I have been railing against hipsters since I was 21, which probably means I’ve been a hipster since that age. The formula for being a hipster tends to lend itself to being unable to recognize one’s own hipster potential. So, I’ll fully admit that everything I’m about to seethe against is probably entirely applicable to me.
Last night I was confronted by a mild hipster convention at a local gallery space, where friends, classmates and others performed Leonard Cohen songs. There I sat, counting the hipsters. I also counted how many men in the crowd I knew to have sexual issues, according to information I never wanted from all their girlfriends. ‘Cause I can.
Anyway, it was fun hearing people cover Leonard Cohen songs. After all, nothing says I hate Valentine’s Day like hearing songs about LC getting head on a bed in a Chelsea hotel, as sung by a woman. These things, they warm the heart.
But suddenly, I was overwhelmed. My partner-in-crime, lovingly called Sisyphus on this blog (‘cause she’s in grad school, which is kind of the same), looked at me near the end of the event and said, “Do you want to go– now?”
She and I ran out the door, as I struggled into my jacket. I watched her fly ahead of me, her tanktop leaving her exposed to the biting New England cold. People weren’t willing to part for us (they apparently didn’t get the Moses-red-sea memo), and I kept trying to maintain my Southern politeness, but then I accidentally kicked a girl in the back.
To the girl I kicked in the back: I’m sorry, but if it’s any consolation, I fell on the ice today.
Sometimes, no matter how much you love a musician, no matter how much you love your friends and classmates (or don’t), you just have to flee the scene with your BFF and head to the local diner where you slurp down a milkshake and say, “God, God, it was just too much.”
How could it be too much?
I felt like I was in Brooklyn. The last time I was in Brooklyn I remember milling around a crowd of people who were all brown-nosing musicians backstage after a concert. They were all nice enough. The girls had cute haircuts and sweaters and striped shirts, and they were good at being human beings at a show. The boys were mancrushing on the stoned lead singer, who was so stoned he wasn’t himself, eagerly nodding at every dumb thing people said– “Oh, you rearranged your office? AWESOME. That is AWESOME.”
“I will never move to Williamsburg,” the Gemini likes to tell me, and that’s what last night felt like– like I’d accidentally moved to Williamsburg. Everyone was nice enough. The music was fun. People all drank their PBR. Everyone was alive and happy. Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.
But some things, dear readers, hurt. Egypt’s turmoil (and victory), Wisconsin state budgets, people taking out their aggression on Kim Kardashian, or Donald Glover not being a live-in entertainer in my apartment– all these things hurt. NEVER FORGET THAT, HIPSTERS. Some things even Leonard Cohen can’t fix.