#10: Bingo. Brit-Hipstyle

Well Well Well, what have we got here. My friend suggested we do something “different” and signed us up for Underground Rebel Bingo. Yes, it’s as weird as it sounds, so don’t even try to explain it to someone. Ugh, wait, I guess I have to try to explain it to you. Let’s start from the beginning, as is the natural start of most places. (I would really love to go off on a tangent about the phrase “start from the beginning” cause who the eff “starts” from the “end,” it’s just stupid. Anyway…)

So it all started with a Facebook invite. What doesn’t nowadays? And that’s really all it took. After my friend looked at some pictures of past Health and Safety Meetings, the phone call was made, confirmed that we were in, and tickets were bought. I did not look at said pictures until the day of the event. At which point I sent a panicked email asking DO WE HAVE TO WRITE ON EACH OTHER?!?!

:: Sidenote:: I HATE HATE HATE having writing on me. I find it gross, and it makes my skin crawl. I refused to finger-paint in kindergarten, and was NEVER the girl who wrote notes on her hand to remember things. Listen, I am definitely not some prissy girl who doesn’t like to get dirty in other ways (before you think that, get your mind out of the gutter, perv. I mean mud and sand don’t bother me.) Just something about markers and pen make me want to immediately scrub my skin off while vomiting, okay? It’s a thing. Don’t pretend YOU don’t get all weird about having someone’s hair brush up against your pinky finger. Everyone has their things, this is mine. ::End Sidenote::

After I was ASSURED that was not necessary, we went on our way. Making sure we were not going to be sober, it did not seem like the event you attend in such a state, we hopped in a cab and headed for the “secret meeting spot” (Key Club, oops.) At the door we were (1) wrist-banded; (2)bag-checked; (3)wristband-stamped; (4)patted-down; (5)ARM-stamped; (6)given a marker and a bingo card. All. Within. 20. Seconds. Needless to say, this was slightly overwhelming, I haven’t felt that assaulted and bombarded ever, even in an airport. So, we naturally headed to the bar. Drinks in hand, we surveyed the crowd. Effing randomest one I’ve ever seen. But I liked it, some dressed in t-shirts and jeans, others in pajama-looking outfits, and Hollywood club attire as well. We saw people start writing on each other’s faces (I got nervous), and my friends decided they would write on each other’s arms (I supervised). Quite an impressive Superman emblem was drawn. I tried to polka-dot my friend, it looked like she had the measles, I considered it a success.

It took what seemed like forever for the actual “Bingo” to begin. (I don’t know why I put that in air-quotes, it is actually Bingo, just seemed appropriate.) In the meantime, the dude standing next to us asked when we were going to draw on our faces, to which I screamed at him “NEVER!” (I am beginning to think perhaps this wasn’t my scene). My friend realized a few minutes later that said dude was one of her step-brother’s friends, in fact, there was a whole group of them, in wigs and homemade marked white tees. When they recognized her back, they treated her like a celebrity and insisted on taking pictures with her (Backstory: she helped them with a security deposit issue on their apartment in the past. Sometimes people love lawyers. Rarely, but sometimes). After that parade of dreams ended, it was time for the show to begin. Enter Freddie Fortune, we all immediately fell in love. He is British, he is mohawked, and he is surely a huge asshole. All the makings of universal sex appeal. I asked my friend how many girls she thought he slept with a night. We both agreed on an average of 5. Putting our hormones in check, it was time to concentrate on the game at hand, after all, the best prize was that if you get Bingo, you have to jump onstage and hug Freddie, and we all wanted to win that moment of bliss. So it basically works just like bingo. Except the numbers are called via sexually explicit rhymes by a Columbia from Rocky Horror look-a-like, and the prizes are stuffed pandas and stage speakers. A lot of (planted?) people pretend to get Bingo and jump on stage to keep our attention, and quickly get pushed off. Lovebuckets, my pet name for Mr. Fortune, repeats the numbers in his lovely accent to make the crowd swoon, mixed in with some insults. Someone eventually wins, and then it’s all over in a flash.

