hipster

Ineffably cool cat.

Not to be confused with "dickheads," the empty-headed, ovine army of imitators who inevitably throng in their wake, ruining everything.

Dad was a Marxian intellectual, mum a sculptress or feminist journalist or some such: Whereas we grew up on Nickolodean, he was weaned on radical politics, Andy Warhol and banter about cult literature.

Moderately attractive, probably mixed race, careful not to be *too* beautiful. Has a timeless, sexless aura hanging about him. Seems narcissistic and aloof, yet kind at heart. Survives exclusively on coffee and cigarettes.

Insinuates a complete understanding of wittgenstein and foucault, but prefers to talk about aleister crowley and B-movies. Bored by most things.

Changes conception of self like we change our socks. A scathing, arrogant music fascist yet possessed of no musical talent. Is fine with that apparent contradiction.

Nothing frustrates them more than the idiot masses aping their every move. To sully their aesthetic divinity with non-ironic imitation is the worst thing you could do to him.

And now that half the world is wearing a battered 80s jumper and a headband and is reading heidegger in a café, the true hipsters have long split, and are doing something else. Something mind-blowingly original, utterly profound and eminently ironic, of course.

Hipster 1: What's cool? Um, it's a bit like Zen, or like, maybe defines the peripheries of any given phenomenology. So it's basically better not to think or talk about it at all.

Hipster 2: What's cool? Well what's not cool? It's just a word isn't it? You know, like "sparrow" or "fuckfist" or "hello".

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