Archives For Culture

Hey gang.

Some of you might not know that this very blog, this sweet lil aseemblage of the written word we all love so, had its beginnings as a travel blog. If you’re a recent bandwagon baby or only just stumbled upon Hipster Jew while googling “hot Jewish MILFS”  and were unaware of the HJ  genesis, that’s OK I also didn’t know. When I was informed of the babyhood of the blog I hold dear, I did some cyberstalking research and found some old travel content: a series on Chicky’s Birthright adventure. I just want to make sure you are all well-rounded readers of Hipster Jew content (even the Jewish MILF Googlers).

Anyway, at Hipster Jew, we like to party like it’s 2010 all the time (“heyyo someone pass me the jungle juice,”Did anyone bring the speakers for my Ipod”) so it should come as no surprise that we’re bringing the travel blog back. This time, your friendly neighborhood Schlitz Lipz is going to be sharing an extensive series on my travels across these Americas. That’s right, I left the bitter Northeast for the bright lights and broken dreams of Los Angeles and now you get to hear all about it. Or you can just read this article from The New York Times about New Yorkers fleeing for the West. it’s basically the same thing I’m writing but much, much shorter and with ten times better grammar. See, I care so much about your literacy…it’s almost humbling.

Continue Reading…

Math, you cruel uncaring mistress! You just couldn’t keep it a secret, could you? You just had to let everyone know that Hipsters do in fact look kind of the same, sound kind of the same, dress kind of the same, eat kind of same, and smell kind of the same (thanks Toms products). Yeah, you heard some news you already guessed if you’ve read this blog once, or stepped outside in a town not full of bros. Hipsters are all the same person. Friends with one hipster, you’re pretty much friends with them all.

“You need people who want to be different,” said Touboul in an interview with Reuters. “In the end, because they are too slow to detect the trend, they synchronize and they all do, and all these people that want to be different they all do the same thing at the same time.”

Touboul published his findings in a scientific paper titled “The hipster effect: when anticonformists all look the same.”

He said the mathematical model is interchangeable with other social groups.

Wait…what? The mathematical model works for any social group? Why not call it the Juggalo Paradox, or the Salmon Short Paradox, or even just the Lumberjack Paradox? It’s like someone knew that calling it the Hipster Paradox would get me to click on the link, then write a silly diatribe about it…

Just like all the other Hipsters have already done. DAMN IT YOU WIN AGAIN, MATH

// Usa Today

Fellow Jews, the patriarchy’s been messing with Cousin Sarah (Silverman) and that’s just one step too far for me. Patriarchy, you angered me when you instituted street harassment. When I found out about the prevalence of on-campus sexual abuse, I shook my fists in rage.  I almost fell into a diabetic coma of disdain when I read about all the crap Florida does to ladies..  But this, THIS IS TOO FAR, PATRIARCHY.

Recently, Sarah admitted that she had been paid 1/6 of what a male colleague was paid at a comedy club in New York. And yea, the owner is saying it’s not because she’s a woman that she was paid less…but she’s not the only lady who gets paid less for her efforts. So regardless of what he’s saying, the issue cannot be denied. The rest of us, as a standard, get paid 78.3 cents for every dollar a man makes.

Cousin Sarah

Sarah’s unimpressed with you, Patriarchy.

When Sarah cries, we all cry. I’m crying right now. Let’s fight the patriarchy, yo.

Did you think cross-stitching was just for ladies living in castles in the 1600s? Me too!

Or is that embroidery? Quilting? Knitting? I don’t know.  It’s one of those things for those possessing hand-eye coordination.

Well, you (and I) were wrong. Cross-stitching isn’t just for princesses and ladies-in-waiting. Hip post-grads do it too. They do spunky cross-stitching that involves pop culture references and snide remarks! Which, in hindsight, might be my favorite sort of cross-stitching.

I’ll let the images do the talking and stop rambling. For once.