All in all, it was good, clean fun. For the most part. Because, and this is hard for me to talk about due to its traumatizing nature, at some point in an intermission between games, it happened. I was marked. Three times. On my arm. All of a sudden, like great white sharks breaching the ocean waves, there were two drunk guys armed with markers, caps off, ready to strike. They started friendly, without showing their teeth (ink), asking if we’d ever been to one of these before. We replied politely, no, we hadn’t, but it was fun so far. Then all of a sudden, without warning, SWISH. WTF. What did you just do!? Is that marker? On me?! ::nervous laughter::: Ok, ok, fine, I subjected myself to that by attending this event. Thank you, it was great talking to you, nice of you to include me, but please don’t write on me again, please. SWISH SWISH. Two more marks. OMG WHY WHY WHY?!?!?! YOU HAVE TO STOP NOW, I’M NOT KIDDING, I WILL CUT YOU. IF YOU DO THAT ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR YOUR MANHOOD WILL BE GONE, I WILL FEED IT TO MY DOG, SHE LOVES BULLY STICKS, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE ARE MADE OF???? GET THE HINT? I DO NOT LIKE TO BE WRITTEN ON! DON’T TOY WITH ME, YOU’VE BEEN WARNED. They stopped. We enjoyed the rest of bingo, and I went home and scrubbed my arm until it bled.

So,  Rebel Bingo comes back to the U.S. in August. Sounds fun right? Who wants to  go?

#9: Free Rent

Here's a tip: make the ultimate hipster move... back home.

I speak from experience, y'all-- shortly after graduating from college, I packed up all my things and moved right back home. DTLA -> LA. 10 miles, to be exact.  It was like I had never left.  I was then a student for 3+ years. Did I pay rent? No.  Did I get free meals? Yes. Was it awesome? Hell to the yeah.

Lest you judge me now (as a working woman, questionable motives, possibly not paying rent), I do currently pay rent.  To my parents.  Utilities, groceries, prepared meals included.  I mean, forreal, who wouldn't want to live in my house?  (Rhetorical question.)  I don't have a nice trust fund set up, so I will probably work until I'm 80, you know, when Social Security runs out or something.  If you haven't noticed by now re: the lack of funnies in this post, it's me, xmaox. Hipster-in-training will return during other regularly scheduled intervals. She writes 10 posts, I write 1.

Some things I have learned and will bestow upon you (our five wonderful readers) for a successful rent-free but not 'rental-free life:
(1) Your family secretly loves doing your laundry. I like to think that makes them feel needed.
(2) Don't have too many guests over, unless you're prepared to field a million questions about them, their jobs (if they even have one, see #8: Fauxjobs), their parents, their money, their salaries...
(3) Wash your own dishes. For goodness sake, you're not a child.
(4) Hang out with them. They aren't going to be around forever. Suddenly, this post turned into a Baz Luhrmann song.
(5) See if your parents have a vinyl collection or other hip vintage-y knick-knackery lying around. I still need to invest in a record player, but my parents have some weirdly amazing vintage clothing (Burberry, Comme des Garçons, etc.). GOLDMINE. Too bad my mother was like, a size zero. Jesus.

Results may vary.

#8: Fauxjobs

This topic has been much debated in my general circle of friends. We have theorized for hours upon hours on what an acceptable and realistic job for a hipster is (yes, jobs, NEVER careers). So, this post is an important analysis for the project, since it is of utmost importance to find the hipsters in their day-to-day setting, observe them doing “what they do,” and await the perfect time to infiltrate.

Okay, so for starters, the one life choice upon which there is no real debate among my cohorts as the most acceptable hipster-job of all: no job at all. (Sidenote: Just created a new term, “Fauxjob”, silent “J,” not to be confused with its homophone, that racist slang I was unaware of until my Antitrust class while discussing products that are Free On Board.) This option pretty limited though, mainly only original trust fund-hipsters can really pull this off. Don’t misunderstand, they are not “unemployed,” they have merely chosen not to conform with the societal norm of working with the masses. They are different, they need time to create (not actual things, just ideas that they don’t necessarily write down or share with others), time to think (thoughts you would never understand), and also time to solve the sustainable food dilemma. These are the hipsters that once defined the movement. However, these are also the hipsters that have, ironically, become the antitheist of it. Many mod-hipsters look down on those who look down on others (again, you may sigh at the irony), and see TF-hipsters as sitting around, wasting their (not)god-given talent, living off mainstream money (as that is how their upper-class suburban parents earned it).

