Carles has been actively lobbying his readers for the title, and is handily walking away with the vote with hanging chads falling out of the pockets of his (alleged) skinny jeans. Are you going to let this happen to Kari Farrell, who not only lived the hipster lifestyle, but also ran away with all their cash? Or Dov Charney, who clad suburban regiments in the uniform of the Hipster Youth? Or Princess Coldstare who singlehandedly caused the Great Blizzard of 2009 with her icy gaze when she found out she was losing the contest to a blogging upstart?

It appears that Gawker's Hipster of the Decade contest is like a trucker hat. First the hipsters think it's trashy, then they ironically love it, and then they hate it for being played. Right now we are in the second phase. Next week — when we close the voting — they'll be selling it at Hot Topic and 14-year-olds will be wearing it to middle school.

Street Boners and TV Carnage points out that Vice's sellout supreme (hey, I'd take the money too!) Gavin McInnes thought the whole thing was "gay" until he found out he was losing to Carles. When the Boner Boys asked McInnes why we should all vote for him his response was, "I don't know. I'll piss in a bowl of Corn Flakes and eat it." We would say that was definitely "gay," except we once saw someone do that on stage at The Cock when means it's so gay without quotation marks so it can't be "gay," so it must be "hetero" or maybe "breeder?" God, this self-referential irony thing is making my head hurt.

Just go and vote, OK. Democracy is so old it's cool again, like a satin Mets jacket that says Buster on it that you bought at Beacon's Closet.

Because, come on—Carles and Kari are totally hipsters-come-lately. Gavin McInnes gave them an ethos, and Dov sold that ethos back to them while touching many of them inappropriately and unwelcomely. Carles just makes fun of them and Kari just stole from them.

We should also seek to celebrate the semi-anonymous ones who truly represent what it meant to be young and trust-funded on Driggs in 2003! A vote for Truck Guy or the Williamsburg Hair Man is a vote for the common hipster!

And before you start your preaching, let me ask you this my friend: Have you forgotten Princess Cold Stare?

Please vote again, lamestains.

For a "membership fee" of $590/month, happy campers may rent one-person campers (currently parked in a dreary warehouse, but to relocate to a grassy knoll beside a nut roasting factory this spring) and will get electricity, wifi, furnishings, and access to a darkroom, wood shop, recording studio, ceramics studio, and a thousand other perks that would actually be pretty fun if you didn't have to share them with a bunch of deodorant-averse urban gypsies living in trailers.

Also, you are probably not cool enough to get in. Ringleader Hayden Cummings explains to Rented Spaces that the Nut Factory trailer park has a vetting process, and will only admit "folks who believe in the vision and are excited to contribute ideas, share knowledge, help organize, decorate and bring in others to make this something extraordinary." What's more, the community will be non-smoking and pet-free, which will harsh many a hipster mellow, particularly of those planning to use their camper-roof "community gardens" for the universally acknowledged true purpose of communal living: facilitating the growth and consumption of weed.

[RentedSpace] [Craigslist]

Kari Ferrell: She is the Hipster Grifter. Discovered by Doree and metamorphosed into a star, and then a convict, and now an ex-convict, and still a star. Read all about her. Korean Abdul-Jabbar.


Gavin McInnes: Vice co-founder turned corporate ad man. Non-voter. Fighter. Drug-involved human. A mixed bag of hot peppers. Gavin McInnes.


Carles of Hipster Runoff: Yea, so, Carles does Hipster Runoff, and maybe some other shit? Carles.


Paul Sevigny: Beatrice Inn impresario. Brother of Chloe. King of the high class hipster diaspora. Savior of Atlantic City (ha). Paul Sevigny.


Dash Snow: Downtown icon. Photographer and semen artist killed by heroin at the tender age of 27. The unintentional Basquiat of a messy subculture. Sacer Irak.


Dov Charney: Pervy American Apparel CEO. Stands squarely at the intersection of hipster and douchebag. Gurl U no U no who he iz. Dov C.


The MisShapes: Leigh Lezark-led black-clad DJ trio. Pied pipers of the Blue States Lose crowd. Asymmetrical. The MisShapes.


The Williamsburg Hair Man: Once known only by a crude marker drawing, he was later spotted and photographed in a Greenpoint coffee shop. His name is Chris and he seems like a nice guy. Everyone admires his verve. Chris, the Williamsburg Hair Man.


