Recently I rallied my guerrilla camera crew and donned my most discrete investigative journalist’s outfit in order to gather some no holds barred footage of Brooklyn’s, and planet earth’s, first Mr. and Miss Williamsburg beauty pageant.
It was a sweaty Friday night at the unruly event space, Supreme Trading. Ambitious citizens from an extremely limited range of social and ethnic backgrounds had traveled the dark, gentrified streets for a chance at victory and honor. That honor- being ceremoniously dubbed the nominal ruler of the neighborhood, the hippest man or woman in the area, and, possibly, the universe.
Yet how could a beauty pageant, a traditional event that epitomizes the outdated and totally lame, be used for determining the King and Queen of the hipsters? Also, once some thing or person is publicly labeled as hip, doesn’t it cease to be so, at a rate so infinitely fast that a mathematical singularity is created in the graphing of coolness over time?
The irony was so thick I could stick my tongue out and lick it. And that is exactly what I aimed to do.
Through gladhanding and a furtive grace, I infiltrated the venue and reached the bustling den of the hepcats. By guzzling a half dozen Colt 45’s and several dribbly swigs of whiskey, I was able to keep my true identity under wraps. Once I had gained their trust, I asked the hardest hitting questions and discovered the deepest of socially superficial truths: What makes a neighborhood hip, how does one become cool, who are the monarchs of Williamsburg, and what does a Friday night’s worth of drinking do to one’s journalistic fortitude?
Watch and learn.