Ok, well, after that rather harsh look at those who I am clearly only envious of, I will come to the more productive hipster. These are your DJs - not at trendy clubs, mind you, but more at raves, music festivals, etc. (Although some do spin at a trendy restaurant/lounge/hotel once in a while, as I encountered a particularly adorable one at Palihouse recently.) They are also your graphic designers, your (street) artists, your indi-writers, band members (mostly keyboardists), and other creative types. They could, but not often, work for a tech company, or some other new, upstart that will soon be cool, but it's alright, they were there when the seed was planted. They will be chefs and restaurant owners for sure (all kinds of food), or servers at your local vegan/raw food restaurant. They are bartenders, or bar owners. They also work in television, but not film for some reason. These are the jobs I’ve recognized, not every debater feels the same. If there are more, or if you disagree with my list (and can provide valid arguments supporting this contention), please feel free to let me know.

Until next time, I am going to hang out at my local videogame developer’s headquarters, looking for my in/boyfriend (as I am partial to the slightly geeky hipster employed there).

#7: Literary Novellas (Books)

So--in trying to decide what book I should read next, I found myself asking, WDHR? (What do hipsters read, obvi, don’t pretend like my acronyms are hard to decipher.) And I really had to think about it. To begin with, I know I cannot find an acceptable book at the Borders final-closing-clearance-sale (an event in itself that is a hipster victory?), so I would have to either scour Amazon or find one of those tiny, one-man indie operations (in Silverlake) stocked with friends/local-only-about-100-copies-printed-ever books.

The thing is though, I take my book-reading very seriously; I don’t want to take too much of a risk. When I choose to invest in a book (I refuse to buy a kindle, I am not sure if that is a hipster or non-hipster stance to take), I want to be pretty positive I’ll like it. I also want to recommend it to friends. If I find something on Amazon, I can do the recommending part with relative ease. If I go to the limitedly-stocked store in the middle of nowhere (aka Echo Park), not so much. But the unavailability of a book is probably what makes it fit the genre.  That, and the “supporting your own” mindset behind buying a “struggling” author’s work (I know, there were a lot of air quotes in that sentence, bear with me), as "writer" is one of the few acceptable jobs a hipster can hold (fyi, future post examining such jobs to come). Another perk of visiting the brick-and-mortar store itself is that I can literally judge a book by its cover, which is my tried-and-true way of determining whether I will enjoy it or not. I know, that is the opposite of what your kindly mother always told you to do. But it has proved to be an accurate starting point in my 20-some-odd years of literary consumption, so I will stick with it.

I like to touch my books (shut up, it’s not creepy), read a few parts of my choosing (not just the blurb a website gives you), and compare/contrast it with its surrounding friends. And then carry them all around the store for a few minutes until I decide which will win. I purchase one or two based on price (I’m cheap), length of book (I need it to last more than one day, although if it’s good, it never will), and what kind of story I am in the mood for at that time in my life (usually something depressing and/or true). You see, I like fiction, but I really need to trust an author to be hopeful about it. I have “discovered” a few that I like (Elliot Perlman, if you’re reading this, please put out a new book and make this what-to-choose post obsolete), but for the most part, I go with nonfiction takes on pop culture and the like (it is probably not a hipster thing to love Chuck Klosterman as much as I do). I don’t think hipsters read nonfiction books. And after this extremely long post, I am actually not even sure how many hipsters read “books.” Sure, they read those local underground ‘zines, and blogs, and short stories. But books? Hard to say. This is why I need to befriend one already, and find the answers to my questions before it’s too late. Pretty sure 35 (not that I am close to that!) is the cutoff age for being a hipster. They retire from not working early.

I guess until then, I am going to read DC Pierson’s book, as I am pretty sure it semi-qualifies as hipster-approved (always designated by a twitter-esque verified checkmark, drawn by Banksy). Now taking recommendations for my next ✔ Verified literary novella....