Angel Hess, of the Purple Truck: Became a media darling for his spartan lifestyle based in a purple bread truck in Williamsburg. He was friendly, but the world was too cruel; somebody hijacked his truck, in a faraway land. There's probably a metaphor somewhere in there. Angel Hess and his Purple Truck.


The Concept of the Black Hipster: Hey, isn't it kind of racist just to list "black hipsters" as an entire concept, rather than as a vague and near-meaningless category composed of actual individuals, many of whom are probably just as mockable as our other contestants here? Yes. Yes it is. Black hipsters are out there, if you look close! Blipsters.

If you have some nominees of your own, please suggest them in comments. We might add them to the poll. Now go vote!

That's right, Seed is a horrible awful mad robot brain that comes up with headlines based on the things that people are searching for on the internet. If this were an old library, they would take the most worn cards out of card catalog and cut them up to create little ransom notes. Once the headlines are made, it asks the fledgling writers at home to write articles based on them so that they'll have plenty of fresh content to feed all their starving websites. This will crush all our souls, and the only thing we have to combat it with is poetry so that this beast will come to a creaking, grinding halt, like the Tin Man before Dorothy found him. Let us see how the ax falls today.

Mismatched Plates*

If we spent more time together,
I think you'd really like me,
I'll take you to the Tastee Diner
oh so quaint and quirky.

We pick on the pretentious waiters
dressed like they're on the street
and when ask what we'll be eating,
we'll order something sweet

Like pie or ice cream or chocolate
mocha cream tarts
and when it gets to the table
that's my favorite part.

Cause nothing comes on the same
saucer, plate, or tray.
"LOOK AT ME I'M DIFFERENT!"
the china seems to say.

The flotsom flatware tries so hard
like a hipster on parade
that I wish I could blow it all up
with a glittery grenade.

But instead I grab your right knee
beneath the table top
and when my hand moves thighward
you don't make me stop.

Your corduroys are soft and fleshy
I want in them soon,
And none of this bullshit will matter
when the dish runs away
with the spoon.

Original, actual assignment: What can you do with a set of mismatched dishes if you don't want to serve on them? Can you decorate your home with them? How? Can you make something with them? What? TARGET KEYWORDS: crafts. OTHER: Use embedded links where appropriate, with preference for links to relevant AOL properties. TONE: Friendly, informative, authoritative but not intimidating. SUGGESTED LENGTH: 300 Words. PAYS: $25 USD.

[Image via Catskills Grrl's Flickr]

Merry Christmas, media people with jobs! You made it to the next round of evolution, which is letting your nails rip off as you cling to the side of a ship gone vertical in 2010! We're all going to be falling into The Borg anyway, so you have two options: feed it poetry or get really fucking drunk. What do you think most people did? Some people did both!

Page Six has a report from the Vogue and Elle parties. The one night a year Andre Leon Talley takes off the stilettos and cuts a rug won't go unnoticed by the gossipy masses. Holler for a dollar, ladies. Who's got it this year? The answer may SHOCK YOU:

Elle staffers had a lot of Christmas cheer at the magazine's holiday party at SL in the Meatpacking District. "It was the first time in history that we beat Vogue in overall ad pages for the entire year, so everyone was in a really good mood," said one attendee. "People were doing 'The Worm' and dancing to Lady Gaga. There was even a walk-off."

The worm?! Lady Gaga?!? Risque. They might've even taken some stuff from the fashion closet for tonight! Or even crazier: abstained from doing so! Nuts. Media people just get more and more hardcore as the years move forward.

But Page Six gotta pay penance to the queen, nahmean? Anna had to throw down, right? Same item:

But the mood was no less festive at Vogue's party on the top floor bar of the Standard Hotel. "It was a very glamorous night," says a spy. "I think everyone's just glad the year is over."

AW, SHIT, SON. Vogue booked the Boom Boom Room for their party. The Boom Boom Room is basically the toughest door in New York right now. They've turned rejection into a refined art. If you don't feel ugly after they're done with you, someone's losing their job. Fun fact! The re-Tweeted Tweeter, "International Party Boy" David Gómez V. (?!) deleted the original Tweet, probably because he fears the wrath of Anna (or because he didn't get in!). Love Twitter. Love it. For whatever it's worth, there's not much out there on Twitter about the Vogue party, either because (A) they all live in fear of Anna or (B) they don't really want word getting out that they had their party at the priciest room in the city, Boom Boom (note that the Page Six item doesn't call it by name; why?). Either way, it was probably a great, boring time with lots of pretty people and their scared assistants fetching them Acai-laced vodka or whatever. The IAC party, on the other hand?

