Who Are You Calling a Hipster?

Suburban hipsters. Is such a thing possible?

The other day I was at in Moon Township for a baptism celebration.  I was mingling, doing my thing, when someone on the staff referred to me as a “hipster.”

Me? A hipster? How?

I don’t wear black-rimmed glasses. I don’t wear Members Only jackets. I don’t wear two different socks in an attempt to show the ideological differences between God and music.

How exactly am I a hipster?

I quickly went to my iPhone and looked up the the definition on the Webster’s website.

Hipster - noun /ˈhipstər/ - A person who follows the latest trends and fashions.

Excuse me while I laugh out loud or as a tweener would write, “LOL."

Anyone who really knows me well knows that I do not follow “the latest trends and fashions." Well, I might follow them in the sense that I read fashion magazines because they are the only reading material in my bathroom, but I certainly do not purchase “the latest trends and fashions." I can’t afford it.

I am stand-up comic, columnist, actress who lives in Robinson Township. You do the math.

Is it possible to be a hipster and live in the suburbs?  Isn’t a suburban hipster by definition an oxymoron? If I were a hipster, wouldn’t I be living in a studio apartment in Lawrenceville, waiting for my parental capitalists to pay my rent and not washing my clothes.

Why am I asking you all of these questions? You didn’t call me a hipster. The bartender at Jackson’s did. I just want to know why.

I’ll describe what I was wearing and perhaps you can give me better insight. I was wearing ripped jeans, saddle shoes, a David Bowie t-shirt and a Madras blazer.

Classy, huh?

Okay, well maybe it’s not classy. Nor is it appropriate attire for a baptism, but it is appropriate attire for Jackson’s. Plus, here is the logic behind the outfit. I wore the madras blazer because it’s my go-to party jacket. The saddle shoes are my favorite pair of dress shoes that I own. I bought them in 1997 for my high school senior pictures (I didn’t realize that they don’t photograph your feet. My error.). The ripped jeans were my attempt to humble the outfit so that it did not come off too preppy. And the Bowie shirt, well, come on. This is the Pittsburgh region. Classic rock shirts are pretty much a staple of any resident’s attire.

Check and mate!

I don’t know. After writing this column, I’m starting to think the bartender at Jackson’s was on to something, rather than being on something.

Perhaps he was hitting on me?

Doubtful.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I am some weird cross-breed of a suburbanite and a hipster. A suburban hipster. Suburbanite in the sense that I hang out at the Robinson Giant Eagle and I’m afraid to ride public transportation. Hipster in the sense that I dress like a gypsy.

Regardless, I’m sure the bartender at Jackson’s meant well.  Even if he didn’t, I don’t care. Nothing and I mean nothing is getting in the way of my enjoyment of their hamburger served on a pretzel roll.  In fact, I’m declaring it the official food of the suburban hipster. Hipburban? Subipster?