From Bill Clinton to Nabokov, National Book Award-Winning Poet Mary Szybist Explores the Space Between
You know, there's been a lot of griping and scorn directed towards the so-called "hipster" element of this fair burg, and sometimes it just seems like hate or jealously towards the younger generation. However, the sheer ridiculousness witnessed today surely takes the cake for the prize of the "Look at me! Come on, notice me, please!" hipster sweepstakes.
Was it really necessary to sit your fedora wearing ass outside a coffeeshop, clackety-clack typing on your old-school typewriter, constantly looking up to see who was watching? I'm sure you fancy yourself a sage-of-old typing your deep thoughts in a public place to the wonder of all unlucky enough to be within earshot of your shitty typing skills, instead of laboring in the shitty shared house or apartment your parents undoubtedly pay for, but really? Really?
If you're so in love with the Luddite life of yore, why did you whip out your cell once the ancient beast seemed to be on the fritz? And I'm curious to know what you were feverishly typing away at that couldn't be done longhand on a yellow pad, written into your Moleskine, or typed into your Mac. Maybe recording your musings on the diverse life on the trendy eastbank of N. Williams.
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