Stahl: Calling all hipsters! I need a date!

By Samantha Stahl

Open casting call to all hipsters: I’m looking for a date.

I’ve been in this peskily nostalgic mood lately, and I’m thinking that getting back in touch with my childhood will snap me out of the trance, and what better way to revisit my youth than with the recent release of “Where the Wild Things Are?”

Unfortunately, all my friends are either too busy to go to the movies (since when does being a senior imply responsibility and work ethic?), have no interest in seeing “WTWTA” or are waiting until the long queue of hipsters has gone down — and their fellow moviegoers have showered recently. Yes hipsters, it might be time to disprove that unfortunate stereotype.

My friends fail me when it comes to indulging in this film fantasy, as none of them are pretentious hipsters. I’ve burdened myself with genuinely friendly, non-conceited and well-adjusted comrades. No one will go see “Wild Things” with me tonight, which is why I’m desperately seeking a hipster guy to take me to the movies.

Let’s take a second to define this whole hipster paradigm. Because of the negative connotation, it pains me that the word has become synonymous for anyone with a creative fashion sense.

For the record, just because you have good taste in clothing, movies or music, that doesn’t make you a hipster. It’s what you do with this previously aforementioned good taste that classifies you as such. Hipsters use their pop-culture knowledge for evil rather than good, sniping at anyone not as knowledgeable as them.

Before all you Pitchfork-loving kids start scribbling angry hate mail, let me say this: I feel for you. I like being ahead of the curve as much as the next asymmetrically hair-styled kid. And I genuinely appreciate your style. I’m the first to champion unique fashion statements. I actually harbor a secret desire for the ability to pull off tortoiseshell reading glasses more than just about anything — I just don’t have the right face shape.

I’ve been trying to find a fluorescent pair of Nike Dunks for months now, but every time I try them on, they simply look ridiculous. I envy you. Don’t go and get your keffiyah in a twist.

I would even go so far as to say I have a mild hipster-esque impetus. There was this one time in first grade when the whole class gathered on the carpet to listen to Miss Adams read us some book about the rainforest. I was devastatingly bored, though, because my mother had already bought me this book. I had already consumed it cover to cover, already laughed at the punch lines and already looked at all the brightly colored pictures of toucans. When the rest of the class would laugh at the boa constrictor protagonist, I rolled my eyes and thought, “For God’s sake, couldn’t we read something a little more cutting edge? What are my parents’ tax dollars going toward, anyways?”

You see? We’d probably get along fine. I’m just saying, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to me. Indulge me when, say, I haven’t heard of the latest group of whining white Jewish 20-somethings marketing themselves as the world’s next electro sensation. Wipe that “Oh-my-God-you-haven’t-heard-them” scowl off your face and get over yourself. Didn’t your mother ever tell you your face could freeze if you hold it like that for too long?

So if any hipster boy out there is reading this and needs someone to accompany him to the movies this weekend, look no further. I’m your girl. You’re going to have to leave the fedora at home, though, because it’s obstructive to other theater patrons. Your septum ring and thick-rimmed spectacles? Those are just fine. The tighter your jeans, the better — I’m not big on surprises, anyways. And if you aren’t wearing some neon-colored V-neck or hoodie, you might as well forget about our date. Turn around and high tail it right back to American Apparel.

Apply to be Sam’s date at [email protected].