Archive for the ‘Hipsters’ Category

The Bust Magazine sponsored winter-time craft spectacular, Craftacular, is always a good time. Some big space filled to the brim with feather-haired, swoopy-banged, floppy ankle-booted, line drawing of animal-loving girls and their crafts! And DJs and drinks.

And, this year, Amy Sedaris signing copies of her last year hit “I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence.”



A nice antidote to Union Square’s repetition, and your church fair’s crappiness, the Bust Craftacular is the best place to pick up:

  • Hand screened ties for the to-cool-for-corporate office worker man in your life
  • Tender note cards with pictures of pirates on them for your long distance friend partner
  • Baby onesies with rakishly ironic slogans on them, or befuddlingly ironic-or-not tye-dye and batik designs for… well, you know, babies
  • And much much more.

So, I’ll see you, and your friend’s girlfriend who hand-stuffs her own monster dolls, there!

When? Saturday, Dec. 8th, 10AM-8PM

Where? Metropolitan Pavilion, 125 W. 18th St. (between 7th & 8th Ave.), South Slope, Brooklyn

What? Bust Craftacular

Why? Because you will spend your holiday money on crap, so it might as well go to young, cute, independent artists’ crap

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As October continues to be eerily hot, here are some more movies to watch with the air conditioning on:

Murder Party

Murder Party: There is a scene towards the end of this film where a Greenpoint hipster, dressed as one of the Baseball Furies from The Warriors,

is hunting someone down while walking through a Brooklyn art show. He is ignored by most of the party despite being covered in blood and screaming. Finally he walks into a room where there are several people posing for a “still life” exhibition. “Fuck this scene,” he says quietly, “everyone dies.” He then beats them all to death with his baseball bat before his head is split in half with a chainsaw.

This is an especially gruesome scene in Murder Party, a new Brooklyn-based horror movie that was a favorite at Slamdance and is now available on Netflix. The rest of the film is actually quite funny, and tells the story of a clueless guy who is invited to a “murder party,” not realizing that he will be the centerpiece in a twisted art show concocted by a group of clueless, apathetic hipsters. I strongly recommend this to not only horror fans, but all Brooklynites as well. If you like your horror with a little comedy, like Shaun of the Dead or Sliver, you’d probably enjoy this too.

Wait Until Dark: Audrey Hepburn stars as a blind woman who unknowingly has people snooping around her apartment, looking for a toy doll that is filled with heroin. This film is very similar to Hitchcock, and is based on a play by Frederick Knott (who, not surprisingly, also wrote Dial M For Murder). Audrey Hepburn is incredible, as is a young and terrifying Alan Arkin, who plays the brutish Harry Roat. While it’s not exactly action packed, the finale is great and completely unexpected. Strongly recommended for Hitchcock fans, as well as fans of psychological horror films like Copycat or claustrophic films like Bug.

Wait Until Dark

Stir of Echoes: This movie came out at almost the exact same time as The Sixth Sense and was completely overshadowed by M. Night’s twist ending and Haley Joel Osmentness. Kevin Bacon stars as Tom Witzky, a Chicago utilities lineman who starts seeing fucked up things after being hypnotized at a party. His son can see things too (yet another similarity to the above) and the two of them have to work together to solve a savage neighborhood crime. This one was less gimmicky than M. Night’s, and personally, I’ll take Bacon over Bruce any day. Also, the Bacon Brothers are not featured on the soundtrack. Considering the way that Kevin Bacon’s character pulls a Jack Torrance, I’d recommend this to fans of the Shining.

Stir of Echoes

May: I couldn’t figure out whether I wanted to put May or Ginger Snaps on here. Both feature a female lead, and are new takes on horror legends. I decided to put May because I think the director, Lucky McKee, has a cooler name. May is the story of a young woman with no friends. She works at an animal hospital where she assists in surgeries and learns the fundamentals of working with needles and sewing people up. She is socially awkward, but meets a guy (Jeremy Sisto) who she begins to date because she finds his hands so attractive. She weirds him out and he starts to leave, until she comes up with the idea that she can make her own friend using spare parts. It’s creepy fun, but also a little disturbing. Check it out if you’ve always thought that Tim Burton could stand to be a little sicker and a little less sentimental.


And that’s all for now. More next week!

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Apparently, just the 100 or so artists living in a loft in Bushwick at 345 Eldert Street.

