Dear Hipster

Dear Hipster,

So, you did it. You ruined my New Year’s. You’ve ruined nights out before, but I didn’t think you’d be able to do this. Well done; I hope you’re happy with yourself.

I know I can’t make you, so I’m asking you. Okay, I’m begging you. Please stop. Please just stop.

Stop with the sailor costumes. Stop with the beany on the back of the head, inside. Stop with the generic gender mixing. Stop with the horrible DJing. Stop with the extortionate rent paying.

It’s hard for me to convince you. But what you’re doing is horribly wrong, you are on the wrong side of history. Nothing you or your little friends do will ever be regarded as noble or artistic. In fact, when your grandchildren look up on their hologram microchip encyclopedias inside their brain, and ask the question “What happened to Brooklyn?” and “Who killed ‘cool’?”, there you will be, with a mustache and brogues.

Understand that you are a cultural virus, a parasite of subculture. You are doing harm. Think about how much you have taken, from the cultures before you, cultures that you have desecrated, how much you have robbed from masculinity, from affordable housing. And what have you given in return? I’m sorry, but I have not seen the art that should be bequeathed in exchange for me having to look at your is-this-really-even-ironic-anymore beard.

Please. Just stop. Stop with the costumes. They’re not cool, they’re not satirical, they’re not original. You all look the same. Do you know that?

This world is not your playground. Other people built it. And you need to contribute, not just take pics with a vintage lens.

If you used all the energy that you put into dressing and acting like d*ck, and put it into something more constructive, you really could accomplish things. Yunno?

I’m willing to help. I don’t know how we ended up in this horrible mess, but I know we can get ourselves out of it. So, whattaya say champ? Yea, can we give it a shot? Stay right there, I’ll go grab a razor.



About jrkuwanski

Born of an Inca tribe in Peru, J.R. was raised by silver-tailed wolves in the Amazon rainforest. At age 7, J.R. departed on a treacherous journey to the Nepalese Himalayas and, following a lengthy debate with the Dalai Lama about the merits predictive texting, moved to Brooklyn, New York. For the following decade the writer learned the street poetry of 'the corner', becoming a familiar face on brownstone stoops, housing project courtyards and anywhere where a good salad dressing was sold. At age 17, when riding home from a 12 hour bowling marathon with his friends Mr Def and Mr Tip, J.R. was greeted by a Sri Lankan wizard who was wearing a bright purple velour tracksuit. The ghetto preacher told him he was destined for great things, ranging from baking one hell of a pumpkin pie to Nobel Economic accolades. Another fate was to craft the world's best blog, writing on topics of social and political commentary in a style of creative non-fiction. And the wizard promised him if he tried hard enough, really tried, one day, someone, somewhere may consider publishing his work.
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