I am halfway through my second month of living in Minneapolis, making my way in the world as a minimum-wage earning employee, at the mercy of any and all powers that be. While it is a little scary (I was terrified at the prospect, before I moved here) I know now that it is very much possible to make your way in life by dropping in on a completely new place, and that you don’t necessarily have to let geography limit your actions. [Provided, of course, that you are lucky, able-bodied, hard-working, and ballsy as hell.] I am learning a lot out here. It really is surprising how much your motivation and attitude changes when you realize that YOU are the only person who is going to help you make it in life, and when the only person you really have to fall back on in case something goes wrong is yourself. None of the places (two cafes) that I work at have any high-school aged kids working there, nor do they have any seasonal workers. Everyone who works with me is either my age, or older, and all of them are trying to do things like make rent, save up for a house, or pay their way through school. I am very lucky to work with a bunch of motivated people who work like they need the money. (Which we do.) It is a way different dynamic from, say, a college work-study job, or a summer job that you don’t really care about. So why is my post title referring to baristas, you might ask??
I am a barista at both of the jobs I work at, right now. Baristas are generally an awesome bunch of hardworking folks, whose temperaments and job duties fall somewhere between those of a waitress and a bartender. We chat people up, and get to stand behind a counter like a bartender, but we also bend over backwards to be pleasant, and provide excellent customer service, like a waitress. The catch? You get shat upon by spiteful, disgruntled people with way too much of a sense of entitlement like a waitress, and you can get majorly creeped-upon like a bar-tender (this applies more to the females baristas, out there.) So, it’s sort of an odd modge-podge of working styles, and one that has only recently been established, so it is understandable that there is a lot of confusion as to how, exactly, one treats their barista.
1)Baristas make minimum wage. We are generally poor, poor, poor. (Unless we live with our parents, or something, and don’t really need the money.) Baristas
make tips, and we need them. After taxes and whatnot, I only make $375
every two weeks, from working over 70 hours. Since that alone barely covers
rent and utilities, where do I get my money for food, personal care products, and gas for my car? You guessed it – tips. Tips make up a large percentage of the take-home pay for anyone working in the service industry. Be that a pizza
delivery guy, a waitress, or a hair-stylist. Some people are better at tipping than others – but what I have noticed, is that the absolute best tippers are those
fellow, minimum-wage earning service employees. It’s like an unspoken rule. I always leave a ten-dollar tip for a hair-stylist, or a masseuse, and I generally tip 20 – 25% at a restaurant, unless the service was extremely sub-par. Now, since I don’t make much money, it’s not like I have cash to throw around – but I KNOW that tipping well really makes a big difference in people’s lives. I know that I appreciate it when someone leaves me a $2 tip for a $3 drink, so I figure I may as well ‘pay it forward,’ and help a brotha’ (or sistah’) out.
2)Coffee shop etiquette: Rule number one: GET OFF YOUR FUCKING CELL PHONE WHEN YOU’RE IN LINE! It is very disrespectful to the person attempting to serve you, and to everybody else in your general vicinity, who has to hear about your latest doctor’s appointment, or your opinion about your sister-in-law’s-cousin’s-daughter’s divorce. I (and everybody else) has had to stand for a minute or more behind a cash register, with a sweet smile plastered on our faces, waiting for whoever it is (usually a middle-aged woman) to stop blabbing into her cell phone long enough to bark “Soy Mocha!” at you – no ‘please,’ no ‘thank you,’ and generally, no tip. They usually get annoyed at you if you attempt to ask them while making their drink things like, “Would you like whipped cream on top?” So you have to play the part of super- psychic mind-reader, and hope that you can discern exactly what they want, because their conversations are (obviously) more important than you attempting to get their order right. My personal thought is this: If you enter an establishment with the intention of making a business transaction, be it buying post-it notes, or ordering a pizza, you owe it to the person involved in helping you accomplish these goals to actually be civil, pay attention to them, and treat them like a human being.