You can follow the lovely ladies who create these beautiful works of art on the Instagram (@crossstitchwitches) or even the Tumblr ( And then you can buy their affordable yet incredibly well-made items on the Etsy. Want something commissioned? Send them a sweet lil email at crossstitchwitches [at]

I know what all of my Christmas presents are going to be. And Hannukah. Both holidays… with just a dash of Kwanza for politically correctness.

Check this out.

Yes, that is a city bus sporting a PBR full sleeve. Look closer and you’ll see that it went all out and is showing off the tallboy, every hipster’s 16oz weapon of choice for any situation. Viewing party? Tallboy. Alleyway loitering? Tallboy sixpack. House party? Tallboy 24pack. Littering? Empty tallboy can. Taking the bus? Brownbagged tallboy. Shower beer? Two tallboys and a one hitter. Taking the bus that’s advertising tallboys? Use your common sense, cmon. Tallboys all day.

Are you a fucking idiot?

Don’t answer that. You are. Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. I’m pretty sure everyone is. Except my dog. And maybe Jon Stewart.

So how to deal with this new understanding that you are completely useless and more stupid than the rotten bag of potatoes currently chilling in my refrigerator?

Stupid People


Thanks for sucking so much, guys.

I’ve found that the best way to feel better about yourself is to find an instance where someone has been far more idiotic than you can even imagine. And that is why reading comments to things on the interwebs is really the best way to perk yourself off.

Don’t actually feel like reading through the archives of bullshit? Valid.

Still want to read about how:

the world as we know it is going to end if Philly allows for the addition of a third, gender neutral bathroom in all newly renovated municipal buildings?

Or how

that teenage hussy Elizabeth Smart needs to admit she enjoyed being kidnapped and raped?

Or how

the elementary school shooting in Newtown was just a hoax?

You know you do. We all need some reassurance now and again that it’s not a complete waste of time for us to breed. The world needs more children that are stupid but not as stupid as other children.




– Thanks Comment Shaming, you ridiculous ginger fuck.


I am not against cliches if they’re done well. Execution and sticking the landing count in my book, and can overcome a lot in terms of subject matter and narrative devices both novel and trite. So let’s use that as the explanation for why I’m praising a video where hipsters are likened to zombies culturally, then literally and eviscerated lyrically, then physically.

The case for the hipster-as-zombie is cliche but irresistible simply because no one can stop themselves from pointing out any hypocrisy, large or small; and any subculture that dares to act differently will unfortunately turn out to be acting differently all the same way. Hipsters are an easy target for this, we’re all going to farmer’s markets and getting sloppy on PBR and listening to boring indie pop that features a banjo and musical saw for no real reason, right? So we must be zombies. And the spread of hipster culture must be stamped out, like an outbreak from the nearest cemetery.

So here’s Watsky’s take on the Pitchfork/American Apparel crowd. Avoid rolling your eyes long enough to realize that once the mic is dropped, the shotgun will be picked up. Logan Square is full to the brim, and the next in line to fall is Garfield Park. Are you going to do anything about it, or are you going to let those filthy hipsters get your neighborhood next?

And props for using the best kind of zombie: the real one, from a grave, that walks stiff and slow with jacked up body parts. “Viral” zombies that move fast are bullshit.

I get it now.

I get what it’s like to live in a town where there is a musical festival. Dear G-d, Austin I pity you. Wait, let me clarify. I get what it’s like to be in a town where there is a music festival. When you’re too broke to attend.

While everyone else was standing on JFK boulevard listening to their favorite artists and wearing Native American headdresses and ironic red, white, and blue shorts, I was on the outside looking in, or more the inside looking out.  I saw them occasionally, those joyous folk on my way to the grocery store or bank. Their youth was vibrant on their faces and they were all dancing around like they were stuck in some strange Dionysian painting.

And I loathed them. That strange conglomerate of bro-ery I have never seen nor ever want to see  again.

