New York City, baby.

Tuesday, December 09, 2003



Letting each other know that you are "in the club" is all that really matters. Or that you were "in the club", but now you're not. It's the turning-thirty-still-in-New-York-grandfather clause.

It no longer matters what that club believes, or if that club believes anything. It's not about chasing ideas, it's about capturing comfort.

The comfort that comes from belonging and simultaneously not belonging; of staying connected with your small group of friends (and could-probably-be-my-friends-if-I-knew-them) while disconnecting from the scary, incomprehensible, beyond repair world of Bush/Cheney.

For those critical thought-ed out, who realize that all that brainwork has got us nowhere, and the endless stream of wisdom from elders, on the TV, in the paper, at the dinner table, has got us/world nowhere, we seek only a peaceful feeling, and perhaps the simple pleasure of watching Paris Hilton milk cows.

After all, was the hipster thing ever more than a revolution born on the Lower East Side from those born on the Upper East Side? (Who put out The Strokes' first album? A young Phil Graham? Malcolm McLaren? Nope. RCA Records).

To ask for nothing more than mellow companionship/a decent rental from Blockbuster/a football game in snow suddenly feels smart. Something or someone to help while we wade through the shit, which can get up to our necks at times.

The decision was made not to sell out: but after seven years you stop talking about it. The romance is gone. For the hipster perhaps it remains. But at a certain points it’s simply about dealing with the consequence of those choices.

“Be true to yourself” is more punishing than it sounded when Kobe said it while holding up a bottle of Sprite and grinning.

There’s a luxury about being a hipster; the ability to concern yourself with that which is hip or new or cool.

The hipster is no longer a hipster the day when that’s the last thing on his mind.


Post a Comment

<< Home