I just climbed out of the L train at Lorimer, and I’m walking toward this new bar that recently opened called Sugar Land. I don’t really like its name, but I guess it’s supposed to be ironic, so I decide to check it out anyway. During the 9.3 minutes it takes to walk there, I pass multiple abandoned factories and new condominium complexes. I feel like I’m in the desert. I turn a corner, and as if from nowhere I spot dozens of kooky fags standing outside this raggedy place with a sign that reads “Sugar Land.” I fish for my passport and I’m let in. I’m wearing tiny black pants from Trash and Vaudeville — my wardrobe staple — red sunglasses, a black and white keffiyah, a random black children’s blazer I found in a thrift store for $5, and an XXXL V-neck I got at American Apparel (this store we should have in Downtown New Haven).
The song that’s playing as I enter is “Ramalama Bang Bang” by Roisin Murphy. I instantly feel at home. I’m looking at who I think is Perez Hilton. I instantly want to come back again. Ever since The MisShapes ended their weekly den of tight-pants hedonism in September, I’ve been without a place to bob for gay hipsters. I can’t tell you why, but I am soo attracted to tall, skinny-pants-wearing, “vegan/vegetarian,” dark-haired, kooky guys who wear Converse. Except that tonight at Sugar Land, I’m seeing people who are trying too hard. I’m currently looking at this tool who’s wearing a fedora, a short-sleeved blue v-neck sweater paired with a white t-shirt underneath, blue jeans and brown cowboy boots — with the pants tucked into the boots. And he’s also carrying a brown purse. And he’s also slightly overweight.
Tragic, hot mess.
For me, “hipster” is merely a way of dress, and means nothing other than three specific wardrobe choices: tight, ironic, kooky — TIK. The thing the hipsters I’m talking about have in common is a certain knack for kook and an irony that’s not even ironic anymore.
Now that I’ve re-found a single space that collects that gay hipster aesthetic I love so much, I couldn’t help but wonder: which hipster fashions have got to go?
The Hipster Beard
Together, we must put a stop to The Hipster Beard. THB is a beard beyond beards. It’s not a five o’clock shadow — it’s a fuckin’ Neanderthal shadow. Back at Sugar Land, I sneer at several people with THBs, and I hope they realize I’m doing this. I saw some THBs on the walk here, and more in the diner I ate in after the club. Billyburg: A Colony of THBs. Patrons of THB think it says: “I know ‘Society’ wants me to shave, but I’m a rebel, so I’m not gonna. I’m saving water! I’m all environmental!” Word. But what it actually says goes a little more like this: “If you kiss me right now, I will simultaneously be able to floss your teeth and brush your hair.” Because making out with a brillo pad is so incredibly hot…
There’s a guy I have a crush on who works at American Apparel (which, by the way, we should have in New Haven) on 8th Avenue in Chelsea. My friends thought I was crazy for liking him, though, because of THB.
My friends go: “Madison, that guy is soo scuzzy and disgusting!”
I go: “Just imagine him without the beard! He’s hot!”
And sure enough, the day he finally shaved that beard, my friends swooned and shit and I was all, “I told you, bitches.”
Big Words on Colorful T-shirts
Last year I was so excited about a collection of brightly colored t-shirts made by this British designer, Henry Holland. HH creates entire fashion shows around these ironic — and now iconic — t-shirts. His empire is simple: all he does is screen print funny fashion phrases in ginormous block letters onto colorful t-shirts. The ones that make me really happy go “Cause Me Pain Hedi Slimane,” “I don’t do Womyns Just Raf Simons” and, better still, “Do Me In The Park Marc” (Jacobs). The key to really working this look, in my opinion, is that you wear the shirt two times larger than you would ordinarily, and you pair it with the skinniest pants you can squeeze into. Big on top, small on bottom has been in vogue at least since the ’80s, and it’s not going anywhere soon.
But I am hereby declaring this “Big Words On Colorful T-shirts (BWOCT)” fad o-v-e-r. It’s done. Like, you know a look is over when you come to a place like Sugar Land, which promises original, hip, kooky people by the dozen, and see entire packs of people wearing similar shirts. You have to be on top of the trend before it breaks out. You can’t go out in fear that somebody else is wearing your shirt — Gucci forbid.
I’ll never forget the day last spring when Hedi Slimane left Dior Homme — the saddest day in men’s fashion. I was at MisShapes, wearing “Cause Me Pain Hedi Slimane.” Because of this, I was seriously photographed by a photographer for V Magazine. I have since tried to retire that shirt, even if from time to time I wish to pay homage to Hedi. And right now at Sugar Land, I’m seeing virtually the entire collection of Henry Holland shirts. For some reason, this shirt has become the staple fashion piece of respectable, kooky gay hipsters everywhere.
Maybe it has something to do with big on top, small on bottom.
Black Gay Hipsters Who Are All The Same
We all have the same mohawks, the same glasses with no lenses, the same irony. Sure, hipsters are homogenous, but this is getting out of control.
We should have a meeting to talk about how we’re going to be different.
Madison Moore and the scene editors are on a mission. They’re writing an open letter to Dov Charney. And taking sexually explicit pictures.