I am wearing a Woody Allen t-shirt under a long-sleeved flannel. I am either reading Bukowski or something by Kerouac, Hemingway or Fitzgerald. I have a typewriter and a collection of used books and I just got bangs. I like foreign films and prefer French press over regular coffee.
I enjoy Wes Andersen movies and think Bill Murray is the one of the greatest actors since Philip Seymour Hoffman. I like dark bars, local bands and I prefer whiskey to vodka.
Without any more description, you’ve already labeled me. You’ve quickly and vehemently placed me as part of the infamous group that rose to power and fell to mass market disgrace more quickly than any other gaggle of conformists.
You've discarded my worth to nothing more than a liberal feminist who most likely takes shrooms and eats organic chips. Yes, you know what I am. I’m a f*cking hipster.
In my defense, I never wanted to be a hipster. I didn’t buy my t-shirts ironically or buy my books because they look cool on my handmade bookcase. I don't go to Brooklyn for the hookah lounges and record shops.
For myself and many other wrongfully accused, everything in my life was stolen from me and labeled as “vintage” and “trendy.” My favorite things were turned into ironic t-shirts and pillowcases. Things I've loved since childhood have become tainted with stigmas and questionable motives.
All the things that once defined me have become mass-produced and sold at Urban Outfitters. But I swear, my look was stolen.
I did not buy a record player because it looked cool in Urban Outfitters. I bought a record player because some albums need to be played on vinyl. I own a Woody Allen t-shirt because he’s been my favorite director since I first saw “Bananas” in sixth grade.
I like to read the Beats and enjoy Hemingway and Fitzgerald because they are some of the greatest American novelists. I thought Bill Murray was amazing in “Ghost Busters” before people started falling all over him after “Lost In Translation” and “Life Aquatic” and I loved Philip Seymour before he was found dead.
I wear flannels because they are comfortable, lightweight and (used to be) cheap. I like Quentin Tarantino movies because he’s a good director and I watch “Freaks and Geeks” because it’s a good show.
I go to flea markets because I like antiques and eat kale because it’s healthy and tastes good. Now, I’m no fool. I know how I look and sound. I know how people see me and the obnoxious things they assume I’m thinking in my head.
But what’s an entrapped hipster to do? Am I supposed to not tell people that my favorite movie is “Annie Hall”? Am I supposed to hide the book cover when I’m reading Sylvia Plath or James Joyce? Should I keep my opinions on art, old cinema and Ginsberg to myself? Is it my fault that the hipsters turned everything I love into a cliché?
What if you started smoking them in France? What if you like them because they help you when you’re stressed or need to pass five minutes? What if you like to roll splifs? Forget it, pull out a tobacco bag and you’re just asking for the label.
It is now impossible to appreciate art, let alone name anyone from Frida Kahlo, to Picasso without being thought of as a poser, pseudo-intellectual or band wagoner.
Yep, they’ve taken all the greats with them. “Donnie Darko,” “American Psycho," “The Big Lebowski” and just about anything with Bill Murray and River Phoenix.
Subtitles are now reserved for those in green army coats and oversized reading glasses. Over are the days of watching anything that shows up in Cannes, Tribeca or any film festival that comes with awards you can’t pronounce.
Eating healthy is so obnoxious. Don’t even think about buying fruit without preservatives or anything remotely vegan. Organic food is just a fad and only for those in beanies with something to prove.
The days of sitting in coffee shops are long over. There is no reason for you to enjoy a cappuccino in a dimly-lit space that smells of exotic beans and cinnamon unless you have something to contemplate or debate (usually it’s something along the lines of Nietzsche or Woody Allen). No more cafes, espresso shots or coffee shop soundtracks.
Reading is just obnoxious now. Stop trying to make a statement, you don’t look any smarter, you just look like you know how to hold a book. And don’t even think about buying them used, that's just about the most hipster thing you can do.
Quentin Tarantino, Wes Anderson, Richard Linklater Films
Unfortunately, there is no more room for these directors and the rest of the world. “Before Sunrise,” “Pulp Fiction” and Owen-Luke Wilson duos are no longer options for your Netflix Queue.
Don’t even think about learning to play the guitar, let alone liking it. Anything that's melancholic, acoustic or sounds like it should be in a Spike Lee film is out.
Those obscure bands with guys in overalls and girls with guitars are no longer acceptable to download without backlash.
Unfortunately for the natives, their land became a safe haven for ostracized individuals in Bob Dylan graphic tees and bearded men with drums.
However, they did increase the value. With pressed juices and organic coffee shops on every corner, Brooklyn is now more gentrified than Harlem and as expensive as lower Manhattan.
Walk into a Goodwill store, I dare you. Buy anything secondhand, slightly used or discounted and see where you’ll end up… On some jackass's Tumblr called "Hipster Sightings."
Even if they look amazing on you, it doesn’t matter. They are solely for men with beards and combat boots or women with flannels and spiky jewelry.
Whether you’ve been growing your hair out since you were a kid or just decided you wanted to look like Jared Leto, any type of long locks or, God forbid, hair accessories, is just about number one on the list of things to avoid if you don't want to look like a hipster.
IPAs, Guinness and anything stout is just off limits. If you order one in a bar, be prepared for the consequences, usually including questions about where you live in Brooklyn or how to get to the nearest Strand bookstore.
Intellectual conversations about film, literature and socio-economic issues are not only obnoxious now, but totally inappropriate for anywhere outside of Portland, Brooklyn or San Francisco.
Photo Courtesy: We Heart It