So. What did I do on Friday?
I wore my "NOT A DOCTOR" shirt, which is the perfect hipster camouflage because it has irony on it.
I went to a stage reading I directed for a play I wrote.
I went to an art installation by Nick Wirtz's cinema class, an installation with exactly four exhibits, each of which ran in three-minute loops, and I stayed there for an hour, wandering around in the dark with 1/8th a plastic cup of cheap boxed Cabernet, working myself up into a trance-like state from all the sounds and flickering images and all the indistinct forms of other people walking around, and stared at Nick's weird video mask thing until it gave me waking nightmares, and talked to tiny artist girls in snappy little dresses about the meaning of their work, and felt strangely at home, for some reason.
I went to the birthday party for Sam Krulewitch, a creative writing friend who is also a rock star (literally--his band Capillary Action has done some touring), and sat on the porch with people who were anonymous because it was dark, and discussed movies and postmodernism with friendly strangers, and drank nothing harder than orange juice and Diet Coke despite the copious presence of cheap alcohol, and made awkward passes at smug hipster girls, and rocked out to Sam Krulewitch's band playing the kind of totally hardcore electric guitar music that until this year I thought was too loud for me (lots of screaming and obscenities and drunkenness, and Sam with his shirt off because he digs being shirtless), and watched two of Sam's friends engage in an impromptu boxing match in the middle of the living room, and sat on the couch and felt more chill than I had in months, even when no one was talking to me, and thought of only two things: "Life is too short to live without regrets," and "Someday I'll be too old to enjoy this."
Yes. What you are thinking is correct. This Friday, I was a hipster. This Friday was, in fact, the most hipster day of my life.
And I do not feel ashamed. I have discovered, in fact, that I love hipsters. I am comfortable with the fact that, for all I know, I could be one myself.
Which, says housemate Andy, proves that I am actually not a hipster. What hipster would admit to being a hipster? What hipster would admit to liking hipsterdom at all?
But, see, that's ironic. And hipsters, I am told, are all about the irony.