3)Your barista is not really flirting with you. When your barista flashes you a wide, sweet smile, and asks you if you would “Like room on top for cream?” they are not really trying to get into your pants. This is usually because people who work in coffee shops are (mostly) very sweet, nice, affable people, who try their utmost to give excellent customer service. While your barista may express genuine concern for you if you are having a bad day, they are not going to want to have you unload all of your negative feelings and frustrations on them while they are trying to help the other five people in line. This isn’t because we’re mean – it is because we are doing a job, and we need to serve everybody that comes in the store. In general, I think that a minute and a half is a good length for a conversation with your barista. Two minutes is the absolute limit. It is not okay to blatantly hit on your barista, or to make suggestive comments towards them. (Although it is sometimes tolerable if you tip well enough.) I have a lot of stories of super-creepers, and the raunchy, disturbing things that they have said to me (and others) that I think I will save for another blog post. Some of them are pretty funny, if you get over the initial freak-out factor. I think that a lot of this stuff happens because a coffee shop is sort of a weird, ‘in-between’ place. It has all of the comforts of home, you can relax, and stay as long as you want, and you can chat up the employees, as well as other customers. It is not really a public space, but it is not really a private space either. It is a place where you are supposed to feel comfortable, and have a sense of ownership over, but you are sharing that space with hundreds of other strangers every day. It’s sort of like, it isn’t your living room, but it isn’t McDonalds, either. The people who work there may know you well, but they are neither close, personal friends, nor are they your shrink.
And with that, I think I’m done talking about coffee shops for a while. I just want to offer a sincere “Hollah!” to all of my fellow minimum-wage earners out there. To all those who make sandwiches, deliver pizzas, and have to deal with other people’s shit (I think that’s everybody on earth) I want you to know that I love you, I’m pulling for you, and that we can totally rock this bitch-of-a-thing called ‘life,’ and go off to accomplish great things. Keep living the dream! Peace!!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Final Chapter of the Evil Plot to Yuppify Uptown
Hey Folks!
For all of those in the know, the Uptown Bar is an awesome place, where one can see some killer live shows, get down with their bad selves, and get their hung-over ass a ginormous omelet the next morning. Well, the Uptown Bar is no longer to be. It is scheduled to be demolished. I don't know when, exactly, but soon. It was the last bastion of legitimacy on a street that already has a bunch of over-priced restaurants, an American Apparel store, a Victoria's Secret, and a Northface store. The longtime owner of the bar (it was a family run place, like all the best ones are) is retiring, and wanted to sell the place so he could get on with his life. The property went to the highest bidder, which in this case, was an Apple store. "Because yuppies need to get their computers fixed, I guess." Was the reasoning, overheard from an outraged fan of the famous music venue. So yeah - sad days. Sad days indeed. Stupid Uptown.
For all of those in the know, the Uptown Bar is an awesome place, where one can see some killer live shows, get down with their bad selves, and get their hung-over ass a ginormous omelet the next morning. Well, the Uptown Bar is no longer to be. It is scheduled to be demolished. I don't know when, exactly, but soon. It was the last bastion of legitimacy on a street that already has a bunch of over-priced restaurants, an American Apparel store, a Victoria's Secret, and a Northface store. The longtime owner of the bar (it was a family run place, like all the best ones are) is retiring, and wanted to sell the place so he could get on with his life. The property went to the highest bidder, which in this case, was an Apple store. "Because yuppies need to get their computers fixed, I guess." Was the reasoning, overheard from an outraged fan of the famous music venue. So yeah - sad days. Sad days indeed. Stupid Uptown.
The Nuva Ring - Women's Liberation, or Sadistic Instrument of Evil???
I HATE THE NUVA RING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
IT IS AN EVIL DEVICE, INVENTED BY SATAN AND ALL OF HIS UNHOLY MINIONS (METHODISTS INCLUDED) TO MAKE WOMEN NEVER WANT TO HAVE A PENIS INSIDE OF THEM FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thus, it is an attempt to end humanity, as we know it. Evil. Truly.
