By Upton Charles
Before I delve into this too far, let me just say that I, your author, have been deemed to be a hipster. I once sported a look referred to some as “hipster lumberjack.” I used to work in fashion. I used to live in Brooklyn. I listen to Wolf Parade.
But I bought my clothes at Goodwill because I was poor, not because I wanted to look poor. It was more by chance that my “style” was accepted. I never wore black framed glasses, though I’m pretty sure my eyesight is bad enough that I could use them. I’ve only worn make-up on Halloween and only wear a scarf when it’s really fucking cold outside.
So, having noted this, I fucking hate most hipsters. Emo kids, “scene” kids, Sublime-obsessed “hippy” kids – they’re all awful. (The Sublime kids are especially awful. I used to kind of like Sublime and they have fucking RUINED it for me.) They’re all stupid, self-serving little fuckers.
Yet I’ve begun to wonder if it’s just because they’re kids and now I’m an “adult.” Were my friends just as bad when I was younger? Is Mumford and Sons a legitimate band and I just “don’t get it”? Is “Gotye” NOT a really stupid band name?
I recently went to a concert in Portland (hipsters!) for the band Dr. Dog (beards!) and found myself hating about 90% of the crowd. But the worst offender was right in front of me: A kids about 6ft 4in and his group of friends who slammed their way in front of me (and several others) just as the show started. He proceeded to be an asshole in the following ways:
-He jumped around and flailed his arms with no regard for anyone else trying to enjoy the show.
-He was smoking weed. This didn’t bother me, but the fact that he never offered to anyone else irked me.
-He invited more of his friends up to the front because, in his words, “There’s plenty of room!” This was a lie and he knew it.
-He kept yelling for the band to play a particular song, but when they finally did play said song, he didn’t appear to recognize it.
-He and his friends were chanting, “One more song!” during the encore, which they didn’t seem to realize almost always contains 4-5 songs. (With few exceptions. If the band plays a song in an encore and the song is 10-12 minutes long, then you shouldn’t expect as many. If the first song is 2 minutes long, it goes without saying that the band will play more than that.)
-He got angry at me when I folded my arms to prevent him from hitting me in the face with his shoulder every time he jumped around. (He seemed to think that i was elbowing him in the back. I informed him that if he stopped slamming into me and being a general asshat that his back would be just fine.)
-He wouldn’t shut the fuck up for one fucking second.
Now, I’ve been to a lot of concerts and I know how to act. This guy (and his friends) seemed like they had never been to a concert before, nor had they managed to learn any basic social skills.
So are the kids just pieces of shit or am I just too old? Or is it some combination of both? I’m not sure, but I think that the next time I go to a concert, I’m gonna sit and drink beer with the old farts.
Greetings. I am Upton, the new writer here at The New Apocalypse. I’d like to thank Mr. Herrick for his introduction in the previous post.
As was mentioned by Herrick, we met at what was, at the time, the biggest dive bar in New York City. It was also one of the few places where you could get a drink for any price close to reasonable. It was a haunt of mine mostly for the cheap drink and good people watching. The place was roughly the size of a live-in trailer and about as luxurious. The clientele generally consisted of punk rock kids and seasoned drunkards. Most of the Williamsburg hipsters stayed away from the place, though it was the bar where the Yeah Yeah Yeahs formed.
I was drinking a Corona out of a bottle (one of the two beers served there) and heard some guy in an ragged blazer ranting on about Wall Street and the collapse of the housing market (Note: This was back in late 2007). Most people were ignoring him in that way that New Yorkers do. I was a transplant in the city and could tell that he was, too. The city must have been taking a toll on him, I thought. Why else would he stumble in here?
We got to talking and drinking and found we had a lot in common. A general distaste of most things (especially in the Bush II years) bonded us. I was a nice, warming thing to meet someone like him a city that was both literally and figuratively cold.
We shared a joint outside after last call and Herrick mentioned that he was starting a blog. Good God, not another one of those, I thought. I was less warm to the idea as I was a writer for print and, like many at the time, I saw blogs as an enemy rather than a future. But I wished him the best in his efforts. I stumbled back north to the L-line, and then home. I never really expected to see Herrick again.
But here I am, broke as hell living in Oregon. It isn’t where I thought I would be, but there are worse things. Things have changed a bit: The Mars Bar closed down, we have a new (er) president, work is harder to find, the garbage island in the Pacific is bigger every day. I recently went to a dive bar off Broadway called The Half Time that boasts $1.75 tallboys of PBR. I’d found a new home.
And who was in the bar but that crazy bastard Herrick! We started talking a bit more and he told me once again about his blog. I’ve become more open to the idea, so I agreed to come on board. Why not? It’s not like I’m getting paid to do anything else…
So I’ll be joining you here for a while. It should be a blast.