WHEREAS original 1940's and 50's hipsters were marked by a Kerouacian beatified outward plunge into and regard for the world and all encompassed by it, from mountains to every kind of person everywhere, the current version of hipsterdom is manifested by nothing so much as self-regard, self-love. "Aren't we wonderful?" their every narcissistic gesture and ironic smirk says to everyone else. They consider themselves incorruptible gods, their entitlement their due, their every word special because it's theirs, while the world outside their circle is an inferior place either to be graced with their occasional presence, or dismissed, satirized, or ignored. Do you see them on their higher plane, the clean and saved, of liberal speciality, wearing white robes? They're not human, because human beings are flawed.
This is the impression one receives, anyway, when encountering hipsters in their bubbled habitat, whether in overpriced gentrified bars or in the pages of smug journals like The Believer and n+1.
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