diehipster’s missed connections

Dear Holden and Holly. I saw you studying the bronze sculptures at the 14th st A, C, E, L station yesterday evening and I knew you were getting to know either Chelsea – your new parentally sponsored ‘nabe’ – or the final stop on the amazing and quirky L train which comes from your other possible new stomping grounds; Williamsburg / Bushwick. Your matching all-season itchy and hot ‘look at me’ wool hats tipped me off to your recent arrival to NYC. The massive Nikon 4SXQe977.114 cameras around your chokeable necks also tipped me off. That death-stare I gave you was for real. I hope you enjoy the pussification and feminization of NYC that you are helping progress. Well after all, it’s all about progressive art, music and urban living that you homogenized mother fucking transplants root for all fucking day.  I know we’ll meet again. My chances will probably increase if I wait in front of the entrance to the Brooklyn Flea where you will soon discover to be a place to buy bacon flavored guitar picks and eat cage-free pickles. I hope to run into you again soon. If you happen to read this while surfing the web during business hours in a smug, $9.00 a cup North Brooklyn cafe run by bearded, lice hosting Spin Doctor looking mother fuckers - be sure to e-mail me so we can catch up on your progressive and zany Brooklyn staycation.

diehipster’s missed connections

To the handful of hipsters that ruined a beautiful sunny winter day that was last Sunday in Coney Island just by being in my presence.

First, to the 6 or 7 fucking blogtographers who all look like they hatched from the same cocoon. With your disintegrating Converse sneakers, on purpose bed-head hair styles, and parentally funded Nikon XR2849Z4-LP190372.01 cameras. Do you really need to come down here and snap pictures of rusty fences and signage to post on the hundreds of pseudo-Brooklyn blogs that are run by people born and raised in Milwaukee? Doesn’t it get old you fucking wannabe media types?

Next. To the licorice-legged, gender-puzzled hipster couple with matching frisbee sized sunglasses. Yes! You did it! You’ve managed to stroll down a gritty Brooklyn street while looking like heroin addicts when we all know that only 18 months ago you were swinging in your hammock back in Pleasantville while Mommy was whipping up a fresh batch of Rice Krispy treats for you. Get the fuck out of here before I toss you in the deep fryer in Nathans.

A diehipster Missed Connection

Dear moldy Chuck Taylor sneaker girl who wears that “Look at me” hat and those moldy, ripped, filthy, disgusting, smelly Converse sneakers while managing to live in either Manhattan or a triple inflated rent apartment in pseudo-hip Brooklyn. How do you do it? What is your secret to being so rich yet so poor? I’d like to buy you a new pair of Chucks so we can rub McCarren Park dirt on them while cutting perfectly placed ironic holes in them so people will think we are unsuspecting musical or artistic geniuses just waiting to be discovered as we rot in the NYC subway system. Hit me up at diehipsters@gmail.com

diehipster’s missed connections

To Wednesday and Pugsley Addams (but in this case the girl looked like Pugsley and the guy looked like Wednesday) on an afternoon A train the other day. You got off at 14th St most likely switching to the good old L. Your nasally, drawn-out, vapid conversation sounded so rehearsed that I almost stood up and kicked you both in the teeth. Pugsley, when you told Wednesday that you just moved to Bushwick but you’re originally from the LES (unless you meant Lower East South Dakota) you pretty much comfirmed why I hate your fucking wanna-be, lying, dirty poseur asses so much and knew you were just another 1-5 year vacationing hipster piece of shit. I wanted to ask you but I was too shy I guess… but, why do you dip your heads in vegetable oil before you leave the house? Maybe I’ll see you again soon? You’ll probably never read this because you seem like you’re always busy being cool and urban.

diehipster’s missed connections

To Shaggy and Daphne who took the fucking F Train past the Ft. Hamilton stop this evening and got off at some point when I wasn’t looking. Shaggy, you were wearing grey cut off jean shorts, had your just woke up hair-do during PM rush hour and were reading an obscure book. Daphne, you were exhausted from a day of doing nothing and were resting your greasy head on Shaggy’s lap. If I ever see you go that deep into south Brooklyn again you’re fuckin’ dead.