A Hipster Story
March 21, 2012 § Leave a comment
We’re all aware they exist, and their smug arrogance make us wince as much as their tight jeans and unkempt facial hair. They are often found listening to obscure bands while hailing irony, leafy greens, and PBR with their obtuse humor. Class and basic hygiene has nothing to do with these self-important trust fund babies born from a certain brand of spoiled nerds. Their poor mothers.
I live in Venice Beach, so I’m sure I have just as many hipster stories as people living in Portland, Williamsberg, or Ann Arbor. First I’ll come clean, I’m a health conscious Californian who has eclectic taste in art, fashion, and music. I’ll also admit to owning several items from American Apparel, therefore I probably have hipster tendencies and a higher tolerance for those who walk amongst me. But by the same token, I have a keen ability to spot a true hipster and when I do, I choose to spare myself the experience with good reason.
At first glance they appear to almost be homeless with their vintage t-shirts, ill-fitting pants and hacked hair-dos. However, they have enough money to drop 16 dollars on 2oz of arugula and 14 more on chicken broth. This was such the case when I was caught against my will in a trendy “hipster” restaurant. I had been summoned there by a couple out-of-towners on a bad lead. The misconception of this being a ‘great spot’ was arrived at because: a. it was recommended, b. it was quite busy and c. all fresh ingredients. We were soon met with disappointment the moment we were seated by a waiter with an obvious attention deficit disorder wearing an unbuttoned vest. I’m pretty positive he was high, drunk, or stupid and his red boxer briefs added color to his ensemble in an inauthentic effortless way. Prices and items like the ones mentioned above littered the menu disguised with such adjectives as housemade (not a real word), spicy, and basic. Beverages included about 14 pricey juices including Ginger and Mint with a whole list different types of water.
More disturbing than what they were charging for water was their clientele. Beards birds could nest in, holey cotton shirts you’d reserve for painting interiors, every single person was nearsighted and no one with any muscle. One girl even had her hair wrapped up in a scarf, a style I thought only acceptable by Cancer patients and black girls in between weaves. Two such twigs talking loudly caught my ear, and by caught my ear I mean I could not hear the discussion at my own table over them.
Skin and bones, emaciated from not having protein in years, not even an almond, both of them wore threadbare t-shirts unfit for a bum, and one of them sported a black leather baseball hat? (I question mark because I still can’t believe it, Hell’s Angles from the 90s called, they said you could keep the hat). I’m convinced they wanted me to overhear their conversation due to the volume of their voices, and, as most hipsters, just wanted attention. I thought I’d listen in to see what these creatures would say to each other. And now I can’t erase what I heard.
One of the girls was rapidly telling the tale of her most recent experience working on a photography set. She relentlessly reported how she was on her feet all day running around busy as a bee (I’m assuming this was her first day of real work ever by the way she explained it). She was upset her superior had suggested she was lagging on the job as she would disappear doing tasks for various staff and she reiterated several times how she was on her feet all day, but it was an incredible experience and she learned a lot. At this point I’m staring. Why are you talking so loudly? What will her friend say? Has her friend ever actually worked? Does she have advice? Does she commiserate with the superior being a dick? Why don’t you eat a piece of cake, a sausage, anything? After this lengthy pause, her friend in the leather baseball cap asks with, “So what were you wearing?”
Um… excuse me? What does working a full day for the first time have to do with attire? And how insensitive a friend to be more concerned with her appearance than performance. I started thinking that Leather Cap Girl was just friends with the photography poser because she was also a hipster and needed someone to split her tender greens with. Photog Girl replied without batting an eye, “I wore a fur vest, with skinny jeans and sneakers.” Leather Cap Girl was either not happy with the sneaker choice or drank her ginger juice too fast. Photog Girl defended herself, “I know, but I had to, I was running around all. day. long.”
I lost brain cells that day. Lesson learned: never assume a hipster is going to say something intelligent or selfless. We paid for our overpriced rice and gave the waiter a tip he didn’t deserve, vowing to never return. Later on Yelp I discovered that the restaurant had be reviewed as “ATROCIOUS. I don’t know if I’ve ever dined at an establishment less concerned with my satisfaction.” Agreed. I blame the hipsters and all of them just waiting to finish their super healthy carrot mash so they can get over their cheap beer hangover and smoke a Parliament.
(By the way, spell check recognizes ‘hipster’ yet fails to recognize ‘bachelorette.’ Ladies, this is blasphemy.)