A simple story about one of the greatest hipsters who ever lived … and the reality behind the facade of his particular brand of cool.
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Dave — one of the finest hipsters that the city of Portland, Oregon had ever produced — had the crowd at the house party eating out of his hand.
His frames were flawlessly authentic.
His philosophizing was effortless.
His posture … perfectly postmodern.
But as the can of Pabst Blue Ribbon slowly began to warm in his hand, Dave could not shake a deep sense of emptiness.
It was the same story wherever he went, everyone wanted a piece of him, he was talked about incessantly in elite hipster circles, he was completely put-together and utterly worshipped for his style.
This party was no different. He could see and feel the girls pulsing toward him, and the boys turning away in jealous detachment, then turning back for more.
The hours went on, and so did Dave. It became another successful night for The Great Hipster. His disciples would spread his gospel of cool in the cafes and bars of Portland for the next three days.
But when he got home that night, the acclaim, of course, had gone.
His apartment was decorated with Sartre, Foster Wallace, Camus, Seneca … all writers that he loved to discuss, and was getting around to reading.
He placed his non-prescription frames on his nightstand, undressed and lay the rest of his costume on the bed, and he became … just … Dave again.
He sat in his chair for a few hours, staring out the window, quietly smoking cigarettes from a bright yellow pack.
Dave sat wondering how someone like himself could be so celebrated for so very little cause.
And then he got back to preparing for his next night out.
Ninety-nine percent of advertising doesn’t sell much of anything.
– David Ogilvy