Brooklyn. That’s the land of the hipsters. I don’t mean to spoil the surprise, but it’s where they hail from.
1) “Who are these hipsters?” You ask. I don’t know. They are clad in denim, overalls, or frayed jeans; the sort of things my mom used to fix the tractor in. They are only ‘hip’ because they wear high-waisted pants that actually obscure their hips. Other hipsters grow beards to resemble lumberjacks, some wear clothes popular in the sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties to confusing pretense, out-of-date fashion, and laziness.
2) “Why do they do it?” You ask. I can’t honestly answer this question. And, with honesty, neither can they. They used to think it was ironic, now they can’t remember if they were being ironic. They’ve just begun to think irony is a myth.
3) What is a hipster? For all you folks out there who want to know the truth about this mysterious cult which borders on, or really exists only in, the absurd, I will relay of my experience observing them in their natural habitat. Brooklyn, New York, America, North America, Zip Code #1.
My encyclopedia of anthropological experiences with the hipsters.
1) Black coffee matters:
The first political activists I encountered on the subway were an older man, in his birkenstocks (or whatever the equivalent is today) with his Starbucks in his hand, and his friend. His friend and he, a slightly overweight middle-aged woman clad in camouflage, were discussing their new, recently discovered passion for political activism.
“We’re going to be outside Union Square this Saturday…” He said, “The truth is, there are just too many black men in prison. And this violence, we just can’t, allow it to go on. I mean, 99% of the time a black man has any kind of run-in with the police, he will be shot, this is just, like fact… Just, violence against young black men is out of control…”
Adjusting her U.S. Marine Corps hat, his companion shook her head, “Well, I am against violence in all forms, in fact, I oppose it. But, it’s not just a matter of race, it’s that the police don’t have respect for human life in any form. They are violent and this is a police state.”
“Well, actually it’s just African-Americans and Latinos, mostly. For me, if I get stopped by the police, they don’t bother me, they look at me: middle-aged white guy and they say, ‘be on your way, sir. But, anyone else, they hassle them, they rough them up, you know, just because they’re young and black.”
“I see…” she says skeptically, the subway car lurching a little. “I don’t know, I’m damn scared of the police regardless of what color I am. I ain’t about to go up and ask them for help, I see the police, I run the other way. But, establishing trust between the police and stakeholders in the community is definitely a priority for our organization. Such cooperation could eliminate fear of incarceration or violence in routine interactions with police and it is definitely important.”
“Yeah…” he says, shrugging, “and getting police to respect young black men and Latino communities…” He trails off, the scraping of the subway car overwhelming the conversation. The rhythm of me banging my head against the window repeatedly is also distracting for them.
2) The hipster comedy night that wasn’t:
Brooklyn is great. You can enjoy a variety of experiences: tirades from free comedy shows in bookstore basements, tirades from schizophrenic homeless people, dirty looks from hookah lounge owners, dogs dressed up in more expensive clothes than children on the same street, the worst traffic rule breakers in the known world, the most self-absorbed people in the world (see the correlation between the previous two?), the most hair-gel soaked humans one will ever encounter, the most clashing fashion items worn by one person at time (think: neon, denim, flannel, nylon, stilettos, and tweed as part of a single outfit).
Well, Sophie and I, despite the infinite and ample entertainment provided by our Brazilian emigre roommate and her husband, beset by her constant discouragement, sought some free entertainment in the great big city. Where else should we look than the favorite borough of the intelligentsia of America: Brooklyn? So, referencing the available resources describing *free* entertainment options in Brooklyn, we found several opportunities.
First, a free comedy show, with writers and producers of some renowned shows: Comedy Show 1 with Jimmy Fallon, Funny Funny Bouncy Time with Craig Ferguson, or Saturday Night Live with famed writer/producers and FREE PIZZA CHEAP DRINKS. In, apparently, authentic Brooklyn style, this show was in someone’s loft apartment. Of course, the ad did not say this. As we approached the building, forced to travel via post-war Leningrad, we noticed that the “venue” looked like someone’s apartment building, which in Brooklyn, looks like someone’s fertilizer factory. The door was locked.
Guy (looking around shiftily from under his striped fedora): Are you here for the, uh, show?
Us: Yes… sir.
Guy: Well, you’re early. (Let me explain, it was 8:29, the show started at 8:15.)
Us: Oh… sorry… sir.
Guy: That’s ok, go up the stairs to fourth floor and follow the smell of reefer to apartment number 420.
Us: Um… ok.
