Hipsters Being Dead is Dead to Me

The past 24 hours have been rough on us. By us, I mean hipsters. Embrace it. Skinny pants are over.

Feministing disses on the white hipsters for trying out ghetto fab. ‘Cus that’s a privilege.

AND

Time Out’s Hipster Must Die article that broke the mouths of hipster hell. (quote attrib Mar) I haven’t read it yet although people are screaming in my ear about it. I say, “Am I going to be so furious I won’t be able to sleep or do anything?” They say: “Maybe you’re not ready.” I brace myself, set aside a few Buds, rest up my feet, antioxidant tea for later, ciggs.

Houseboy promises massages: “Did you read the article yet?” shake head. “Not going to read it?” Silence. “Don’t you think you should read it?”

Five hours later, be still my apathetic heart, comment wars consumed between my ironic chops, I’ll be a Yipster when I’m done. Or worse, corporate.

Somebody take me back to a New Jersey mallstrip. I’m outie.

Thursday’s contemplation of imminent terror, stalking part II.

A sort of terror : the nameless grip of which, one is constricted by. Tiny bursts of it upon interaction, tightening ones muscles to brace aloneness to your breast, the likelihood of it close to you as breath. There’s definitely a bitter glass thing between you and the outside world. As sure as the cups of coffee littering my desk and the books in my bag and the minihighlighters with which I will mark them and the plans i have tonight and the drunken ride home where I must nurse a friend’s similar perceived failures. There is glass between me and the train too. Speech helps, moving and dancing helps, looking for lights in peoples eyes (knowing it is as temporary as yours) but nausea and anguish still occurs and it’s more sad than scary; at least fear is palpable. With sadness, it is bottomless, and there is no foreseeable end. The funny thing is – and that’s the cosmic laughter – it’s so bitter it’s like swallowing a tear – that you have no problem living with it. It’s as real as day.

But first, actual things: I got props from the Kugelmass for posting up Tiga’s cover of “Down In It,” he further analyzes NIN, then I moved onto his clever calling out of high-culture heads on their preference for dry, astringent things (Clinic, for 1) over “schmaltz” and sweetness, for no instrinsic reason.

Then, terrorizing gone wrong: Anyhow yesterday’s organix supermarket terrorizing went terribly wrong. I began doing my occasional anal retentive, harboring resentment, boiling up divisions of right and wrong, shading my universe with pluses and minuses confusing the hell out of me while i waited outside American Apparel sucking on a cigarette. Asm came along with a bag of chicken wings and a tepid smile. I greeted her with no smile. I felt underwhelmed and soulless. Things picked up a little inside AA where of course, popping out of those incredibly garish, frightening fitting rooms in a flimsy garb designed to make one look like a slut or a wrestler or both, is intrinsically hilarious. She kindly helped me choose something to exchange the scarf I bought my ex boyfriend that he didn’t want because he had a 300$ burberry scarf and the 28$ one that I bought him, in an effort to bring turquoise into his life, did not see to his more tasteful tastes.
Going down the escalator of the supermarket we terrorize, I felt more foreboding; our journey was no longer easy, no longer peppered with gay, random, superlative superfluities. No – rather I felt the zit on my chin, which has tormented me for two weeks, protruding and taking over the wintery surface of my skin in front of the absurdly decorated gourmet goods; Asm’s face was blank and her queenly big hair bounced back and forth with a blinking divining of her desires and tastes which she scrutinized hard. I was not divining my desires; I was busy in the grip of a generalized fear, as I’d had over my caffeine allowance of that day, way over, and even though we’d have quite a laughing time trying on clothes at AA and she put away all my clothes on the correct hangers for me and I returned my library books on time, even though all of this, I was scared there was no way we’d make appropriate contact with all of the people waiting for us to bless them with our presence; namely, the coffee counter people, and everyone else in the world thereafter. They were the measure of our future success. Don’t ask me how I came up with this logic.

