Burnout, hipster style

Hipster burnout is nothing new, even if the Toronto Star wants it to be.

Alas, I've never been much of a hipster. Maybe a music hipster. Sure, I can be guilty of that. But, when you add fashion into the equation--or taste in film or art or food--I generally flunk out quickly. I just don't care enough. Plus, the closer I get to 30, the less I care about how people perceive me. (I mean, fuck, I figure going bald is a good sign that one should stop trying to look cool.) Still, this doesn't mean that I haven't had foolish bouts of die-trying.

For example, why do I still have a blue leather jacket that looks like it came off a crotch-rocket motorcyclist from 1979? Well, I bought it cause it looked cool. Truth is, I still wear it--to M's chagrin--because it's just the right weight in the winter to keep me warm on my walk to the club, but not cause me to overheat while I'm there. And, it's got a convenient pocket on the inside for storing my earplugs. I should probably retire the coat, but I just haven't cared enough to purchase another coat that accomplishes the same goals. I'm lazy.

Also, the concept of "cool" in Champaign is not the same as the concept of "cool" in Chicago, let alone NYC. We're about three steps behind here--or at least our thrift stores are. You can't buy a Ben Sherman shirt anywhere in town. Nor can you get a new pair of Camper shoes. When it comes time to shop for jeans, I do not head to Urban Outfitters. Nay! I head to Old Navy! Or the Gap! Or, whatever they call the Express for Men. In other words, I head to the Mall!!!

It's hard to maintain your hipster cred when you're shopping alongside teenyboppers, mallwalkers, and big-breasted sorority girls. *sigh*

I do wonder if my music cred will soon fall through that hole in my pocket that exists from all the money I burn on '70s garage rock bands from Mexico. I believe I'm borderline-unhip now when it comes to tunes, even if I balance out the arcane with the new Spoon record. But fuck it, when I'm 40 years old, I want to have a collection of records that I actually want to listen to, not six albums by The Rapture and !!!. (I wonder if I'll listen to U.S. Maple when I'm 40?)

What I found humorous about that article was its conclusion:

But if you are still caught in the hipster mill and need a breather, there is a cure. It's time to get away from it all. For urban folks in the summer, it usually means using all your schmoozing powers to snag a cottage invite. It's an annual pilgrimage of sun, swimming and not much else. Maybe listening to the radio. Or finding "the bar" in a one-horse town and enjoying the AC/DC or The Eagles blasting over the jukebox.

Funny, because that's exactly what I'm doing with my summer vacation. M and I have dibs on a Carolina beach house. Could it be that in my mini-quest to no longer give a shit about being hip, I've now suddenly turned into it completely unbeknownst to me? Eh, probably not. Mere conincidence, I suppose.

After all, I'll be wearing cargo shorts, a baggy tee and flip flops on my vacation, while I unsuccessfully attempt to dodge the sun and stay clear of the water. Something tells me that might not be so hip.