Although no one could really accuse D+T of being a hipster magazine, we do tend to tread on the indie side of the entertainment spectrum. That’s why we’ve decided to join forces with up-and-coming Tumblr site, Stuff Hipsters Hate, a blog that breaks down what a hipster is by describing what they hate. SHH will be blogging once a month on this very site, offering insight on everything from music culture to what kind of shoes will get you laughed out of the average Bedford bar. Tune in on Friday for the first of SHH’s posts. Until then, check out one of our favorite venomous pieces after the jump.
All you want to do is buy one of the CDs currently lined up in front of Jeffrey Lewis, who is totally bad-ass enough to sell his own merch. The line isn’t that long (due to the woeful ignorance of the majority of the American public when it comes to good music—they’re probably all drooling over motherfucking U2 at some shitty arena). You’re almost there. The awesomely D.I.Y. disc is within your grasp—and then, he steps in front of you.
“Hey, Jeff!” he says in an overly familiar voice—a tone that suggests that this hunched figure in scuffed green Converse has been friends with the indie musician since they were in preschool, that they used to build peanut-butter-and-saltine-cracker towers together at the Lewis family kitchen table whilst giggling over Mrs. Lewis’s copy of Victoria Secret.
“Jeff, awesome show, man. I loved that new song about mosquitoes. I had a mother of a skeeter bite my ankle last week and the swelling still hasn’t gone down. Hey, hey, hey, Jeff, I gotta ask you. I have to know. Did that girl from the ‘Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song’ ever, like, contact you? Because I totally had a similar experience where I wrote this ironic poem in Missed Connections to this chick who works at Brooklyn Label and—”
Anger sears up through the soles of your Vans, worming its way in a hot channel through the legs of your skinny jeans until it comes to sit, Golem-like, in your stomach. You fight the urge to smash this dude in the head with your carabiner. You imagine him dying in myriad horrific ways—one of which involves a freak lightning strike that connects with that silly earring hooked on his upper lobe (does he think it’s, like, 2003?).
Finally, homeboy attempts a complicated handshake with the confused musician and shuffles away, probably with a tent in his Levis, fucking kiss-ass. Here’s your chance—you see the CD resting gloriously on the merch table. You raise your eyes to meet Lewis’s, open your mouth to speak, tell yourself that you’ll keep your interaction to a contained and slightly aloof token of praise. The CD is in your hand. Lewis is looking at you. The dude behind you coughs a slightly annoyed cough. “Hey, Jeff!” you say.