So I tried out the nuva ring after getting it prescribed to me by a very nice lady doctor at Planned Parenthood. [Just a note: Planned Parenthood is a wonderful place, staffed by caring, kind, wonderful people, who seem to sincerely want the best for those who come to see them. Don't ever be afraid to go in - there are some really great, understanding folks there, who will never, ever judge you.] I should have been suspicious right away when I asked if my partner would be able to feel the right during intercourse, and the doctor said, "Well, it's not really him you want to worry about, now is it?" "I guess...." is all I said. Now, for those of you who don't know, the Nuva ring is basically a gummi bracelet (you know - the kind you used to get out of vending machines, as a kid? It's the same size) that has been coated with spermicide. You have to squish the thing into a more manageable shape, and stick it up your biz-nass, in order to ensure that no sperm will ever have a chance in hell of fulfilling its life goal of fertilizing one of your lovely, lady eggs.
Sounds great, right? After all, you don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, so there's less water retention, no mood swings, and you don't have to double-up if you forget a day, blah blah blah. I thought so, (after hearing rave reviews from friends) so I was willing to give it a shot.
I get the ring in, no sweat. So that's cool. The problem? And lemme tell you, it was a BIG PROBLEM... It made me hate sex. Not just hate it, but avoid it. Let's explain this phenomenon with a little biology lesson: The sex drive of a woman relies on hormones. More estrogen? Woman wants sex. (The highest peak of estrogen every month is right before, and after a woman ovulates. Makes Sense.) More progesterone? Woman does not want sex. (The highest levels in progesterone are found right before, and after a woman's menstrual cycle, when there is no egg to be fertilized, so, biologically, intercourse is pointless at this time.) So anyway, the Nuva Ring is full of 100% progesterone. Bad for sperm, bad for your sex drive. My libido sort of shriveled up and died by the side of the road.
Not only did I not want to have sex EVER, but I was so dry [down there] that it physically hurt to have intercourse. It actually burned before, during, and after in a place where not many things are supposed to reach, much less be in pain. (For hours afterward.)Now that I have taken the wretched ring out of my snatch, my passion is back, and from now on, I only intend to put the things in there that really matter. It's sort of like a life lesson, albeit not of the variety that you would learn in Sunday School. ^__^
IT IS AN EVIL DEVICE, INVENTED BY SATAN AND ALL OF HIS UNHOLY MINIONS (METHODISTS INCLUDED) TO MAKE WOMEN NEVER WANT TO HAVE A PENIS INSIDE OF THEM FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thus, it is an attempt to end humanity, as we know it. Evil. Truly.
So I tried out the nuva ring after getting it prescribed to me by a very nice lady doctor at Planned Parenthood. [Just a note: Planned Parenthood is a wonderful place, staffed by caring, kind, wonderful people, who seem to sincerely want the best for those who come to see them. Don't ever be afraid to go in - there are some really great, understanding folks there, who will never, ever judge you.] I should have been suspicious right away when I asked if my partner would be able to feel the right during intercourse, and the doctor said, "Well, it's not really him you want to worry about, now is it?" "I guess...." is all I said. Now, for those of you who don't know, the Nuva ring is basically a gummi bracelet (you know - the kind you used to get out of vending machines, as a kid? It's the same size) that has been coated with spermicide. You have to squish the thing into a more manageable shape, and stick it up your biz-nass, in order to ensure that no sperm will ever have a chance in hell of fulfilling its life goal of fertilizing one of your lovely, lady eggs.
Sounds great, right? After all, you don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, so there's less water retention, no mood swings, and you don't have to double-up if you forget a day, blah blah blah. I thought so, (after hearing rave reviews from friends) so I was willing to give it a shot.
