Hipsters at NYU?

Yesterday, @NYULocal (if you're not following them on twitter, do so promptly) tweeted: "Gallatin panel discussion tonight on, 'Hipster Culture and its Legacies.' I bet there'll be vegan cookies." (Props to witty references). A talk about hipsterdom: the "definition" of the NYU community. The NYU non-community. I had to go.

Hipster: The rebel. The creative. The fraud. The artsy. The different one. Beards. Moleskin journals. Skinny. Fake glasses. Hand me-downs. All of the above apply. But none give a proper definition.

Let me explain...

The discussion panel was led by three NYU professors-- sociologist Stephen Duncombe, Nina Cornyetz, Hallie Franks a

nd Becky Amato, who was also the mediator. Two of them are self-proclaimed hipsters.

Duncombe first introduced the concept of the bohemian as a way to contextualize hispterdom. The bohemian movement aroused in the Parisian art world in the mid 19th century as a form of rebellion to the bourgeoisie. Bohemians were everything the bourgeoisie were not--while the bourgeois was soft spoken and proper, the bohemian was loud and improper.

During the 1940's, as Duncombe explained, while segregation and racism were at it's height, the white took on the role of bourgeoise, and the black that of the bohemian-- the other. In 1944 the word hipster made its way to the dictionary and since then it has remained linked to the black culture.

The underlying idea is that the bohemian, the black, the HIPSTER is a definition of the self that arises as an opposition to another entity. Duncombe said it best, "It's a dance between two antagonists."

The hipster is born as a reaction against a counterpart--usually against the bigger fraction of society. Against the mainstream.

Franks contextualization went even father back in history. She referenced the Greek Empire and argued that Socrates himself was a hipster. The founder of western philosophy saw his fellow Athenians as selfish--readily concerned with wealth and pride-- and so he removed himself from his society. He distance himself from the theater culture which stood at the center of the male Athenian community.

An interesting theory. But nothing tops what came up next.

The entire room--

unsurprisingly "hipsters" in it's majority-- went silence as images of Asian girls, their faces covered with a metallic brown powder and their eye lids with a thick white paste, walked around the streets of Tokyo. (watch the youtube video here) Professor Cornyetz presented this video on the "Ganguro women"-- a 90's trend in Japan where women wore "westernized" sexy clothes, bleached and straightened their hair and wore massive amounts of dark make up in their face to resemble black faces in America.

Black skin in Japan obviously does not foster the same connotation as it does in the states. With the idea of Japanese having "yellow" skin, they are excluded from the white vs. black struggle.

The Ganguro come into effect as hipsters within their own culture. In Japanese culture the ideal beauty has always alluded to the whitening of the skin-- the Geishas. The black skin is a counteract to the idea of the beautiful woman. It's also a breaking point from Japanese traditional culture.

But we were there to talk about Brooklyn and having no money for rent. So why do we care about Bohemians, Socrates and wannabe black Asians? Because they were all rebelling against the norm and in doing so they trace back to the core of hipsterdom.

Transfer to 2010. Contemporary New York. What are Jack Kerouac's wonder children, who live on the other side of the river, rebelling against?

One student in the discussion said the rebellion is against the lack of interpersonal relations (facebook, twitter and the like have done a successful job at minimizing this type of rapport). This brings forth the idea of a "nostalgic pursuit", the quest for "what it was" which leads you to defy "what is." This might explain why vintage (i.e. previously worn items) might sell for more than brand new clothing.

The question of authenticity was also brought up. In the globalized world we live in-- where each time we resemble more to one another and cultures merge and disappear--wanting to be unique is not all that rare. And if in fact, we agree with the nostalgic argument, then hipsterdom, in the NY-NYU sense could almost be interpret as the one "culture" that is trying to preserve it's genuineness in the city's melting pot. Hipster's legitimacy lies at their never-ending quest to be different.

That. Or it could also be just a trend.

But the fact is the defining of one self is a lifelong pursuit. What's the point of rejecting society and the mainstream? Eventually the hip and the different become popular and conventional and we're back to where we started.

So, where does this leave us? If the hipster is the underdog, but I see them as the mainstream (especially in NY) who's the hipster? Them, me or you, who sees beyond the both of us?

So the question remains as Duncombe said -- "who is it that actually lives in Williamsburg?"

In the sprit of Valentines Day...

My family believes so firmly in the institution of marriage, most members have walked down the aisle multiple times. Divorce is just another way of making sure they can sign the wedding contract again.

