FLASHBACK

Being Alone

Although hipsters would have you think that they are lone wolves (how else do you explain the popularity of the ubiquitous wolf T-shirt?), they truly are pack animals. On sunny days, they often congregate in parks, where they may form a tangled mass of limbs and black-framed glasses and trade stories about last night’s rooftop party where Tanya had a meltdown and decided to move back to Iowa and Matt took off all his clothes and danced with abandon to the Monkees Greatest Hits. Brunch is a similarly social affair—one hardly ever sees a lone diner at a hipster hotspot, unless said diner is writing, drawing or doing some kind of artwork (this excuses the fact that he or she is alone, because he or she has chosen to partake in a solitary, creative activity in the presence of others). When the days turn cold—or darkness impedes upon the unifying nature of sunshine—hipsters turn to their computers, where they may G-Chat, Facebook, Twitter and MySpace to their heart’s content, thereby avoiding the gaping maw of loneliness hovering right over there next to job-induced panic attacks, romantic anguish and the ever-encroaching identity crisis.

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When You Ask the DJ for Requests

Jenny: Hey! Do you think you could play some Madonna or Michael Jackson or something?

DJ Infinite Heaviness of Beans: What? I can’t hear you.

Jenny: [shimmies into the DJ booth] Oh, I was just wondering if you could play some ’80s music or something. 

DJ (totally not gonna repeat that name every time): Uh. I’m working.

Jenny: That’s cool. Sorry. Just wondering if you take requests.

DJ: I have my playlist. It’s all set up.

Jenny: Yeah, man. But you just played “Horse with No Name”…

DJ: [withering glare]

Jenny: I mean, that’s an awesome song… If you like quirky funeral dirges, but, you can’t dance to that.

DJ: Fucking person from Porlock…

Jenny: Excuse me?

DJ: You know “Kubla Khan”?

Jenny: Was that the song you played after all those weird Caribbean gospel jams?

DJ: No, asshole, it’s a poem, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. An epic poem that he composed while in an opium-induced haze. It was like his fucking masterpiece. About Xanadu. And a pleasure palace. And polo. Or something. Anyway, the point is, Coleridge was, like, all fucking tripping out on opium and his creative juices where just bursting from his body like fucking beaujolias nouveau wine grapes bursting under the stately feet of French maidens… when some asshole, some dude from some place called Porlock, just burst in and killed his flow. Then, when he came back to his poem, he had lost it. Lost it fucking all. That’s what you are, lady, a fucking person from Porlock. Killing my ever-loving flow.

Jenny: But… you’re not even spinning vinyl… You’ve just got a fucking iTunes playlist open on your desktop…

DJ: Get out of my area.

Jenny: And… what’s the title there? “John’s Chill-Out” music?

DJ: Get the fuck out of my area.

Jenny: Dude, did you even make a playlist for tonight? Or is this just what you listen to when you’re high?

DJ: Fuck you. Get the fuck out my fucking pleasure palace.

Jenny: Look! No one’s dancing! Everyone’s leaving!

DJ: Whatever. Classless masses. Music isn’t for everyone. Obviously they lack my poetic sensibilities. Imma just turn the speakers off and jam here with my headphones. Y’all can go straight to hell. Or Porlock. Wherever the fuck that is.

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Photo Booth Transformations

Christ, I don’t know why I waste minutes of my life stalking people from high school on Facebook. Fucking newsfeed, telling me that for some reason I should care about the former fatty who’s now on Baby #2 and trashy as ever. Look at this, this entire fucking album is these three chicks in front of a Macbook taking pictures of themselves like assholes before heading out to, I’m sure, some hip-hop dance club atrocity. Oh look, it’s you with huge eyes and a little pointy chin, looking like Gollum. Wow, it’s the two of you with massive chins and beady squinty eyes. Lookie here, we have three of you all blurs and marks compliments of the colored pencil filter. You know, these resulting images are not nearly as hilarious as you think they are. They just prove you’re not worthy of the Mac you’re tapping away on, poseur.

You ready to head out, Jimbo? Oh sweet, you went with the Nikon N2000? Yeah, Rhoda and Jenn are gonna meet us in the park. Ooh, perfect, it just stopped snowing. This’ll be fun. Don’t forget to tag me this time.