I get the ring in, no sweat. So that's cool. The problem? And lemme tell you, it was a BIG PROBLEM... It made me hate sex. Not just hate it, but avoid it. Let's explain this phenomenon with a little biology lesson: The sex drive of a woman relies on hormones. More estrogen? Woman wants sex. (The highest peak of estrogen every month is right before, and after a woman ovulates. Makes Sense.) More progesterone? Woman does not want sex. (The highest levels in progesterone are found right before, and after a woman's menstrual cycle, when there is no egg to be fertilized, so, biologically, intercourse is pointless at this time.) So anyway, the Nuva Ring is full of 100% progesterone. Bad for sperm, bad for your sex drive. My libido sort of shriveled up and died by the side of the road.
Not only did I not want to have sex EVER, but I was so dry [down there] that it physically hurt to have intercourse. It actually burned before, during, and after in a place where not many things are supposed to reach, much less be in pain. (For hours afterward.)Now that I have taken the wretched ring out of my snatch, my passion is back, and from now on, I only intend to put the things in there that really matter. It's sort of like a life lesson, albeit not of the variety that you would learn in Sunday School. ^__^
Okay Kiddies! Got a Story for Ya....
Okay Kids, Got a Story for Ya……
Alright, so I was going into a Walgreen’s after work today, to buy me some shampoo ‘n stuff, right? I go in, and it’s your normal Walgreen’s, right? Obnoxious muzak blaring from the speakers, items on sale on the end-caps that you would have never before thought of purchasing, but are suddenly feeling tempted by that jumbo-pack of makeup sponges, going for 99 cents a bag. Well, I had my little shopping basket filled with mousse, shampoo, hairspray, (the works) and my little fist was full of coupons for said hairspray, shampoo, and mousse, that I had dutifully clipped from the Sunday newspaper. (Cuz’ who doesn’t love to save money, right?) My basket was getting heavy, so I headed to the checkout, only to have my progress impeded by a very large black woman, who was yelling at the poor cashier named “Devin,” and holding up the entire line of 6 people. Me and my six fellow shoppers stood around for five minutes, wondering what the holdup was. “Devin,” called on the intercom for a relief cashier, and the store manager, to help everybody else get their stuff and leave. As I was inching towards the front, I couldn’t help listen in on what exactly was going on at the front of the line.
Woman: Whadaya mean it won’t work?? Try it again.
Devin: I’m sorry, Ma’am, but your food stamp won’t work for this item.
Woman: Well, why won’t it work?!
Devin: Well, your food stamp is specified as “For Medicine, or Medical Needs,” and you’re trying to use it to buy a pack of Menthol Lights.
Woman: “Well, they’re ten dollars! It worked on the rest of my stuff.”
Devin: “Yes, well you bought diabetic-friendly cereal, nutrition shakes, and some vitamins. Those count as ‘medical needs.’ I don’t think a pack of cigarettes count.”
Woman: Oh, well fine, then. Just put it on my card.”
Devin: “Okay.”
Woman: “Wait a minute – I changed my mind. I don’t want it on the card, no more. Can
you, like, put the money back on it?”
Devin: “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but it is against store policy to do a manual void-out on credit
cards. I would have to get a manager to do that, since I’m not allowed to.”
Woman: “Fine – I’ll just pay for it by check.”
Devin: “Well, actually, it is against store policy to accept checks, too.”
Woman: “Well you’d better! I want my cigarettes, and I have a bus to catch!”
Devin: “I can accept your check if you have a valid, photo- I.D. Do you have one?”
Woman: “Yes.”
Devin: “Okay.” *Woman writes out a check, and hands it to him.*
“Ma’am, I’m still gonna need to see your photo – I.D. Do you have a driver’s
license?”
Woman: “No.”
Devin: “A valid state I.D.?”
Woman: “No.”
Devin: “A passport? A social-security card?”
Woman: “No. Here – take this.” *She hands him a card*
Devin: “Ma’am, this is a card for a church.”
Woman: “It’s so I can park there!”
Devin: “It doesn’t have your picture on it.”
Woman: “Well that’s my name!!”