That’s right. In order to protest the economic system that allows them to live in the most expensive city in the country and be artists, the residents of this big-ass loft building are trying to “secede.” Or to be more accurate, they want to throw a party and invite different people (other than the current management company) to buy the building, so they can continue to live in their space and pay below market rate in a non-rent controlled building. Is it just me, or is this the dream of like 80% of renters in New York?

As a borderline Marxist, I totally feel the revolutionary spirit. As a poor gentrifier, I totally feel them on wanting to continue paying less rent. As an artist with a day job, I totally feel them on wanting to do art instead of work. As a hater of management companies, I totally feel them on wanting to annoy the people who sent them threatening “rent is due” notices. So why am I so pissy about this?

Because only a bunch of Williamsburg-lite hipsters would try to call whining a revolution. They should just go ahead and do it. If the Queens border was redrawn one block south, they’d be out of Brooklyn anyway.

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Last night at around 8:15pm, I, along with a few other Brooklyn Skeptics, decided that it was time for our weekly Sunday evening booze binge. We’re drunks. Except that in fact, I did not drink anything so I suppose I’m not a drunk. Only the days I choose to drink vodka out of my 32oz polycarbonate water bottle, do I consider myself a quasi alcoholic.

Just kidding. I can get *Liza Minelli’d from simply sniffing an open bottle of liquor. Unlike many of my fellow Brooklyn Skeptics, my alcohol tolerance does not equate to an entire keg of Keystone Light. But it’s good. It means I’m a cheap date.

Anyway, after a brief pow-wow we, the Team, decided to make our way over to Bar Reis. It’s nice at Bar Reis. A pretty tight upper level (by tight I don’t mean “off the hook,” but rather, “claustrophobic”), however the basement provides ample space (for a less than huge crowd), a pool table, jukebox, board games, couches, and an outdoor garden. Very pleasant.

Bar Reis is interesting though. There is no set standard as for the type of patronage Reises Pieces brings in. A pretty eclectic mix of people, I’d say. Here, I’ll explain: In one corner was the single guy hoarding two sets of couches as he watched a basketball game on tv, I hated him. In another corner were some hipsters celebrating a birthday, or something (whatever). In the third corner was me, and some other (Brooklyn Skeptic) people. And in the last open space, taking up both the pool table and jukebox were a group of European ladies. These ladies, these ladies were loud. And weird. While dodging their pool ques, and discotheque ready outfits (they hurt my eyes), we concluded that suddenly, we were swimming in a sea of about 10 au pairs. We surmised they were all employed through the same agency and decided to go wild on this Sunday evening, their day off. Also discussed were the prerequisites for attaining an au pair position:

1. Willingness to sleep with Hedge fund investor father.

We realized that’s probably the only prereq. But it’s a good one.

Shortly after the European invasion, we gathered our belongings and made our way over to the outdoor patio. It was nice from that point on.

In the end, I enjoy Bar Reis. Sure some of its customers aren’t familiar with American customs and blast The Pussycat Dolls from the jukebox, but I’d take loud European women over loud American hipsters any day.

*Liza Minelli’d: A term used to illustrate an incredibly drunk, well sung woman.

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As the New York Times, which I read obsessively and love more than my own family, tries its darndest to recapture its waning readership, it has filled more and more of its pages (both online and off) with youth-friendly features like blogs and articles about fancy underwear. And boy does it work. Thursday is now my favorite day of the week. In second place is Sunday, where I can generally count on a healthy dose of Michael Pollan waxing masturbatory on local produce while tsk-tsking our love of corn syrup. God, it’s hot.

However, I like my fluff pieces to feature the same writing standards as the real articles. I have no objection to illogical structure or straight-up bullshit. It’s really just the Times’ appropriation of slang in its perverse dissection of youth culture that makes me want to die a little every time I happen across it. It’s as though every time there’s an article about hipsters, it’s as though the newspaper is saying that the group is not just a subjective social distinction among well-off young people, but it’s an actual cultural group. Like, with legal rights or something. That’s not okay.

Additionally, I take issue in these articles with the use of language commonly found on a 12-year-old’s Livejournal. Snarky, for instance. Or any time “u” replaces “you.” Same goes for “2” with “too” or “to.” Even if you’re just trying to make a point about how we crazy kids love our text messaging.

