Holy Crap! Am I A Hipster?


The other day, as I was exiting the subway en route home to my apartment, I was unexpectedly shoulder bumped. And as I was jolted backwards by the bump, I heard an insult fly my way: “Get out of the way, you hipster prick”

Now I won’t be so bold as to refute the “prick” portion of this insult, but “hipster”? Really? For the next hour or so, there I sat, in an existential funk. Am I really a hipster? The thought had never crossed my mind before. But now? I mean, sure, I may share some of the same qualities as the stereotypical hipster, but I’d like to think that I’m far from the physical embodiment of that word. Am I a skinny white dude? Check. Do I listen to indie rock? I was listening to Sonic Youth as I was bumped by that guy. Do I like Pabst Blue Ribbon? It’s inexpensive and does the trick. Am I an artist? I am writing this, aren’t I? And, of course — the hipster coup de gras — I live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.


And I’m by no means knocking Brooklyn. Don’t get me wrong. You see, in New York City, if hipsters were bugs, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, would be the light at which they incessantly buzz. I dig the light, but would love to swat the bugs.

Being weird for the sake of being weird is as lame as it gets. If you’re a genuinely unusual cat, I support you wholeheartedly. Let your freak flag fly, dude. But, in my opinion, the lion’s share of Brooklyn hipsters are consciously conforming to nonconformity, and that, my friends, is lame.

I’m sorry, if you spend countless hours staring in a mirror doing your hair in a meticulous effort to make it look like you haven’t done your hair, you are lame. If you’re a guy and cut your designer jeans into shorts so short that CM Punk‘s wrestling trunks would more effectively cover your junk, you are lame. If you’re one of those people who find inexplicable pride in not owning a television because “nothing of substance is on anymore,” you are lame.

TV is awesome! My TV is always on…always. I don’t even need to like what I’m watching half the time. Seriously. Do you have any clue how many episodes of “Wings” I’ve seen?

Anyway, after a few hours that afternoon, my internal jury had heard both sides of the case, had been sequestered and returned with a verdict. As it turns out, I am happy to report that I am not a hipster, a fact that has allowed me to sleep easier ever since. I am but a bearded dude who writes dick jokes for a living, likes The Smiths and enjoys cheap beer.

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Peter Hoare (@PeterHoare) is a screenwriter and dashingly handsome humorist.