The New York Times has once again pushed past the barrier of decent journalism into a world of reckless myth-making with their latest article celebrating the lifestyles of so-called “hipsters”— semi-employed upper middle class white trash who stay drunk on their parents’ money well into their thirties. The article, entitled “A Bushwick Mansion Where Music Fills the Halls,” is a sweaty, swarmy ball of self-satisfaction that reeks stale and foul. It is an absurd and irresponsible piece of liberal arrogance that only the Times could pull off with an innocent face.
Hipsters are nothing to be proud of and they are certainly nothing for a national media organization to celebrate. They represent indulgence and failure of every kind. From their incessant need to have pre-marital sex or else masturbate themselves numb to their shameless willingness to feed from the trough of hardworking Americans to support their blogs, indie bands or t-shirt companies, these people embody the death of the Puritan ethic. They live like 14-year olds– emotionally stunted, egomaniacal, crying for no reason and then twittering about it. They dress like 14-year olds as well, often in cartoon character clothes that show off unpleasant patches of skin. Were it not for their bruises and awkward facial hair, it would be impossible to tell them apart from actual drunk teenagers.
In Times’ Bushwick Mansion story, we hear about a group of truly unremarkable individuals who contribute nothing to society but so much to their own sense of smugness. They’re all “artists” whether that means abusing an electric guitar or throwing paint against a wall. Is anyone buying it? Of course not… Well, maybe their fellow travelers throw a few token dollars their way. After all, they have an investment in keeping up the charade of the “creative class.” And who knows, if they get the girls (or boys?) drunk enough, they might even get congenital in that basement art studio.
I hate to burst the bubble of your retro Bazooka bubblegum, hipsters, but this is Sarah Palin’s America! Your silly antics won’t get you a pair of overalls and a slice of apple pie in the heartland. Your little tight twinky Lady Gaga t-shirts and lip piercings will get your butt whooped in the Topeka. Your eyeshadow and hair dye would melt if you tried an honest day’s work in a farm or on a factory floor. And you people think you know anything about the heart and soul of human beings just because you signed up for that course at Vassar? Did you even go to class?
Yes, we all know you’re rich kids who went to expensive fancy schools even if you wear second-hand clothes and speak like you’re more stoned than you really are. By the way, was it Sarah Lawrence or Brown, Bard or Wellesley? Was there a night where French literary theory and supermarket wine resulted in a regrettable sexual experience against a dorm room wall? I wonder. And did your parents subtly bribe you not to move back home after graduation because you looked so unpresentable? Did you ever wonder why they were so quick to give you an allowance to “start off on your own” so far from home? No surprise then you ended up in Austin or Bushwick, Oakland or Philadelphia. I know your type. I’ve seen it all before.
I’ll tell you a secret, you little ones who live in that Latino section of Brooklyn, NY called Bushwick: you’re not wanted there. Desegregation didn’t work in the 60s and it doesn’t work now, folks. Did you miss that lesson in history class at prep school? They don’t want to live with us and we don’t want to live with them, get it? And something else: You’re all going to grow up to be bankers or bookstore managers, advertising copywriters or homemakers in the end, whether you like it or not. Don’t kid yourself, no one is changing the world here and I am so crazy sick of you people implying that some crap you’ve dreamed up wrapped in your sweaty bedsheets will mean anything to anyone one hundred years down the road. The world is what it is, it’s not going to change because some brilliant genius twittered a line he heard his senile grandfather mutter or because someone once played in a band that once had a song that became a hit in Reykjavik.
This! Yes this, my Christian readers, is something that the New York Times finds interesting enough to write about! Who reads this garbage and thinks, “Wow, that’s wonderful!”? Hey I once lived in a crappy section of Clarksville and there were ethnics there and the lady I lived with had cats and fancied herself a portrait painter and she had cats! We used to watch Home Improvement together and argue about Ross Perot. I thought about becoming a poet and a youth counselor back then. One time we had a party and someone stole our refrigerator! Right out the back door and into an El Camino parked on the lawn! Why don’t you write about me and my amazing life New York Times! It would be far more fascinating than a bunch of herpes-suffering cigarette-smokers who aspire to get published on the Awl or play at Antone’s in Austin!