Hipster Dream Date

Aug 10
The Guy Who Is Actually Really Old
He’s not worldly, he’s a 43-year-old with 3 roommates and milk crate for a bedside table. That explains the awesome tape collection, huh?

(Photo)

The Guy Who Is Actually Really Old

He’s not worldly, he’s a 43-year-old with 3 roommates and milk crate for a bedside table. That explains the awesome tape collection, huh?

(Photo)

Jul 23
The Writer Who Does A Lot Of Drugs
He grew up pampered in a suburban home with a lovely collie dog named Sunshine, all flowing hair and gentle nips and barks. His parents sprung for piano lessons and Little League uniforms, school trips to Europe and the finest apparel that Mr. Hilfiger hath ever wrought. He was a typical boy, but somewhere inside burned a desire — a desire to CREATE.
So he spent his afternoons composing poems — lusty poems to the busty girl next door, who shunned his advances and laughed at his overactive hormones when they reared their ugly, er, head at a school pool party. Reams of poems littered his floor and harddrive, and soon he shunned the trappings of Tommy H. and instead opted to don the garb of his predecessors: the bowties and flowing mantles of Rimbaud, the towering coif of Bob Dylan and, inexplicably, the glistening grill of ODB. Then, like any aspiring poet who wishes to successfully break into the literary world, he went on to attend a liberal arts school in a secluded location.
When he finally matriculated into the real world, he attempted to finally pen the poesy that would make him beloved, revered, immortal. To do so, he drew upon his deepest store of pain: that same girl who rejected his sweaty advances so many (like, 5) years before. However, when he submitted what he thought solid poesy to literary journals and poetry slam organizers, he was met with haughty rejection. “You have not lived!” the editors and organizers said. “Move to Berlin for a while or something and then get back to us.”
Having not the resources or the time to uproot himself (and a bit of trepidation about living in anywhere described as a “squat”), the young writer opted for the shortcut to artistic enlightenment: Just doing a shitload of cocaine. “He took it in cabs, he took it on fire escapes, he took it abandoned science labs, he took it and painted seascapes. He took it in chairs. He took it in doorways. He took it on mares. He took it on poor days.” In case you were wondering, the above was both of description of where he took said cocaine and the nature of the resulting poetry that he wrote.
Soon, his “arrestingly honest” work was snapped up by the literary public, who made him the poster child for malcontent, malaise and a particularly bitter martini sold at a local watering hole for scribblers. Needless to say, the ladies came… well, not running, but at least sidling up with calculatedly disinterested miens.
Still, the now worldly wordsmith found himself unsatisfied by the legions (well, probably more like 4) of fans who came to worship at the alter of his learned lit. They were sweet, yes, lovely, in a weird way, but multifaceted — no, the facet was in the singular sense. No page was well-wrought enough for his bookmark. He grew despondent about his perpetual state of lonely loving, and thusly turned his pain into another chapbook, titled: “I am a margin and you don’t know how to scribble.”
"What cruel irony," he often lamented to the barren walls of his simple abode, "That I was alone as a youth and alone, now, as a revered genius!" Thus, he took to the woods to live among the moss and the mushrooms, which turned out to be his undoing, as he ingested a particularly poisonous variety 10 minutes after setting up camp.
(Image)

The Writer Who Does A Lot Of Drugs

He grew up pampered in a suburban home with a lovely collie dog named Sunshine, all flowing hair and gentle nips and barks. His parents sprung for piano lessons and Little League uniforms, school trips to Europe and the finest apparel that Mr. Hilfiger hath ever wrought. He was a typical boy, but somewhere inside burned a desire — a desire to CREATE.

So he spent his afternoons composing poems — lusty poems to the busty girl next door, who shunned his advances and laughed at his overactive hormones when they reared their ugly, er, head at a school pool party. Reams of poems littered his floor and harddrive, and soon he shunned the trappings of Tommy H. and instead opted to don the garb of his predecessors: the bowties and flowing mantles of Rimbaud, the towering coif of Bob Dylan and, inexplicably, the glistening grill of ODB. Then, like any aspiring poet who wishes to successfully break into the literary world, he went on to attend a liberal arts school in a secluded location.

