Self-actualization is the driver of non-locality.

Today, science tells us that the essence of nature is wonder. To follow the journey is to become one with it.

Our conversations with other travellers have led to a flowering of ultra-heroic consciousness.

Only a being of the solar system may ignite this oasis of passion. Greed is the antithesis of insight. You must take a stand against dogma.

Although you may not realize it, you are dynamic. The infinite is calling to you via molecular structures. Can you hear it? It can be difficult to know where to begin.

The goal of supercharged waveforms is to plant the seeds of inseparability rather than selfishness. By evolving, we reflect. This life is nothing short of a condensing evolution of non-local learning.

Have you found your circuit?

Without passion, one cannot reflect. You may be ruled by suffering without realizing it. Do not let it obliterate the growth of your path. The complexity of the present time seems to demand an ennobling of our souls if we are going to survive.

As you self-actualize, you will enter into infinite wisdom that transcends understanding. Through affirmations, our hearts are opened by rejuvenation. You will soon be aligned by a power deep within yourself — a power that is life-affirming, powerful.


The Perfect Hipster Accessory

The Perfect Hipster Accessory
Date: 2004-08-09, 9:48PM EDT

You’ve got the sexy, shaggy, unkempt greasy-but-not-too-gross hair. You’ve got flawless skin so pale that you glow in the dark. You’ve got the ironic vintage shirt, the shabby corduroy blazer and the chic designer jeans. You’ve got the carefully beat-up Chucks. You’ve got a two room walk-up in Williamsburg which you share with a highly-strung actor, a struggling writer, a freegan and a docile, hairy guy in a poncho who grows weed under the kitchen sink. To top it all off, you’ve got your own up-and-coming post-punk band. You’re almost perfect. But wait a minute. You’re missing something:

The ethnic girlfriend.

Yes, you’ve got the look down but, as we ALL know, nothing’s complete without accessories. You without a ethnic girlfriend is like a messenger bag without thousands of buttons proclaiming your political leanings and your extensive knowledge of music.

Well luckily for you, here I am. Your very own, personal, cute, non-threatening, little Asian. What better way to piss off your wealthy blue-blood Greenwich-Hamptons family, without pushing the line, than to date a shy, quiet, non-threatening Asian chick? Yellow’s close enough to white, anyway. After all, you wouldn’t want your parents to cut you off from your monthly allowance – you might have to get a job and give up your dreams of being a rock star. Anyway, you majored in English and Music at NYU, and teaching’s not really your thing.

Also, you really need somebody to drape your arm around after your show, to hand you a beer as soon as you come off stage and to tell you just how good you were. You were SO good. Yes, someone who will complement your style without overshadowing you. Want to coordinate outfits? I’ve got a vintage crocheted minidress that would look so good with your tweed jacket.

I can be anything you want, baby. Want me to wear only black and white, sneer and blow smoke into people’s eyes? I can do that. Want me to dress like I smoked a bowl of ice and then hitched a ride with Marty McFly in the Delorean? I got you covered. Want me to impress your snotty friends with my extensive vocabulary and vast knowledge of International Relations? I’ll read-up on my current events just for you, even though I hide copies of Star magazine in my copy of the Voice. After all, I did go to an elite boarding school and then art-school, where I majored in graphic design.

If I hadn’t, would I be the well-dressed, cooler-than-thou hipster I am today?

Also, I’m stick-thin, fashionably bisexual and smoke bidis. I am publicly a socialist but am secretly a rampant materialist. Do you think I actually go to Sal-Val for these ironic shirts? Please. I shop exclusively at Andy’s Cheepee’s, Cheapjack’s and Screaming Mimi’s. So what if I have to pay the finder’s fee? It’s not like I don’t have a trust-fund, anyway. I just wait tables at the vegan restaurant to look like I’m slumming it. I don’t actually need the money.

