Last Gasp of the Hipster
They’re here again. Arranged along old church pews covered in stickers for companies and sports teams that no longer exist. Some standing, necks craned to avoid the refurbished chandeliers dangling from the low ceilings in this dive. Candles depicting saints add some light to the dim atmosphere in their little ironic way. Who would they pray to? There’s a Jaws pinball machine in the corner. It doesn’t work. The vending machine only sells foreign candy and all of the labels are gone.
They all sway to the music. A marble mouthed late thirtysomething with a shaved head and an eleven member band does his best Weezer impression while his friends play acoustic guitars or shake jars filled with lima beans. Mop top and pompadour heads bob in semi-unison. This is music. It isn’t commercial and you can’t find it on your precious Spotify. You can’t even find it on the internet. The band’s merch table is cassettes only.
Their faces are a little more creased than they used to be. Hairlines a little more receded. All of the clothing is vintage, even if it wasn’t purchased that way. And all their faces scream their thoughts.
I thought my on again, off again relationship with a black guy was enough to prove I wasn’t racist.
Should I finally give in and just work at dad’s accounting firm?
Is having a gay friend enough or do I have to upgrade to a trans?
Things were easier when I didn’t have to care.
Down the winding staircase with no banister (a hinderance that never was, years ago) are the washrooms. Still separate but with the placards denoting which gender goes where long removed. The low hanging fruit of relevancy. Gender or sex? I’m not sure which I’m supposed to say. On the walls of each is scrawled FREE PALESTINE. A new addition to the preapproved graffiti that staff members have been slowly but surely covering every surface of the bar with since 2008. The low hanging fruit of relevancy. A wheelchair can’t get down here but I think we’re still open and inclusive.
They’ve liked all the right social media posts and even caught some of the George Floyd protests on YouTube. One would think that counted as being progressive. They even voted Democrat — twice — because it was Her Time or something and you were supposed to. Still, not enough. Not when the culture no longer deems narcissistic hedonism virtuous. That is, when it isn’t extolling the virtues of looking out for number one and getting that bag/G Wagon. You really can’t blame them for being confused.
The band ends their set, meandering to a halt. It’s hard to tell when to clap but the music’s not supposed to be clear. Last call goes out for local craft beers and two-ingredient-maximum cocktails. Most don’t need to put their beanies or bowler hats back on as they never came off. Soon it will be time to leave, only they won’t be piling into cabs for the ride back to the suburbs and the comforts of a paternal detached home. No, it will be time to disperse into individual Ubers on the way back to basement apartments across the city. There’s work at coffee shops and bank teller wickets in the morning and not nearly the will to stay awake as there once was. It’s too early to collect unemployment due to AI job loss. It’s too late for OnlyFans.
A youth wasted emulating poverty. A middle age spent living it.
True irony has finally been achieved.
They’ll be back tomorrow, maybe the next day. Their numbers dwindle little by little but there’ll always be patrons for these dives in trendy, safe areas. Someone needs to keep the city’s real music scene alive.
Originally published April 1, 2025.
