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.

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