Why I Hate Hipsters

"God, I hate hipsters."

We were laying in the back of our rented paddleboat, drifting captainless around the small man-made lake while the sun glared down on our bare shoulders and collarbones, focusing its gaze like a magnifying glass on only us.  The sound from the nearby fountains - each one shooting water thirty feet in the air, the light bending through their mist creating rainbows - reached our ears in a whisper like static, punctuated by the occasional unintelligible yell from a child standing on the shore.  We let our legs dangle into the cool water, green-brown and throwing off colors as it undulated.  My jeans were rolled, soaked to the knee, while your eyes caught pieces of the sun and held them in, exposing hues that have yet to be named.  Above us, on the hill, the Museum watched sullenly, its white skin looking tired against the vibrant blue sky of late afternoon.  

It seemed like a good time to vent.

"They go to these shows, stand in the pit with their arms crossed looking bored," I ranted, "and then have the audacity to confront me when I accidentally bump into them while I'm - God forbid! - enjoying the music I paid to see and showing support for a band that is pouring their hearts out for everyone on stage!"  I was incensed.  "I mean, why the hell are they even at the show in the first place?!  Did they lose a bet?  Is some deranged psychopath holding their family hostage in a basement pit somewhere a la "Silence of the Lambs" threatening to make coats out of their skin unless hipster-douche here goes to see Motion City Soundtrack?!  I don't understand!  If the hate the music so much, why immerse themselves in it and pay $15 to do so?!?"

This is something I feel strongly about.  Can you tell?

I realize, (begrudgingly of course), that hipsters are necessary in today's flash-fried, attention deficient society, where trends and styles change weekly and must therefore be constantly discovered, embraced, reevaluated and discarded to make room for the "new and unknown."  Hipsters are not just at the front of the race; they are completely finished with the race you are running, have determined that your race is lame, and have moved on to something much cooler, like rollerblading on water with rocket skis (or something equally ridiculous).  They set fashion trends: the clothes you are wearing right now, how ever stylish and "cutting-edge" you think you may be, were probably worn by some hipster in Williamsburg three years ago.  (The same hipster, should they see you on the street today wearing style so old it is almost cool again, would probably interact with you as if you had leprosy).  They determine the music that we as a culture embrace.  (I don't even know what hipsters listen to nowadays.  How does one find out?  Wait two years and then listen to an indie, underground radio station - these songs were on some hipster's itunes long before they reached your ears.  In three years, it might even be on mainstream radio, but by this time the hipsters will have such passionate hatred toward the artist that you should never bring them up in conversation unless you want a PBR thrown in your face).      

Although 90% of what hipsters do, say, wear, and listen to is completely and totally fucking absurd, the 10% that manages to eek through will - given enough time for the masses to stupidly drag their collective consciousness onto the next movement (in music, fashion, art, whatever) - undoubtedly become an enormous cultural trend that is lost on our parents, sneered at by those who have already done it and moved on, and exploited to sickening degrees by everyone else.  Hipsters are like spirit makers, but the alcohols they produce are far too strong and bitter for the casual consumer; they must be distilled, ruthlessly rectified, cleansed and made bland for mass consumption.  Very few can handle the potency of 100% Pure Grain Hipster.

You seem to be deviating from your thesis.  I thought you said you hated hipsters.  You seem to be praisi-

Okay!  You're right!  I guess I see their merit.  I suppose they have their place.  If the captains of this giant, trendsetting ship are MTV, Urban Outfitters and Spin Magazine, then the hipsters are the ones speaking softly in their ear, urging them to turn the clumsy, slow-moving, rusty boat in the direction of their choosing, guiding us all through a sea of endless cultural possibilities.  

"I guess I just harbor a lot of animosity," I said, your head resting on my lap, my fingers tangling in your hair.  "I mean, I've been on the other side of it.  I've been on stage, have played for crowds where no one is moving, no one is showing the least bit of interest at all.  It really sucks, it just breaks you down.  If nothing else, at least show some support for some local kids trying to contribute to the scene, to put something creative and artistic out into this world.  But no, you're too cool to shift your weight, to take your hands out of your pockets, to clap after a song.  What the fuck are you doing?!

And this is what I hate.

I do not hate you, hipsters, because you have opinions and you are judgmental and because you dress like homeless Rufio from the movie "Hook" (if Rufio had an iphone).  I do no hate you because you like shit I have never heard of, and when I do hear of it you will speak of said liked things as if they are an STD that you are glad to be rid of.  No, I hate you because - at least in the Midwest - you stand on your pedestals and soapboxes and, from your position of superior height, you criticize others who are trying to create something.  You crucify local bands, even lash national acts; but when was the last time you got onstage with a guitar or cut an EP on Garageband in your basement?  You talk mad shit about gallery openings; but when was the last time you had paint caked under your fingernails?  You are cowards, metaphorically mowing down  peasants with machine guns from perceived helicopters.  You contribute nothing and thus risk nothing, but somehow feel that you have earned the right to give your stamp of approval or rejection on everything, giving not a thought to the effort, art, sweat, and heart that went into whatever it is you have leveled your sights on.  We have given you power because we believe that you know something we don't; but you are just like us, just lost kids trying to find their way.  No, you are less that we are.    

You are unworthy in my eyes, just as I may be in yours.  But at least I am trying.  

What have you got to show for yourself?