#6: Yelp

Just a quick topical post. Yelp recently added a "Hipster" topic among its standard "trendy" "casual" "dressy" subheadings for depicting a location's ambiance. First of all, (and slightly off topic) I really think "Douche-y" should have been announced first. That would be a much more useful categorization of places to avoid, or in my case, frequent in search of my ideal man. Secondly, a place cannot be hipster and trendy at the same time. It's against the laws of nature. This is not an opinion, it is a hipster-given fact. Literally, if a trend and a hipster ever come into physical contact with each other, the hipster immediately explodes. I've seen it, don't question me. And yet every. single. place. reviewed on Yelp that is "trendy" is also classified "hipster," and vice versa. What is truly ironic though, is that once something is reviewed on Yelp, it can no longer even be hipster. So you can tell by simply reading the classification (or being on Yelp in general) that a "hipster" locale is not going to be what you're looking for. Hipsters don’t need Yelp to tell them whether something's worth going to. They only rely on that one trustworthy friend who's friends with this kid who underground-DJs on the weekends to know where the cool places are to be (but only on weekdays, hipsters have a very "I'm City, you must be Bridge-and-Tunnel" outlook on going out). Good try Yelp, but you're not fooling anyone. Well, actually, you're probably fooling a lot of people, but not this hipster-in-training.

Let me know when you get that "Douche-y" tag up and running though.

#5: Hipster Hotdogs....

So last night my friend had her birthday celebration at Wurstkuche. It's basically a hipster's sausage paradise. When we drove up, there was a line down the street. I was confused. Hipsters wait in line? Now I have been here during my lunch hour, usually choosing to walk away from a line that’s less than half as long as it was last night (yea, that's right "less than half" that's as math-y as I get guys). But here we were on a FRIDAY night, with tons of hipsters choosing to wait in line for two hours for what amounts to a glorified hot dog. It's good, but come on. Nothing (edible?) is that good. I felt like it was the hipster-response to Pinks (please note the completely different color scheme between hipster/tourist links, I enjoy it immensely), which got too trendy to be ironic. So here is where everyone came, assumedly to satisfy both their need for bratwurst with their desire to stand in unnecessary lines. I mean, to steal a line from Shawnakah, the only thing I might wait in a 2 hour line for is something served off Ryan Gosling's body (cause I mean, come on, he's THIS adorable too). And only if while in line I could also randomly scream "It wasn't over, and it's STILL not over" at thirty minute intervals.

Ok fine, I am committed to this project, but clearly not that committed, I don't wait in lines for much, especially food I would not crave if I was somehow at the height of a pregnancy while also PMSing somehow (aka a modern (horrible) medical miracle). So we go in the back way instead, no lines, no fuss. Say our hello to the Bday girl (hey Lisa Loeb! miss you!), and head to the bar. It's a good bar, no shortage of the appropriate beers. I dream of the day I will arrive here and order the $250 Methusalem of Duvel, but last night, I chose based on the most important aspect of any beer. Alcohol content of course. With my 10.5% St. Bernardus ABT 12 properly in hand, I look around at the crowd. It is a perfect blend of plaid and t-shirts. I like it here. I can get used to it. Everyone is friendly as they try to pass by you for a beer, ask you if you're waiting for the table you're standing by before grabbing a coveted seat to eat their long-awaited food, and the server compliments my dress (flattery gets you everywhere with me, it's true). But, alas, as quickly as we arrive, it's time to leave. Everyone is eating, and we are not, and therefore Taco Bell is calling our names. I’d never had TB before either, not sure whether that's ironic or not. Hard to say. But even if it is off-topic, I needed to memorialize this moment in (my) history.

I enjoyed my Crunchwrap Supreme., and sausages await another day. I'm sure there is some deep meaning in that, we'll explore it next time though...

#4 When Worlds Collide: We are all DONALD

I didn’t even think I was “researching” for this project when I decided to attend the I AM DONALD tour, but there I was, with the most interesting mergence of groups I have encountered in a while. For those of you who don’t know (and may I stress should), Donald Glover is a former-30-rock-writer, current-Troy-on-Community-actor, and also a talented rapper by the name of Childish Gambino. He recently began touring doing a hybrid of standup followed by concert, and a brilliant hybrid at that. It is this combination that brought together a very diverse group.

