Archive for December, 2011


Saturday, December 31st, 2011

Hipster New Years Resolutions – It’s 2012. We can all do at least one thing better next year. Especially you, you pretentious, entitled Baby Boomer spawn…

* I will not name any of my offspring Manx, Charlieparker or Siddhartha.

* When I am lying in a drawer at the morgue, I will regret not considering the folly of flipping off pedestrians and drivers while evading all New York traffic laws including but not limited to riding against traffic and through red lights on my stupid fixed-gear bike. I will also refrain from blaming the 20-ton Albanese Brothers sanitation truck for not hearing my Harpo Marx horn before they flattened me like a rolling pin into a cartoon pancake.

* When I am in public I will pretend that I am neither intellectually nor
morally superior to everyone under twenty and over 40. Particularly when I
am wearing my “Ms. Pacman” t-shirt.

* Even when the clerk at Sol Moscot Opticians tells me that Jesse Eisenberg
gets his glasses here, I will not be talked into thick black frames. Especially thick black frames with non-prescription glass.

* Each and every time I am tempted to place upon my head a porkpie hat, I will remember that there is nothing inherently cool about a porkpie hat and that wearing things that aren’t cool doesn’t make me “ironic,” but moronic. A handful of jazz greats wore porkpie hats but they would have been cool with or without the hat. They were sax players. I am not. I am an IT guy and gamer metrosexual who wears a Baby Snugli with my kid’s head facing toward on-coming pedestrian traffic. Even when my girlfriend tells me that I do look cool in said porkpie hat, I will realize that this is coming from a woman wearing a vintage shirt-waist dress with bric-a-brac trim and red cat-eye glasses. I will leave the porkpie hat where it belongs – on Yogi Bear.

* I promise to stop quoting David Foster Wallace mostly because that is probably what made him take his own life.

* I do not need any more tattoos. I do not need the tattoos I already have. I don’t even know what half the tattoos I have mean. Especially the ones in foreign languages. I will also refrain from calling them, “tats.” To hell with my college loans I’ll never pay off anyway – time to start saving to get my “h e l v e t i c a” and “My Little Pony” tats removed.

* Unless I venture into the crystal-meth dealing trade, I will refrain from adopting a pit-bull. I think a pit-bull makes me look tough and thug-like, but in reality it just makes me look like a short waifish guy in skinny jeans and plaid Converse low-tops with a pit-bull. Even the pit-bull, each time I walk him around Thompson Square Park and he sees real thugs, looks back at me and thinks, “wtf”?

* Just because my parents bought me a coop in Williamsberg and I get to stay home all day and play with lobster clasps, semi-precious stones and glue guns, I will stop referring to myself as a jewelry designer when in fact I am really just an adult who spends my time, instead of working like the rest of the grown-up world, doing sleep-a-way camp Arts and Crafts projects.

* I will stop saying “I have that in vinyl” because the only people who care are other hipsters except that – oh wait – they only care about themselves.