Aren't you on Pinterest? Well, then you're not up-to-date, you're a nobody, you're not hip. This social network, a huge Fotolog at the service of the vainest, is the subject of today's Down With Hipsters; the beast that has hipsters for breakfast.
The Victorian dolls are starting to cry tears of blood. Wood starts cracking, windows start clattering, the wind blows out the candle. Quick, shut the doors! You know that out there an evil being is moving around stealthily, a monstrous deformity ripped from the belly of a two-headed cow. The stench of its breath is unbearable, its hunger is insatiable. Tartar and blood between its teeth, the entrails of hipsters are rotting in its mouth. DWH, the gypsies and the palmists call it. DWH, the same abomination that sent Wes Anderson to hell, cursed the pet babies and all the other religious symbols that appear in the Holy Scriptures of Hipsterdom. Block the doors, don't make me repeat myself, the Son of the Morning Star is howling again, running through the woods leaving behind a trail of drool and poison.
"The hipster has shown no mercy with cyberspace. They have flooded the social networks with the nastiest and most painful puss: the cult of the self taken to the level of paroxysm"
Down With Hipsters is not a pretty sight. It's anguish and delirium. It's unlimited, visceral hate towards the hipster and itself. Deep down, we all have a hipster inside, yours truly is the first to admit it, and this whipping and self-cannibalism is just a sinner seeking redemption. The voices are hammering this writer's temples with increasing intensity, and this time even laudanum can't shut them up. DWH is screaming for justice with the tense ill-will that precedes any massacre. Locking the doors with chains won't help, there's no use blocking the windows with wooden boards and rubbing dill on the walls. The beast has sniffed out my fear from the dense forest. It's taken advantage of that weak spot in my psyche to take possession of my soul. It's the monster talking now, typing away, speaking to you.
It was bound to happen. It was inevitable that the hipsters would use the social networks for their own evil purposes. We've reached the point of no return. What was once a tool to communicate with a network of friends and share part of your private life with your loved ones, has become a parable of the myth of Narcissus that makes Cristiano Ronaldo's egocentric caprioles on the pitch (the claps on his impressive thigh after beating the Osasuna goalkeeper) seem like humble gestures.
The hipster has shown no mercy with cyberspace. They have flooded the social networks with the nastiest and most painful puss: the cult of the self taken to the level of paroxysm; the gratuitous and embarrassing elevation of the ego; simian masturbation whilst fantasising about yourself; wishing the entire Muslim world would pray in your direction instead of Mecca. Twitter, because of its idiosyncrasy and immediacy, is the part that suffered the least from the hipsters' actions. Luckily, the temple of the short phrase and the hash-tag has remained relatively free from the hipster flocks. The feeding of the ego takes place on more visual platforms with unlimited capacity. Until recently, Facebook was the best option to show your coolness and make you believe you are someone, but it isn't perfect. Something's missing for the hipster to really shine. It's too vulgar and it goes against one of the fundamental commandments of hipster self-vindication: 'Thou shalt only like what others do not'. Facebook smells of plebs, of groups of BFFs uploading pretty pictures of their school trip to Budapest; there are kids on there sticking photos on their page in between Spongebob episodes; hell, my mum's got a Facebook page. The hipster doesn't like feeling part of something that big, interacting with dodgy people, no, the hipster is a salmon swimming upstream. Smoke the bastard, I say.
Facebook no longer meets the requirements of the “Donnie Darko” disciples. In the hipster's brain, there are two contradictory impulses that aren't easy to satisfy in a place frequented by the mediocre: the aversion against all things mainstream, and the imperial need to feed the ego and get as many astonished, admiring looks possible. Bam. That's why they invented Pinterest, ideal to cushion the clash and put the minds of the cool at ease. Finally, there's a corner for the alert, the smart, the naughty, the trend-setters, the modern bohemians and the Portland indie chicks pouting and showing skin. It's a huge, unstoppably growing jungle, but it has a selective factor, an undetectable filter that works, a definitive hipster sieve. There's something here, and the best thing is that there's no room for Spongebob fans and brats and their school trip pictures. Or my mum. There's pedigree here. This is a swimming pool where hipsters can float guilt-free and show themselves in all their anti-waxing splendour. Right now, Pinterest is the answer to that 'I want a solution!' that has been going around in the virtual gossip shops of coolness.