Devin: “Ma’am, I am really, very sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”
And with that, the woman stalked off, leaving the pack of menthol lights on the check-out counter. Meanwhile, Devin stood there looking dazed for a moment, and then went off to take a quick break. I guess I wasn’t that mad that I had to wait, because I found the whole ordeal to be pretty amusing. I feel bad for poor Devin, though. Even though I’ll probably never see him again, I give him a gold star!
Alright, so I was going into a Walgreen’s after work today, to buy me some shampoo ‘n stuff, right? I go in, and it’s your normal Walgreen’s, right? Obnoxious muzak blaring from the speakers, items on sale on the end-caps that you would have never before thought of purchasing, but are suddenly feeling tempted by that jumbo-pack of makeup sponges, going for 99 cents a bag. Well, I had my little shopping basket filled with mousse, shampoo, hairspray, (the works) and my little fist was full of coupons for said hairspray, shampoo, and mousse, that I had dutifully clipped from the Sunday newspaper. (Cuz’ who doesn’t love to save money, right?) My basket was getting heavy, so I headed to the checkout, only to have my progress impeded by a very large black woman, who was yelling at the poor cashier named “Devin,” and holding up the entire line of 6 people. Me and my six fellow shoppers stood around for five minutes, wondering what the holdup was. “Devin,” called on the intercom for a relief cashier, and the store manager, to help everybody else get their stuff and leave. As I was inching towards the front, I couldn’t help listen in on what exactly was going on at the front of the line.
Woman: Whadaya mean it won’t work?? Try it again.
Devin: I’m sorry, Ma’am, but your food stamp won’t work for this item.
Woman: Well, why won’t it work?!
Devin: Well, your food stamp is specified as “For Medicine, or Medical Needs,” and you’re trying to use it to buy a pack of Menthol Lights.
Woman: “Well, they’re ten dollars! It worked on the rest of my stuff.”
Devin: “Yes, well you bought diabetic-friendly cereal, nutrition shakes, and some vitamins. Those count as ‘medical needs.’ I don’t think a pack of cigarettes count.”
Woman: Oh, well fine, then. Just put it on my card.”
Devin: “Okay.”
Woman: “Wait a minute – I changed my mind. I don’t want it on the card, no more. Can
you, like, put the money back on it?”
Devin: “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but it is against store policy to do a manual void-out on credit
cards. I would have to get a manager to do that, since I’m not allowed to.”
Woman: “Fine – I’ll just pay for it by check.”
Devin: “Well, actually, it is against store policy to accept checks, too.”
Woman: “Well you’d better! I want my cigarettes, and I have a bus to catch!”
Devin: “I can accept your check if you have a valid, photo- I.D. Do you have one?”
Woman: “Yes.”
Devin: “Okay.” *Woman writes out a check, and hands it to him.*
“Ma’am, I’m still gonna need to see your photo – I.D. Do you have a driver’s
license?”
Woman: “No.”
Devin: “A valid state I.D.?”
Woman: “No.”
Devin: “A passport? A social-security card?”
Woman: “No. Here – take this.” *She hands him a card*
Devin: “Ma’am, this is a card for a church.”
Woman: “It’s so I can park there!”
Devin: “It doesn’t have your picture on it.”
Woman: “Well that’s my name!!”
Devin: “Ma’am, I am really, very sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”
And with that, the woman stalked off, leaving the pack of menthol lights on the check-out counter. Meanwhile, Devin stood there looking dazed for a moment, and then went off to take a quick break. I guess I wasn’t that mad that I had to wait, because I found the whole ordeal to be pretty amusing. I feel bad for poor Devin, though. Even though I’ll probably never see him again, I give him a gold star!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Too Poor to Party
This was supposed to be my first post, but it didn't quite make it in time... so, just imagine it being the intro to the general feeling of my blog, so far.
