I am often accused by extremely unhip people of being a hipster. People who wear jeans with a blazer and have short, neat hair cuts, people who have no hobbies and talk about their jobs constantly and are pleased with their professional success use this slur because while I work in the same industry as them I wear tight pants and live in Echo Park and in the scant hours I have outside of the same office doing the same horrible things as these people I occasionally manage to put my penis in a nineteen year old who likes non-mainstream music. They discuss how I must like drinking Pabst and how they are surprised that I don’t sport an “ironic” mustache.
All this tired, old shit– the tight pants, the mustaches, the Pabst drinking– all these tired old stereotype are in fact completely true; there are scores of these exact people whom you could have made by listening to anti hipster douchebags talk shit and then feeding this info into the computer from WEIRD SCIENCE. They are real, and they’ve been around for over a decade, and they share the Echo Park streets with their fellow stereotypes, undereducated Mexicans; a guy with a teardrop tattoo pushing a stroller alongside his pregnant seventeen year old wife. The whole scene looks like something out of Grand Theft Auto, where the game designers wanted to take a tongue in cheek jab at our culture but didn’t have they processing power to make realistic human beings. Continue reading
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