The Hipster's Diminishing Cultural Capital

A review of the new book “Whiter Shades of Pale” has me lamenting the continuous barrage of self definition and satirical placement white people love. The author of “Stuff White People Like” may have a point in mocking his fellow whitey, but in a way, isn’t he perpetuating the system? White people love to feel guilty about being white. An essay in the New York Times discussing “the hipster,” examines how this has occurred.

De gustibus non est disputandum, or, concerning matters of taste there is no dispute. The hipster and the modern white person show that there is. Elevation of one and suppression of another is what being human is about, but what if, instead of feeling a sense of superiority or political correctness, we could simply observe and appreciate the average lower-class and the aging middle class hipster, in the same non-disparaging way?
  
We know that there are levels of quality in everything, but to justify our knowledge of quality over others is the mark of Bourdieu’s “cultural capital.” We want to prove to ourselves that we deserve what we have because of what we know, and that those below us economically must know less. In fact, they know about different things, or perhaps have learned the same things in a different way. True artists  should be able to appreciate all kinds of people and ideas without condescending or pretending, or even feeling layers of guilt for political incorrectness. That should replace the ironical self-consciousness of postmodernism.

The Hep-Cat Manifesto

Now that the new year is well under way, it is time for the world to understand the meaning of "hep." As this decade progresses, our movement will blossom. Join and see.
Below is the hipster. Everything is only for the image. He is holding a trusty trust fund check from his parents, wears beat-up old Vans. He skates; or at least pretends to. He lives in Brooklyn with a bunch of other bandmates, and they make music that no one buys and play at shows that no one attends except neighborhood deadheads. His bed is his favorite place; he is exclusive, and is resentful of everyone he doesn't know. He slouches continually, is always aware despite his appearance of insouciance, and is extremely rude. He is promiscuous and close with his friends. He has a lot of money, an ambiguous job, and secretly likes chick flicks. Also, he is obsessed with macaroni and cheese and video games.

We are the hep-cats and we're bringing the small town to the big city. We are inclusive, kind, congenial; we smile when we make eye contact, and nod -- it's not the half smile of yes I'm noticing your existence and trying to be polite about it, but a real smile of, gorgeous day to be alive idn't it? We aren't bored and listless with our trust fund money, if we have trust fund money we're grateful for it and keep our family close for it. We don't make you a present of our opinions in a priggish, too-cool fashion; we discuss and debate, we read poetry and literature, drink espresso in one shot and if we're in the mood to sip, order macchiatos. We value substance over style, but we keep it fresh too; to describe our fashion would be only to limit and stereotype it, let's just say we dig on plaid. This is the era of the hep-cats.