There are those of you who can NOT use “hipster” as a derogative.
You, hirsute gent with the pea green tank top and shoulder bag with a seat belt buckle.
You, diminutive bearded man who wears a top hat and suspenders that is not from THAT part of Williamsburg.
You, girl, t-shirt, belt.
You two, snarking at Bedford Avenue only to get off the L train 3 stops later.
You, whose iPad cover is a red velvet book.
You, wearing a stocking hat in 70 degree weather with the clipboard and headset in the middle of the street telling me I can’t get coffee this way.
You, Sarah Vowell. We remember you.
You, who came to IKEA for the food.
You, Rosie the Riveter with guns on your chest tattoos. Yes I’m still looking.
You, black man with straw hat singing Michael Jackson post 92.
You, dyed redhead in pale blue glasses who wouldn’t shut up about living in North Carolina and that intentionally wore every pattern you owned.
You, any of you in red pants.
You, needing a ride to Austin once a year.
You, 30, panda backpack.
You, wearing your baseball cap to the side like CC Sabathia but could fit your entire coked up body in his left sleeve.
You, unshaven, fauxhawk and green hoodie, writing in your blog on the subway. So me too I guess.