So. You need to have me hanging like a wristband off your lanky arm and you know it. Please, bassists and drummers only – and send a picture. I only pretend I’m not shallow.

this is in or around Probably the L train
PostingID: 38889776

Hipsters = Fake Artists

A Brooklyn native writes about her feelings on street art and the hipsters’ phony attempts to appropriate art as their own. Below are her views on the problem:

Hipsters are fake artists and this is why

I have always had an affinity for art in its various media. I remember when I was in 2nd grade we had this teacher who was very much 1980’s Greenwich Village when it came to her personal style. Gravesend didn’t see much in terms of abstract thinkers and she’ll always stand out in my mind. Around Thanksgiving she had us make turkeys using red-delicious apples, toothpicks and gumdrops. Each toothpick got 3 mixed color small gumdrops on it and then the picks were stuck into the apple to create feathers. For eyes, we used marshmallow and for the nose a small piece of black licorice. I thought she was God.

In around fourth grade we were assigned book reports and short story/creative writing homework. I received little awards and lots of shiny gold stars on my work.

In ninth grade, I raised my hand in freshman English and asked the teacher if we were going to read Shakespeare. Years later I bumped into him and he remarked on his having a fond memory of me for what he thinks will be forever. He said that it is few and far between that a student actually expresses an interest in studying the art form of literature.

Now, I realize that art in of itself is not something that can be easily defined. There have been artists who’ve used human feces over religious works and found their pieces prominently displayed in galleries while other folks out there have so much raw artistic talent running through their veins that it hurts and they can’t catch a break. Art is beauty and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right? Right! So let us talk about Graffiti –

Graffiti = Hiphop = NYC

I can remember when being a kid and riding the trains was like being on a moving museum. A mobile gallery of art, throw-ups, fill-ins and the likes. Sure, there was a lot of profanity and pictures of things that the public just doesn’t need to see without signing an “I am over 18” consent form but all in all the trains were the place to display your work as a graffiti-artist. And, in Brooklyn, graffiti artists were aplenty. Once I hit my teenage years I found myself immersed in the NYC rave scene and this is where I really became exposed to the graff scene.

I dated a dude for a while that was pretty heavily involved in all of the negative things that surrounded the rave scene in Brooklyn and NYC in the mid to late 90’s. I am confident in saying that he and his crew of misfits pretty much owned most of the prime real-estate with respect to graffiti spots in the Brooklyn area. They easily kinged the BQE, the B (Now D) elevated subway line, and they were well known amongst the other graffiti crews in the area. I remember late night bombing missions where we’d all dress up in our black hoodies, jeans, and tims and make our way down into the various ditches and tunnels of the NYC Subway system. The crew got the hot spots and the girls played chicky on the lookout tip. I miss the 90’s!

When I started dating Daniel, he and I made a point to go out to various artsy events that seemed interesting to us. We both like art on a grand scale (my taste is far superior to his.. just sayin!) so we thought it’d be nice to incorporate various gallery events as they came up. I remember one of the first events we attended was in a gallery down in Williamsburg (shocker). The evening was a mixed media of documentary and some hanging art. Amongst the bulk of the hanging art were photographs of graffiti. I noticed that these works were signed by the photographer and that the credit for said art was, in a way, being stolen by lens toting hipster assholes. It was super unnerving. All around me were these hipstery pretentious assholes who have absolutely no idea of what is entailed with getting the perfect “spot” to complete a piece that is worthy of being photographed. There are various elements involved when the real artist is canvasing a spot and preparing to throw their paint onto a wall. And then here comes Harry Hipster and his Canon Rebel, or whatever $1000.00 camera his parents bought him when he signed up for art school, and he just stands there, presses a button, and calls this his art.

Are you fucking kidding me or what, hipsters?

They say the best form of flattery is imitation but this isn’t even imitation! Grab a can of Krylon and put your artistic skills to the true test. Be original, have a concept of what an artist’s process is when they’re creating. Do something – but Jesus Christ, don’t just sit there, press a button, and then call it art. That is absolute bullshit and Daniel and I got into a pretty heated debate about this at the Gallery that night.