So we walk up the stairs of this former industrial building, converted into loft apartments to house “artists, writers, comedians”, and hip bankers. The smell of marijuana stifles the hallways and fills our noses. A forty-something, gray haired man in the tightest pants he could find, walks past and smiles, no, leers. The corridor is very large like an airplane hanger, but as we approach the door, we weigh the benefit of free pizza and free comedy vs. dismemberment and arrest due to accessory to ‘making the neighborhood smell like a gigantic joint’. (For you none hip people, a joint is an implement used for the transmission of marijuana fumes for inhalation by ‘reefer fiends’, see any educational footage from the 1950’s).
Hearing unsettling noises from inside the adjacent door, Sophie and I, being of relatively sound minds, literally bolted. We took the freight elevator, which was a poor decision, as the doors almost didn’t open as we reached the ground floor and the ceiling with bowing in under some unknown force. We were afraid, so we fled all the way back to the subway with its denim-clad, pouty denizens.
“That was weird.” I said.
“Yes.” The stranger next to me said, nodding his head in apparent agreement.
Um…
3) Hipster beer tasting… or, bad beer:
Game of Thrones Special Extra-Special Magical Limited Beer Limited Release Stout Brew Lager
Me: Ooh, game of thrones is putting out a stout! What’s Games of Thrones?
Sophie: I don’t know, but free beer sounds like a nice way to get acquainted with it!
Me: I say! What a smashing notion. Tally ho! (That’s what all the rappers say)
So we met, for a nice bit of free beer tasting, to enjoy, what probably were some of the weirdest, saltiest, unsatisfying beers ever. I don’t know what this Games of Throne is, but its beer lacks imagination, a developed character, a unique flavor, or the ability to captivate an intelligent audience… sounds like it will be very popular!
4) The comedy night that was…not funny:
So, Williamsburg, again, is an especially exciting part of Brooklyn. It’s got abandoned factories which ‘artists’ who work at tech companies and investment banks inhabit, the aroma of marijuana wafting suspiciously through every open (and closed) window, and streets decorated with all manner of fast-food litter–or is it “post-functional postmodern art”? In addition, it retains the ambiance of other parts of New York, that distinct ‘street culture’ that hipsters live for, the “Will I make it to my apartment before I’m shot or stabbed? Or will it be shot AND stabbed?”
Or as an acquaintance of ours put it: “Hardly anyone gets shot anymore…There is the occasional gunfire, but the bullets usually just end up in a brick wall or something…”
Well, being the hepcats that we are, we decided to see the comedy shows, just, all the shows (all of the free ones or moderately priced ones). Free Comedy, there is a phrase that can get you in a lot of trouble. So we learned our lesson and we paid up.
Bitches Brew – No cost, but for the drinks, which were costly enough to have paid for all the other shows we’ve seen. The comedy? Well, we must have missed that part. We only heard two obnoxious girls with microphones having a conversation about inviting their boyfriends to Passover.
Girl 1 (Let’s call her Sarah): Oh my god… So, this year was my first Seder… Like, it is a New York rite of passage, am I right?
Girl 2 (Flopsy?): You betch! You’re not even a Jew! I’m a Jew and this year, I brought my boyfriend to Seder.
Sarah: Well, I got this new hat. (Indicates her floppy hat and gives a poor attempt at a flirtatious wink to no one in particular) I got it at an Estate sale. I love estate sales.
Flopsy: You betch! You know that means an old dead person was wearing it!
Sarah: So, old dead people are my jam.
Flopsy: You betch! I can’t believe you are celebrating Seder and not even a Jew.
Sarah: You know what else I like? Sex.
Flopsy: You betch!
Wow… I guess I don’t have to tell you, we didn’t stay long. Of course, I did enjoy the hilarious novelty of trying Organic Gin. Pshhh. You hipsters are just too much. Sarah and Flopsy weren’t funny though, as I hope I conveyed above in text and through our faces below.
This is our hipster-inspired, not-impressed selfie.
5) Another bad comedy night:
I’ll sum it up like this: listening to drunk hipsters ad-lib their own dialogue over a Seinfeld episode. Followed by awkward stand-up comedians, one whose joke began with “I’m depressed. No, really. It’s not funny.”
Now there was a Norwegian who was rather funny, but I can’t remember his jokes. In fact, a Norwegian stand-up comedian sounds like some kind of punchline in itself.
My theory as to why Brooklyn (especially Bushwick and Williamsburg) is hip:
Someone (who is most definitely in real-estate) inherited an industrial tract in Williamsburg and other run-down parts of Brooklyn which formerly had terrifyingly high crime rates.
“What do I do with all this land?” He probably asked. (We see a lightbulb illuminate over his head, it’s probably an organic lightbulb). “I have it!” He starts a huge conspiracy, infiltrating hipster channels of communication (telegram lines, messenger pigeons, smoke signals, etc.) and he begins propagating a campaign to make Brooklyn a popular place for people to live. Other creatures of real estate realize what’s happening.
