Being Poor and the Great Hipster Hijack

This is a guest blog by E, my boyfriend. Enjoy!

If you had told me 6 years ago that at 25 I would be working a 9-5 desk job selling insurance for a living I would have laughed at you. I was a bearded rock and roll drummer living the life – playing shows, eating the now-discontinued $1 double cheeseburgers from McDonalds, staying up late playing Madden on the original PlayStation with my guitarist – life was good.

I was also a full time student and I was working the overnight shift at a local radio station making $7.35 an hour. Needless to say, I was poor.

But poorness had its bright spots. Steak was a legitimate treat, and the library was an air-conditioned haven where I could check my MySpace page and log into my AOL email address.  Being poor was an art and I was Picasso. Just remember, bouillon cubes make everything better.

I have a lot of great memories from the days when I was poor. Since my apartment had no cable, no internet and no phone, I read a lot more. It was during this time my love affair with great writers like Kerouac and Kurzweil started. I learned to sew my own jeans when they ripped, and I learned that you could haggle at the Goodwill store (try it sometime). I learned that cream cheese and pasta could make a delicious meal, and that 711 gives away their left over hotdogs at 3am every night for free! I painted on a canvas for the first time in my life, and I learned how to use a wet-saw when my bathroom needed new tiles.

I bought a used bike to save on gas. I fixed my old fishing pole and spent hours enjoying the hot summer sun. I walked a lot, I cooked a lot, and I truly learned the value of a dollar.

Since then times have changed and I’ve left my poorness behind. Then, about a year ago, something happened.

I was heading to my local dive bar to meet with my long-time friend, Kevin. I had been drinking PBR at this bar for almost 5 years. PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon for those of you who don’t know) is without a doubt the best tasting ‘cheap’ beer out there. Busch, Natty, Bud Ice – none of them can match the smooth, fruity, ice-cold, 1-dollar-a-pitcher carbonated deliciousness that is PBR. I had developed a taste for it when I was poor. It is a taste that I still love today.

“Two PBRs, barkeep!” I yelled excitedly over the grumbling murmur of over-worked, blue collar day laborers that filled the bar on that warm May night.

“That’ll be $6.50.”

Shocked and confused, I nearly fell off my rickety old stool. How could this be? Surely, this tall, bubbling glass of cold yellow nectar couldn’t be my beloved PBR. Not at $3.25 a glass! It must have been miss-poured. It must be some kind of shitty fancy maple syrup beer – brewed in Vermont by college drop outs that majored in the Arbor Sciences. Surely, this wasn’t MY PBR.

But it was.

And that’s when it started… The Great Hipster Hijack.

All of a sudden a strange movement had begun to sweep across the landscape of Facebook like a California wildfire. The unknown and anonymous dive bars that I loved became hotspots of hipsterism. Sales of 88’ Volvo Wagons went through the roof, and thousands of ugly losers armed themselves with acoustic guitars and infiltrated Starbucks all across America. Unemployed philosophy majors took to the streets on their longboards and left behind them a devastating path of hookah-bar destruction… tearing apart the very fabric of society with their Apple laptops and chai tea.

Hipsters have taken everything from us. Clove cigarettes, vintage t-shirts, prescription glasses, 35 millimeter film…taken!

I’m so sick of it. Wow you’re wearing fingerless gloves in August!  You must be edgy and depressed and deep. You must have ‘things’ to say about ‘society.’ You want to ‘break’ social ‘norms’ with your shitty, poorly written screenplay about a girl who hits the road in her Chevy Corsica and moves to Brooklyn to create art and ‘find herself.’ Fuck you. Fuck you and all of your wanna-be bullshit.

Oh, you don’t need money to be happy? Money is the root of all evil? All you need is your art and your Polaroid camera that you CAN’T EVEN BUY FILM FOR. Get a job! I’m so tired of it. No, I will not give you a ride to New York. Go to the library and post an add on Craig’s List under the Rideshare section. Then you and other stupid idiots can ride together on your way to see MGMT play at some small, loud, overcrowded bar in Brooklyn.

Make sure you take plenty of photos of your ‘big night in the city’ for Facebook. You wouldn’t want to actually do something in life without posting 48 photos of it under your cleverly titled Facebook pictures album, would you? “Big city stars and a big city dream on a big city bridge.”

Oh no, being an artist didn’t work out? Your 10 picture photo essay about ‘Finding Beauty in Every Day Places’ that you shot on your Holga camera isn’t selling, and you can’t pay the rent? Don’t worry, you can just move back home at the age of 29! It’ll be great! You picked up a really quirky black and white duvet cover for your twin sized bed, and the incense store down the street is going out of business. Buy 1 get 2 free! Everything is working out great!

I need a beer…


2 responses to “Being Poor and the Great Hipster Hijack

  1. Great blog! You can actually buy films for most Polaroid cameras made pre-1963. I shoot with them regularly. And you can read about all things Polaroid, at Hipsta I am not!


  2. What a truly elegant expression of anti-hipster sentiment. Bravo!!

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