If DC was a magical forest, and it isn’t unless you’re on a healthy dose of shrooms, then full fledged urban hipsters would be its unicorn. It’s chain-smoking ghetto-residing Grizzly-Bear-is-the-only-pop-music-I-listen-too Unicorn.
I have no desire to be a hipster; I just don’t have the energy to disdain as many things as they do (I guess that’s why they snort all that adderall). I do however aspire to dress as well as some of them do. When I am in Philly or New York I feel the need to dress myself stylishly, but in DC I think as long as you’re not one of those sad drooling nerds wearing a NASA swipe card on a lanyard around you’re neck then you’re pretty much in the clear. Indeed, just this morning on the metro I saw a well dressed European guy with a shaved head who, surrounded by all those ill-fitting grey tweed suits and frumpy cardigans, looked like he was from the future.
Of course now when I walk around the district and I see a guy about my age wearing slim jeans, cool sneakers and a neat top, I stare at them as though they were a magical Unicorn. Sometimes they notice and get creeped out, and while it is kind of spooky to do that, I just want to go up to them and say “Dude who I will see at the Dirty Projectors concert: I am not cruising you, you just have a single grand swirling horn sticking out of your forehead and it’s hard not to stare at. What? No I can’t sell you any peyote. Stop trying to buy drugs from me: Don’t you have a think tank that seeks to make art less accessible to the general public to get to?”
I thought it was time to air this confession to the warm understanding embrace of the internet: because at least this way when I am charged with a federal crime for stalking (remember: all felonies in the District are federal!) you’ll have a better sense of why I need to borrow bail money, dude.
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