Great Blog Alert: Look at this fucking hipster

a hipster picnic

I have my friend Nick to thank for introducing me to my latest internet obsession, the blog “Look at this Fucking Hipster.”  Are you routinely horrified by the sight of  emaciated, unemployed black-haired boys with mullets and mustaches?  Then this site is for you.

Don’t get me wrong, the sight of hipsters is usually a respite from the monotonous sea of grey slacks and blue shirts that are the unspoken dress code of men in corporate America.  However, there are also times when I look at these kids in their tight ass jeans an fake vintage shirts and wonder, “are eating disorders back in?”  But hipsterdom is about more than riding the L train in your really awesome plastic-framed glasses (even though you have 20/20 vision).  Apparently foresaking one’s upper middle-class values and sense of fashion is the new rebellion.  Foresaking one’s upper middle-class wealth and privilege, on the other hand, would be going too far.  American Apparel ain’t cheap afterall.  Or as the caption to one of the April 16th post puts it, “it’s really hard to be a pimp when all your bitches have trust funds.”

American Express wants you to leave home with out them, seriously- they’ll even give you $300

Well, that applies to some of you. Before jumping in, let me just say that I did not plan to post another entry on the dismal economy. I thought that maybe fashion week would be a more fun topic. But alas, one of my doom-and-gloom friends, who is also obsessed with the status halo that accompanies the Amex card, forwarded me a link to a very interesting move on the part of this once venerable company.

First, American Express conjured up a risk-assessment methodology that took into account where one shopped.That is, if you shopped at the same stores as other cardholders who had defaulted on their accounts at an inordinate rate, Amex might have snatched your card away. The press got hold of this, and the company backed-off. But that little centurion on the front of your Gold Card is a clever fellow. In an effort to clean its customer rolls of credit-unworthy customers, Amex is offering $300 for some of its members to pay off their balances and cancel their accounts within a specified time frame.

Somewhere in here is lesson about line extensions and brand dilution. Some time in the last decade or so, American Express seems to have shed some of its exclusiveness, extending itself to partnerships like Delta, and launching credit products that could be paid over time, unlike the traditional charge card, which must be paid in full each month. In the era of quickly rising home values, and seemingly limitless credit (i.e. like 2 years ago), the lure of all those potential customers must have seemed unbearable to those poor marketers at American Express. I supposed with the collapsed economy, folks aren’t so sure about mom and dad footing the bill for little Johnny’s “credit-building” experiment involving a flat screen television and gravity bong for his freshman year dorm room.

The funny thing about the $300 offer is that more like than not, the customers who are eligible for the offer probably are in no position to pay off their balances in just a few months. And those who are, probably don’t want to give up their cards.

Check out more on the Credit Matters blog.

The end of the Swiss bank account?

Well, no.  But as part of a lawsuit UBS has agreed to divulge the names of suspected tax evaders.  Is there no honor among thieves?  That’s a real disappointment.  I always had visions of one day slipping of to Zermatt after making a deposit with my private banker in Zurich.  I would not willfully defraud the government, per se, but I’m a little disappointed that the option is no longer there.  I supposed the Swiss still have the Alps, chocolate, watches, and a faint chance of the large hedron collider actually working, but I imagine there will be fewer  Maseratis crusing around Lake Geneva this summer.  Oh well, I guess there’s always Antigua.

Tyra learns a new phrase, “Gay for Pay”

This is old news, but let’s face it- of the perhaps 13 people who read this blog on any given week, 0 of them have the either the time or lack of brain activity to sit through an episode of The Tyra Banks Show. So chances are, you haven’t seen this

I really don’t want to be a hater. I really want to love Tyra Banks. She’s beautiful black woman (so like an old Michigan admissions officer I give her 10 points off the bat), and she’s managed to survive the decline of the fashion model era of the 90s. Compare her to say, Naomi Campbell who achievements after the height of her career include beating the help. (I love you too, Naomi, but keep your hands to your self.) I digress. Tyra has the fundamentals, but her show takes on issues that extend beyond her complexity as a hostess. That, and she’s always taking up valuable air time to layer on some peripherally relevant personal experience. We love you; we love America’s Next Top Model (the first two seasons, at least) We think you’re beautiful. But let’s face it, you’re not that interesting. And neither is some story about a random straight bartender hitting on you in a gay bar. Again, I digress. Like Tyra’s take on quasi-social issues, this blog suffers from a serious lack of focus.

