I Surrender

If there was any question I’m an aging hipster, it should probably be settled now that I have a single-speed cafe bike from Valencia Cyclery, live in a room above the Zeitgeist, spent last night perusing the jukebox at the Phone Booth with someone I met on OkCupid and spent this morning riding around the Mission with stops at La Torta Gorda and an indie rock, crafts and food fair on Treat. I’m living the cliché dream, bitches!

Shit, I even have the now apparently fashionable paunch, though I was way ahead of the curve on that one. In fact, apparently my transformation may yet be complete as I was told in no uncertain terms by the Fahsionist herself Mai Le at yesterdays “street food” benefit for La Cocina that the fats don’t rate for her streetwear blog (granted, it’s apparently for their own protection from commenters). [Update: Mai sticks up for folks across the BMI spectrum!] Give me another twenty pounds shed while biking around the Mish and eating out of the mini-fridge in my SRO room, plenty of appetite-suppressing Four Barrell coffee and some shopping on my trip to New York next week and I will qualify yet!

All that said, I’m not really sure I care. In the counterintuitive conformity of “creative individualism,” only the other can be called a hipster. It’s rare the person who simply owns it, and can build any sort of collective identity around the themes and tropes, and through that build not conformity but community. So while I’m not sure I’m willing, or qualified, to say it loud and say it proud, I do seem to be a hipster on balance (read: art school kid yes, skinny jeans, no). Have been for about a decade.

And honestly, there’s not really anything wrong with that. So why fight it?