So I guess hipsters watch Community. It makes sense: it’s the most original comedy on television, critically acclaimed by those who matter, and never receives the recognition (or viewership numbers) it deserves (eff you Golden Globes) to solidify it staying on the air (so all two of you reading should start watching so it doesn’t meet Arrested Development-fate, thanks). Aka the perfect show for a hipster following, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that the sea of plaid was infinite. But I kinda was-- I mean, it was standup show first, sure. But, it was also subsequently a rap concert, and the hiphop crowd was represented accordingly.

So I guess my point is (as if I ever really have one), I was not expecting to see these two groups appreciate each other, but no one left or arrived late in order to avoid half of the performance, no one fought, and I am sure even some members of opposing groups loved. Everyone was united under Donald Glover, Childish Gambino... Jesus? I guess I wouldn’t go that far, but it was enjoyable to see. Now, I didn’t really infiltrate, or try, even. First of all, I was above the masses in the VIP section (Holla Twitter contest winner, right here! I know, you are so jealous of my never-ending coolness), and second of all, I was just enjoying the scene. Everyone together, some people dancing (remember, hipsters headbop only, but hip-hoppers get into it), all laughing.

But this experience gave me hope. If these two different worlds got together once, my personal world could get together with that hipster-world in the future. Sure, I may need to enlist the help of a talented famous person who crosses such diverse genres, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to take.

Oh, sidenote on the best thing I’ve ever heard (totally unrelated but too hilarious not to talk about). As we were walking to the car, a dude was walking out behind us (hopefully, drunk) and in the most excited voice said the following things to his female counterpart (who I’m pretty sure was holding him up) [my thoughts are bracketed and inserted as I listened]:

“Can you believe we just saw Abed? [note, he was not confused about whose show it was, Danny Pudi was in attendance] .... He was standing right next to us and didn’t even care!!!! [he didn’t care that he was himself? Or that he was standing next to you? Or that he was a television character that had a real name?] We, like, saw Abed, and then we saw Abed AGAIN!! And then we stared at Abed! [creepy]”

Basically, a great night on all fronts, for all people, all across the nation.
Goodnight, and Donald Glover bless.

-WEAREALLDONALD-

#3: LOCAL SCOUTING First Ed.: ATL Hipsters.

Ok, so research on this happened a few months ago (I only just learned how to blog, don’t judge me, I already judged myself so back off), but I want to share some thoughts on the hipster-unity in Atlanta, Georgia. So I was visiting friends in Hotlanta when I was dragged to Little Five Points. I say dragged because yes, I’ve been there before, and no, I never wanted to go back, and after this day, I stand by that lack of desire and will more vehemently refuse the next time.

For those of you who are not familiar with the city of Atlanta, there are many different subsections, which could not be more different in populations than if you were to compare Billings, Montana (shout out to A!) with Tokyo, Japan (oh hey Maomix, didn’t even mean to bring you into it, but here we are!). Let me give you a brief rundown, my brother lives in Reynoldstown (sibling shoutout!) this is the up-and-coming area with a lot of potential - just like that H.S. basketball star trying to shake his gang-associated past. It does have the cutest little dog park/coffeeshop though, where there may be potential for respectable hipsters, but I am still not sure, you'll see why shortly. Moving on, my friends used to live in Midtown, this is the center city-city area, walking distance to clubs, bars, parks - but also attracting the problems associated with such easily accessible establishments. My friends now live in the Highlands, this is the wanna-be-yuppy area - you’ll see a lot of “young professionals” here, along with the Jews (shout out to myself!), Emory kids, and various other of the like. Additionally, there are about 10 million other areas, but let’s get to the hipster-haven that is...

Little Five Points. Where do I begin? Imagine you are watching a documentary on meth-heads, and you’re here. The documentary subjects are indistinguishable from hipsters in this tiny block of vintage stores all selling you the same Lady Ga-Ga knock off glasses (fine I bought some, but only because I had to have something to bring me joy during this horrible adventure). And nowhere on earth makes me want to pursue my hipster-dream less than this disgusting mecca of drug-induced hell. You might think I’m exaggerating. You’ll say “Hey, wait a minute, I’ve watched enough Man vs. Food to know that one of the best burgers in the U.S. is located right in the heart of that place.” And I will say, “Yes, fine, give your order at the Vortex while I wait in the car, it’s not worth it to me.” Because here, you climb over the scabbed people on the street only to get to a bar so disgusting you’ll long for your time back outside in the gutter.

