Vampires, zombies, and werewolves might be creatures to dread as figments of imagination and erotic elements of the modern Zeitgeist, but their fictional danger doesn’t compare to the real threat that hipsters pose for the general public. I confirmed that fear of mine after I found out how a guy I knew would become a hipster on certain weekend nights, turning him from a perfectly healthy semi-nerdy, almost-Rent-character type into a half-human, more-than-half insufferable poser jerk.
His transformation was visible and tangible for anyone who could see, though only hipsters, according to hipsters, would be able to understand.
His jeans shrunk three sizes and a gender too tight, like the Hulk, but on the skinny side. Long sleeves rolled up and t-shirt imprints morphed from witty pop culture quips to obscure band names or cynical crap. Finally, a Target fedora materialized crowning his head, making him look somewhere between the most-metro member of the Backstreet Boys or a Michael Cera who was trying too hard. Yet, the look was meant to homage the base player or drummer, not even the frontman, of some Austin or Brooklyn-based indie band.
“I don’t think you’ve heard of them.”
The guy would despise most people by then, like all good hipsters do, so he made more of an effort to be funny during that time—what better revenge upon humanity than to make them laugh so that they can feel sadder about the world once their laughter is off? That’s the peril of the hipsters’ vibe: they don’t drink blood or eat brains—they just eschew the fun out of music and life.