Attack of the Hipsters

Every woman has her niche of attraction, the 45-year-old single bachelors, the 45-year-old not-so-single bachelors, the short Latino men, the investment banker players who are most likely defaulting on their Sports Club LA gym membership payments in these tough times, the back-rubbers in madras plaid, the red-faced Red Sox fans, the nerds with fashion sense (Threadless), the nerds without fashion sense (Hot Topic) and so on... Bridging the age and culture gap in what can most likely to be greatly attributed to the diplomacy of T & A, I generally attract the plus 40 crowd or the slightly nerdy international man. This has worked without much success in the past and I generally lament that I do not attract the kind of guy I would actually want to date.

Until this week.

This has been the week of the attack of the hipster. Even more so, this has been the week of the attack of the hipster who is already connected to my life in a strange, round-about way as both have dated two of my friends in the past. This is a shallow, shallow dating pool.



Fist came Comics, a tall nerdy boy who I've fairly sure has a different graphic t-shirt for everyday of the year and a secret stash of anime hidden under his carefully selected vinyl. Then came Urban Farmer, a hipster by way of the Midwest. He looks like he should smell like casseroles, Nascar and Coors Light when I'm sure he probably smells overwhelming of Marc Jacobs and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Somehow, I doubt either of these fine specimens and I are meant to be.

So, as the hipsters regale me with tales of the classical singers they have known, I find it very hard to maintain any semblance of interest. I'm fairly sure I stared off into space while conidering the complexities of dust bunnies while one yammered on about the glories of a certain singer who unbenonced to him is a friend of mine. Meanwhile, I couldn't help but think, "Sloppy seconds...Worse yet, sloppy seconds in overpriced-graphic t-shirts and arfully destroyed Chucks."

I wish I had something remarkably witty to add here, but instead I just have a bunch of questions.
Does knowing a part of someone's past change your perspective? How many degrees of seperation do you prefer between yourself and a paramour? And, is the smell of Marc Jacobs and PBR Tall Boys really all the bad?

Queen of Spades