They can be annoying, entertaining, snobby and about as deep as a three-inch fountain pool, but where would we be without hipsters?
The Arlington denizen can be surrounded by them on a nightly, nay, daily basis if said denizen so desires. Actually, the apartment renter in Arlington can become one … or may already be one for that matter.
Let’s see what a typical day for the Arlington hipster is like.
You wake up around 10:30, hit the snooze button a couple of times and finally make it up at about 11:02. Your boss wants you at the little, independently owned coffee bar a little before noon, so you have to hurry. You shower, and the first existential crisis of the day hits: Do I wash my hair? Since you haven’t done so in a couple of days (all in a quest to achieve that devil-may-care, sloppy Strokes look), you decide to work the Prell a little. You then don your Poison T-shirt, Converse One Star Classic ’74s and those Levi’s cords you picked up at a local thrift store, and you’re out the door.
After a turgid day as a barista in the coffee bar, listening to other hipsters whine about this band selling out and that club becoming too popular (among the din of Sonic Youth’s “Daydream Nation,” with the latest by Animal Collective, some old school Ramones, Guns N’ Roses, Johnny Cash and Miles Davis mixed prominently in the bar’s stereo), you take your fin de siècle self out the door, walk several blocks back home and grab a light snack of hummus, grapes and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
After eating the crushed chick peas, you crush a couple of cans, which you dispose of in the aluminum recycle bag. Still not feeling it food-wise, you call up your ex-girlfriend – who you’re still secretly in love with (and who dumped you, saying you worked better as “friends”) – and make dinner plans.
The two of you hit Comet Ping Pong, where you restrict yourself to two slices of vegan pizza (Hey dude, it’s hard staying this thin. It scores points on both ends … No, no, I like it, I do, dude), and a couple more cans of Pabst, which you’ve actually grown to like, somehow. A few embarrassing, awkward moments later, and a perfunctory parting friends kiss on the cheek (at which point your heart drops a couple feet), and you’re headed home to await the night, wearily.
Soon, restless and done with the internet, DVR’d reruns of “Cheers,” “Metalocalypse” and “Family Guy” (and with nothing much good on the Sundance Channel), you call up your friends and head out to Galaxy Hut to hear the latest underground sensation, smoke Camels, and try your luck with the ladies. But you have to be careful about bumping into people, as the new tattoo on your right arm – Chairman Mao wrestling Big Bird – is still a bit sore.
Later in the evening, surrounded by like-minded individuals and some cuties, and with several Bell’s Expedition Stouts down the hatch, you watch Williamsburg, Brooklyn’s T-Cells (the indie monster group that recently signed with Matador Records) play their angular-though-poppy hybrid guitar attack, and you suddenly feel a wave of grace come over you.
Ah, Arlington. This is home, dude, this is home.