And while I’m at it, I’m going to also declare a moratorium on anymore discussions on how the world is deeply affected by social networking and Blackberries. Let’s stick with dead Russians and pissy Republicans.

New readers can’t be more important than dignity, right?

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Here at Brooklyn Skeptic, we have a place in our heart for hipsters. It’s a cold, hate-filled place, but a place nonetheless. And the reason we have that hate can best be described by a Jewel song, “Pieces of You.” You get my drift.

Today, Cary Tennis over at Salon.com takes on the heart-wrenching tale of someone who longed to be a hipster, but was so woefully uncool, she actually sought the assistance of an advice columnist who is too deep in his own existential crisis to actually help anyone out. An excerpt regarding her plight:

“I am obsessed with hipsterdom… [but] I am so dissatisfied with my unhip life. Leaving Williamsburg and breaking up with the ex seem to have severed every connection to ‘cool’ I ever had. I wish I had never known what hip was, so I wouldn’t have to miss it. I am also disgusted by the creeping feeling of superiority it gives me over my acquaintances.”

Dissatisfied? Superiority? Oh honey, good news! You already are what you most wanted to be. Please see the following evidence, culled directly from her own plea for help:

Outcast in high school: “When I was younger, back in high school, I hung out with the punks and indie rockers, but I myself wore Nikes (instead of Converse) and ran cross-country (instead of skateboarded).”

Lived in Williamsburg before it was cool: “After college the indie-rocker and I moved to Williamsburg, Brooklyn (before it exploded of course), and I learned to appreciate grit and dives and PBRs and irony.”

Unemployed: “I had no creative, impressive job to justify my presence [in Williamsburg].”

Lived in obscure Brooklyn neighborhood: “Eventually the indie rocker and I broke up and I moved to a less hip part of Brooklyn, a part where people do their own laundry and where the sidewalk is not a fashion parade.”

Judgmental: “I judge them for listening to Coldplay. I judge my kindhearted friends for not having dark-rimmed glasses and Vans. I judge my neighborhood for not having galleries, or the right ZIP code.”

Acts like me when I was 12: “I should be happy, but instead I achingly obsess over Pitchfork reviews and Vice Do’s and Don’ts. At work I sit in front of my computer and listen to people talk about Nine West heels and 401Ks and I just want to drink whiskey till I die. I want to read Kerouac and smoke cigarettes until my lungs are black and filthy.”

I would tell Tragically Unhip to rest assured, she is most certainly a hipster. It’s okay, baby. Your lanky gait only serves you well on this team.

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I’ve recently adopted a Tuesday evening tradition. Well, it’s only been two times now, so maybe it’s more of a Tuesday evening coincidence. It’s something in the spirit of Mardi Gras – revolting hedonism on a Tuesday. This event, which I like to call “Shotdogs,” has everything but the girls gone wild.

The evening starts out at Welcome to the Johnsons, a perfectly divey bar in the Lower East Side in Manhattan (yuck, I know). I’ve been going to this bar for several years now and was something of a regular when I lived in that hood. I was there for the summer when fruit flies had infested the limes and so there was always a fine film of bugs and bug-parts on every drink you ordered. That was when I developed an irrational fear of bar fruit. I’ve witnessed the replacement of the toilet that was once so covered in band stickers, you could hardly tell what you were supposed to do with it. The new one is collecting its own piss stained collection. I’ve been there for brawls between guys who look like they fell out of a Ramones show thirty years ago – replete with blood trickling from their self-pierced safety pin earring holes. Anyway, as pleasant as all that sounds, there is one reason above all that I have been a Welcome to the Johnsons fan for so long: $2 drinks during happy hour (from when you wake up till 9 PM). You must not tell anyone about this. It’s a secret.

At Welcome to the Johnsons, the drinking begins. First, $2 whiskey and gingers. Then the shots. Last night we did a Red Headed Slut, followed by the bartender’s own concoction, Dr. Nut. Then we continue on with the regular drinks. All the while, the conversation gracefully flits from one topic to the other, weaving in nearby patrons and their opinions of The Flaming Lips, March Madness, olive juice, etc.

cupcackeeIn order for the Shotdog participants to remain reasonable, we all have to eat dinner. Dinner is hotdogs from Dash. In my case, vegetarian chili dogs. In other cases, processed meat monstrosities, choked with bacon, Fritos and other wonderful things. But that’s not all. Then come the chips and salsa from Festival Mexican Restaurant (outside of which, some guy drunkenly peed behind a Pathfinder while everyone in the bar watched with horror and glee) and then cupcakes (including one for the bartender) from Sugar Sweet Sunshine. Please keep in mind, I skipped the gym to partake in this madness.