That bar is called Elmyr. Listen, I appreciate and support all dive, hole-in-the-wall, off-the-beaten-path places as much as the next hipster-in-training/former college student. I can usually find at least an ounce of good in a bar offering me $6 pitchers of PBR, $3.50 Red Stripes, and endless chips and salsa. But not this time. I am sorry, the stench of what seemed like months of chain smoking Marlboro Reds in a building without a single window was too much. I might be spoiled by LA’s restriction of such activity, but I also grew up in a household where ¾ of the population there within engaged in such practices (not to mention my later roommates - Greaseball and Pluggy shoutout!). And I can promise you, it didn’t compare. Ok fine, you say, “Hold your nose, get over it you prissy-jerk.” I tried, believe me, but then there are what qualifies for hipsters in Atlanta in attendance aka some of the grossest men I’ve ever seen in my life, in clothes that have clearly never been washed since they got them from Goodwill four years ago (not counting the 5 years they spend in-store). And again, I usually find the good in grime, it's my type (hey, every guy I've ever obsessed over shoutout!), but no, alas, again I cannot. I know I have, and will continue to, offend a lot of people with this post, so I’ll take a brief moment to give props to the real Mohawks these dudes sported (no fauxhawks here), but that does not make up for their other poser-ways. First of all, nice mass-produced Metallica shirt, well done, I had the same one and so did that creepy guy down the street from me growing up. Secondly, I don’t even know. I have reached the quota of things I have allowed myself to remember from that day. I thankfully have since employed my selective-memory-blackout-the-bad-stuff-he-did-to-me-mommy talent successfully. But I do remember my friends, trying to tell me it “wasn’t that bad,” and me, sitting there, gagging, replying “yes, it is, it really is.”

So lesson of this (what was supposed to be brief) post is: not all hipsters are treated equally. Atlanta-hipsters, I don’t want any part of your lifestyle. No thanks, I’m good. And if I move there one day, don’t worry, I won’t be bothering you. Keep your meth and cigarettes to yourself…

Next scouting mission: NY-hipsters, and maybe one day, I will search for the elusive, endangered South Florida hipster. But until you give me reason to believe again, I’m done with the ATL crowd.

#2: Appreciating Art

The hipster heavens shone upon us. Shortly after deciding to embark on this adventure, Maomix received an email inviting her (us) to attend BAGAVABOND’s Dream exhibit. The flyer itself was enough for us to feel welcome into the world of hipsterdom: sponsored by PBR, bright colors, local artists. Did we even need to attend to feel like we belonged? Yes, well kind of, but I’ll get to ‘feeling like I belonged’ a little later.

So we arrive around 10 p.m. to this all-ages, all-welcome, boho-chic event. No line, paid our donation at the door and walk in. To the right, a photo-op. A chance to pose in a variety of ironic ways, with glasses and Jarritos (the current hipsters’ willingness to sell out and participate in blatant product promotion is a little disturbing, and would surely disappoint those anti-capitalism originators of the movement, but I digress). To the left, free silk-screened shirts, equipped with your choice of four designs (yes, I got a sun-glassed baby sitting on a centaur, white against a black shirt).

Walking a little further we have the PBR, wine, and more of that damn obnoxiously colored Jarritos bar. I start with a beer, because I figure, when in Rome, right? Maomix is smarter, she knows the dangers of filling up on PBR too early, and gets the white wine (plus she’s classy), and then we embark on our art-journey. We walk to the back, and come across the sketches and paintings first. It took us a little while to realize the appropriate hipster-way to view these masterpieces (a lot of which, as my counterpart points out, include a penis-depiction of some sort). But once we realize we have to stand, point, discuss, we get it down. I liked the S.S. Dreamboat, which was 3D, so I had to resist my urge to touch, lest the artist be lurking around somewhere, just waiting to scold me on my faux-pas ways. The Dreamboat, which was comprised of good looking, shirtless-men cutouts, was (un)shockingly void of any well-known man-candy. All obscure male models I am sure I could name if I wasn’t just a hipster-in-training. But alas, still nice to look at.

