Why People Hate Hipsters Part 1.

Why People Hate Hipsters Part 1.

June 14, 2013


By Ezekiel Tyrus





May 16, 2013, Thursday, I got off work at The Beat Museum in North Beach and walked over to the office space that I maintain at The Sestri Hotel. While there, I received a text from dear friend, (and local celebrity; playwright, performance artist, personality) –S.K.


Basically his text told me he was in North Beach by City Lights Bookstore for the book release of 'Tales of the Cacophony Society' and wanted to know if I wanted to meet up for a quick bite, S. texted that he wasn’t going to have time for a lengthy sit-down dinner, but maybe a quick pizza slice?


I was hungry and texted him to meet me at The Loving Hut, an odd and tasty vegan restaurant that this non-vegan often craves for some strange reason. It’s run by a religious-cult that worships a short squat old Asian woman with a particularly bad blond dye job. I love it there.


After waiting about 20 minutes or so in front of the vegan Goddess worshippers, and my texts to S. going unanswered, I started to feel bad for insisting S. meet me at a restaurant. S. wanted to be at the event, not having a lengthy dinner and conversation with me. What was I thinking?


I still wanted to see S. to personally say thank you for a recent favor he did for me, and perhaps we could make a date for a future dinner.


I knew The Cacophony Society was huge and had been around along time but I had no idea the event at City Lights was going to be so crowded. Seeing this kind of turnout for a reading is awesome. Inspiring.


In front of City Lights was a scruffy young man carrying a sign that read, “GOD HATES FACTS.”


In the pizza place on the corner before you get to the famous bookstore I spotted from behind, her spiky blond hair a trademark, T., a San Francisco theater-owner I see too infrequently. I called out her name and T. turned around and smiled and gave me a deep all-consuming hug, “Hey, Zeke,you live in these neck-of-the-woods, don’t you?”


“I live here part of the week and with my girlfriend in the Tender-Nob the rest. You know, I’ve got a novel getting published in July.”


Enthusiastically, “I know. S. told me. I can’t wait to read it. S. said it’s really great.”


“Aw, thanks. Wow. Have you seen S.? I’m looking for him.”


“Oh, he’s around. I just saw him.”


“Cool.”


T. was hanging with a beautiful young woman who smiled at me warmly. We were introduced, shook hands and then I was off. I do wish I saw T. more often.


I couldn’t believe how crowded it was. Bodies were walking in and out of City Lights which was filled to capacity and walking to Vusivio’s, where the bouncer is a buddy of mine, the door wide-open like a backyard house-party with people walking back and forth between the two and forming crowds in Jack Kerouac alley and on the sidewalk. The reading inside City Lights was being filmed with a screen displayed on the side of the bookstore in the alley. Amazing.


S. is 6’3” with shaggy bright blond hair noticeable and outstanding inside a crowd. Looking for my friend in the bar, then the alley, the sidewalk and after I stood a few moments in the bookstore doorway, I turned around to go outside to look elsewhere when I got bombarded by the rudest woman I’ve met in a long, long time.


“Hey, what are you doing here? You don’t belong here. You looked totally lost like some dumb tourist, like you’re in shock. Does all this offend you?”


“Excuse me?”


“Yeah. You’re a tourist, right? What are you doing? Looking for your car?”


“You think I’m a tourist?”


She mumbled something about me being a tourist because of the expression on my face and the fact I was wearing a black jacket that had the word SAN FRANCISCO written on it.


I asked her how long she had been living in San Francisco?


She said I was too ‘mainstream-looking.’


I asked her again how long she had been in San Francisco. (Very few people are actually from San Francisco.)


“Since 1998.”


“Well, honey,” I said, “I’ve been here since 1995.”


Then she got angry, raising her voice, “So! Do you think that makes you cooler than me? I came here from Berkeley!”


“No, lady. I don’t even think like that. But it proves I’m not a fucking tourist.” I already disliked this very juvenile woman but intuition told me she knew my friend.


“I’m looking for somebody. I’m looking for S. Have you seen him?”


With laughter and disgust, Miss Charmless accused me of lying. “You don’t know S.,” more laughter, “you don’t know S. You’re too mainstream-looking.”


What the fuck does that mean?


I was wearing faded blue jeans, carpenter-style, Rockport sneakers, a black clingy jacket with SAN FRANCISCO written on the right breast, a white thermal shirt and a red knit cap on my bald head, a well-trimmed beard, my nose had been broken 3 times and looks it and there’s a noticeable scar piercing the front of my right eyebrow I got from a fistfight I started in Florida and lost.