“I don’t want to miss this opportunity!” they say. So they start to buy up all the acres of disgusting and rundown industrial wasteland, hoping to capitalize on its future as overpriced hipster and yuppie housing.
Well, their train has finally come into the mural-laden station. The way prices are skyrocketing in Brooklyn, it won’t be long before the rental markets there eclipse those in Manhattan. Just take a look at some of the rents online, people are paying top dollar to live close to the action! If only we could figure out where that was.
The classic designs of the twenty-teens in Brooklyn.
Whole Foods
Or, as we call it, ARE YOU READY TO HIPSTER RUMBLE?!?…
When you’re planning your trip to Whole Foods, I suggest you bring the following essential items:
1) Anti-hipster Spray, which can be purchased un-ironically, at most Whole Foods. It is also commonly referred to as “deodorant”. Alternatively, you can wear a piece of clothing made in the last two years and it will have a similar effect.
2) A lacrosse stick (or if you’re cutting costs, a normal stick broken from a tree will do, but keep in mind this is a hipster thing to do). This is for beating away hipsters when they try to step over you to get the yogurt-covered goji berries, not realizing you exist because their self-absorption has literally clouded their vision resulting in temporary blindness from an inability to stop looking at themselves in their I-phones. This is a condition known as Hipstermyohmia. It has been known to cause hipsters to stop unexpectedly in staircases or in queues and mutter things like, “Hey sexy!” at their reflection.
3) You’ll need your tennis shoes for the race to the registers. As you stand in line, don’t fall for the distractions that other hipsters have doubtlessly placed there to confuse you. These include juices, organic sodas, strangely-flavored chocolates (including beef jerky), and magazines which consist of only covers and advertisements for the magazine cover for the following month.
4) Finally, don’t forget your manners, because everyone else has.
-Brian
………………………………………………………….
Our neighborhood of Brooklyn, for instance, expresses its hipster ways through placing dogs in strollers. Because dogs, as we all know, hate to run and play. There are several thousand pet shops and grooming salons with tacky names, my favorites being “Blessful Pets” and “Paw Truly” (now say it with a heavy New York accent and the real magic happens). Another indicator of hipster persuasions in this area are old men, who sit on their blue-collar front stoops, wearing their old flannels and drinking: Pellegrino sparkling water.
Hipster expression is diverse. This can be experienced by riding the subway (when your banana-seat bicycle is drying from your recent splatter paint experimentation). This morning, I heard a homeless man suggest that bagels are the best representation of the American population because, like bagels, “we all have holes”. This, naturally, was proceeded by an obscene monologue against most Asian countries and sinful “Chinaman” impressions.
Speaking of Asian cultures, this beauty was snapped during a recent trip to Chinatown to score some affordable seafood (read: cheaper than Whole Foods). Was it mean to be “crab” or “carp”? I guess we’ll never be brave enough to know…
I’m not sure this was a “hipster” experience in the classic sense, but if hipster means intentionally unintentionally subverting cultural norms, I would say this constitutes it. I was riding the subway after a job interview to meet a friend for drinks at a cantina in South Williamsburg (I’m not sure if this neighborhood intentionally looks like the contents of an old lady’s basement or if they vintage chic thing has just become a way of life). As the train began the long trundle over the Manhattan Bridge, some young men in baggy track clothes come on and start speaking in loud voices. I am becoming accustomed to people being loud to preempt a busking performance, so I didn’t react and tried to keep reading my book. But then I was able to distinguish what the guys were saying which was “Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt! Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt!”. Having seen many crappy action flicks, my heart immediately dropped into my stomach and I began looking around wildly for the guns I’m sure were trained on my overused blazer. The couple next to me were speaking to each other in sign language over the stroller containing their newborn daughter. “Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt!”. Should I tell them that there is likely to be a shoot out on the train? Shouldn’t we all be hiding under our seats? Thoughts of this nature were running through my mind when I realized that no one else was reacting to this blatant threat. An instant later, the young men pulled off their sweatshirts and leaped into the most athletic gymnastics performance I have ever seen, utilizing every pole in the train car to catapult themselves from one end to the other. Oh, “nobody moves, nobody gets hurt” as in, “if you move, we might accidentally kick you in the head”. I get it! When I got off the train, my heart still beating at 5x its normal rate, I met up with my friend and told her about my not-so-near death experience. She laughed, “Haven’t you seen them before? They are great performers! Come with me, I know a place with a really cool beer garden–let’s get gins!”.
