I love going to an institution that I mostly don’t like. I’ll back up and say I feel old. And I wonder if aging, real aging–not ego hickups of specific thresholds, being hitched or conceiving by a certain date, which from my perspective are more adolescent self-esteem ripples–begins when a trend starts, and like some cool undertoe that catches you unawares, and you don’t fully get when it’s ashore.
It’s taken me years to see the hipster for what it–he, she, whatever–is: a retrograde with an avant-gardist’s mindset. A guilt-free, hypocritical embodiment, spanning two worlds to better ruin this one. I could have just as easily called this post “Hip Hipster” or “Religious Religion” because from what I can imbibe, hipsterism in its current form (or perhaps degeneration and decline) is all about redundancy, in both senses. A needless repetition, and an elimination or sublimation of what it deems as unnecessary, from a vantage of extreme exceptionalism.
Obamaism, to which I unabashedly ascribe yet do not cling to uncritically, could be said either to be a logical extension of it, or the seed into which this perverse outgrowth germinated. I go to said place, which I will not even name or tag for fear of exclusion, itself a special embodiment of hipsterism. The leader is beyond reproach, however the structure is an odd time morph/warp, where nothing short of a description of old school characterizes the way it plays out collectively, amidst nothing short of a “hip”, “edgy” rendering with sounds and rhythms that for the place and purpose are utterly anachronistic.
I’ve joked to some of the community members that I come for the band always, and with the floor show it’s hit or miss depending on the time of the month–a sexist swipe at the leader, utterly uncalled for, and yet something I mischievously delight in. Divorced and set apart from the hyper “we’re-taking-this-so-seriously-we’re-positively-reinventing-it” ambiance, the leader is a true visionary and iconoclast–overused labels but spot on in their case. In context of the flock though, they can seem shrill if not grating and self-serving.
I wonder if all institutions are like this? If the Kool Aid doesn’t take, are you forever left halfway in and out of the gates, jostled and trampled by those rushing in or fleeing? Forever bifurcated in one’s predilections? And given my extreme precaution about this institution, does all this make me a closet hipster?! Am I not simply a nebbishy masochist or am I really the thing I so much enjoy loathing?