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
They have flooded
the social networks
with the nastiest
and most painful
puss: the cult of
the self taken to
the level of
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.
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