There's a total of 13 divorces in a family where there's only 9 people eligible for marriage at the moment. Only two couples have managed to stick together in their first try. Relationships of the not-so-serious type are a commonality. Christmas is rarely spent with the same people. There's always a new face, a new name to learn. Boyfriends and girlfriends come and go. New wedding means new divorce. New divorce means new relationship. New relationship means new wedding. And so it goes.

I doubt it comes as a surprise for anyone what I'm going to say next. But from the bottom of my most cynical self... I do not, by any means, believe in eternal love. More importantly, I do not believe in the signing of a contract that forces love to be permanent.

As my genetics have taught me, I love love, love being loved, love loving, love the idea of love. But the idea of "forever" holds as much truth in my eyes, as the world being at the center of the universe did for Copernicus.

And if we can't decipher the meaning of eternity, what the hell are we doing giving love--the most asbtract feeling of all-- such a quality?

The idea of forever cuts away from the romanticism in a relationship. If it's a given that we're spending the rest of our lives with this same person, then why even try to make things more passionate? It's pointless, not to mention unnecessary, to want to make you're partner fall deeper in love. It's a contract and it's been signed. Sorry buddy. You're in this for the long run. Whether you're still loving me or not.

Let's be realistic. When the concept of marriage was invented, people lived shorter lives than we do today so they could actually bare with their companions. But now, an extra 25 years have been added to life and try being with the same person for 50 years. Every day, for ever. F-o-r e-e-v-e-r. Jeez.

If we get over heartbreaks, over people we were so in love with, then why would we believe that love is forever? By ourselves we have empirically proven otherwise. Love is fluid, it goes from one person to the next. Love is also circumstancial-- today you love someone because he listens to the same music you do, or because he sings well and you're into singers, or because you're into the way he dresses. But what if all of a sudden you decide you like a different type of music and singers aren't as cool as actors. Then what? Different circumstances, different feeling, different person to love. Or not to love. Bye bye plaid shirts, hello white v-necks.

After 13 divorces, it's been settled in my mind that love is as eternal, as the feeling is there and as long as you can't picture your life without your love. But, again, if the circumstances change, so might your feelings.

I don't oppose celebrating Valentine's Day. In fact, let's celebrate the fact that love exists. But don't get tide down to the idea that it must be for ever. Plus if the feeling is so great, why settle for one when we can have many loves?

Yes. It's freezing.

*Pictures were taken from my fire escape... below 14th street, of course.

MJ came back from the dead

Last Friday Chlo and I got crafty again. This time, it was for a better reason than Halloween, though. It was MJ's birthday and we decided to throw her a surprise party (which, if I might add, was extremely successful. I saw a few tears).

First of all, as proof that yours truly did in fact help with the decorations please check out the picture below. That's right, I cut those babies up my self. And no, that's not a silhouette of Jesus

(rule #1 no religiously themed parties are allowed in The Hallway). It's a carving of Michael Jackson's "This is It" pose. Michael Jackson--MJ--Maria Jose-- get it? The party was themed "MJ's not Dead" since MJ is in fact. Not dead. She's 21. And alive.

Barely, though.

As I said, it was a good party.

So MJ, the living one, had to leave an hour into the celebration in a quasi cadaveric state. Happy Birthday M! And, ironically enough, Chlo and I had an entire wall of our apartment that read--MJ's not dead. And random guys, who supposedly were friends of a friend of a friend but who no one really knew* were questioning our thematic.

Apparently the "Michael Jackson Greatest Hits" DVD that was playing in the TV the entire night was creepy and confusing. Not cool. Damn. So close.

It's all part of the syndrome that Chlo and I have coined as our "Misunderstood Brilliance"--parties and costumes that no one understands and that we believe should be reason enough for a Nobel Prize for Brilliancy.

Now that we've established that MJ's not dead and that brilliancy isn't always so obvious, let me tell you about the fire. I made the mistake of telling our Colombian guests that I had arepas. "We have to have one" they said in unison. Midway through the cooking my friend comes up to me and with a very non-chalant tone says "Lau, I think we have a problem in the kitchen." You think? Because there are flames coming out of the stove. And if my nose serves me right, that metal decaying smell is not exactly normal.

Tiff Almighty manages to put the fire off and, since neither the fire alarm nor the carbon monoxide detector work in The Hallway, the majority of the party remains unaware of the burning episode. Rule #2 If you're going to cook arepas, make sure to leave the door open. Just in case, you know, you have to sprint out.

So no more fire and no more toilet paper. Halfway through the party the toilet paper supply is gone. People going into the bathroom were using paper towels from the kitchen. Not a problem though, since our bathroom is so conveniently located inside the kitchen.

