I can’t even be ashamed about how much I love this song. It’s pure confection.
That got me thinking, you know? Because I have been firmly anti-TayTay since the beginning. She was too, ugh, mainstream. (Also, there was jealousy. Definitely some jealousy. Who is this songwriting chick from nowhere with the long blonde tresses being everything I wish in my soul of souls to be?)
Lately, though. Lately I have been feeling a need to jump on the Taylor Swift bandwagon. Maybe it’s her puma-love for the Kennedy child. Maybe it’s the new direction her music is taking. (I’ve mentioned before my excitement when artists evolve.) Maybe I’m just getting mellow in my old age. An infinity of maybes.
Despite distressingly alarming hipsterish tendencies (see above re: mainstream music), I have never considered myself to be one of that PBR-pounding crowd. I’m too fond of my New Yorker subscription, artisan cocktails and Ann Taylor coupons (flannel makes me shudder) to pay much attention to the otherwise accurate accusations flung my way. (But really, Self, even Poopface had an ironic beard and canvas shoes.) ((My only defense is that we had some really stimulating literary… discussions.)) (((Also. Guitar + Sweet tenor = Melted Penny. Just a molten pool of copper, over here.)))
My name is Penny, and I am a self-aware hipster.
I know, I know. The first rule of being a hipster is denying you’re a hipster.
My name is Penny, and I am an oxymoron.
And I am not the only walking contradiction. Polly loves both the Real Housewives and Nietzsche. Our friend from college disdains everything within a five mile radius while wearing bow ties, smoking cigars and drinking bourbon.
We are a new generation of hipster. Hipster aesthetes, if you will allow me the liberty of coining my own moniker.
Traditional (first gen) hipsters are notorious for their appreciation of all things underground and their simultaneous dismissal of popular culture. But have you noticed that with the advent of Urban Outfitters, et. al. being hipster has become a tad… well, there’s no other word for it: First Gen Hipsters (FGH) are mainstream. Everyone who is anyone knows all the words to the Bon Iver hits, has at least one flannel shirt, wears skinny jeans with slouchy ankle boots and oversized sweaters… They are in Vogue, for goddess’ sake.
Enter the Hipster Aesthete. This new, self-aware evolution of the FGH draws from all available resources in the popular culture cannon. The Aesthete’s mission is to establish that having taste isn’t about eschewing the mainstream, but rather drawing the cream to the top – whether this cream is already appreciated by the masses or struggling to get views on YouTube.
Honey Boo Boo child? Go ahead and hate on that, as previously discussed.
This new Taylor Swift song? It’s so perfectly manufactured to appeal to popular tastes that it deserves all of the love and airplay it’s going to get. (Appreciating the art of manufacturing appreciation – I’m so meta.)