The best thing about living in Brooklyn is that everything you do is a test to see how cool you are. You’re constantly being judged. It’s like one big, borough-wide dick-waving hip contest. In King’s County everyone’s a critic.
Really though, that is the great thing about Brooklyn–everyone’s so fucking cool. I mean, there’s just no debating it. Objectively speaking, everyone who lives in Brooklyn is just really fucking cool. Why else would they live here?
It forces you to be on top of your game, being surrounded by the coolest people ever every day. There’s no room to let up. You’re always one vintage shirt away from losing all credibility. One pair of high-tops away from ruining your reputation. One bit of irony away from getting it.
That’s why I love living in Brooklyn. It forces me to be the coolest I can be. Every time I go out I’ve got to be on point. Every song I select off the jukebox, every beer I order at the bar, every game of pool I play, I have to make sure is done with the right amount of chalance or non. I’ve got to impress the other patrons. Or else they’ll talk shit about me when I leave. “Did you see that loser who ordered a Coors Light? I bet he’s not even snarky.”
I can actually feel myself growing cooler by the day, and I like it. I’m so much more conscious about what I put on my body now. Whether my pants are tight enough, whether I have enough tattoos showing, whether my hair-style is asymmetrical enough, whether I ought to grow a mustache. I just know my image is improving.
And it feels so awesome to be so cool. Strutting around in all my glorious originality. Shocking people with my unique style. Knowing that I’m just the cat’s nipples. No one is cooler than me.
At first I hated it. Resented it. The pressure to be real cool. But that was before I got the hang of it. Now I can’t think of living any other way. I could never go back to not caring. Never.
That’s why I don’t understand all the anti-hipster rhetoric. Hipsters are so fucking cool. It’s in their name. But there’s so much hipster revulsion, rebellion, retaliation, regurgitation, relegation, repulsion, rejection, hate. It’s getting so bad, hipsters don’t even want to admit that they’re hipsters anymore. Why? I don’t get it. What’s wrong with being fucking cool?
Check it out. Hipster, according to dictionary.com, is defined as “a person who is hip.” Who doesn’t want to be hip? Plus it goes further and defines hipster as, “One who is exceptionally aware of or interested in the latest trends and tastes” as well as “someone who rejects the established culture.” Get a load of that oxymoron. That seems like a pretty nice juxtaposition to live your life in.
And, truth be told, I can’t even claim to be a hipster. I’m too much of a slacker I’ve still got a lot to strive for. But don’t think a day goes by that I don’t try my damnedest to achieve that elusive hipness. Like Jack Kerouac. Write this shit on a scroll. I’m just not quite there. Yet. That’s why I’m not looking to move anytime soon.
What I’m saying, residents of Brooklyn, hipsters, is embrace your cool. Don’t be afraid to wear it on your thread-bare, thrift-store shirt sleeve. Don’t be shy about being totally dope. Be proud. Proud of your unique outlook on life. Proud to drink a PBR. Proud to wear a pair of sunglasses inside. Proud to resent your parent’s money, but still use it for expensive purchases.
Being cool is what it’s all about. That’s why we live here in Brooklyn. That’s why we boast about living here in Brooklyn. That’s why we belong here in Brooklyn. Because Brooklyn is where the cool people are at. Or at least where they come to prove it.