By 9:00, we are all sufficiently bloated and return home to watch American Idol while we mainline salad and try to rehydrate.

Now, I don’t know if this particular evening’s activities can be approximated in our borough. I have a feeling that it is possible, but only in Williamsburg, where girls in leggings and guys in hoodies are a dime a dozen. The real issue here is that while the people at Johnsons and the people in Williamsburg are all disgusting hipsters, the ones at Johnsons are much skeezier. In my mind, this goes a long way. So, until an absurdly underpriced dive bar and an absurdly overpriced hot dog vendor move into my current hood, I think I’ll just keep hitting up the L.E.S for my shotdog fix.

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In a move that is totally 2007, the Barack Obama campaign team has set up a social networking site called My.BarackObama.com. You can think of it as Facebook‘s really, really timid cousin. You know, with fewer pictures of underage drunk girls and racist parties.

I, for one, am really happy about the development of this site. It’s another demonstration of Obama’s forward-thinking ways. Not only is he creating a community for his young supporters where they have a safe space to dialogue about their dreams for America, he’s making it just a little easier for me to find a husband.

Now, I like universal health care, peace and unions as much as the next guy. I’ll stand beside Obama as he takes on the Halliburtons and the Rangers and all the other ultra-right-wing organizations. But at the end of the day, I’m looking for one thing from my President and that’s easy access to potential suitors or at least drunken, liberal hook-ups.

I can just picture it now: I log into My.BarackObama.com and see I have a new message from HackeySacks1980. “Hey cutie… U R so liberal. U wanna chill 2nite??!”

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Let me tell you a little story about douchebags per square foot, RK.

One time at Union Hall, a Brooklyn Skeptic contributor was minding her own business, playin’ a little bocce, sippin’ a little vodka tonic. Some thirty-five-year-old man came up to her in his $700 artfully ripped jeans and cashmere sweater and asked if he could play against her. Being the incredibly kind, sweet, gregarious girl that this Brooklyn Skeptic contributor was, of course she agreed.

This man, however, had been watching the young lady play for a while, surmised that she was an excellent bocce player, and had decided that that meant that she was worth neither dignity nor human kindness. When the Brooklyn Skeptic contributor went up for her turn, she carefully lined up her shot, wound up and…

“Booogedy boogedy!” screamed the 35-year-old as he jumped on the court beside her. This obviously scared the fuck out of her and her shot rolled astray.

“Why did you do that?” asked the emotionally traumatized young lady.

“What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little pressure?”

The young lady, understanding that the man could have been intellectually impaired, drunk, or perhaps the spawn of Satan, decided to just let it go. He was clearly terrified by her awesome bocce skills. So the rest of that round goes by and the evil, old man doesn’t pull any more garbage.

When the next round begins, the young lady lines up her first shot again and sees the man ready himself to jump on the court again. She looks over to him.

“Stop being a dick, man. You’re no fun to play with at all.”

He whines for a little while and she vows to always bring pepper spray with her to Union Hall for the rest of time.

Now the moral of this story is: never put that many over-indulged thirty-somethings who fear middle age like the fucking bird flu in the same room with a bunch of liquor and kitschy furnishings.

I’ll stick to Floyd, thank you very much.

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I am going to have to disagree with your douchebags/sq. ft estimations. While douchebags run wild in both bars on a typical Saturday night, I don’t recall ever running into one on the bocce court at Union Hall. I did however want to punch a girl in the face at Floyd. Now, I’m not saying more hate-worthy females can be found at Floyd, I’ve just never encountered one at Union Hall.

I also think your average patron age is off, for both bars. And even if you’re right, and the mean age for Floyd is 25, most of the people there look/act/dress like oldish 30-somethings. While Union Hall brings in the opposite; older clientele trying to recapture or maintain their youth by dressing like a young hipster. And yes, hipsters are annoying and always think they’re funnier than they actually are. However, they at least make me feel like the young 23-year old I am.

I mostly agree with everything else you said, but in the end, I choose Union Hall. In spite of the fact that Eugene Mirman like, lives there.

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