August 7, 2009
Welcome to Minneapolis - bright, shining, indie culture-cradle of the Midwest. Think of it as the Seattle of the north woods. Every establishment here (or at least in "Uptown," where I work) is desperately trying to evoke the L.A. 'scene,' even if they won't admit it. Which they won't. [just a note; desperation isn't sexy.] And I'm too poor to party at the shows and concerts with all of the hip kids. Actually, to be honest, I'm too poor to afford food, right now. Tonight marks the first full week that I have spent here (in Minneapolis) after driving to Minnesota from Seattle in 2 days, moving into a new apartment with my fiance, Chris, finding a job, interviewing for another, and getting an offer to 2nd shoot for a photographer. All of this, and I am depressed. I feel like a nobody. I feel like the only way to get in on this "collectively-nonconformist" art 'scene' is to maintain an eating disorder, a 'look,' and a drug habit that I cannot afford. I am grateful that I live in the Midway area which is gritty, mildly ghetto, and decidedly 'un-cool.' The benefit is that the place, and the people here are REAL. It is my refuge from feeling like just another conformist white girl in the eyes of the tattooed, vegan heroin users that patronize the place where I work. I guess while other people are off being "scene," I can just appreciate the times that Chris and I have together, sitting on the couch at home on a Friday night, watching shitty network television and eating "easy-mac" in our underwear.
August 7, 2009
Welcome to Minneapolis - bright, shining, indie culture-cradle of the Midwest. Think of it as the Seattle of the north woods. Every establishment here (or at least in "Uptown," where I work) is desperately trying to evoke the L.A. 'scene,' even if they won't admit it. Which they won't. [just a note; desperation isn't sexy.] And I'm too poor to party at the shows and concerts with all of the hip kids. Actually, to be honest, I'm too poor to afford food, right now. Tonight marks the first full week that I have spent here (in Minneapolis) after driving to Minnesota from Seattle in 2 days, moving into a new apartment with my fiance, Chris, finding a job, interviewing for another, and getting an offer to 2nd shoot for a photographer. All of this, and I am depressed. I feel like a nobody. I feel like the only way to get in on this "collectively-nonconformist" art 'scene' is to maintain an eating disorder, a 'look,' and a drug habit that I cannot afford. I am grateful that I live in the Midway area which is gritty, mildly ghetto, and decidedly 'un-cool.' The benefit is that the place, and the people here are REAL. It is my refuge from feeling like just another conformist white girl in the eyes of the tattooed, vegan heroin users that patronize the place where I work. I guess while other people are off being "scene," I can just appreciate the times that Chris and I have together, sitting on the couch at home on a Friday night, watching shitty network television and eating "easy-mac" in our underwear.
Die, Hipster Scum.
Okay, Seriously? I hate working in Uptown - or, “Fucktown,” as I like to call it. The entire place is just crawling with hipsters, scene kids, and wannabes, as well as the over-paid assholes who can actually afford to live there. I think I would tolerate it more if I didn’t work in a coffee shop, which is a place where all of these losers feel perfectly legitimized in throwing their pretenses everywhere. [On the floor, the ceiling, my face….. it takes a lot of time to clean up after.] Like, the other day, I had to wait on a pair of dumb-ass 17-year-olds who had stopped in with their epitome-of-a-suburban-soccer-mom mother [bleached blonde, overly tanned, wearing Ralph Lauren – you know the type] for an ‘Iced half-caf mocha….. oh no, wait, make that a Chai.’ The two girls had dreads, tattoos, and septum piercings, and were playing with their I-Phones while their mommy made me and my co-worker change her order 3 times, held up the line of customers for ten minutes while she decided what the fuck to get, made a mess on our condiment counter (where we keep cream, sugar, hot-lids, etc.) and never tipped either of us a single dime. Looking at those girls, it got me thinking…. I guess the Abercrombie-Hollister crowd from high school decided to up and get "fierce." As a side note, a lot of this reminds me of that fad back in high school when Avril Levigne got really popular, and all of the sudden all of the cheerleaders started wearing heavy, black eyeliner, and buying Hot Topic out of their entire stock of Dickies pants. The only problem with this fad, (and yes, I am calling the 'hip, alternative-cool' look a fad) is that all of these kids have spent several thousand dollar apiece on full-body tattoos, that, let's face it, are going to absolutely look like hell when they are 53. That 110 pound cutie with the brass knuckles and a heart inked on her neck? Sure, it looks good now (if you're into that kind of thing) but how is it going to hold up when her neck skin is all flabby, and her tattoo looks like a hemorrhaging blood vessel peeking out from under her grandma sweater on bingo night?
