Is there an aspect of hipster culture — be it as simple as footwear or as complex as existential philosophy — that you reject?
— B. Butterbur
I am all that is hipster. I do not distinguish between kale salad and chocolate-bacon cupcakes. The snootiest coffee and the hoppiest beer are equals in my eyes.
Hanson sings MmmBop 16 years later
When you say, “Which is better: math rock, ironic dubstep, twee pop, vintage hardcore, shoegaze, alt-country, occasional yacht rock, dancehall, Chicago blues, deep house, Scandinavian black metal, or ‘MMM-Bop’?” I say, “Yes.”
Chuck Taylors. Tattoo sleeves. Flannel shirts and sweaters.
Vintage records. New LPs. Fingerstache Decembeard.
Irony. Earnesty. Jaded detachment.
What could be cooler than these?
Would I ironically wear those fuzzy green Reeboks? Yes, I would. Would I wear them because I love them? I would, indeed. Would I wear them just to piss the world off? I very well might.
I embrace the hipness.
Except for Jonathan Safran Foer. I didn’t get it then. I don’t get it now. And I don’t expect to get it in the future.