In which I shop at Urban Outfitters, drown in layers of irony, and hate myself.

What is it about shopping at Urban Outfitters that annoys me so much? I walk in, and am quickly drawn in by all the clothes and accessories that seem perfectly suited to my tastes. But then I look at other people around me to whom the clothing is also perfectly suited and I realize what a ridiculous hipster I am.
I have generally come to accept that I have morphed into a hipster since my move across the river. Somehow, despite my former disdain for leggings and the unflattering things they do for women with big butts, I now own 15 pairs of them. I go to Williamsburg to get my hair cut. When I go to said hipster salon, I show the stylist a picture of Zooey Deschanel. It's pretty much a done deal.

Yet when I enter an Urban Outfitters store, I see my sensibilities mirrored in ludicrous-looking people, and I am annoyed with myself. Why do I follow these ridiculous trends? Why am I seriously considering purchasing a straw top hat that in only a few months I will be filing under the "what was I thinking?" section of my wardrobe? Am I an individual who sets her own style, or just a poseur?

I take off the stupid straw hat and my eye is drawn to some beige canvas oxford-style shoes. A lanky young man in a purple cardigan is checking out the same shoes. I wonder if I am the bigger hipster for going for menswear-inspired shoes, despite the fact that he is the one contemplating ladies footwear.

Upstairs, I check out the assorted ironic knick-knacks. There is a miniature "deconstructed cuckoo clock" for sale, which is all white and has no cuckoo bird and does not in fact cuckoo.

My grandparents used to have a cuckoo clock in the upstairs hallway of their house. It was fun to play with but also right by a door that led to the attic, and I was terrified of what I imagined might be up there. So I associate cuckoo clocks with a creepy feeling. But now I feel that there is too much irony in a non-cuckoo cuckoo clock for my own good, so I move on.

Past the turntables, I catch a glimpse of a few boxes shoved into the sale section that promise to contain small black and white TVs. I honestly haven't seen one since my parents finally chucked theirs in 1992. The irony of selling one of these for $49.99 when eighteen years ago, you couldn't even give one away, is too much, even for me. I see why they are languishing in the sale section.

A vintage-looking bicycle catches my eye. It has a small basket attached to the front, and is painted green. It has a Parisian beauty to it, and I get closer to check it out, imagining my scarf blowing in the wind as I ride to the greenmarket. When I approach it, I see that a girl in a nautical striped dress and a blue straw boater hat is seriously pondering the bicycle, and I am instantly disgusted with myself for having fantasized about it. Girls who wear straw boaters pay $300 for a vintage-looking non-vintage bike. I am an artist, therefore I am above such impulses.

Except that I still think I would look really cool on that bike. Wearing that intensely stupid straw hat with a new pair of oxfords and a forties-inspired dress. I am attracted to clothing that will take me to other times and places, transforming me into something that I'm not, but at the same time I loathe my own predilection for weeds that will be languishing in Goodwill in a couple of years, until a few seasons later, when someone decides they are in style again. I wonder at my own unconscious willingness to conform. I have become what I am through osmosis. Am I really devoid of individuality?

As I stand at the cash register, I notice that they are selling Polaroid film, because of course it would be ironic to sell Polaroid cameras. The Polaroid film reassures me. It is something I would never buy, which I take as proof that at least I am not that much of a ridiculous hipster.

Why I Should't Write A Blog

I know what you're thinking. That I am another unpublished writer looking for an audience and self-affirmation. Well, it's not like that. For one, I am a (self) published (co-) author. http://www.wingsofglorybook.com/ A children's book is a small achievement, but nonetheless, some people have actually purchased a book containing something I wrote. The point is, I don't need an audience. I already have a captive audience- of children. Wait, that makes me sound like a kidnapper.

Okay, maybe this isn't going so well. I sound rather cocksure, don't I? I do need your attention, and I probably will use this as a test field for the novels I am writing. I just wanted to explain that my motives are somewhat different for blogging. Most people blog for enjoyment, but this is going to be punishing for me. A punishment I will enjoy complaining about.

That's the kind of person I am. I don't know how I would ever survive if I were wealthy and had nothing to complain about. I would probably still take the subway just to give myself a reason to live.
I have tried to keep blogs before, but I couldn't follow through with it. The confessional aspect of a blog just isn't my cup of tea. I don't like to reveal much about myself, or indeed acknowledge the existence of my blog. My last blog was mainly dedicated to reviewing Broadway shows while in previews, but I didn't have the connections or the money to continue it. So I tried harping on pop culture, but there are already too many people that do it far better than I do. What do I really have to offer as a blogger? I don't even like the word "blog." I find it annoying and unimaginative. There are so many options for expressing oneself. You can tweet, yelp, or buzz about something, but to blog sounds awfully dreary, as if you are going to drag your words across three thousand miles of frozen internet tundra.

But everyone has a blog. It's the cornerstone of one's personal brand. Ironically, where once a blog was considered the domain of lazy writers with no audience and not enough real work to occupy themselves, today, a writer must have a blog to be taken seriously. So I'm making an attempt to be serious. It's not going to be easy or fun, but I'm going to write these things and you're going to read them, and we'll both complain about it.

Here's to our budding relationship.

Signing off,

Brooklyn Sourpuss