See and be scene

The unwashed showed up en masse on Sunday for the Livestock BBQ.  Even I was there!

There’s something to be said — too bad so many people have already said it — about how living in a city forces you to be more stylish than the ‘burbs.

Even so, at an event like Sunday’s, I tend to feel distinctly out of place.  I haven’t mastered the icy gaze, and I don’t think I’m likely to anytime soon, so even if my clothes don’t quite mark me as a hick from the sticks, my camera and my nervous giggle do.

As I mature, though, I care less and less about fitting in.  Maybe people who are constantly in search of a bigger and better party really are having a great time, but it all seems so desperate and sad to me.  Sit back!  Enjoy! Do you really need 1,000 photos of you hitting the beer bong to prove that you had fun last night?

Externalizing the self-loathing

A couple of minutes ago, I was head-bobbing and lip-syncing along to Wolf Parade’s “Shine a Light” when I felt a moment of panic — was anyone around? Would I get caught in my brief second of abandon? The thing is, I wasn’t embarrassed by my behaviour, but rather my choice of tunes. Would I get mocked for liking a band that is SO 2 years ago?

God, it’s times like these that I am absolutely repulsed by the person that I’ve become and the people whose opinions matter to me. Skinny jeans, scarves, heavy bangs, fucking indie rock — when did I turn into a hipster?

It started innocuously enough, my love of music, but that soon grew into an insatiable need to know the newest and best bands before anyone else. I wanted to be able to nod knowingly when someone mentioned a band, but I also wanted to wow them with my own knowledge. Being on the cutting edge is a heady feeling when you’re surrounded by a bunch of people with your same fucked-up sense of self worth.

Earning hipster cred means caring intensely that people think you’re cool, while at the same time acting like you don’t care at all, which is what the really cool people are capable of without even trying.

I’m trying to stop myself from equating my self-esteem with what people I don’t even know think of my taste in music or clothing, but I still have a bit of growing up to do.

And I fucking hate Dov Charney, so there.