pot calling the kettle calling the pot.

on July 4, i was wearing my "fucking hipster" shirt (mentioned here) and a hipster-looking nonhipster (can't fool me!), riding a skateboard, passed me, stopped, turned, pointed, and said "rad shirt."

excuse me, kind sir, but did you just say my shirt is rad? you with your stringy hair and too-big glasses and too-tight jeans and coiffed beard and breath smelling of hummus and italian coffee and brown loafers that are broken in just so and fantastic apartment in the lower haight?

you shouldn't like my shirt, my man. it goes against everything that you're trying to be. but thanks anyway for the compliment.

Farmer Brown's Little Skillet is nonhipster heaven

You might be a bona fide hipster if you're eating lunch at SF's Farmer Brown's Little Skillet, the chicken and waffles window near the ballpark in SOMA. If you wander down there on any given lunch day you'll see a swarm of plaid-clad twenty and thirtysomethings milling around, almost as though they work for some underground movie studio which has wrapped for lunch and then forgotten to bring out the craft service. If you're in that horde,yeah, you might be a hipster, but most likely you're not.

And here's how you can tell if you're not:
1)if you knew the daily specials before you got there bc you follow the place on Twitter
2)if you chat with the rest of your coworkers about IP addresses as you eat your chicken
3)if you ask if they take credit cards
4)you can't finish your waffles and are afraid to mix your meat and your syrup

Almost everyone eating there today was guilty of one of those hipster no-nos, but you know what? It was bliss. Fake hipster bliss.

And I'm covered in the chicken grease to prove it.