Speaking of gin, I was walking through the Brooklyn Heights/Cobble Hill area, where the money of Brooklyn resides, when I saw a sign advertising a gin tasting in a liquor store next to the heavily-trafficked Trader Joe’s. The gin available to sample was Brooklyn Gin, distilled upstate but “basically local”. I enjoyed it’s smooth, citrus notes and loved the Bee’s Knees cocktail of gin, lemon juice, water, and honey. “How much is a bottle?” I asked, expecting something around the $32 mark. “Just $48, and there’s a 5% discount today only!” Yeah, thanks but I…I just can’t. “Can you please direct me to the nearest exit?”
“Speaking of gin…”
Not only are small-batch liquors pleasing to the hipster crowds, but one of the fundamental aspects of being a hipster is also being a “foodie”. They all claim onion bhajis as their first solid food. I’m not going to lie, I am a foodie and I have always been a foodie. But this is because I was raised in a household of consumption enthusiasts and is not a latent interest–it’s a lifestyle. This obsession of the hipster community of Brooklyn is evident in the vast amount of restaurants, food trucks, food events, and novelty food items available 24/7. Last weekend, I went to our local bagel shop and almost became diabetic when I saw a sign for “doughnolis” which were large iced doughnuts stuffed with sweet ricotta cannoli filling. I wonder what they will stuff into what next?
Doughnolis–tempted and terrified.
There are some real gems in our corner of Brooklyn though that are acceptably hip. Having recently binge-watched Twin Peaks during our dire winter of unemployment, we were delighted to discover a wine bar nearby that is just vaguely enough Twin Peaks themed not to get hit with a copyright lawsuit. The owner apparently is a big fan of the show and the front of the bar bears the “The Owls Are Not What They Seem” insignia. Apparently, the composer for the show lived in this area so there was an overtly Twin Peaks themed party last month for his birthday, complete with a costume contest. We went and I, because I couldn’t come up with anything better, went dressed as an alive version of the dead girl, Laura Palmer, just by wearing a 90s sweater and pearls. At “The Owl’s Head”, clips from the show were projected on the wall and the composer’s music played throughout the evening. This micro-venue is subtly-lit and has a short but impressive list of wines, beers, and ciders to enjoy by the glass or bottle. After appreciating some refreshing white wine (I want to say it was a Bianco of sorts…), Brian had a port and I a pommeau which were pretty much the most succulent nectars either of us have ever consumed. As we were finishing up, Brian asked the waitress when the costume contest was happening. “Oh, I completely forgot about that. Hold on,” she said as she walked away. We had been sizing up the competition all night, trying to figure out which 90s outfit was which character. Slowly, all of the other assumed contestants left throughout the evening….I guess that is just how they dressed for a night out. Hipsters. The waitress returned a few minutes later to award me a cherry pie for “winning”!
Laura Palmer look-a-like? Not so much.
Cherry pie is way better than any trophy.
The Owls Are Not What They Seem!
We’ve been back to the wine bar recently (now that we’re technically employed!) and had their red house blend and a Georgian (country not state) white wine. Apparently, Georgia is the cradle of wine in the history of civilization–who knew?!
I know we are giving hipsters a hard time but really, there is a fine line between hipster and unemployed 20-something.
-Sophie
FULL CIRCLE
With imminent employment on opposite sides of the Greater New York City area, we have been looking for a place between which we can call home. As we contemplate the move to Harlem, it’s hard to say that we ourselves don’t have hipster tendencies, noting that this, next to Brooklyn, is really the up-and-coming real estate market in NYC. As Sophie takes a picture of me standing in the empty apartment we are considering renting, I look at it later and think, “Hmmm… It’s hard to say we’re not hipsters after all.”
Our dream apartment in Harlem.
Last spring, we found a dimly lit cocktail bar/speakeasy in the Lower East Side called Nite Owl, where we watched ‘artistes’ mixing what were surely potion ingredients out of small, mysteriously-colored bottles and glass vials to serve us frothy, gold-dusted beverages with mermaid stirring sticks and containing imported Bolivian liquor. What made this dark basement speakeasy even more fun was that when we tried to visit it again, it was moved and we had to rediscover it all over. Sneaky!
Plus, their oysters are deliciously fresh, so you don’t end up feeling suspicious about the low price or the possible danger to your gut (for all you hypochondriacs out there). My favorite part of The Mermaid Inn is that the meal is always concluded with a small, complimentary pot of chocolate mousse (thanking you) and one of those red cellophane fish “fortune tellers” you place on your palm. Depending on the way it curls, it predicts you what mood you are in and apparently “passion” is a common mood.
idaknowwheretogo (I don't know where to go!) 