Captain Neato Wes Anderson and the Problem with Hipsters; Or, What Happens When a Generation Refuses to Grow Up

"What will the hipsters be remembered for? The last few months I have raised this question in Brooklyn, on the sagging couches of its Brownstones and over the din of the glowing jukeboxes in its dives. The most common answer is "Nothing." New York Rock? So much retread. The hipsters' championing of vintage clothing? Sorry, you can't be remembered for remembering. The embrace of white-trash chic—trucker hats and so on? Interesting but evil. Though not authentically evil. The hippies had Charles Manson, one friend noted. "We haven't even produced a decent serial killer."

So the youth culture of the moment believes itself doomed to historical insignificance. But wait, what's that on the horizon? It's a dayglow yellow helicopter. Who's piloting that whirlybird, the man in the pom-pom-topped orange knit cap, the sky-blue jumpsuit with royal-blue trim, the brown corduroy blazer, and the glasses with clear-plastic frames? Why, it's Wes Anderson. For a brief half decade or so, he seemed the voice of our generation, the hipster messiah. He took the ethos of the subculture and made it the governing principle in his films' every detail—their sets, costumes, characters, and neato conceits (one might even say, their metaphysics). "You know, when things are going bad, like at work, or if I get home and my girlfriend doesn't want to talk to me, I just stick The Royal Tenenbaums in the DVD player, and I'm in that Wes Anderson world." That's how one guy answered my straw poll, and everyone around the table agreed with him."

...

"Surely there must be a trust fund, or at least a platinum card, in sight. In this case help arrives in the form of Owen Wilson's inheritance. Money is a funny thing with hipsters. They exist in a state of perpetual luxuriant slumming. They drink blue-collar beers but hold white-collar jobs. Or vice versa. Whether he comes from above or below, the hipster takes care never to appear to be striving. Class anxiety isn't hip. There's something utopian about the trucker hat. But of course the hipster couldn't afford to dress down if there weren't a taut social safety net in place. Debt relief from mom or dad might be just a phone call away. Then there's that steady freelancing gig that's always there when you need it, no matter how distasteful it might be to proofread ad copy or put on that catering uniform. And let's not forget that guy you can count on. His star always burned a bit dimmer than yours, but it never burns out. Perhaps he wears glasses, but without irony. There's something weird about his apartment—it's nice, not squalid. You may not talk to him much anymore—he's not in your crowd, not hip enough, I guess, but loyal, and responsible, still holding down the same basically shitty job. He'll always bail you out or put you up."

Read the doozy: http://www.nplusonemag.com/captain-neato