(Whispering, intoned sotto voce) Today we are at Wegman’s on the hunt
for the lone Eastern Pennsylvanian Hipster or Coolus obscurus.
Our guide is big game hunter, Mookie Robinson. Mookie is a tough,
white, fearless hunter who has chosen to live in the violent, unrelenting world
of millennial, urban life, where only the ironic survive.
We are currently established in the organic food isle of the
Wegman’s grocery store. It’s quiet. We first see a beatnik pass.
Suddenly, Mookie crouches to examine some hipster spoor. Chuck Taylor
All-Star tracks and a Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle cap. The hipster is
close.
Mookie puts out a box of organic gluten-free grains with the label “sustainability” printed on
it to lure the hipster out into the open.
We hide behind crates of imported cheeses and wait.
Suddenly, Mookie spots the hipster we’re after.
And there it is! A truly magnificent specimen. The hipster looks to be about six
feet tall, with a plaid shirt, bowtie, tight jeans, Sylvia Plath
cardigan, and Buddy Holly glasses. The beard weighs two pounds and is easily capable of sopping
up a bowl of lintel soup. From the looks of the hipster, it’s probably into knitting,
veganism, urban beekeeping, and bookbinding classes. The real embodiment
of postmodernism
as a spent force, revealing what happens when pastiche
and irony
exhaust themselves as aesthetics.
The
hipster slowly approaches the box of organic food. Two more strides and the hipster
could reach out and touch someone with its beard.
Mookie raises
his rifle. For the past few months, he’s been rehearsing this moment in his
bedroom closet in Brooklyn, aiming, reloading, aiming again. He shoots. The
rifle’s thunder is somehow insignificant. The shot catches the hipster in the
appropriate place, in the iPod.
But a hipster
iPod is a big piece of equipment—it can include thousands of songs from obscure
80s and 90s bands that you’ve probably never heard of, all on continuous
shuffle.
Mookie’s
bullet did not apparently disrupt the iPod enough to take down the hipster in a
single shot. It shakes its head, as if to wag away the pain of distorted indie
music. There is a second shot that strikes it in the earbuds. It turns to flee,
probably towards its fixed gear bicycle, but its right foreleg has buckled. It
drops its iPod. It strives to stand. It steps on the iPod. The earbuds pull it
down. Right in the middle of Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up”. The hipster falls
without realizing the irony. It’s a success. The hipster is dead. But Mookie
must make sure. He fires a final shot. There is nothing more dangerous than a
wounded hipster.
But the
hunt is not over. With well-practiced skill Mookie skins the hipster. The beard
of a full grown male hipster can in fact fetch anything up to $4 on the open
market.
The
long day is over and it’s back to base camp for a night’s rest.