RAGER. At IAC, Empress Barry Diller and Queen Beard Diane Von Fursternburg held court with the kids from The Daily Beast, College Humor, uh, and the hardcore partiers at Zwinky.com, whatever the shit that is. We have reports of dancing, a macaroni bar, a sushi bar, and Barry Diller personally filling and huffing nitrous balloons with the Vimeo kids while laughing about that stupid ass Capital Records lawsuit. Also, this person was very excited about DJing.

Some people go into the IAC party with hopes and dreams.

Some people consider their stock.

Others simply wake up with dreams...of greasy food.

And if you're Ars Technica writer Casey Johnson, your nightmare's just begun.

But the real gold comes in the form of the IAC photo booth shots. I mean, if you want to see people get progressively more drunk with their overlords, this is it. Check out these kids grabbing Barry and Diane Von Furstenburg into the shot with them. GENIUS. Just look at it again. These guys win the night. For the record, the guy in the specs is Henry Seltzer, the original Gawker intern. And the one at front is Bryan Curtis, ex-Slate. Media people! They get around.

Lady Beast of the Day Tina Brown, make the kissy face like the kids do!

Also, kudos to whoever did the photobooth for keeping up the pics of the kids just absolutely sloshed on booze and whatever synthetics were in the house that night. I could be wrong, but this would appear to be ketamine.

This would appear to be simply "shitface drunk."

And this would appear to be College Humor's Jake Hurwitz and Amir Blumenfeld.

Aw. Ricky Van Veen and his date are CUTE. Warm your cold holiday sobriety with that, graduates. ALSO, isn't that his ex, Annamarie Tendler, and isn't he kinda dating Guest of a Guest's Rachelle Hruska these days? Who knows?! I don't. UPDATE: How wrong I was! They're not dating.NOW YOU KNOW. We all do. News you can use. Etc.

Do we have a Ben Silverman? Or are they just raising an army of guys who look like this?

Want to know what the VBS.tv party was like? Hold your breath until you get to the Music Hall of Williamsburg; wait in line to get a beer, end up getting tequila. Drink too much of it until you walk, stumble, or fall down three flight of stairs while Small Black plays in the background. When you get to the bottom, realize that everyone left because nobody was doing drugs. Make sure you have your belongings with you and at least one of the two people you came with, and go home. I'm serious. I tried to smoke inside and I was told to put it out. What kind of fucking VICE holiday party is that?! FAIL. Suroosh Alvi and Shane Smith were there, though. That was impressive.

Meanwhile, what about this here company? No significant reports emerged from our party, go figure. I was there and out of respect to my holiday party circuit media cred, did not Tweet or Foursquare my location out to others. However, I did report on the ______ party elsewhere, and I have to say, it was a pretty good time, and I have yet to hear about someone puking up that beet salad. So, there's that. People are still getting their employees drunk, and, you know, if you can't take that as a sign of optimism, what else do you have? I mean, really? What else is there?

That said, I was two months old when the original came out. So maybe I can't relate, OLD PEOPLE. But I do know this: Fucked Up, the kid from Vampire Weekend, Andrew W.K., Bob Mould, Teagan and Sara, GZA, Yo La Tengo, David Cross, Kevin Drew of Broken Social Scene, and TV on the Radio's Kyp Malone rock the everloving cocks off of every washed up octogenarian on the original. Except for the guys from Big Country.

For you OLD PEOPLE, I will quickly explain who these mostly YOUNG "HIPSTER" PEOPLE are very quickly:

Fucked Up: Epic loud fat hairy hipsters.
Vampire Weekend: Graceland-obsessed Columbia graduate/N+1 reading hipsters.
David Cross: Comedian hipster.
Yo La Tengo: Original hipsters.
Broken Social Scene: Canadian hipsters.
Bob Mould: Geriatric hipster.
Andrew W.K.: PartyBro rock hipster.
Teagan and Sara: Hot lesbian hipsters.
GZA: Wu-Tang Clan-member, rap deemed safe for consumption by hipsters.
TV On The Radio: Only the best band in the universe, DAD.