When he finally matriculated into the real world, he attempted to finally pen the poesy that would make him beloved, revered, immortal. To do so, he drew upon his deepest store of pain: that same girl who rejected his sweaty advances so many (like, 5) years before. However, when he submitted what he thought solid poesy to literary journals and poetry slam organizers, he was met with haughty rejection. “You have not lived!” the editors and organizers said. “Move to Berlin for a while or something and then get back to us.”

Having not the resources or the time to uproot himself (and a bit of trepidation about living in anywhere described as a “squat”), the young writer opted for the shortcut to artistic enlightenment: Just doing a shitload of cocaine. “He took it in cabs, he took it on fire escapes, he took it abandoned science labs, he took it and painted seascapes. He took it in chairs. He took it in doorways. He took it on mares. He took it on poor days.” In case you were wondering, the above was both of description of where he took said cocaine and the nature of the resulting poetry that he wrote.

Soon, his “arrestingly honest” work was snapped up by the literary public, who made him the poster child for malcontent, malaise and a particularly bitter martini sold at a local watering hole for scribblers. Needless to say, the ladies came… well, not running, but at least sidling up with calculatedly disinterested miens.

Still, the now worldly wordsmith found himself unsatisfied by the legions (well, probably more like 4) of fans who came to worship at the alter of his learned lit. They were sweet, yes, lovely, in a weird way, but multifaceted — no, the facet was in the singular sense. No page was well-wrought enough for his bookmark. He grew despondent about his perpetual state of lonely loving, and thusly turned his pain into another chapbook, titled: “I am a margin and you don’t know how to scribble.”

"What cruel irony," he often lamented to the barren walls of his simple abode, "That I was alone as a youth and alone, now, as a revered genius!" Thus, he took to the woods to live among the moss and the mushrooms, which turned out to be his undoing, as he ingested a particularly poisonous variety 10 minutes after setting up camp.

(Image)

May 08
The Girl With A Million Faces
Yes, she might currently be molding your unruly locks into an approximation of what stylish New Yorkers have dubbed “The Hitler Youth,” — “but,” she murmurs as she seductively buzzes the hair that sprouts wildly above your gauged ears — “I’m also, like, a children’s book writer. I started doing that when I was about 15 and never stopped.” Your ears perk up — dangerously close to the buzzing razor. Smart and sexy? What a fresh, fresh catch! You should ask for her digits. Just as you open your lips to let the words wander out, she erratically makes-nude your cranium and says:
"I even illustrate all my own books using natural juices — berries and things I collect in the park. Did I mention I also can my own jams? Yeah, it’s something I got really into after spending a few years hopping freight trains with Crust Punks, following the blackberry crop, you know. I got into that after I dropped out of beauty school for the second time. I felt like the stereotypical depictions of loveliness that they kept shoving down my throat were tying all of my soul fibers into a giant knot and blocking my Qi for fucking real — I used to be a yoga teacher, so I totally know all about Qi. 
"Anyway, so I was still writing these children’s books the whole life trip — about this little rag doll called ‘Patches Frays-a-Lot.’ I showed one of the books to this older punk who used to be a successful book editor in the ’80s or something and he invited me to live in this artist’s co-op that he was opening up in Red Hook. So I ran that for a while, until it got condemned, and then I ended up crashing on my friend’s couch for a while. She walked dogs for a living, so I did that for a while, too, until one day this chick’s dog ran the fuck away because I didn’t properly tie it up while I was taking a smoke break. When she came to pick it up, she was all crying and shit because, well, because I lost the dog and also because she had just got a haircut and the woman gave her, like, beauty pageant bangs. So I just like grabbed these scissors I used on the dogs when they got burrs and things caught in their hair and went to town on her hair. She ended up looking like a really kickass version of Robyn — you like, somewhere between ‘Show Me Love’ and ‘Call Your Girlfriend.’ 
"So after that, I was like inspired to open up my own salon, so I moved in with the dog-walking friend and converted her bathroom into this totally cool speakeasy-esque situation you see before you. We also hold secret dinner parties every third full moon. You should totally come to the next one! I mean, if I’m still around by then — I cut Lena Dunham’s hair last week and we talked for, like, 3 hours and now I’m totally inspired to write screenplays. Do you mind holding on one second, actually, I have to go write something down I thought of just now — you know, when I almost buzzed off your ear. Something about Van Gogh. I used to be a painter once…"
You never do get that phone number — but you do get a pretty close approximation of Robyn’s ‘do — circa “Show Me Love.”
(Photo)

