The Hipster

wednesday day 4

So Williamsburg is supposed to be Brooklyn's most poppin neighborhood, complete with a stimulating nightlife, cheap drinks, good music, beautiful people, funky design and the inundation of what everyone likes to call the "hipster." I live in East Williamsburg, which only partly lives up to the area's reputation i.e. I only encounter 5-7 fedoras on the way to the grocery store; instead, I'm greeted by freshly faded Dominicans calling me 'mami' and telling me I look beautiful :D But "the heart of Williamsburg" as they call it (rolling eyes...) is off the L train's Bedford stop, where today's story takes place.

If you're not labeled a "hipster" in these parts, you're probably striving to be. However, I want to clarify I'm not trying to be a hater. I'm all for free expression, eccentricity, displaying a unique personality through one's daily costume and defying the conformity of today's 9-5 existence, but I honestly cannot resist chuckling at the area's exaggeration and how serious it's all taken. Let me expound...

I sat in a coffee shop named 'Verb Cafe' where this bald guy in some Einstein shirt to my right would every couple minutes theatrically speak aloud some math problem, while the dude to my left had the bottom half of his head shaved and the top fashioned into a crown of points a la Basquiat


What was he doing you ask? Searching eBay for vintage sweatshirts. Yep. That's what he was doing.

Of course, Austin is also known for it's myriad of unconventional dressers. One night at a west campus party, a friend asked while observing a guy with a handlebar mustache, alarmingly short shorts and those aviator-type eyeglasses from the 80's a lot of pervert serial killers wore,



"I mean what do you think that guy really does when he goes home at night?"

Now, I know. They scour eBay for vintage sweatshirts.

I'm sorry but all this seems to be a bit contrived, scratch that, a lot contrived. I really don't think these people deserve to be called 'hipsters.' In my opinion, hipsters historically have been learned, art-appreciating people who reject bourgeoise values and have more liberal yet apathetic attitudes i.e. the poets, musicians, artists from the 50s and 60s, the beatniks. Maybe, I'm just glamorizing an era I didn't live in, and beatniks really used to spend tons of money on fashion and were just kinda faking their poetry... probably not.

I believe the masses have appropriated hipster mannerisms. Maybe I'm wrong, and the way of life, not just the trend, is being diffused throughout the upper classes, but I have a feeling that's not the case. I guess that happens with every subculture though. It's appropriated by rich kids and in turn becomes meaningless.

The Beat poets were the true hipsters, but who am I to call everybody out? And honestly, I'd much rather live around aspiring free-thinkers than Wall street drones. I mean, I have Ray Ban sunglasses too.

NYC

Sunday day 1

I walked around Bushwick wide-eyed at all the characters prancing around the neighborhood with their baubles, sunglasses and fedoras. First things first, I found a market where I bought the staples: garlic hummus, hard bread, yogurt, organic low fat milk, an apple and some cereal.

Later on, I visited Cuo's, a nice coffeeshop where colorful personalities shoved their noses in laptops or books. There, I drew and dove into Craigstlist for several hours, attempting to dig out a suitable apartment. There were so many leads, but I just didn't feel prepared to make the leap. I sketched the Asian girl perched on a barstool with her back to me and wondered if anyone had ever secretly drawn me. She wore a loose black tank top that drooped down her back to reveal warm-coloured skin and she bent over her drawing with intent focus. That night I read my Emma Goldman book and fell asleep to the air conditioner fanning the crown of my head.

Monday day 2

I woke up with the motivation to tread on over to Pratt, a 45 minute walk. With my red Reebok backpack and plastic insoles, I scurried through several boroughs of Brooklyn, including a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood where the men have curled sideburns, top hats and long black coats with fur lining. The women sport quarter-sleeved sweaters, long skirts, and surprisingly trendy gold flats. I was later informed the Hasidics don't really like scantily clad women strutting their stuff around their parts. I mean, I was wearing jeans and a tank top, but even that can arouse objection I'm told. I later read, the curly-cues had petitioned their city council to remove the bike lanes in their neighborhood in order to avoid temptation to stare at the bare-legged indie waifs that ride on by.

The Pratt campus is dotted with art sculptures and places to sit. The surrounding neighborhood is quite beautiful as well. Cosby-like Brownstones and tree-lined boulevards abound. After getting two sushi rolls for $6.35 on Fulton and Washington, I attempted the subway. Of course I got lost several times, ended up double-paying because I exited instead of swallowing my pride or eating my fear (one or the other) and asking someone for directions. I really don't know how I would survive without an iphone. I probably wouldn't. I should just make my will out to Apple.

My roommates were watching PBS when I got home, something about a Northeastern home having once been a railroad car. They're cool. One guy's a furniture designer, and the other, some tattooed funny guy. The girl, well, she walks around in a Chinese silk robe and does not want to talk to me. That night I began Ezra Pound's book, 'The ABCs of Reading,' one of the many interesting books my subletter has in his room.

Tuesday day 3

I went to Manhattan. I got lost on the subway again. My goal of the trip was to stare at paintings in the MOMA, but the receptionist douche bag curtly informed me that "EVERY TUESDAY THE MUSEUM IS CLOSED." I dreamt of the many ways in which I should have called him an asshole seconds after I retreated like a hurt bunny. Either way, 5th Avenue is mind-blowing. Even if it is the center of American capitalism and the symbol for everything that's wrong with the world, Madison Avenue is inspiring if only for it's vastness, the immensity of the buildings. People made those buildings. People. Yea, we might be mere specks on this planet, insignificant ants, but people like you and me built that shit. Oh me oh my.

After uploading pics to Facebook like a madwoman in order to share my amazement, I needed food, and yes food found me. I went to a Korean salad bar. Now, for the Korean salad bar. This is how it goes: You get a box and you fill it with whatever you want. Cold foot or hot food. They got it all. You pay $7.49 per pound of whatever you choose. Amazing. Caesar salad, house salad, greek salad with large tomatoes and olives, carrot salad, crab salad (my fave!), shrimp salad, chunks of mango and almost any fruit for that matter, pasta in all shapes, sizes and colors, cold broccoli, hot broccoli, broccoli cooked with spices, cucumbers!

I love Korean salad bars :D.

Soon after, I went home using the MTA-run subway transit system efficiently and without issue.

I am very happy. This time alone is allowing me to do what I've been wanting to do but haven't been doing: to write. I have no distractions here i.e. friends. I can hear my neighbors partying like beasts next door and it sounds so fun and exciting. Social interaction mmm.... my favorite. BUT! I'm producing over here. I'm liberating the words that never come easy-- looking around at all the little animals that dot this entire room and just spilling it-- organizing my brain. The small bear figurine on the geometric wood block, the coffee cups depicting Lil Wayne and Ice Cube, the owls, the many owls, and the picture of naked women frolicking with deer and tigers; they're all accompanying me while I engage in the beautiful act of writing.