
The other day, I was walking home when someone driving past rolled down their window, threw a hot dog at me and screamed, “Fucking hipster!”
I would like to tell you that that was the first time a hot dog has been thrown at me from a moving car, but it wasn’t; though until that point, I had never been called a “fucking hipster” before. Sure, I was dressed like a Wes Anderson protagonist, toting an armload of thrift-store LPs, but somehow it had never occurred to me that I was a hipster.
I went home and stared into the mirror for a long time. What qualifies someone as a member of hipsterdom? I made a list, checking off points as I considered what my life had become.
1. You dress like you’re a time traveler from the ’70s who grabbed a bunch of random items off of a clothes line in a desperate attempt to blend in with the general populace.

2. You posses a formidable collection of “vintage” VHS tapes.

3. You take photos only with an old Polaroid camera because it’s “more pure,” yet all your pictures are of cats and banh mi sandwiches.

4. You use dial-up Internet for the nostalgia factor.

5. You play pogs for money in the gritty underground pog scene.

6. Or you have had your thumbs broken for cheating while playing pogs for money.

7. You own a collection of finely tailored Italian stick-on moustaches.

8. All the T-shirts you own are tuxedo T-shirts, and you’re convinced they are appropriate for all occasions.

9. You own a car bed to impress the ladies you bring home. (It doesn’t work.)

10. You had a friend build you a “tall bike” in exchange for a flat of Pabst. You use it to hit on people outside of Whole Foods.


