A good place to view hipsters in their native environment is any eatery with decent music. I occasionally indulge in effort-free breakfasts on drowsy Sundays, and therefore am required to stray into either geriatric or hipster territory. One particular Sunday, we're seated at the bar -- traditionally a hipster-free area at the brunch hour, since hipsters require a table to take breakfast over the course of seven hours, 300 cigarettes, and endless blathering -- when my friend was overheard by a bartender (a hipster, natch) dismissing some lame band as "pure hipster bullshit." The sleeve-tattoo/complicated hat/vintage shirt/gross jeans guy enters our conversation with this nugget: "I'm so over hipsters."
I almost fell off the damn stool laughing. But wasn't I embarrassed when it turned out that the bartender wasn't purveying a choice Zing! at all. His use of topical lingo touchstone "I'm so over" was a sure sign of latent hipsterism, and used to decry hipsters no less, giving his statement near-toxic levels of hilarious irony coming from this uncloseted doofus. It was extra-funny that he'd go the extra mile by using dated hipster lingo, as well. But I'll be goddamned: He was sincerely complaining. Like that coke dealer in my neighborhood who called the cops on my roof party. What the shit?
Given the hipster's love of wearing t-shirts featuring bands they don't actually like -- what? you don't really like BulletBoys? oh, the trenchant commentary! -- the hipster has alarmingly little grasp of real, live irony. Perhaps the species is so evolved that only third- and fourth-tier irony registers; it's not enough to wear the BulletBoys shirt, one must actually become a member of BulletBoys to achieve full ir-rection.