Our freezing kitchen. Which reminds me of our new roommate. Since Remy (the mouse) left, we needed a new friend, so we purchased R2D2-- our loyal and trustworthy heater. All night people congregated around him (her?) and by 4am what was left of the party was basically R2D2 and the random guys who, again, no one knew. Apparently we underestimated the success of "Misunderstood Brilliance."

But the party was not over. The next day the Herrera Clan (my super and his look-alike cousins) decide to stop by at 10am to put up our coat hanger. Oh yeah, we had 30 people over in the middle of winter and we had no coat hangers.

So the Herreras walk into a trashed apartment where everywhere you look there's pictures of MJ with falic drawings on its body. (This would be images of the late MJ. I would never put up falic pictures of the living MJ. I doubt she would approve of this.). Since I'm obviously still asleep and not even a bomb explosion would wake me up, it's Chlo's turn to let them in. Chlo who likes to sleep, well, with few clothes on. Welcome the Herreras. Make yourselves at home!

Rule #3 (Chlo) Make sure to put on clothes before opening the door to The Hallway.

* We accept and embrace, especially embrace, everyone at our parties. So if you're not invited to the next one, just show up. Just make sure that no one knows who you are.

La Guajira

Just when I thought I couldn't be more blown away by my own country, it surprised me again. If there's such a thing as the perfect place, I believe that paradise exists in the northern coast of Colombia.

La Guajira is absolutely magical. I felt it the minute I got to el Cabo de la Vela, a small town in the region where the sun doesn't stop shining until the stars make their way to cover the entirety of the sky at night. One after the other, shooting stars take over the coal-colored sphere. At nights, when you look towards the horizon, the curvature of the Earth is so visible, it feels like you're literally at the end of the world. Not quite falling off, but far enough from the rest of humanity to feel completely at peace.

Instead of sand, the beach is a gold color desert where the arid and dry lands seem so inhospitable that it's truly mind blowing how people live there. But, the natives-- most of them part of the wayuu tribe-- have created a life that fits into the hostile environment, rather than molding the land to fit their needs. The wayuu culture is very different from anything else in the country and they have fought to preserve their unique traditions. This respect and love for the land is proof that they have been successful in their attempt to conserve their lifestyle.

In the Cabo de La Vela, the wind hugs you the entire day, preventing the sun from becoming unbearably hot. At night, when you're resting in hammocks 20 meters away from the sea, it's the sound of the wind that puts you to sleep.

The days I spent in La Guajira, I forgot about time. In this place, where not much happens during the day, time works vertically. There's no after or before, no late nor early. Today is the same thing as tomorrow, as yesterday is the same thing as next week. No one rushes to do anything because the concept of lateness does not really exist. You are forced to live in the very present. Undoubtedly a change from my every day life.

A great change, that is.

Heartbreak

So you’ve heard I was infatuated and in love. Well, not so much anymore. There I was thinking love could last forever, when really only a month later I was back to feeling loveless. Eternal love was a mere holiday affair that quickly turned into a cold break up. So now I’m heartbroken. In a typical post-breakup state, I have been listening to music that reminds me of the times spent with my ex love. And, if it weren’t for the fact I am still suffering from severe repercussions of an intoxication produced by a garlic seasoned lobster two weeks ago, I would too, be eating my feelings away.

Translation: I’m homesick. I’m homesick like a six-year-old child who gets sent off to a camp in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin where she is the only person who does not speak English.

After spending two weeks in La Guajira, in the northern coast of Colombia-- the most beautiful place I have ever been to (if you don’t believe me wait for pictures that will come in the following blog post)--I arrived to NY last Tuesday night. From 15 days in a bikini and a pair of shorts (quiet literally. The same pair of shorts was worn every day) I had to step back into the freezing cold to wear my one winter jacket that makes me look like I am part of a baseball team. No, it’s not my senior jacket. But close enough and I hate it equally the same. On the bright side, it was the first time I walked into JFK and I was not stared at for the being the whitest (palest) person to step of a plane coming from Colombia.

But now the tan is gone. And how does NY receive me? The driver from the Super Shuttle van yells at me for eating a granola bar in the car. It wasn’t even the crunchy kind. It was a cereal bar, which leaves no crumbs so I don’t understand what the whole fuss was about.

To top off my homesickness, in comes my jealousy. Right about now my entire family is happily reunited in the beautiful sunny weather of my cousin’s summerhouse to celebrate my grandmother’s birthday. So my family excludes me. Great. Being Robi a smart man, he neglected to tell me this event was going to happen until my last day in Bogota. Nice move Robs. I would have, no questions asked, changed my ticket for this coming week.