The Girl With A Million Faces

Yes, she might currently be molding your unruly locks into an approximation of what stylish New Yorkers have dubbed “The Hitler Youth,” — “but,” she murmurs as she seductively buzzes the hair that sprouts wildly above your gauged ears — “I’m also, like, a children’s book writer. I started doing that when I was about 15 and never stopped.” Your ears perk up — dangerously close to the buzzing razor. Smart and sexy? What a fresh, fresh catch! You should ask for her digits. Just as you open your lips to let the words wander out, she erratically makes-nude your cranium and says:

"I even illustrate all my own books using natural juices — berries and things I collect in the park. Did I mention I also can my own jams? Yeah, it’s something I got really into after spending a few years hopping freight trains with Crust Punks, following the blackberry crop, you know. I got into that after I dropped out of beauty school for the second time. I felt like the stereotypical depictions of loveliness that they kept shoving down my throat were tying all of my soul fibers into a giant knot and blocking my Qi for fucking real — I used to be a yoga teacher, so I totally know all about Qi.

"Anyway, so I was still writing these children’s books the whole life trip — about this little rag doll called ‘Patches Frays-a-Lot.’ I showed one of the books to this older punk who used to be a successful book editor in the ’80s or something and he invited me to live in this artist’s co-op that he was opening up in Red Hook. So I ran that for a while, until it got condemned, and then I ended up crashing on my friend’s couch for a while. She walked dogs for a living, so I did that for a while, too, until one day this chick’s dog ran the fuck away because I didn’t properly tie it up while I was taking a smoke break. When she came to pick it up, she was all crying and shit because, well, because I lost the dog and also because she had just got a haircut and the woman gave her, like, beauty pageant bangs. So I just like grabbed these scissors I used on the dogs when they got burrs and things caught in their hair and went to town on her hair. She ended up looking like a really kickass version of Robyn — you like, somewhere between ‘Show Me Love’ and ‘Call Your Girlfriend.’

"So after that, I was like inspired to open up my own salon, so I moved in with the dog-walking friend and converted her bathroom into this totally cool speakeasy-esque situation you see before you. We also hold secret dinner parties every third full moon. You should totally come to the next one! I mean, if I’m still around by then — I cut Lena Dunham’s hair last week and we talked for, like, 3 hours and now I’m totally inspired to write screenplays. Do you mind holding on one second, actually, I have to go write something down I thought of just now — you know, when I almost buzzed off your ear. Something about Van Gogh. I used to be a painter once…"

You never do get that phone number — but you do get a pretty close approximation of Robyn’s ‘do — circa “Show Me Love.”

