I HATE HIPSTERS

I think the title says it all, but I want to reiterate: I HATE HIPSTERS.

Scene: Salon-themed hipster bar next to a "Nathan's Original Hot Dogs".

I can't even begin to describe the parade of individuals I witnessed. I, of course, roll in wearing the ubiquitous "i'mgoingoutandgoingtohaveawildnight!!" black dress. Upon entering the bar, I immediately realize that perhaps I should have done one of several things: a) not blown dry my hair..instead, let my hair embrace its more lion-mane quality, b) worn my jumper, and perhaps, a skull & bone button up shirt, c) gotten a modified bob, and worn my glasses or d) shaved my head, and come in with overalls, stiletto heels and a page-boy cap. To say I looked out of place was probably an understatement.

To me, hipster used to mean "counter-culture". In fact, back home in New Orleans I used to consider myself a hipster because I wasn't a debutante, I wore glasses, I wrote my own plays as a child, and on weekends I used to work the front desk at my parents guest house. All of these things were counter to the normal culture of children and teenagers in New Orleans, so therefore, I was a hipster. Once I moved to New York, I realized, my definition of hipster was vastly different from the one I had conceived of since childhood. In New York, all the hipsters were counter-culture in the same exact way: guys who dress like British School Boys, too much eye-liner, tight t-shirts and vests -- girls who wear skull outfits, suspenders, adidas soccer cleats and one earring. I can't understand how these people don't realize the hipocracy of their existence. Oooohhh..you wear vests..let me tell you something: if everyone wears vests just like you, you are as mainstream as the girls with polos and longchamps that you probably hate on unmercilessly.

I want to re-define the term hipster. I think hipsters are people who work obscene hours, live in crackdens, just want to survive, and just do things that make them happy, even if that includes just staying in and reading instead of going to a bar that masquerades itself as a "former massage spa" or "former salon" . To me, THESE people are the true hipsters. Show me a slightly out-of shape accountant who is picking up his take out thai food to go home and watch the discovery channel on a thurs night, and I will show you a hipster.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this entry....if I don't end it now, I may start going on a rant about my normal topics of rage: florida, my job, the new york city dating scene, and homeless people who proposition me.

And with that, I leave you. Read more

I'm out of ideas

But sometimes when I am bored, I re-read the emails my parents send me. I will call this a "Best Of" Dennis and Joanne emails. I also find it better, when reading emails from my father, to imagine Christopher Walken reading them aloud. Note: I have inserted comments where appropriate

"Layne
for some reason watching the movie about "Miriam" (L: What my father meant here was the Devil Wears Prada -- we all know that the main character's name is actually named "Miranda", but I think that was lost in translation) and hearing you talk of
your experiences at work and in New York---made me laugh about how different we are down here and what the speed of life must be in NY.. I think they would hospitalize me for some type of "lethargy" that is un-explainable. in the diagnostic manual.
I think that once we do visit you---or you visit us there will be such a "cultural lag" that we will have to work on communicative styles. (as if we don't have to already) hot down here-----muggy-----Gatlinburg --very cool in the mountains Dollywood -- kind of cute and friendly---sort of like Deliverance----duh dun a dun dunt don (L: I think this is meant to be the banjo theme song -- oh, and as an aside, one particularly low Christmas Evening, my family watched Deliverance together)-- not exactly the banjo playing --but you get the point--love ya Dad"

Let's contrast this email style with the sort of email from my mother:

"DO YOU NEED TO GET YOUR HAIR DONE? HAVE YOU BEEN GOING TO CHURCH? YOUR FATHER HAS STARTED WRITING FICTION, HE WROTE SOME SORT OF POEM ABOUT THE TICK-TOCK OF DEATH, SO I SLEPT IN YOUR ROOM LAST NIGHT. I BAKED A CAKE AND MADE LEMONADE, AND NO ONE CLEANED THE DISHES. GO FIGURE. XOXO MOM" Read more