The Contrivable Purpose

I had to post here my sister's most recent blog entry. My sister has a pretty observational sense of humour and I just found this entry so funny that I had to post this. Also, I had to post my response too (you know, plug plug plug .. ):

The Contrivable Purpose

I live in Hipsterville.

You know, it’s halfway between Insecureville and Smugville.

Oh? You haven’t heard of Hipsterville? Please, it would be my pleasure to give you a tour!

Over to our left we have a rather thin 5’10, 25 year old male with a faux mullet wearing white high tops and tapered jeans. Notice how those jeans are oh so effortlessly tucked in behind the tongue of those snazzy high tops. I’d bet he’s in a band. What do you say we try to track him down on myspace when we get home?

Now look over there! Isn’t that maaaaaarvelous. I know it’s not 1950, but just look at how that young lady on the bicycle with the basket –yes her- is dressed just as if she’s going to a 1950s picnic! How charming!

And to our right – uh-huh, just over there on the sidewalk, we have a young lady with flowing blonde hair wearing a Slayer t-shirt. Slayer! Now they knew how to rock. My! I do believe that is a faux jog she is attempting. Take note of the knee socks. Fabulous! I bet she is dating a guy in a band! Wink wink.

They are…
Clearly trying…
Way…
WAY…
Too hard.

My neighbourhood used to have True Grit. Now it has Faux Grit.

As I sit writing, staring out my front window, I have a shotgun view of The Death of a Neighbourhood.

I used to live around the corner from a large mental health facility - complete with a massive rooming house across the street. There were blocks of bars made for alcoholics who had only a few bucks to spend on their habit. Three dollar beers, and an all-day breakfast for $2.50 at the Friendly Sports Café. It was a neighborhood full of little old Portuguese people shuffling around to the local fish markets, and retiring to their homes. Homes painted white, with little wrought iron fences and fountains in the front yards.

With little knowledge of Toronto, I was lured to this neighborhood 5 years ago by a ridiculously cheap apartment and a lovely old Portuguese landlord. My first night walking home, I remember thinking….geez, where the hell did I move to?

One night, biking over a bump, the light flew off my bike. A friendly hooker helped me track it down. And I came to expect the blinds on the last window on the main floor of the rooming house to always be open – the blue light of the flickering TV washing over the sidewalk. I came to rely on “Bob” to be sitting, in his jogging pants, staring out that bedroom window. “Hello Bob,” I’d say mentally as I passed by.

Now I live in Hipsterville.

The mental hospital is still there. But it’s changed to a largely out-patient facility – though ironically, the massive rooming house across the street is abandoned and for sale. The alcoholic-friendly bars are being turned into coffee houses, organic grocery shops, ‘alternative’ movie rental stores and boutiques. Old Portuguese folks are selling off their homes for small fortunes and moving to gawd knows where.

Hipsterville is small, but it’s a rapidly growing ville.

Hipsters crowd my next door café. All day. Every day. Don’t hipsters have to work to buy all that 80s clothing and pay for all those concert tickets? My favourite local drinking hole, The Communist’s Daughter, is a write-off. I know it’s packed every night before 7pm. The Vatikan, a dumpy, gritty goth/industrial hangout, closed its doors for good in July.

So why is this phenom so troublesome to me? Because it’s a scene full of people seething with the desire To Belong. A profound craving to Fit In, a habit who’s fix has a very obvious outward fashion/lingo manifestation. Because it’s contrived. Insincere.

I can’t wait until the obnoxious 80-unit loft development next door to me is complete.

And yes, I know, I’m some sort of Nouveau-Hipster…by very virtue of being repulsed by the Hipsters, I am a new breed of Hipster. A judgmental Dipster.

Jay sez

I often get that feeling too when I am out and about or even at work. I mean, I see what the kiddies are a wearin’ these days to be all fashionable and or whatever the trend du jour dictates.

However though I do feel that at times that some people try too hard to be fashionable and in the end just end up looking like the next guy/gal who walked by. It’s almost as if they are cloned at the “fashion hatchery” or they have the same stylist (Much Music/MTV influenced by those hip hop/emo bands they so love). I will say too it’s good for a laugh esp the hip hop kiddlins’ and their all urban slang … ya feel me dawg? ya feel me sista?

Right … word … peace home girl .. whatever.

Now having said that I am all for individuality …. but to a point until you look like the aforementioned clones.

Hmmm .. a gal in a Slayer T shirt? To quote Paris “I So DUI’d” Hilton … “that’s hot”