I’ve died and gone to Hipster Heaven
As it happens, I don’t really fall into the Hipster category, so you tell me what the cosmological phrase is for ending up in someone else’s afterlife.
Lisa and I both had that same thought yesterday as we were walking through one of the streets between the canals. There we were, minding our business, and two people on a scooter go toodling by us, open-face helmets pushing their intentionally disheveled hair forward just so. It’s a different hipster look than the Midwest (go figure) – less flannel, for one. And apparently less ironic. Which brings up another Great Question, this time in the epistemological vein: can you be a hipster and not ironic? Anyway, between the casual so-not-dressed-up-I’m-dressed-up look, the scooters (not the bikes), and all the weed everywhere, we’ve been joking about Hipsters.
Just this morning, fresh off of plenty of sleep, I’m looking over the guide book (finally) and Lisa’s trying to figure out how to incidentally avoid seeing all of Amsterdam in favor of all of the documentaries she can see. Some people may travel to festivals so that they have an excuse to travel. Not Lisa. She’s making color-coded wall charts that will allow her to scamper from one doc to another so as to maximize her time-on-the-ground. And she calls me a dork. Please.
Anyway, here I am reading about Amsterdam. At 7am local time, there’s no sign of the sun. The guidebook’s opening bit has been talking about the hippie counterculture and how over the last decades that has undergone a transformation as the city has worked to make itself more business-friendly. In other words, counterculture hasn’t gone away, it’s just become “counterculture,” which, hipster-wise, seems to fit the bill.