Knowing about this party that I was excluded from I decided to get a little wild last night. However, I stepped out into the big apple nightlife just to be more disappointed than I was before. Explain to me, if you can, why is it that some clubs believe that it’s a good idea to cut songs half way through the lyrics? Just when I’m starting to feel the song, feeling the groove and getting my dance moves on, bam! The song switches to something else. Last night, 2 a.m. Sexy Bitch comes on. Trashy choice? Perhaps. But it was one of my road trip songs, so let me be sensitive for a minute. I step into the dance floor and by the look in my face everyone knew that clearly this song has touched a soft note. (God sometimes I’m even surprised by my music choices).

But then the DJ decides it’s appropriate to mix up the song, which ends up sounding like: “Se se seeee sexy bbb bb bitch sexy you sexy sexy bi bi bitch”. And when you thought it couldn’t get worse, the DJ throws you a surprise--an extra mix with One More Time which ends up with me trying to sing something that sounds somewhat like: “Se se sexy time. Uhuu One more Bitch. Sexy Bi Bi Bitch. One More Sexy Bitch Time.” Horrendous.

But then at 4 a.m. I am hungry and only in Manhattan can I find food (real food: vegetable soup and a chicken sandwich) at this hour. Then I walk into my building, which is slightly slanted to the right side and may or may not fall soon. Then into my apartment which is freezing cold because the heat doesn’t really work and weirdly enough I somehow remember why NY is in fact so charming.

Note to self: raise standards of a charming life.

Infatuation

Clearly the updating from home has been harder than I thought. Sorry… It´s been hectic, to say the least. But you know how I feel about the holidays and the Christmas nostalgia is starting to kick in so I guess it´s time to write.

Since Christmas is all about getting together with family and friends I deem it appropriate that we talk about love. So I´m completely infatuated--the type of love that´s kind of sickening. The one people ask you “what´s gotten into you?!” and you just kind of smile with a glee in your eyes and respond, “well, I´m in love.” That sounds so gay. But it´s true. So, who is this mystery person? No man. No woman either. I´m completely straight if you must know (and so is Lady Gaga in case you were wondering).

My love is no other than this god forsaken place I call home.

Were you expecting something more exciting? Well keep reading and you´ll understand why this place makes lovin so easy. (Yes, lovin).

You all know that I think “Colombia is the BEST place in the world.” (Quote me on that one). This is when people start rolling their eyes… yeah yeah Colombia is cool, whatever. No. It´s awesome. And why you haven´t been here is beyond me.

But more so than the country, which is already pretty fabulous, it´s its people. I don´t want to write a tear jerker here or anything like that, but it´s impossible to explain why this place is so amazing without talking about the people. Colombians are great.

First of all, we don´t need sleep (this has been proven these past six days with a total of around 20 hours of sleep). Not sleeping is pretty fabulous because there´s no chance of boredom when one´s up and about every minute of the day. Also, when you don´t sleep you start getting a little crazy. (I know this to be true since MJ decided to take it upon herself to experiment with this theory and pulled two all-nighters in a row. She was somewhat delusional, constantly saying some Asian guy named Yuki was following her). So everyone here is somewhat off. In a good way though. Trust me, it´s good for you to go crazy once in a while. New friendships tend to develop when one´s not completely sane. Or lucid.

So, Colombians. We like to party. That sounds terribly superficial. But, truth be told I´ve created the biggest connections with people at parties. There´s no inhibitions at parties and you discover another side to people during these situations. Well, that, plus the good music, the dressing up and the going crazy (in a different sense) is always fun. And when it comes to partying, Colombians are pretty good at it. But that and sanity, or lack off, is just one part of this love.

My infatuation with this place has to do primarily with the closeness between the people--between my friends and me. There´s just too much trust between all of us. Take my best guy friends for example whom I have known since 5th grade. They saw us go through the duck tits era. (Duck tits: direct Spanish translation. Picture boobs in the shape of ducks). Yes. We all went through that stage and they saw it. Any closer and you guys would be growing duck tits yourself.

Ladies, we suffered together through the duck tits era, so connection is stronger than anything. Isn´t it?

They know too much about me… could potentially be used against me. I can think of that one time when you all saw me pee my pants out of laughter (perhaps I´ll tell this story on a later post).

Oh, beautiful confidence.

For those who are not in Bogota right now… I miss you. For those who are in Bogota… let me sleep.

Merry Christmas fools!