Observe. Turn the volume up LOUD because that's how it's supposed to be listened to and you'll need it EXTRA LOUD because your ears don't work anymore:

It's also to benefit three very good Canadian charities working to help victims of domestic violence and you can buy it here on your iTunes store, where people buy MP3s, which are like phonographs but are abstract and still play music. Crazy, huh gramps?

Here. Remember what it was like to feel hope, you sad, pathetic old fart:

Objectively speaking, some 24 year-olds repainting bike lanes on the street ranks in the bottom 10% of New York crime stories on any given day. But since they are HIPSTERS who love to ride bikes battling THE JEWS who hate hipsters and their immodest bike-riding attire, there in Williamsburg, in a sexxxy culture clash, well then. Two bike lane repainters got arrested and now the cultural martyrdom grows deeper:

"We're self-hating Jewish hipsters," Hechtropf joked last night as the two walked out of the 90th Precinct with desk-appearance tickets.
"They handcuffed us," Piccochi complained.

The Post gets a culture clash angle and a hipster entitlement angle all in two short quotes! In all seriousness, hearing every "square" news outlet saying "hipster" as they report this story really hammers home the point of how annoying it probably is when we say "hipster," all the time. You have our apologies.

From the Guardian, who snaffled it in turn from a book called Straight From the Fridge, A Dictionary of Hipster Slang by Max Decharne.

(On a related note: we, and by we I mean I, need a new term to refer to scene-y people in lower Manhattan between the ages of 18 and 40. You know, the ones who used to go to Beatrice and the Jane and are referred to as hipsters even though they never use any of the below phraseology. Place suggestions in the box. Thanks.)

BARBECUE:

A hot-looking lady.

BOIL MY CABBAGE:

Blues slang for sex.

BUCKET OF BLOOD:

A spit and sawdust bar.

BUNK HABIT:

Lounging around while others smoke opium, and inhaling the fumes.

BUTTER-AND-EGG:

Out-of-town sucker, free with his money.

CHICAGO OVERCOAT:

Coffin.

CHICAGO LIGHTNING:

Gunfire.

COLD MEAT PARTY

A funeral.

COMMUNITY JOY RIDE

A druggie party.

DEAD SOLDIERS

Empty beer bottles.

DIME DROPPER

An informer (someone who drops a dime in payphone to call the cops).

FACE LIKE A RUSSIAN FLAG

Embarrassed, ie red.

FLORIDA HONEYMOON

A dirty weekend.

FREE TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT

Out of work, unemployed.

HAEMOPHILIA OF THE LARYNX

A blabbermouth.

HARLEM SUNSET

Knife wounds.

HAVE ONE ON THE CITY

Drink some water.

HOT SQUAT/JUICE JOLT

The electric chair.

JACK RABBIT BLOOD

Habitual prison escaper.

KNOW YOUR GROCERIES

Be hip, aware, alert to the situation.

LONGHAIRS

Non-hipsters, squares, lovers of straight music.

MATTRESS ROUTE

Sleeping your way to the top.

MOOSE-EYES

A leering dude.

OLD ENOUGH TO VOTE

Vintage liquor or wine.

PREPARING BAIT

Putting on makeup.

PULLING THE DUTCH ACT

Committing suicide.

RIDING ACADEMY

Brothel.

ROUNDHEELS

Party girl (deriving from a supposed natural ability to regularly fall over backwards).

THE SCRAMBLE EGG TREATMENT

A sex show.

SCREWED, BLUED AND TATTOOED

A wild night out.

SINHOUND

A priest.

SNIFFING ARIZONA PERFUME

Going to the gas chamber.

STRAIGHT FROM THE FRIDGE

Cool. Obviously.

TAKEN OFF THE PAYROLL

Killed/assassinated.

THAT VIBRATES ME

I'm impressed, I really like it.

THROW THAT DIRT IN YOUR FACE

Being buried.

TORSO-TOSSER

Hootchie-coochie dancer, stripper.

VOMIT ON THE TABLE

Speak up.

WEEK AT THE KNEES

Unsuccessful courtship.

YOUR ROOF IS LEAKING

You're a bit crazy.

