When I have some down time at work, I tend to cruise the web. I don’t look at anything dirty, mind you (the stinkin’ corporate firewall won’t let me); I just like to read various national and local publications online, from People to The Economist.I do this to keep my mind off the fact that I’m bored off my rear end.
One of the topics I’ve seen in just about every publication recently is what’s trendy in the hip kingdom across the Hudson from us Jerseyans (OK, I’m not reading about it in The Economist; they’re obsessed with that whole Iraq thingy). These articles detail how the directors of what’s cool and hip today, most of whom emanate from Gotham, seem to be changing their minds about what’s "in" almost on an hourly basis. In fact, one article had a headline that summed up the coolness movement in six perfect words: "Everything Is So Five Minutes Ago."
What strikes me about this information is how much irony is embedded in what is considered avant garde. Hipsters wear foam trucker hats, for instance, because they say stuff like "CAT," "John Deere," or "Peterbilt," vehicles that Starbucks-swilling urbanites would never recognize even if run over by one. But the irony involved is supposed to be hilarious. The humor, though, is about as subtle as an anvil. Yes, I know you’re wearing the name of a tractor on your head. Yes, I know you live in the city. I get it. I’m smiling on the inside.
I did think it was hilarious, however, when I found out that people were willing to pay a premium for the uncomfortable foam and mesh contraptions at such noted feed shops as Barney’s and Urban Outfitters.
There are other examples of irony with the hipster elite. Kitschy t-shirts with landscaping company logos or kiddie cartoon iron-ons, the consumption of blue-collar beers like Pabst Blue Ribbon, the growth of "Dukes of Hazzard"-style mutton chop sideburns for men, and prevalence of Farrah Fawcett-inspired hairstyles for women, are all elements of the current hipster uniform. The more authentically vintage (read: ratty and smelly) the item is, the cooler it’s supposed to be.
Where you buy these items is even more important than what you’re wearing. If you didn’t buy the item at a hole-in-the-wall thrift store in Alphabet City, Williamsburg, or the East Village, it’s not cool. Of course, the irony with that is that these previously-seedy neighborhoods in Manhattan and Brooklyn are now the hot places to live and shop. Williamsburg is the next Chelsea, Astoria is the next Williamsburg, and so on. I wouldn’t be surprised if I see an article in an upcoming issue of Time Out New York that says Bed-Stuy or Fort Apache is the next Astoria.
Because I go to the city frequently, I am witness to this parade of irony. New York has so much irony in the air, you can almost cut it with a spoon. People wear what they wear and drink what they drink to pay homage – or poke fun at, depending on who you talk to – fashions and pop culture trends of the past. They live where they live to appear cool, even though they’re in a one-room, fifth-floor walkup with occasional hot water.
What I realized after reading these articles, though, was how refreshingly free of irony New Jersey is. In the Garden State, people wear what they wear, eat what they eat, drink what they drink, and live where they live because they like it. It’s as simple as that.
I didn’t have to go further than a mile from my Morristown apartment to see a perfect example of this phenomenon, either. New Jersey’s lack of irony was in full force at a summertime concert by ’80s alt-rock band The Smithereens, held at a place called Double D’s Shark Bar.
For those not familiar with Morristown, Double D’s is an "adult entertainment complex" located within easy access of body shops, bail bondsmen, and the county jail. So right away, the location indicates that irony has taken a personal day. Even though the band played in a separate room and there were no dancers to be seen, it was still quite a different setting than the Bowery Ballroom or Irving Plaza in the city. How do I know this? Suffice it to say, I’ve never brought a wad of singles to a concert before (I didn’t use them, but I had them just in case I got bored between sets).
Additionally, the crowd itself was pretty much in a "come as you are" mode. I saw people wearing mullets, biker jackets, do-rags, Giants jerseys, tropical shirts, and all sorts of styles that no one who lived east of Secaucus would be caught dead wearing. Even those whose sense of style was more contemporary (read: post-1986) wore very simple clothes, hairstyles, and facial hair. I saw absolutely no one drinking a Pabst, because the bar didn’t even bother to carry it.
And you know what? The whole crowd was pretty darn relaxed. Of course, it’s pretty easy to guess why. No one was expending all their effort to look or sound hip. They weren’t drinking a crummy beer and getting headaches because it was "the thing to do." The absence of having to shoulder an image showed in their happy faces and their enthusiastic cheers.
The Smithereens enjoyed themselves, too, playing as loose and loud a set as I’ve ever heard them play. It was a fun Friday night all around. I didn’t even need to use any of my singles, although they later came in handy when I needed to go to the soda machine at work on Monday.
I will concede one thing about the hip and now, however; it makes a lot of people a LOT of money. Had I known they would come back in style, for instance, I would have saved my "Battlestar Galactica" t-shirts when I grew out of them 23 years ago. I could have sold them to a thrift shop in the East Village and made a NYU co-ed very happy.
Ah, I don’t want to think about it. I’m too busy thinking of which websites to visit tomorrow. Hmm, maybe I’ll start with The Onion…– Joel Keller