Made in America
All hail Jay-Z and Budweiser! 

I couldn’t get from one side of Philly to the other without being swarmed by a bougie white kid ocean from suburbs all over the east coast.  Where did they all park? It was not a sea I could part. I’m no Moses. Just a sad lil girl trying to get across town so she can convince her ex-landlord to give her the security deposit back.

I heard the excuses: “When you think about it, it’s really affordable. I mean you see a lot of great bands.” Whatever. You know what is also affordable? NOT SPENDING 150 BUCKS. At all. Because that’s half of your rent, damnit, and you’ll use it on rent as insisted you do. “Oh, but we got to be with the young people”, in a CROWD of 1000s. Did that make no one uncomfortable? Or were they all on the young people drugs?

And Philly, how many times are you going to rock the whole “we cut off traffic for the entire city and wear patriotic clothes because we’re American, damnit.” You literally just did it 3 months ago.  I know this city is where democracy started but can you please come up with a new gimmick?  Benjamin Franklin had a better marketing director than this city.

I think we should just all agree that festivals should be in big fields in the middle of nowhere. That would make me so much happier. This city is too damn hot. Any city is too damn hot. Think of the children.

And bros, go home. Your sports bars are missing you.

What? What’s going? Have I suddenly moved to Austin, or possibly a smaller Portland? When did little liberal Vermont get someone as big as Fred Armisen to perform? In a Unitarian Church? The same one that saw Jeff Mangum perform in?

Now in the past I’ve been critical about Portlandia. I feel too many sketches go on too long after the punchline, or that too often the punchline isn’t big enough for the 4 minute set up. But that doesn’t mean I’m not a fan of Fred Armisen’s work, as a sketch comic, actor, and stand up comic.

So fucking excited.

Good work to friends Nathan and Natalie at Vermont Comedy Club.

Good things do come to pessimistic ironic assholes who live in small uber-white liberal northeastern towns. #northernwhitepeopleoptimism


Maybe I’m going out on a limb here, but as a 24 year old, I’m thinking about retirement. Not for the present – odds are I won’t make enough money to ever retire – but more importantly in the future.

There’s no way me or my liberal friends will retire to Florida. The heat, the assholes, the hurricanes, the Stand Your Ground, the Mark Rubio. Include global climate change, and by the time I retire (if I’m not worked to death as a capitalist-corporate peasant), the Northeast and Northwest will probably have summers similar to current Florida.

Some places I may retire:

1) A farm.

Assuming the air pollution hasn’t decimated all people who can’t live about the 120th level of a high rise, ‘taking grampa to the farm’ may be the only way to retire. It’s quiet, there’s decent air, and if the owners decide to take me out back and put me down Old Yeller style, it’s a good way to go out.

2) Geriatric Prostitute House.

As the average age of the U.S. gets older and older, there may be more options for geriatric sex workers. Now sure, it’s not a legitimate ‘retirement’. But I’d get my own room, meals, and even get laid. There’s worse ways to die before the age of 55.

3) Private Island.

I wasn’t born into a rich family, but maybe I’ll win the lottery (you know, like being born into a wealthy family). If that’s the case, I’m getting out of an America where Walmart is literally president, and Exxon Mobile is his (her?) second in command. Since lotteries will regularly reach into the billions of dollars, I’ll be the next lucky billionaire.

4) My favorite bar.

After I retire and get my severance package, I’m gonna go where I’m loved most: my favorite bar. There I will proceed to drink until I go literally blind (I’ll be legally blind by then anyway), or until I die. May as well leave this world the most literary way possible.

5) My grandkid’s house.

Here’s the worst part: By the time I’m 75 my children will have disowned me for the pessimistic asshole I am. Therefore, I’ll be forced to retire on the floor of my grandson’s Frat House. I’ll die in an unfortunate ‘butt-chugging’ episode, but atleast I’ll be close to the ones who haven’t disowned me yet.