Over-privileged, entitled, private-schooled, trust-funded, 20-something youth. Usually clad in some combination of leggings, headbands, neon or sparkly things. Greasy, too fat, too thin, gross—or as my roommate puts it, “sloppy.” The hipster.
In low doses, i.e., one or two randoms wandering the streets of South Brooklyn, they’re somewhat tolerable. Most of them are either lost and trying to find their way back to their Bushwick loft, likely the after-effect from 30-something’s night of slumming it.
When packed into a Red Hook backyard, drinking Pabst and High Life, dancing to Biggie and the Cars— “Name one album they recorded, motherfucker! One album!”—and what the fuck is the DJ wearing? Is that a trucker hat? Since when are they trying to bring it back?
Sorry, I got distracted.
And so I found myself surrounded by 20-something hipsters. Girls in plaid oversized shirts and shiny leggings cutting up lines of cocaine with Mommy and Daddy’s credit card; boys who look like that Mormon dude who swore he wasn’t gay but was really gay from the Real World Brooklyn; boys who roll out of bed in their sweat pants and T-shirts and backwards baseball hats who are already balding who used to work at sports bars. Really? A Boston-sports bar? How amazingly…boring. “You’re jaded,” he tells me. They have all just moved to the city for all its unchecked, slutty, glorious, unbridled action (read: drugs/sex…and repeat). I mean, how many times can you listen to Girl Talk and lick coke off of someone’s half-hard, five-inch dick before it gets boring? Two. Two times.
I go up to my friend’s friend’s friend. “So, do you get laid?” I ask him. He’s about 26, short, bearded, tubby with that roll of sloppy fat around his waist that sags over his too-tight jeans. He smells. I am amazed that guys like this pull so much ass here, but they do, completely, undeservedly so.
“Oh, yeah,” he tells me. “All the time.”
“Really?” I say in disbelief.
I know these kids think they’re being wild and breaking the rules. I know these boys and girls probably think that they’re pretty good in bed. I know that they think if they pull out fast enough they can’t get the herpes—or that’s what they tell those chicks from Oberlin and Brown anyway.
But now it’s getting personal. After that party, I have decided that no longer will I idly sit by and watch these unchecked youngsters, all pie-eyes, and their hope and dreams, their goals and aspirations go by unfettered. Instead, given any opportunity, I will down their cheap liquor, insult them to their faces and crap all over their stupid ideas for community-art projects, like baking cookies in the shape of fetuses and handing them out in Greenpoint.
I’d like to see you try that in the PJs, bitch.