The Hipster Habitat - Kyle Dowling

They flood this place like a disease, the hipsters. Even now in this moment as I look up all I see is
an ocean of oversized knit caps and ironic mustaches.

The twirls.
The tiny, pedophile-like strips of hair on their upper lips.
Tell me, what purpose do they serve other than keeping women away?
Very rarely do I dare venture out of Manhattan; therefore it’s rather shocking to find myself in this
place… in Brooklyn.
The words nauseate me as I type, even worse so reading them back. If these people only knew
what was being typed on this page.
No, it is not some anti-establishment, indie rock novel.
No, it is not a book speaking out claiming that the nerd revolution has returned, making converse
“cool” and tight, dirty t-shirts “fashionable.”
It’s nothing they’d ever imagine, no matter how creative they think they are.
I had to take the G train to get here. Ask any true Manhattan-ite where the G train leads and
surely they’d response, “The what train? Leave me alone.”
A whole different world is what it is.
And even though I do not want to admit my current position tonight… I’m in Greenpoint,
Brooklyn, meeting a friend. Suffice to say, this was his choice.
The Habitat is where I sit, on Manhattan Avenue—of course, they needed some taste of the true
New York City in there. The café seems nice, a cozy spot for anyone willing to dive into the culture
of wannabee-hobo’s. The lights are dim.
The hipsters have sensitive eyes. Lighting hurts.
You poor cultural saps. I sympathize with you. Allow me to offer a kind-hearted roll of the eyes.
I can’t help but think I stick out tremendously; it appears that my straight fit jeans, boots and J.
Crew sweater make the guests uncomfortable, perhaps squeamish. Their mustache hairs blow rapidly
from the steam of confusion discharging out of their nostrils as a result of my outfit.
They just cannot understand why I would choose to not wear a size small t-shirt or black skinny
I see the table across from me holds three of them—surprisingly all male.
Call upon my relenting sarcasm.
All dark jeans, two black shirts, one white shirt (all tight) and two mustaches with the other one
having a sizable pair mutton chops. Tonight I find it hard to call my friend a true friend. Having
known me for ten years he should be well aware of the fact that I would not be welcome.
The trio of ironic facial hair all wince as I speak to the waitress, ordering too loudly for their ears.
It’s obvious they’d love to slowly whisper a “Hey man, relax dude. Quiet. My ears,” at me. Yet it
only makes me speak louder.
Oh, and here in walks my friend. It’s funny, his pants seem tighter than the last time I saw him.
His shirt seems wrinkled, and even from here I see prickles of hair sprouting from his lip.
They’ve begun to turn him.
What is this place?