For some reason that is completely unknown to me, hipsters love to photograph graffiti. If you go to Flickr and look at any of the street-art pools, you will undoubtedly be met with hipster after hipster’s photo accounts. Along side their artistic interpretation of a say, WEED piece, you’ll find pics of their nights out spent drinking felonious amounts of PBR. You’ll also find many girls in headbands and leg-warmers, dudes in skinny jeans, and an air of disgust.

I like to think that the appeal of the street-art photography is a deep-bred need to be closer to things that are generally urban. They are in love with a culture of which they have absolutely no experience. Moving to Brooklyn and living in a neighborhood along side other flocking hipsters does not give you street-cred. You are not tough. You are not Brooklyn. You are not even New York – and anyone that is New York knows that each native NYer fits into a sub-category dictated by the borough in which they grew up. Brooklyn is a stand alone example of this model of thought. Nearly every trip I take outside of the city I am met with “you’re from Brooklyn, right?”. It’s not you’re from New York – or you’re from Manhattan; it’s you’re from Brooklyn, right? – And, that is because people who are truly Brooklynites have no choice but to exhibit it. We are bred with a strength and a character that is dominant. We can take classes to reduce the infliction with which our Brooklyn accents spit out words but the light inside of us that screams Brooklyn never dies out. We live it – and we live it because we are it. You, hipsters, are not it. You are Kansas, you are Missouri, you’re Texas and Nashville. You’re Florida, and you’re Chicago. You are not now, nor will you ever be, Brooklyn.

Brooklyn is earned.

Having a 11— zipcode does not make you gangsta, tough, or even remotely desirable. I have had a 11— zipcode for my entire life and as this blog dictates, I am dying to step outside of the confinement of the 11— stigma. You cannot, for a moment, begin to break down the complexities of growing up in a borough where poverty dominated. Instead, you come here with your trust funds and you move into buildings that are squat-houses because it is cool. Fuck you and your coolness.

Get a clue. Get a grip. Get a talent. Stop robbing real street-artists of their work.

The next gallery show I attend where a hipster is showing a photographed piece of street-art better have the original graffiti artist standing next to the framed print signing autographs or some shit. I’m dead serious – this really enrages me. I’m not sure if it’s simply the act of assigning your name to work that is not your own, or if it’s the sheer arrogance and stupidity with which a hipster will sink to seem like they’re what’s really hood. I have seen this time and time again and I just don’t get it. A bunch of people Daniel attended undergraduate school in Florida are hipsters living in Brooklyn and they’re prime examples of this behavior. They attempt to portray what they believe is a hustler’s life and through their dirty clothes and inexpensive fixies, they’re out working at jobs where their salary is teetering on 6 figures.

Assholes! You had the luxury of attending college – most likely on your daddy’s dime. You went to school, graduated, and have the tools required by the real world to secure a prestigious position. You have secured said position yet you still want to move throughout the world and act like you’re some sort of impoverished defunct. And here I am, at nearly 32 years old facing the fears of not being financially secure so that I can pursue an education. There are no trust-funds in my back pocket, no emergency phone-calls to Daddy when I can’t pay my rent. I live in the real-world . I am the real Brooklyn.

Go the fuck home.

Parental Lifelines, Frayed to Breaking

Parental Lifelines, Frayed to Breaking

For the past five years, Ernie DiGiacomo has been able to count on parents to guarantee the $1,500 to $2,500 rents he charges for the 15 apartments he owns in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. When he called renters who had missed payments, he often heard, “My parents will send you a check.”

But in the past six months, the parents are pulling back financial help, he said, and as a result, he has watched more renters move out.

“Most of them are moving back with parents,” Mr. DiGiacomo said.

Luis Illades, an owner of the Urban Rustic Market and Cafe on North 12th Street, said he had seen a steady number of applicants, in their late 20s, who had never held paid jobs: They were interns at a modeling agency, for example, or worked at a college radio station. In some cases, applicants have stormed out of the market after hearing the job requirements.