"The hipster needs to get there before the rest of the herd, so he can moan about how pathetic the masses are, always arriving late."
This is the height of adoration of that golden calf that is the hipster ego. The name of the invention itself makes it clear that its contents are interesting. Pinterest. Do you feel it? Pinterest. Mmmm. Pinterest, god-dammit. It's like hearing a subliminal whisper, a mantra warning you: 'If you haven't got an account, you are no-one, ergo you are not interesting'. Pinterest. I want my piece of the Pinterest pie. I too want a virtual bench to pray to myself at. So I quickly got myself an account. My nephews are waiting outside their school building for me to pick them up, the bed's still unmade, I've got 78 missed calls, “The Voice” has finished, the pizza guy left the pie at the door, the world on my computer screen has fallen apart.
Urgency is vital in these days of rapid assimilation of trends by the masses. You have to be the first. The hipster needs to get there before the rest of the herd, so he can moan about how pathetic the masses are, always arriving late. 'I discovered Pinterest way before you did. You're late and you're soiling my territory. It was cool before, and now you've ruined it.' You know, the usual crap. Pinterest is blowing up, and its explosive growth is proof of its seductive power. It's a huge Fotolog with an air of sophistication and some very effective points of interest, a simple idea that has the potential of becoming a cash cow, a genius and evil idea that uses humanity's weakest point: vanity. We all suffer from it, we all cultivate it one way or another, but for hipsters, vanity is a hard drug, and Pinterest is their main pusher right now. But beware, don't be fooled by the inflation due to its expansion towards the mainstream. The hipsters have colonised their own sector, they built a fortress around their piece of land and their flag is flying in the wind. There's hissing and whispering in the underground, there are rumours about an underworld hidden somewhere in this new photographic ziggurat, causing a stir: they call it Hipsterest.
In truth, it was necessary to fully parasitise a space completely designed for the narcissistic nonsense of the cool people. A gigantic photo album, selectively viral and accessible at first sight, so that the rest of the mortals can look on as the hipster revels in his own glory, making faces, posing like a fool. Hairy bushes, eighties panties, guys with filthy looks reading graphic novels by Daniel Clowes on the beach, ridiculous hairdos, non-graduated, horn-rimmed (and very expensive) glasses, chin-stroking gazes, the most absurd styles that have exploded like a balloon full of blood on a white screen. This is an infinite photo album come massive social network. The bonfire of the cavities. A zoo, where hipsters can give it their all, because they know they're playing a home game. They love themselves, the bastards.
Hipsterest is the definitive platform for the cult of vanity, a bespoke Walhalla where hipsters can upload their most daring Polaroids and take their narcissistic impulses to unsuspected levels: half-naked guys doing tricks on a tricycle, silly girls sporting huge glasses, trucker caps, homeless trousers and smeared boots, staring into space. It's like a big contest of people who want to get a good beating by dressing like a crazy person and showing the world they're beyond any chromatic codes and aesthetic conventions.
Bloody hell, it's gotten out of hand. But hold on, this cool people's exhibitionist streak also benefits the voyeurs, tossers and meat hunters. In the world of professional flesh seekers it is widely known that the hipster chicks like to show their curves, their tats and their lingerie, so uploading such innocent pictures to Pinterest is like paradise for those who like to slowly relieve themselves in front of a screen. So, God bless the plague of the beardies and the worn-out shirts, because thanks to that we can sit back and enjoy the few, yet great, blessings of this orgy of egos. Countless hyenas are hiding in the dunes, their index fingers on the mouse and a whole universe of compulsive wow! in front of them. Why deny it, if to see those delicious post-adolescent beauties in all their female splendour we have to put up with the need for notoriety of their boyfriends, so be it. It's an ill-judged hipster that throws nobody any good.