The other thing that annoys me (and everybody else) is that no hipster will ever admit to being a hipster. All hipsters claim to be "legit," and feel perfectly justified in hating on other hipsters. Ask some skinny white dude on the street corner in tight-roll jeans, wearing Kanye shades and riding a fixie if he's a hipster, and he will vehemently deny it. I mean, hey, a lot of rapists deny having problems too. I love how the primary place where these ass-hats can get all down with their pretentious selves is when they order coffee [sorry - make that a "half-caf, sixteen ounce, organic hemp-milk cappuccino"] when I know for damn well that their punk-ass works at a pizzeria down the street, because that’s the only job they can get. And then these little shits all look down their indie-cool noses at me, because I have the misfortune of being a boring, 'mainstream', completely un-scene white girl with no tattoos, dreadlocks, or facial piercing, who likes classic rocks, wears Birkenstocks and goes to church on Sundays.
Another issue I have is that hipsters sure know how to ruin a good time. Have you ever been at a bar, dancing to the tunes and enjoying your Miller Lite, and have suddenly felt the cold, judgmental stare on the back of your neck from the scene kids in the back corner? They look at you like you are a fool, (or maybe an interesting zoo specimen) while they drink their PBR (because that is the official beer of hipsters) and are too unaffected to dance. Do hipsters even know how to have fun? When I mentioned going to the Minnesota State Fair last week, all one girl could do was complain about how sickening and immoral the idea of "livestock" was, how nasty the food was ('it's, like, not organic.....') and how much she hated the kind of people who go to fairs.(read: NORMAL PEOPLE.)I mean, for the love of God.... it's a fucking FAIR. Fairs are FUN, and involve animals, yodeling contests, and food that is so bad for you, that you can really only justify consuming it once a year. I guess it’s because what’s fun for the rest of humanity is just ‘not cool enough’ for them. Poor babies.
The other thing that annoys me (and everybody else) is that no hipster will ever admit to being a hipster. All hipsters claim to be "legit," and feel perfectly justified in hating on other hipsters. Ask some skinny white dude on the street corner in tight-roll jeans, wearing Kanye shades and riding a fixie if he's a hipster, and he will vehemently deny it. I mean, hey, a lot of rapists deny having problems too. I love how the primary place where these ass-hats can get all down with their pretentious selves is when they order coffee [sorry - make that a "half-caf, sixteen ounce, organic hemp-milk cappuccino"] when I know for damn well that their punk-ass works at a pizzeria down the street, because that’s the only job they can get. And then these little shits all look down their indie-cool noses at me, because I have the misfortune of being a boring, 'mainstream', completely un-scene white girl with no tattoos, dreadlocks, or facial piercing, who likes classic rocks, wears Birkenstocks and goes to church on Sundays.
Another issue I have is that hipsters sure know how to ruin a good time. Have you ever been at a bar, dancing to the tunes and enjoying your Miller Lite, and have suddenly felt the cold, judgmental stare on the back of your neck from the scene kids in the back corner? They look at you like you are a fool, (or maybe an interesting zoo specimen) while they drink their PBR (because that is the official beer of hipsters) and are too unaffected to dance. Do hipsters even know how to have fun? When I mentioned going to the Minnesota State Fair last week, all one girl could do was complain about how sickening and immoral the idea of "livestock" was, how nasty the food was ('it's, like, not organic.....') and how much she hated the kind of people who go to fairs.(read: NORMAL PEOPLE.)I mean, for the love of God.... it's a fucking FAIR. Fairs are FUN, and involve animals, yodeling contests, and food that is so bad for you, that you can really only justify consuming it once a year. I guess it’s because what’s fun for the rest of humanity is just ‘not cool enough’ for them. Poor babies.
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