“They say, ‘You want me to work eight hours?’ ” Mr. Illades said. “There is a bubble bursting.”

Famed for its concentration of heavily subsidized 20-something residents — also nicknamed trust-funders or trustafarians — Williamsburg is showing signs of trouble. Parents whose money helped fuel one of the city’s most radical gentrifications in recent years have stopped buying their children new luxury condos, subsidizing rents and providing cash to spend at Bedford Avenue’s boutiques and coffee houses.

For 18 months after graduating from Colby College, Jack Drury, 24, lived the way many Williamsburg residents do: He followed his passions, working in satellite radio and playing guitar. He earned money as a bicycle messenger and, on occasion, turned to his parents for money.

But as the recession deepened last fall, his parents had to cut the staff at their event planning company to 30 workers from 50. Asked for his help, Mr. Drury cast aside his other pursuits and started work as a project manager for his parents. But he still plays the guitar in two bands, Haunted Castle and Rats in the Walls.

“My future is in the family business,” he said. “Music is just for fun.”

The real estate market, too, is shifting as wealth evaporates. Ross Weinstein, a managing partner of the Union Square Mortgage Group, has worked with hundreds of Williamsburg apartment buyers in the past two years.

“A lot of the money came from family,” he said. “That piece, it’s gone for a lot of people.”

In the boom years, Mr. Weinstein said, 40 percent of the mortgage applications he reviewed for buyers in Williamsburg included down-payment money, from $50,000 to $300,000, from parents. About 20 percent of the applications listed investments that gave the young buyers $3,000 to $10,000 of monthly income.

But in the past two months, Mr. Weinstein said, he has handled two to three deals a week in which the parents cut back their down-payment help.

The number of sales in Williamsburg dropped nearly a quarter in the first three months of this year compared with the same period a year ago, according to HMS Associates, a Brooklyn appraisal firm. And in three recent cases, Mr. Weinstein said, owners sold their apartments in short sales — selling for less than the bank is owed, to avoid foreclosure — because they were no longer receiving parental help.

Mr. Weinstein has been advising two brothers in their late 20s who wanted to buy a $700,000 apartment with $250,000 from their parents. But their parents’ investment portfolio has lost so much value that they now can give only $50,000. Since the brothers make about $45,000 a year each, they are now shopping for a $500,000 apartment.

The parents still wish they could help, Mr. Weinstein said, but “right now, they’re in a situation in their life where they need to ensure their own security.”

It is an adjustment that many have to deal with. Eric Gross, 26, a construction worker, was going to buy, with help from his father, a $600,000 one-bedroom condo with city views at Northside Piers, a luxury building, he said.

But his father, who works in the auto industry, said he had to reduce his contribution. “He’s pulling back the lifeline,” Mr. Gross said.

So Mr. Gross is scaling back, shopping for a $300,000 apartment, said his real estate agent, Binnie Robinson of

It can be hard to see the signs of financial troubles in Williamsburg because residents are so loath to show that they had money in the first place. Robert Lanham, author of “The Hipster Handbook,” said in an interview that many newer residents tried to blend in with the area’s gritty history and dressed “half the time like they’re homeless people.”

But parental help was obvious in the intersection of residents with low-paying jobs and $3,000-a-month apartments.

“You can put two and two together, that they have money coming in from somewhere else,” Mr. Lanham said.

The culture of the area often mocks residents who depend on their families. Misha Calvert, 26, a writer who relied on her parents during her first year in the city, now has three roommates, works in freelance jobs and organizes parties to help keep her afloat while she writes plays and acts in films. There is a “giant stigma,” she said, for Williamsburg residents who are not financially independent.

“It takes the wind out of you if you’re not the independent, self-reliant artist you claim to be,” she said, “if you’re just daddy’s little girl.”

The cutbacks for the more privileged residents are a welcome change for locals who have struggled to support themselves without parental help.