You can pretty much find the whole episode in pieces on YouTube, but this gist of it is that Tyra basically asks the same questions over and over again, while her bemused audience oohs, ahhs, noos, and claps at all the right moments.  The whole thing was quite homophobic on many levels- but subtle all the same.  First there’s the audience full of catty single women who are visibly disgusted by the thought of seemingly straight men getting it on for a couple thousand bucks a pop on camera.  Then there are the guest themselves, some of which includes bartenders who bragged about how leading gay men on led to good tips.  Then finally, the only actual gay on the show, Sean Kennedy, admonishes the entire porn industry because it’s completely and utterly destructive and causes meth use.  Really? I believe lack of self-esteem or  direction might lead to drug use, not porn.  All the while, Tyra is clueless.  Like most occasions when I dare to watch daytime television (or catch it on the internet), I was left thinking, what is the point of all this? The show’s only success is in making a mockery of straight men who bugger each other for pay, the gay men who get off to it, and the silly girls in the audience who are dumbfounded by the whole thing.  At least I got a good quote from out of the show.  From the one allegedly heterosexual man in the entire audience, “No.  I don’t do nothin’ strange for a piece of change.”  In this economy, you may want to reconsider.

$500K/yr? Might as well be welfare

PRIVATE school: $32,000 a year per student.

Mortgage: $96,000 a year.

Co-op maintenance fee: $96,000 a year.

Nanny: $45,000 a year.

We are already at $269,000, and we haven’t even gotten to taxes yet.

- “You Try To Live in 500K in This Town” by Allen Salkin, NY Times, 2/6/09

If I have learned anything about money, it is this: people have a hard time cutting back. In fact, the few times that I have really tried to cut back spending (such as right now, since 2009 is the official year of thrift), it has mostly resulted in an exercise of delaying inevitable purchases or trading of wants. For example, I might not go out to eat for several weeks, only to drop a few hundred bucks at a Barney’s shoes sale while home for the holidays. To console my consumerist heart I fall back on some words of wisdom I received from a co-worker, “JSR, like my mother said- it’s a lot easier to make more money than spend less.”

Clearly those same banking executives also took heed of such advice, but now find themselves in a situation where making more money is not an option if their employers have taken advantage of TARP funds from Bailout Package Round I. Luckily, they’ve found a sympathetic ear in the NY Times writing staff. And really, we should have sympathy. It’s tough keeping 2 kids in private school, a $1.5MM home in Manhattan, a $4MM one in Southhampton, a driver, and a nanny.

Midway through the article, the journalist juxtaposes the seemingly obviously solution with the harsh realities of life in the upper echelon on New York society. 

“Sure, the solution may seem simple: move to Brooklyn or Hoboken, put the children in public schools and buy a MetroCard…”  Actually, let’s just stop right there.  That is the solution, and it’s pretty simple.  When making more money is no longer an option, one has no choice but to scale back.  Don’t worry, your children, your out-of-work nanny, and Harry Winston will understand.

White people, don’t touch my hair

Now, I must admit that I’m generally not that sensitive about people touching or asking questions about my hair, because it rarely happens.  My hair is by and large not that interesting.  I don’t have corn rows or an afro or dreds or a jerri curl.  It’s short, plain and professional (except for the 4-5 days before I get it cut).    So unlike my friends who have more “ethnic” hair, I didn’t grow up having to tell my classmates, “no, you can’t touch my hair.”  And while I have, on occasion, had to explain, “yes, I do wash my hair,” or “yes, I do have to brush it; it does make a difference,” touching was not much of an issue.

So, I wish someone would explain to me why in the last two weeks, two of my adult co-workers decided to rub there little pasty fingers on my head without provocation or invitation?  No, rubbing my head will not bring you “good luck,” as one of them suggested.  And quite frankly, I would think that it goes without saying that univited hair touching is socially improper.  My head is not an angora sweater; you are not allowed to rub or caress it.  WTF.