After standing amongst the art for a while, observing that hipster-fashion is no longer a strict, plaid only affair, but rather an as-long-as-you-don’t-give-an-eff-what-other-people-think wardrobe choice, we reenter the main arena to listen to some music. Now on my third PBR of the night, and feeling rather full, I look around. We still haven’t talked to anyone on the ‘inside’ (not even an “oh excuse me, I’m sorry” from the unskilled ping pong players who constantly hit the balls amongst our feet). I know this isn’t the right setting to meet new friends, too much stimuli going on in every corner, you just want to discuss everything with your intimate group, it’s not the place to risk saying something wrong to someone you don’t know (not that hipsters ever say the wrong things, because even their most insulting remarks are meant to be ironic, not offensive). But then it comes to me. I need a co-worker. Or a friend’s co-worker. Who IS one of these artists/band members/artist’s BFF. When you meet in the work setting, there is no escape, I can latch on, and let them take me into all my hipster-fantasies. But we’ll work on that endeavor later. Cause here, Maomix DOES know someone, and he IS in one of the bands. But he’s outside, and absent leaving or smoking (which neither of us do), we have no real reason to venture outside just to say hi, that’s not an ironic thing to do. But as I get more and more full (read: unpleasant to be around), we decide to call it a night. So we do go outside, and Maomix makes contact. He’s extremely nice (Maomix is not friends with mean people after all), but since we’re on our way out, there’s not much community infiltration to be had. And we come to the end of our scene, without becoming scenesters (but equipped with fabulous parting gifts of shirts). We went, we saw, we drank, we learned, and we’ll be back, this transformation doesn’t happen over night.

Next up on the horizon: my short encounter with the Atlanta-hipster scene, and a discussion of acceptable hipster-jobs....Until then, keep your phallic art on the wall, we'll be back soon.

#1: Start a Blog

Inspiration for this project began after we started attending events sponsored by Maomix’s indie/dance record label (mind you, it was a legal-related internship). We began to see the same hipsters, talking to the same people, drinking the same cans of PBR and eating the same bags of Pirate’s Booty (Thanks, Colin!).

It dawned on us that these overly ironic people all knew each other, but yet didn’t talk to anyone else at these gatherings. What was it that drew them together in the first place? Was there a time when each one of them (secure enough in their head-bopping -yet not really- “dancing” abilities) went to that 5-song-EP launch show at the local installation gallery alone; inevitably just-so-happened to know the original bass player of the band; and was therefore subsequently introduced to the rest of the hipster community, one-by-one?

Undeniably, you’d have to attend one of these only-in-the-know events solo, yet “end up” knowing someone, because - let's face it - there is no way a real hipster talks to those outside its species voluntarily. And if you’re with someone, you already have your counterpart.  Even if you know someone, you are fated to the, “Oh hello, how are you? Where did you hear about this?"  ::look of disapproval when you mistakenly think its ok to respond with “Oh, I heard one of their songs on Grey’s Anatomy”::

And god forbid, if you do arrive at alone, you would need some conversational bait. And not just anything will do. Your knowledge of music is never going to amount to anything compared to a hipster’s, so don’t even try to open with, “So, do you like Mumford & Sons?” They have, and they’re unimpressed you have as well. After all, Jake Gyllenhaal ruined them already. And as Maomix would say, since they are already done with their second album, the hipsters are done with them too. Only first albums fly with this crowd; they don’t have jobs, and therefore have all the time in the world to scour the most obscure, underground blogs you’ve never heard of to find the band that hasn’t even formed yet.

This post begs the question: so how do you meet a hipster, befriend one, make he/she introduce you to others of his/her kind, and ultimately become one yourself? Well, we’re not sure yet. But we think it starts with a blog. It probably doesn’t hurt that our complete unabashed desire (and efforts) to be a hipster is totally ironic.

Mustache finger tattoos,
G+M