Big Pork demands that Neighborhoodies cease and desist selling this hot, tasty shirt at once, lest the public become confused about which animal does, in fact, constitute an appropriately pale substitute for chicken.

This has been a harrowing week for Hoodie Nation, with setbacks that make the Democratic Party's election losses look like a day at the beach. First off there was the stunning news that hipster warhorse HBO's Flight of the Conchords show might have reached the end of its run.

And now on the heels of that debacle comes word that Fox Searchlight, distributor of Gentleman Broncos, the new film by Napoleon Dynamite director Jared Hess, featuring(!) for the love of God(!), Conchord Jermaine Clement, is pulling the plug on the film's national release, after its one week run in LA and New York.

The film seemingly had everything; a plotline built around a young fantasy fiction writer, exotic 70's costumes, characters with funny pets — all created by the auteur of the Quirky Filmmakers Bible Napoleon Dynamite. But after a week in New York and LA where it did so-so box office and received miserable reviews from critics who are clearly just jealous, Searchlight decided to stop the bleeding and forgo the expense of a national release.

And to add insult to injury, the news first leaked out on Roger Ebert's Twitter feed of all the non-hipster places (although Ebert tweeting has just about come full circle now and is scheduled to be cool again sometime mid-to-late next week).

So for Hoodie pundits, there are several ways to spin this news. Putting on our Hoodie Pundit pom-pomed ski cap, first of all, just getting real, who cares if people outside of New York and Los Angeles see it? I mean, why were we going to show Broncos to them in the first place? Do those people even understand what quirk is? Do they even know that back in the early 80's people wore Members Only jackets and what that meant? So seriously, hell with them.

Second, looking at the big picture, let's not forget that quirk remains an extremely viable artform; (500) Days of Summer has grossed almost $50 million to date. Owl City is at the top of the record charts. The Fantastic Mr. Fox is being well received. And Jason Schwartzman's show was just renewed by HBO. So there is no cause for panic. While we can all admit, these events did not go as we would have liked, the state of Hoodie Nation is strong and still on its way to being the majority party of pop culture for decades to come.

Third, you can't beat something with nothing. You want to knock off the Quirkers but with what? Hip Hop? Maybe if you can open a time portal back to 2003. Country? I don't think Taylor Swift would last five seconds on the mean streets of Williamsburg. Emo has been co-opted...So what else've you got?
No movement around has the stature to take on Hoodie Nation, to challenge it block to block, apartment to apartment for the rulership of America's cool people.

They may say Quirk is over; but in the eyes of its people, it's just getting started.

Morgan hangs out for a bit with the "Last Crack Hipster," a 30 year-old L.E.S. graffiti writer (this piece originally said he's in the Disco Vandals crew, but that line seems to have been deleted now) who somehow got convinced crack was the last transgressive drug, after yuppies claimed coke and heroin got passé. He's convince crack's not as bad as it's made out to be; then again, he's a crackhead. Let's hope this is the last crack hipster. Jesus.

When you're smoking crack, ideally you want to keep the flame on the crack and away from the Chore Boy: You want the rock to heat up and cook down into it. It starts to melt and then it slides down and that's when you go boom and level it out so it stays right at the screen. It's right there bubbling and you're not sucking like a cigarette or a joint; you're basically like inhaling as little as you can. You just want to direct the flow into your mouth; you don't want to suck the liquid down. Once the burning crack passes through the Chore Boy, it smokes as it cools. That's the smoke that you want. Most people don't seem to get that. It looks like the crack is gone, but you can kind of see it in there, in the Chore Boy, ideally it sits there and bubbles. The brown juice that drips down and looks like a film of motor oil on the side of the glass is the crack rock's sweet nectar.

The crack hipsters obviously missed the lesson of hip hop, which is that Crack is Wack. Thank you. This is a great, stomach-churning piece of crack journalism. CRACK, UGH, god, go straight to hell, collect $200 and spend it on crack. Read it.
[Pic: caruba]

ITEM ONE: Bucky Turco, the Hipster Grifter's official prison pen pal, is now also pen pals with Jerzy Mitchell, who is Kari Ferrell's cell mate. He posted a letter from her today. Go read it or you will be slightly less prepared when the Hipster Grifter Jeopardy category shows up.

ITEM TWO: Burning Angel's Joanna Angel says that she would be very enthusiastic about engaging in conjugal relations with Kari, on video. So. Just something to consider.