| For the LOVE OF GOD, you hipsters have to STOP! |
It's so out of hand: the fashion, the attitude, and the accessories - all of it. It's no secret that I've always more or less despised hipsters, but my rancor has only grown over the years. Whereas ten years ago, I thought surely the hipster scene would become slightly less obnoxious over time, it hasn't; it's gotten worse. If you don't believe me, take a stroll down Valencia Street in San Francisco between Market and Army Streets (it'll always be "Army Street" by the way, not Caesar Chavez Boulevard because of the basic principles of syllable conservation). If you do this at about five o'clock on a Saturday night, you'll come to understand exactly why I'm so fed up with this demographic. For those of you who such a stroll would be impossible for, I've comprised this little list of the hipster things I hate to help you share, or at least understand, my pain.
Fixies
If you didn't know it already, a "fixie" is a fixed gear bicycle, with gearing set up like a time trial bicycle of the variety used in velodromes, making it unable to coast. Backwards or forwards, the rider's legs always move if the rear wheel moves. Bikes made for velodromes don't have brakes as it's just extra weight, and on a circular track, one just slowly decelerates to a stop. Theoretically, if you had to brake in a 'drome, you'd never be able to catch the pack again.
In the late nineties or so, an elite group of bicycle messengers/couriers in The City began to ride fixed-geared bikes around town, often with only a front brake or, for the very skilled, none at all. Understandably, it became cool to be skilled enough to maneuver such a machine through downtown traffic for eight hours a day, five days per week.
It was cool until the hipsters caught on.
My theory about this, as to why it came to be, is that bike messengers would go out to bars like Zeitgeist or Beauty Bar in the Mission after work. Some jack-off, thrift-store corduroy-wearing, formerly-privileged, living-in-the-Mission-not-because-it's-required-by-finances-but-because-it's-edgy fashionista must have been hitting happy hour at the same time and the seed was thusly planted.
Now, to see a bike with gears or brakes on it in the Mission is downright exceptional. The result is that if one tries to actually ride one's geared-bicycle at a speed capable of providing a good workout, one must suffer behind the muffin-topped flab in painted-on stretch jeans, or the junkie-esque vegan in the same pants on the garishly-colored fixie ahead until one gets a break in traffic to pass.
I saw a guy who had "one less fixie" painted on his skateboard and I wanted to kiss him. He must be my soul mate. Too bad he's got balls, presumably.
White Belts
Yup, white belts. They are a fashion no-no. I could leave it at that, but instead I'm going to beat the topic to death. You expected something else? No, you didn't.
Ladies, if you have a chunky middle, as many hipster girls do curiously despite the amount of time spent riding around on bicycles, you shouldn't be wearing skin-tight pants in the first place. Throw an attention-drawing swath of bright white on there, and you've got yourself a one-way pass to Skank City with a huge debt at Bi Rite Creamery (it's a local ice cream spot). Hide that under all the other "ironic", ill-fitting, second hand shirts and jackets you want, but the flash of the white belt will always draw oneâs attention to the by-product of your love of all things starchy.
Gents, it you wear a white belt, you're just a fag. And I don't mean that in a way that would suggest that there's anything wrong with being homosexual. I proved in the last article that I'm just only a drunken night with "the boys" away from being queer myself. I mean that ambiguous, derogatory, other meaning of the word that makes huge, weightlifting, gay bikers or giant-boobied drag queens in impossible heels look at sickly, waif twenty-somethings in Gilligan-like beanie caps, American Apparel hoodies and too-small black T-shirts mutter under their breath, "Fag."
Sorry, bro. Facts are facts. And that mustache does nothing to help.
Mustaches
Ladies, just lay off the sugar and go in for wax now and then from a local beauty shop. Should clear up a bit.
Dudes, you have no excuse. You look like Freddy Mercury, except he was awesome and in one of the biggest bands in the world and you work part-time at Destinedtofail Coffee House and Art Gallery. I dug The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou as much as the next guy, but I wouldn't want to be mistaken for one of his crewman on the street.
Clip-On Raccoon Tails
This is it: the apex of the summit to Mount Whyyousuck. Everything can be summed up with this little, terrible fashion accessory. To begin: they're fake. Now, I wouldn't want a raccoon to die for anything short of: 1. Saving me from a burning building 2. Saving me or somebody I love from dying of starvation or 3. Knocking over my goddamn trashcans again. But it just seems so lame that somebody gets paid to make fake raccoon tails - I don't know.
I generally like raccoons. They amuse me. I would never wear anything raccoon-related on my body. Why? Because IT'S COMPLETELY RIDICULOUS!
Come on! Is there any object out there that can so clearly shout out to the world, "I AM TOTALLY DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION FROM OTHER UNIQUE PEOPLE WHO ARE JUST LIKE ME" than a raccoon tail clipped onto the belt? No, there isn't -- except the other three things mentioned above. I saw a girl get off a fixie yesterday and open up the door to her apartment with her keys; said keys were affixed to not one, but two fake raccoon tails, worn drooping out of the right rear pocket of her near-bursting stretch jeans. My first, immediate thought when looking at her was, God, she must really sympathize with that old "do you ever feel not so fresh" commercial.
That was a smelly vagina joke, yes.
If you are thinking of wearing a raccoon tail, do me a favor: go get a pair of gloves and some linemans or dikes and go on a raccoon tail hunt first. Only when you have displayed sufficient non-wussitude as to cut the tail from a piece of unfortunate road-kill, dry it and work it into a keychain or whatever, will you be worthy of the honor of looking like a total douche.
But, here's the catch: if you muster up the balls to do this unsavory work, you'll probably feel your balls drop (or whatever the female equivalent is) and realize it's time to shower, put on some looser clothing and hit the gym.
Burned.
I'm out. |
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