Katie Deedy, 27, an artist, works two bartending jobs to shore up her designer wallpaper business. Gazing out from the bar at the patrons playing darts and sipping bloody marys during a Sunday shift at the Brooklyn Ale House, she described how refreshing it felt not being the only local resident trying to live on less.

“If I’m going to be completely honest, it does make me feel a little bit better,” she said. “It’s bringing a lot of Williamsburg back to reality.”

Musings on why I hate Hipsters and what they can do about it if they care

Musings on why I hate Hipsters and what they can do about it if they care

A friend wrote the following based on the recent New York Times article and related blogs dealing with the impact of the Great Recession on hipsters in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NYC:

I was going to make this a response to [my friend’s] excellent update on the financial happenings of hipsters. But instead, I’ve decided to vent my spleen here. I hope you enjoy it and feel free to respond.

Hipsters……oh Hipsters… I hate thee! Let me list the ways:
A. Conformity. Every hipster seems to look the same. Crappy clothes (that aren’t actually crappy they just are styled that way), chuck taylor shoes, clove cigarettes, etc. etc. I believe they called it Derelicte in Zoolander—homeless chic.
B. Cheapening anything of value. They search for the authentic and then when they think they’ve found the authentic they cheapen it by making it into a style that they desire to globalize. This is not unlike their wealthy Daddies with their Italian fashions and imported cars. Or their unemployed mommies trying to save some piece of the rainforest, doing yoga, and having the Dali Lama on their shelf.
C. An insult to the working class. Their drink is Pabst Blue Ribbon, yet so many of their parents and admitted futures are with management or “designer wall paper”—whatever the fuck that is. You ask them to work an 8 hour day and they leave in a huff. “I am too good for the 8 hour day.” Good enough to drink the working man’s beer but not good enough to do the workings man job. Scuttle off “puss-cakes,” as Clint Eastwood would say.
D. Handlebar moustaches. Shave that shit off. This isn’t the 1890s.
E. “Avant garde” bullshit sessions at the local coffee house don’t make you an intellectual. I am not saying you need to go to college to be smart, though it does help. Reading and *thinking* about what you just read is far more enlightening than sitting around a hookah talking about what you’ve read without actually understanding its meaning. Reading widely and making intelligent, thoughtful conversation beats any new fix you can make on Noam Chomsky. All the fixes have been made kid.
F. Arrogance. Just because you’re from NYC or Brooklyn doesn’t make you special. I’ve been around both for quite a time. And, considering the experiences of my own travel, they aren’t special. You think NYC is the world? Dip yourself into Hong Kong. You’ll feel like the bumpkins you make fun of except you’ll lack their tact, grace, or taste.
G. G stands for Get a fucking job! Deliver pizzas, wait tables, work as a mechanic, do something with your life other than live off of mommy and daddy’s wallet. Part of the reason you have no self-respect and must act arrogant and fake is because you’ve never worked a day in your life. Work! Even if it doesn’t cover the bills entirely. You might actually learn something about people beyond your tight little cohort.

How to Stop Being a Hipster and Get Real:
1. Shave and start taking care of yourself. Look the part of a decent, normal human being. Stop trying to be an artist if you’re not one. The Bohemian life is for people of true talent. If you’re a hipster you probably don’t have any.
2. Stop trying to make statements. Be your own person. Don’t be derelicte unless you think there is some value to it, which I think if you asked a real homeless person they’d say, “Shiiiit If I had the money you had I’d buy myself a nice coat and some nice clothes. I wouldn’t dress like this.”
3. If you feel guilty about your money, stop. You want to help laboring folk out? Ask your Daddy if there is another way that he could save those 20 jobs he has to cut. Don’t drink PBR and think, “I am so pro-Union.”
4. Contribute something to society.
5. Spend time with books and old people. Both will fill you with more wisdom than all the late night jam sessions at Hal’s coffee shop you can have in one lifetime.
6. Learn to enjoy the simple things in life. But don’t overdo it.
7. Have an interior life. That’s where those simple joys should go.

Finally, get the fuck off my lawn.