In addition to it just being an inappropriate invasion of my personal space, I thought there was a memo that went out (circa I don’t know, when you were in 7th grade) that informed your ignorant ass that black people do no like it when white people invite themselves to touch their hair.  It’s on par with defending yourself against charges of racism, by saying, “but I have black friends.”  In other words, if you have gone through puberty someone should have corrected you on this behavior by now.  It’s just that fundamental.  I understand that you like it, but it’s not okay.  At best, it’s a condescending display of your curiosity.  At worst, it’s grounds for me to snap your fucking fingers off.

If you’re taken aback by this, might I suggest a primer from my friends Johnny and Sally.  Their mode of communication is irony.  White people like irony, right?

Brown boxes at desk don’t affirm job security

In these recessionary times one must always be on the look out for signs of the axe- shifty gazes from your co-workers, severely limited project loads etc. As I don’t work for a company that makes its money on exotic financial instruments, construction, real estate or flat screen televisions, I figure my job isn’t high risk. But you never know…

As such, I was pretty damn scared for about 5 seconds when I returned to my desk this afternoon to find a stack of 4 brown boxes leaning against my file cabinet. There was no note, and one could logically construe the message to be, “Here you gou. Pack your shit and please leave your corporate card with the administrative assistant. Security will be here to escort you out shortly.” It turns out that I’m actually just moving cubicles- which is somewhat of an upgrade since my current cube is really a mini cube. Still, I’d rather not see any memos on pink paper or card board boxes until the Dow goes back above 10K, thank you.

Age of the marriage blog

First, I feel compelled to comment that I am not 100% past the fact that I may have reached the life stage that includes peer weddings. Despite that fact the within a three months’ time span I will have personally witnessed the nuptials of two weddings, while having to decline attendance at another, I’ve deluded myself into thinking that this is not a trend, per se, but a few early outliers. These friends who are so wildly in love as to change their tax statuses all reside south of the Mason Dixon line. And even though I live in Minnesota where the outlook on coupling is similar to say, North Carolina, true natives who can legally marry (non-homos) are not that well represented in my social circle. I figure the others will simple marry at later point in their life- when we realize that promiscuity, batshit crazy girlfriends/boyfriends, and life without children or Wustof knives – is a life we are willing to forsake. In other words when their “lights are on.”

So, imagine my surprise at not only participating in such ceremonies but having a mini bio of myself appear on a blog post entitled, "Other Wedding Participants," on my good friends’ wedding website. Aside from the economy-seating style classification implicit in the qualifier, other, it was little strange to see my adult life captured in a pithy little paragraph. Here’s John. He’s our friend. He has a degree and job and lives far away. Luckily, Kristi and Will are quite a bit more generous in their language than I might have been. Though honestly, their virtues extend beyond a few nice words and they truly deserve each other.

Alas, welcome to adulthood. Maybe I should fully embrace it. I like Crate and Barrel just as much as the next guy, and with Waterford Crystal going out of business, it’s probably as a good a time as any to engage in a little gift-giving whose reciprocal action will require a significant pay raise and an act of congress.

Not waiting for the other shoe to drop

I think someone at the secret service is about to lose his/her job. Yet, apparently, Bush is so happy to still be the leader of the free world that he’s all smiles.

Madison Avenue cuts back (kind of)

On the night of November 4th, I was as excited as anyone to go to my friends’ election party and watch history unfold. It’s official; America is not completely lacking in poor judgment (at least ~67 million of us aren’t). But with the passing of Prop 8, and Detroit on its knees, recently it’s felt like the day after the wedding, as my co-worker Molly puts it. I’ve never actually had a wedding myself. But I imagine that it’s this big whole exciting affair with friends, drink, a very expensive flowers. Then you wake up the next day, hungover, stuck with some very expensive apparel that you’ll never wear again, and depending on your relationship with the in-laws, quite possibly $50K in the hole. Welcome to November 18th, except the deficit is quite a bit larger.

That is of course, unless you’re seen on Madison Avenue shopping in the middle of the afternoon. Still, even the other half has to cut back a bit, just to be, “you know, a good person.”