Dave — one of the finest hipsters that the city of Portland, Oregon had ever produced — had the crowd at the house party eating out of his hand.
His frames were flawlessly authentic.
His philosophizing on the underground bands of the day, and the importance of taking long, literary walks in Prague was effortless.
His posture … perfectly post-postmodern.
But as the can of Pabst Blue Ribbon slowly began to warm in his hand, Dave could not shake a deep sense of emptiness.
It was the same story wherever he went, everyone wanted a piece of him, he was talked about incessantly in elite hipster circles, he was completely put-together and utterly worshipped for his style.
This party was no different. He could see and feel the girls pulsing toward him, and the boys turning away in jealous detachment, then turning back for more.
The hours went on, and so did Dave. It was another successful night for The Great Hipster. His disciples would spread his gospel of cool in the cafes and bars of Portland for the next three days.
Dave returned to his home, his walls covered with books he was getting around to reading … Sartre, Foster Wallace, Camus, Seneca.
But the acclaim had gone. There was no girlfriend reading on the couch, no pal who truly knew him, waiting with a beer. Here, alone in his apartment, his costume and his affected conversation could not help him.
He was just Dave again.
He sat for a few hours, staring out the window, wondering to himself how someone so celebrated could have so very little to offer.
Ninety-nine percent of advertising doesn’t sell much of anything.
~ David Ogilvy