This woman looked like a middle-aged 40something Shelly Long, the actress who played Diane Chambers on Cheers. She may have gotten her clothes at the Salvation Army for all I know. They were nondescript and neither fashionable, nor trendy. Just clothes with a wimpy sweater with buttons that some substitute teacher would wear, there was nothing about her that was stylish or attractive. She had long dirty-blond straight hair that she wore sensibly with no body or waves.


She had an unfriendly, aggressive face. Even if she had not been so rude, her looks did nothing for me. I did not find her attractive nor was she a sort I’d strike up a conversation with her at a bar.


Your average Leper has a greater fashion sense than I do but there’s no explanation as to why I was so ‘mainstream-looking’ but this boring Shelly Long-looking 40something substitute teacher was on the zeitgeist of underground culture?


I told her I was an old friend and that I owed S. a favor. She still insisted I didn’t know S., I was too ‘mainstream-looking’ and that S. wouldn’t hang with guys like me.


I told her I owed S. a favor and wanted to see him and was going to ask her one last time if she knew where he was.

Still challenging me, she wanted to know why I owed him a favor. I told her that S. had recently read an uncorrected proof of a novel I had written and gave it a blurb and though the book has since been sent to a professional editor and proofreader, S. took it upon himself to catch every typo that caught his eye, something he didn’t have to do. It was my intention to give S. a bear hug, a big thank you, and I was going to make some future dinner plans or possibly buy him a drink tonight. For the last time, did she know where he was?


She shook her head quietly.


Enter Jeff B.


As I stood on the sidewalk, staring back at the crowd inside City Lights, Jeff B., one of the managers at City Lights arrived walking his bicycle and stood in between Miss Charmless and I.


“Hey, Jeff.”


“Hey, Zeke.”


“Can you believe this crowd, man?”

Then Jeff told me he’s here on his night off because his co-workers were going to need help closing.


We shared a laugh and carefully, Jeff walked into the store carrying his bike. I had no idea where he was going to put it. There was virtually no room inside the store to stand. Crazy.


Without saying anything, I turned around to go look for you-know-who when Miss Charmless said in a girlish voice, “Wait, wait, tell me about your novel.”


I turned around, everybody is a potential sell but I don’t take shit from anybody. “Are you going to be cool? Are you going to be respectful? Are you going to be rude and bust my balls like you have been doing?”


Sweetly, “Oh, no, I’m going to be cool. Tell me about it.”


Big sigh, “Shortly after I stopped living at Theater Spanganga in the early 2000s,” she noticeably reacted when I mentioned the theater S. use to own, “I found myself in a relationship with a woman whose last name is my first name. Our friends speculated that we hooked up to say our own names during sex.” She laughed. “Now this young woman had the bad manners to break-up with me on the same day I got fired from a sales job. In the novel the protagonist’s name is Eli, E.L.I. and his girlfriend’s last name is Ely. E.L.Y. The title is 'Eli,Ely.' My full name is Ezekiel Tyrus. I think you’ll like it. There are characters loosely based on people that you know like S. K. One of the themes of the novel is living in San Francisco. There’s a Hemlock Tavern scene, a Diva’s scene, a Bondage-A-Go-Go scene where I once worked as a dancer and a Power Exchange scene where I once worked as a bouncer.”


“Oh, I use to go to Bondage A-Go-Go and The Power Exchange in the 90s.”


I said nothing but rolled my eyes and thought, “Whatever,” but also felt a need to say, “By the way, I feel I must emphasize that I’m not self-publishing. I’m being paid to publish. Not paying to publish.”


Surprised, “That makes a difference in this town.”


I hoped this was the end of our dialogue. I turned away from her, my hands in my pockets and stood on the sidewalk with my back turned towards the street, and sideways away from her, and scanned the crowd looking for my tall friend’s blond hair.


Miss Charmless stuck out her hand, “My name’s D. G.”


“Nice to meet you,” despite the fact it wasn’t nice meeting her. “You can call me Zeke.”


As I stood there, she started talking about A. B. for some reason. I have met A. a handful of times. She seems nice but I’m rather indifferent and don’t know why D. Charmless brought her up.


Did she want to know whether or not I knew the woman?


Then I decided to test her myself. Was she a writer, a performer, or just some scenester, some hipster hanger-oner?


Did she ever do any writing and performing with Popcorn Anti-Theater? She said No but she knew H. C. and genuinely loved him and supported him.


I’ve known H. for years and he’d be a hard guy to love but I kept that to myself. Instead, I casually mentioned I was one of the original performers of Popcorn Anti-Theater in the 90s.


Oh, she said, as I watched the wheels spinning in her vapid elitist brain, taking me all in, changing her opinion of who I might and might not be.


D. then suggested we walk to the alley.


I thought for a moment, …“Sure,” perhaps I’d finally see S.