May 03
The Bartender Who Is Also In A Buzzband
You bump into each other sweaty dancing during a rally for Internet-meme-turned political demigod, Possum Myopic, who has gained some level of viral fame due to his unconventional campaign speechs on YouTube (all of which are composed of rapid cuts of otters frolicking in the sea, tracked by mashups of Witch House jams and Kidz Bop covers of Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumping.). The boy’s got dream-dust-spun frosted white hair, crested with pink, and his lips are lined with a similarly rosy hue. Ambiguous sex on wheels, for sure — did we mention he’s wearing rollerskates? (As is custom at events titled “Rollar Rally Derby Politics Time USA.”)
After a few sidelong glances (and more than a few poorly mixed whiskey drinks) you’re engaged in an epic danceoff with this intriguing, politically minded, pink-tinged gent: he busts out the running man, you attempt to mime “walking down an invisible staircase,” he twirls you into a friendly, beer-soaked moshpit, after which you share a friendly, beer-soaked kiss. 
"What do you do?" you shout in his perfect, pink-vinyl ear — the first words the two of you have exchanged all night (despite the fact that your tongues are already well acquainted). "Well…" he says, and with that single act of prolonged punctuation, you know that there’s going to be a "but" up in there.
"I’m a bartender, usually, but I’m also in a band." (But, bingo! Not to be confused with the sexual take on the popular children’s game that’s unfolding to your immediate left.)
"They’re called My Little Brony. We do covers of the My Little Pony theme song — but with, like, a synth-rock twist.” He gives your tongue a synth-rock twist.
You’ve heard of My Little Brony. Who hasn’t? The commenters on Brooklyn Vegan rip them apart on a bi-weekly basis — mostly using other iterations of the word “bi” that aren’t so friendly. Well, twee trolls, you mull to yourself. I think I’ve seen this horse’s horn, and it’s definitely a ‘uni.’ In your head this is hilarious and witty, because you are very drunk.
Said very drunkness impels you to spend the night with the Brony Bro’s boner (which, incidentally, becomes his nickname among your friends several months later) — the only night you will ever spend with him. In the ensuing days, it seems, he has melted into nothingness. Like mist on an Irish seaside cliff.
You see, dear liquor-laced fool, you have just tristed with a mythological being — a beast, who, werewolf-like, possesses two personas, both of which are known for only coming out late at night. Try as you might to hold onto the trailing wisps of his shifting molecular makeup, in the end, you will be left empty-handed — unless, of course, he gifts you a copy of his band’s EP (and he will, oh yes, he will).
(Photo)

The Bartender Who Is Also In A Buzzband

You bump into each other sweaty dancing during a rally for Internet-meme-turned political demigod, Possum Myopic, who has gained some level of viral fame due to his unconventional campaign speechs on YouTube (all of which are composed of rapid cuts of otters frolicking in the sea, tracked by mashups of Witch House jams and Kidz Bop covers of Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumping.). The boy’s got dream-dust-spun frosted white hair, crested with pink, and his lips are lined with a similarly rosy hue. Ambiguous sex on wheels, for sure — did we mention he’s wearing rollerskates? (As is custom at events titled “Rollar Rally Derby Politics Time USA.”)

After a few sidelong glances (and more than a few poorly mixed whiskey drinks) you’re engaged in an epic danceoff with this intriguing, politically minded, pink-tinged gent: he busts out the running man, you attempt to mime “walking down an invisible staircase,” he twirls you into a friendly, beer-soaked moshpit, after which you share a friendly, beer-soaked kiss. 

"What do you do?" you shout in his perfect, pink-vinyl ear — the first words the two of you have exchanged all night (despite the fact that your tongues are already well acquainted). "Well…" he says, and with that single act of prolonged punctuation, you know that there’s going to be a "but" up in there.

"I’m a bartender, usually, but I’m also in a band." (But, bingo! Not to be confused with the sexual take on the popular children’s game that’s unfolding to your immediate left.)

"They’re called My Little Brony. We do covers of the My Little Pony theme song — but with, like, a synth-rock twist.” He gives your tongue a synth-rock twist.

You’ve heard of My Little Brony. Who hasn’t? The commenters on Brooklyn Vegan rip them apart on a bi-weekly basis — mostly using other iterations of the word “bi” that aren’t so friendly. Well, twee trolls, you mull to yourself. I think I’ve seen this horse’s horn, and it’s definitely a ‘uni.’ In your head this is hilarious and witty, because you are very drunk.

Said very drunkness impels you to spend the night with the Brony Bro’s boner (which, incidentally, becomes his nickname among your friends several months later) — the only night you will ever spend with him. In the ensuing days, it seems, he has melted into nothingness. Like mist on an Irish seaside cliff.

You see, dear liquor-laced fool, you have just tristed with a mythological being — a beast, who, werewolf-like, possesses two personas, both of which are known for only coming out late at night. Try as you might to hold onto the trailing wisps of his shifting molecular makeup, in the end, you will be left empty-handed — unless, of course, he gifts you a copy of his band’s EP (and he will, oh yes, he will).

(Photo)