Asm had made breakthrough last week : “you’re beautiful, you are. How old are you? oh, you’re just a boy! Where the other coffee boy?! What’s his name?!” Oh God how they loved her, how we laughed beside the counter and they gave us things and ditched other customers for us. We were carrying huge bags but no matter. She was wearing a white hoodie and I was wearing a seagreen shirt; we were fly. But yesterday she was wearing the same outfit as the day before, my hair had been combed for the first time in years, and there was no hint of previous organic supermarket terrorizing spontaneity or joy. Just a lugging around of a plastic green basket.

Fell asleep on the sofa, clad in a tight black dress, after a glass of Argentinian wine that was supposed to be peppery but it wasn’t, and a Miller High Life, after an apology to Asm for a shit night, after all our glorious projections of ultimate duality/making fun of people, while my roomie, in an American Apparel T-shirt, counselled me. He knew something was up: What’s up Miso? What’s this about? when I started harping on the two times last week I saw him eat a bowl of cereal and leave it on the living room table and how i make sure to make everything on the living room table symmetrical and nice, have a nice looking book on the table like “PornoCopia” and all the pens in the pen holder and a nice turqoise ashtray…I became slightly hysterical. “Make sure you wash those dishes” I had said sternly and Asm said “let the boy finish eating.” When she left I lay down extremely tired from the wine, and my roomie, who’s growing up before my eyes, counselled me, after admitting that yes, he did leave cereal bowls on the table sometime. He counselled me on not feeling like shit, it’s ok, it’s not your responsibility to be hardcore all the time, if you think something’s whack stick to being against it, friendship is about seeing through that shit, and so what if previous friendships haven’t held up to it?

Is it better to surf over it, I wondered? Like, shut up, pick your battles and all that? Normal people do that…but it always explodes.

He says don’t worry, it’ll work itself out. Just chill. Come from it from a perspective where you say how you feel, not how you think so and so is wrong. Just chill, he says. This from a boy who does Bikram Yoga 3x a week…he called me earlier to ask me if I wanted to get a beer because he was “depressed” and thought I’d enjoy the sight, since I’m usually the one depressed and he’s the bouncy happy boy who tells me to chill. The other day he told me I could get whatever I wanted if I just stopped being insecure. That I had what it takes. This from a 21 year old boy who does Bikram Yoga and whose depression consists of not being able to do more of the awesome shit he does becuase there’s just not enough hours in the day, not enough awesomeness to garner at once…

Back to Square 1, stalking Part !! I’m always one for stalking, especially stalking DJ’s – it’s not like I have any hope of making personal contact with them – like i was explaining to somebody yesterday, I have no sex drive and no desire for bodies. Bodies disgust me, since my own body disgusts me. I do enjoy the pictorialization of bodily imperfections, like a brilliant stretch mark, or as Asm said of my fresh cat scratch: “Sexy! She even made sure to leave a little smear of blood!” But now the weather’s warmer, sort of, not really, and we are girding ourselves to dance again. Yes, our old beaten legs and arms can flow rhtymcally again (in all my years i can never remember how to spell that shit). Even Asm said – even with her infallible, indestructible, overt intuition: “You dance kind of…unique. Like you’re really into it, like you don’t care. No one else dances like you.” She sounded surprised. You’d think I would dance like a slut, right? Wrong! I dance like an epileptic on klonopin…

Was Gawker right when they proclaimed, falsely two months ago, that a dance revolution was coming? Whatever. I’m heralding a mini one beginning most likely tonight at ISS Thursdays at Tribeca Grand. But when you herald things they rarely…herald. The resulting trumpeting will be more of a crimpet, a curdle. Probably. I doom things the minute I hope them.

The last time I went it was nearly empty and I was stupidly, wearing an all white outfit and buying 8$ budweisers for Asm. However I feel hope that parties will be good again – last year was tame, sallow – surely a yin yang thing. Plus ever since the raucous choatic sexuality that was the New Years Party I and Blip threw, I do believe that big bangs are something to believe in if it’s well done. Although I haven’t been able to spend time with myself for two weeks straight and those quiet recordings into my tiny computer mic…are disappearing into an ambient noise.

Surfing on the skin of a vague feeling.

Music News: I uploaded more Ladytron songs on my server. Am i going to get sued? And, the Blow and Matt and Kim are playing a FREE SHOW somewhere in NYC, unknown as of yet. On Saturday. I am there.