It's a Tuesday night in late July. New York City's bones feel hollow. Even the Internet is running dry. You tried Williamsburg, but the women all seem to be away, off somewhere you can't see, in bikinis. So what's a thirtysomething East Village man—one with an extremely specific urge involving star tattoos and chunky glasses and a playfully defiant glimpse of a tauntingly bare "female hipster" ass—supposed to do?
Now that the Crackstarter has closed, you're probably scouring the internet for another worthy cause to crowd-fund. We've found one for you! Zosia Mamet and her sister Clara Mamet, both children of David Mamet, have started a hipster folk band and no one is giving them a penny to make their music video.
In the killing of hipsters for sport, realtors are the ruthless bounty hunters, quietly sniffing out dive bars and thrift stores and gay enclaves before moving in for the kill. Once the realtors smell blood, it's only a matter of time before the endangered hipster is priced out of his or her own habitat. (For reference, read: most of lower Manhattan, Park Slope, Williamsburg.) So where, then, are the homeless bohos to go? Somewhere unchartered, undiscovered, untouched by the hands of trendiness — the Upper East Side, of course. Just ask pioneering 27-year-old Will Hooks, who recently defected from Williamsburg and is a fan of uptown life:
Yeah, we know your type: beat-up cowboy boots, pink tights, vintage Balenciaga military coat shredded to look like you found it in a dumpster. You think just because you blew some rails off a Boyracer test pressing, you're hip? Think again. Unless you're reading Gothamist, NYHappenings, or Manicmess, you're just another poseur:
Gawker exclusive: Hilary Duff has defiled the ironically disastrous alcoves normally reserved for downtown New York's finest assymetrical haircuts! In what can only be described as a painful fit of post-punk partying, Miss Liquid Ice spent Friday night asserting her hipster cred and spacing out to Joy Division at East Village inferno Lit. This only prepared her for Saturday night, where she graced the weekly Misshapes party with her DJ skills. (She played a lot of Smiths, we hear, and we bet she made friends with Queen Leigh Lezark. But did she use the bathrooms? That's the real question.) So, um, what the fuck? How could bubbly clean Duff invade these smoke-filled, drug-oozing dens of indie sin? And, more importantly, what will Disney think?
Earlier today we looked at Maureen Callahan's Post article about important, influential downtown hipsters who get lots of free shit while they spread their nebulous 'influence' hither and yon. (For those who couldn't get enough, we'd also direct you to Robert Lanham's Free Williamsburg piece on basically the same subject from December 2003.)
When Michael T., one of the madmen behind the notoriously insane Motherfucker parties, has a birthday party, you know it's worth checking out. Photographer Nikola Tamindzic documents the sweaty action at last night's party, populated by the infectious likes of Carlos D from Interpol and every downtown kid this side of Misshapes.