? I can’t even take my sunglasses off inside; it hurts too much.
Hipsters perplex me. I just have so many questions. How do all the tools know to congregate in one particular area? Is there a hipster version of a bat signal? How can a person possibly wear that many accessories at once? How long does it really take them to achieve that “I just rolled out of bed and haven’t bathed in days” look? Does it hurt to be too cool for school? If I started to cut my own hair and wear skinny jeans and smoke a pack a day, would I become one of them, or would they sniff me out as an impostor?
One of my SF co-workers sent me this video today, and while I laughed heartily at the expense of my stylish, trust-funded peers, I also realized something disturbing. I kind of miss the hipsters. San Diego has surf bums and aging hippies and blonde Valley Girls with fake tans and faker boobs, but no hipsters spouting their pseudo-intellectual analysis of the latest indie band you’ve never heard of. Where am I supposed to direct all my snarky commentary if there’s no malnourished, velvet-blazer-wearing, PBR-drinking “artist” at my neighborhood coffee shop? The SoCal sorostitutes are far too easy (in every sense of the word). Must. Mock. Something. Help!