Hipster Fucks

Boy BearOverly-abundant tattoos, outback style hats, RM Williams boots, twirly mo’s for boys, bleach-blonde hair for girls, paisley prints, quiffs, coats and a packet of rollies.

Let me guess…you’re in a folk band, right? And you believe in doing the right thing, but you carry an iPhone, eat at McDonalds (but only when I’m drunk!), buy plastic-bottled water, and drink mainstream beers at a mainstream pub disguised as a hip place to hang, despite the fact it’s owned by a conglomerate no different from Woolworths – just not as big. It’s most likely to have either a taxidermied Moose, tin-cans as cutlery holders, or a range of overpriced boutique ales you drink a few of until you hit the locals cos they’re cheaper. All served up by young girls with fake tans, no leg muscles, and brain activity reminiscent of a midnight trip to the shops.

You study media, or fine art, dress like you’re part of Janis Joplin’s entourage, but use words like ‘swag’, or anything else you heard on Girls this week, and enjoy all the perks of being a twenty something Sydney kid in the 21st century. But you work for MTV, or an advertising agency, or a studio, and convince yourself that the ads you’re helping to put together for Coke (by being the least productive person in the office) don’t really go against what you represent, because if you didn’t do it, someone else would, so you might as well get in there early and make some money so in ten years, when you’ve had your fun, you can get serious and start doing something that counts.

By then, of course, you’ll be such a talented art director that you’ll be able to save Africa using no more than Photoshop CS6 and an upload to Youtube. And in the meantime, have some great looking kids with you partner, who really is an awesome person – they’re just quiet, like you, when it comes to serious conversation. And happen to to be exceptionally good looking in a stetson hat, which is how you met.

Either that or you work in a cafe, and enjoy serving coffee and gluten-free home-grown pistachio friands (that’s a cake) to the people mentioned above on their way to work. But you’ll see them this Friday at that gig you paid $90 to attend – one of the many you’ll head along to this year, culminating in a festival where you’ll see them all again because they fucking rock, that band of 23 year old kids who know how to imitate Black Sabbath.

And festivals are perfect, because all those people back in the city who aren’t lucky enough to be young and pretty, and supported by their parents, have to stay back and work. Or worse yet, maybe they’re not lucky enough to have a job in the first place – meaning they’re probably homeless, in which case, why could they want to come to a Summer festival anyway, only to be reminded of how not-young and not-hip they are?

Back to you, though…you spend gross amounts of cash on your clothes, and fail to realise that copying what you saw in a Deus Ex ad for Vice is not all that original, let alone awesome. Copying shit you see on others is boring – your tattoos, your over-priced feux-vintage leather boots, your hair style, your mo-style, or the fact you look good in a certain cut of jeans. It doesn’t make you a better person, okay?

6666

And the fact you happen to look good in a t-shirt because you happen to have two skinny parents – same goes, it was pure luck, so stop acting like you somehow arranged it, standing there in your Ray Bans you just bought full price from the General Pants clearence outlet at a Westfield, with absolutely no sense of irony because, as mentioned earlier, you don’t have time for politics. Only bands.

And most of all…you have no idea what you’re going to do with your life, but it’s going to be amazing, just like all those kids Terry Richardson takes photos of. It’s going to be amazing, you’re going to rock, and life is fucking great.

Just don’t read a newspaper, kid.  It might confuse you, and that ain’t hip, right?

#fuckingHipsters #scribla

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