It was now after 9:30 and I had not eaten since that morning. My stomach was empty and my head was gaining a starvation headache.


I was impressed by the screen in Jack Kerouac alley and the fans watching the image with various whoops and hollers, seeing people so excited for a book is a turn-on for any writer.


I don’t do fantasy novels myself but when the entire world was going ape-shit for Harry Potter, I was delighted. Anything that encourages reading is a good thing.


I then turned to the pretentious woman standing next to me. How interesting was she?


“Did you know Paul Addis?” (A notorious San Francisco performance artist who had recently taken his own life.)


Immediately she looked at me like she was going to cry. D. nodded her head slowly.


If she assumed we were going to bond over the loss of a mutual friend, she thought wrong.


“I knew Paul Addis well-enough that I didn’t like the guy.”


D. surprised me by laughing.


“Hey,” I asked, “Do you have any tattoos?”


“No but I like to look at them.”


I laughed and proceeded to take off my jacket and started rolling up my sleeves.


Altogether, I’ve got about 30 tattoos, many of them inspired by literature and almost all of them being a type of print.


Visibly surprised by my extensive ink, upon seeing Jack Kerouac’s image on my forearm, D. gave a little squeal, literally grabbing my tattoo with her fingers as if squeezing the Beat writer’s cheeks.


I told her I worked part time at The Beat Museum. “Come by Thursday,” I said. “I’m there all day Thursday.”


Impressed, excited by all this. Delighted, even.


On my other arm, she noticed bold black text that read, Write Like Markson, and asked what that tattoo was about.


That tattoo is a personal mantra for me. It’s a reference to Post-Modern writer David Markson who is a personal idol of mine.


After explaining this to D., I asked her in a voice dripping with bitchy sarcasm that evidently she was too clueless to hear, “I’m sorry. Am I being too mainstream for you?”


“No,” she said, “but I’m beginning to think you are pretty cool despite the way you look.”


Did she really say that?


Enter some old coot.


Seconds after insulting me for what wouldn’t be the last time D. introduces me to some old coot. I didn’t know the man and I was trying so hard to keep my temper in check, I never bothered to memorize the man’s name upon introduction. He was considerably overweight. Fat. Her wore jeans with a leather belt and over-sized belt-buckle. He also had on a thick vest jacket, wide glasses, a white trimmed beard and the kind of inexpensive SF baseball caps that sell at Walgreens for 3.99.


After introductions, Miss Charmless said to the old coot, “Yeah, Zeke here is actually pretty hip though you’d never know if by looking at him.”


What the fuck? Who the fuck does she think she is?


What was so special about the way Miss Charmless and the old coot look like compared to me? There were people at this event wearing vintage suits and sporting intricate moustaches, beards and hairstyles but there was nothing extraordinary about these two. Nothing. They could’ve been a pair of boring suburban neighbors carpooling to a PTA meeting.


D. offered to give the old coot a ride home. I was now angry and starving, not a good place to be but I continued to bite my tongue and shook her hand when D. said she was going to stop by The Beat Museum some Thursday to say Hi.


I wanted to tell her to fuck-off but also wanted to understand why a woman her age would behave in such an immature, laughably pretentious manner.


The two left and I went to Chinatown and ate some Szechuan Shrimp.


When I got home that night, I located D. G. on Facebook. It wasn’t hard. We have more than 10 friends in common. I put in a friend request. She accepted within minutes. Shortly afterwards, I wrote the following:



Our interaction last night will make it into my next book. Please be honest, were you simply practising hipster discrimination, making fun of strangers, or were you flirting? I'm not here to judge you. I'd just like to know for a future project.

Best, Zeke



D. G. wrote back:



I was doing both. I find men thrill to my acerbic wit. See it worked; you are thinking of a clever way to ask me out now. D. 415-xxx-xxxx.



Horrified, I replied:



(big sigh) D., I contacted you via FB to find out what your intentions were when you started fucking with me that night. I thought you were being very rude, condescending but not very surprising or different from other dealings I've had with The Burning Man Crowd. I've never been to Burning Man for the simple fact I'm not an outdoorsy person but I've got old friends in this town (S.,) & some of my favorite people, (T.) who are passionate about Burning Man. I support them 100% and love them.


I was there to meet S. I needed to say ‘Hi, Thank you,’ give him a big grateful hug and though he was probably too occupied to run off and grab a bite, we could make arrangements later. (Seriously, he's an old friend and I owe him a favor.) It was after 8pm when you saw me and I hadn't eaten all-day and I was starving. When I walked out of City Lights, where I know most of the staff, you immediately started acting like the coolest kids at school (which is how The Burning Man crowd behaves often enough.)


