Thursday, April 29, 2010
Oh, Billyburg (Or, Smoking)
This morning, I had the completely unfortunate thrill of riding the subway deep into the sweltering, useless ass of Bushwick, Brooklyn (Fuck you very much, FedEx Ground). On the interminable ride back, I was made painfully aware of just how middle-aged I am as the L Train (a.k.a. Fauxhemian Express) plummeted its way through various levels of hipster hell.
See, I'm not impressed by unkempt middle-class girls on the lam reading poetry books and listening to MGMT on their iPods loud enough for the entire car to hear fronting looks that hopelessly read "trying-hard-to-be-depressed-1980s-teen" and not "yeah-I'm-a-cool-girl".
Sorry Becky - you've got about 10 minutes left on this ride before daddy cuts off the cash and it's time for law school.
Anyway, this exchange made my trip:
HIPSTER CHICK: What the fuck is her job, anyway?
FAUXHEMIAN DUDE: She's, like, a model.
HIPSTER CHICK: Yeah...she's, like, really skinny.
FAUXHEMIAN DUDE: Bony.
HIPSTER CHICK: And what the fuck does her boyfriend do?
FAUXHEMIAN DUDE: From what I can tell, all he does is, like, smoke cigarettes outside of bars.
HIPSTER CHICK: Cool.