HipsterBag 101
We haven’t featured pure Hipsterbags on the site in awhile, which is a shame as they’re one of the classic sub-branches of the UrbanBag genus within the douchebag species. Nothing sets the blood afire like Trustafarian hipsterbags pounding the Rolling Rocks and wearing the bowling t-shirt that has some ironic name like “Al” or “Tony” on it when their real name is Zach.
Enough, HipsterBags.
We don’t want to hear about the band you’re starting without a bass player but featuring your musically untrained Parsons classmate playing a 1982 Casio keyboard into a microphone.
We don’t want to read your ‘Zine.
We’re not going to invest in your web design company.
We don’t want to hear about the David Eggers reading at Barnes and Noble when you hooked up with “Teal,” smoked from a hookah at an outdoor cafe before retiring to her loft apartment to have unsatisfying sex to her Belle and Sebastian records. On vinyl.
Begone, HipsterBags. You are JoeyPorsche in a gas station t-shirt. Jersey scroad by way of premium Soho vintage shops.