You accused me of being 'too mainstream-looking,' (when there's nothing extraordinary about the way you look or dress) and of being a tourist based on my shocked-expression. (Perhaps I was looking for somebody and starving?)


When I pointed out I had lived in San Francisco longer than you, you got strangely defensive. "Does that make you cooler than me cause you've been here longer?!" No, honey. It proves I'm not a tourist. ...I don't even think that way. I'm too old. Who is cooler than who? Who gives a fuck?


You accused me of lying when I said I was looking for S.


I don't believe you were flirting. You were too surprised when I told you I was one of the original performers at Popcorn Theater. You were too surprised when I told I use to live at Theater Spanganga You were too surprised when I mentioned I've got a novel coming out and it isn't self-published. You were too surprised when I mentioned I worked PT at The Beat Museum and had two arms covered with Literary tattoos. You were too surprised when I mentioned Paul Addis and disclosed I knew him well enough that I didn't like the man. I can feel sorry for his death but he was a mentally-ill Napoleon with Delusions of Grandeur who was enabled by his friends, who once walked up to me when I was working as a bouncer somewhere, tweaking hard and weighing a solid 85 pounds, mumbled something incoherently, slapped me in my chest and then walked away flipping me off in the process. Another time he walked up to me and said, "Check this out," and bent over lifting his shirt to show me a handgun strapped to his lower back.


You were prepared to make fun of me as a mainstream, fearful tourist because that's what you perceived me to be. You are a little long in the tooth to be acting like you're still in high school. You don't know me. I've had 3 one-man shows in this town, have performed at Fringe, and have been in this town long enough that my friends and enemies include some of San Francisco's most famous and infamous.


D., I am first and foremost an artist. Being a member of a scene doesn't automatically make you an artist.


Later, you introduced me to some old coot wearing a vest jacket and the kind of inexpensive baseball caps you buy at Walgreens and said to the old man, "This is Zeke. He's pretty hip though you'd never know it by looking at him."


What the fuck, D.?


I was not impressed with your behavior or attitude at all.


What is forgivable in a teenager or a college student is really unattractive on somebody past 40.


"A clever way to ask you out?" I've had the same girlfriend for 4 years and I love her. It's common knowledge I primarily date women of color; African-American, Asian, Latinas. My current girlfriend is Japanese and Italian and though we've been going together for 4 years she's only 24 to my 41.


(Yeah, I know. I'm not opposed to dating women close to my age but I've never dated anybody older than 25.)


Michelle is an artist and more photogenic than most models and I begged my publisher to use her as a model forthe cover of my novel and they agreed. Look at my profile and check out her pictures.


Look, we can still be friends. Stop by The Beat Museum. Say Hi. Read my book. You know some of the characters portrayed in the book and know the locations well. I know you'll love the book,really, even if we never become friends.


I added you on FB because I wanted to find out why you were so aggressively dismissive and rude to me. Telling some other friends about it last night, they made me feel stupid for not just telling you to fuck off and walking away. I'm glad I spoke to you after you were being a bitch and even educating you not to judge by appearances (though you should have learned that 20plus years ago.)


We can still be friends and if we see each other again it'll be cordial and respectful.


Best, Zeke


--- After that, D. just blocked me off her friend list.


It amused me. So she can dish it out but can’t take it. Seen it once, seen it …


The entire episode epitomizes why people hate hipsters.


1. They’re mean. (She felt justified to treat me with hostile contempt because D. assumed I was a shocked-faced tourist. What if I was? Has she never been a lost tourist? Is she positive she’s never going to be one in her life? What if we all treated tourists like that? People would be afraid to travel. That’s just bullying.)


2. The adolescent desire to be the coolest kids at school. (There were moments during my encounter with D. where I felt like I had walked into an after-school special about a new kid being harassed at his new school, only the actors portraying the students were all in their 40s. It shows a lack of maturity and a lack of character.)


3. Judge by appearance and if you don’t conform to their idea of non-conformity. (This needs no explanation or example. What was interesting about my encounter with this hipster, D. G., is there was nothing interesting about her appearance. She wasn’t even good-looking nor a stylish dresser.)


4. A ridiculous sense of exclusivity. (Hipsters have convinced themselves that only they know a particular band, only they’ve read a particular book, or have attended an event, or concert, and that only they know a certain individual or artist. D. G. accused me of not knowing a particular individual who happens to be a San Francisco playwright, literally calling me a liar because only she and her exceptionally cool friends would know S., not a mainstream-looking guy like me.)


5. Confuse being a part of a scene with being an artist. (A hipster thinks having good taste in music and having a nice music collection somehow makes them a musician. An artist must create art. Otherwise, you’re just part of a scene.)