"For hipsters, prevailing ideas and values are not necessarily oppressive, just stupid; not necessarily worthy of anger, just ridicule. (They generally focus on cultural output from the recent past, for reasons we have yet to consider.) Thus for example hipsterism encourages its adherents to propose, in writing, on their t-shirts, to sell moustache rides for five cents, not because they intend to give anyone a moustache ride, and not even because the apposition of 'moustache' and 'ride' is seen as a source of humor. What is humorous is that in some imagined Country Comfort Lounge in Amarillo or Cheyenne a generation ago some big slab of a man actually sported a moustache of which he was proud, which he believed could function directly and un-ironically as a sexual attractant." [3 Quarks Daily]

We shop at the Gap and splurge at Banana Republic [Ed. Note: Umm, speak for yourself, straight man], so we are the last people in the world to judge anyone else's fashion choices. But whatever this new "inster" trend is, we are not having it.

It was just last summer that Sunday Styles declared rosé the official new drink of young American cool. They cited everyone: not just the MisShapes but such hipster royalty as Jay McInerney and the guitarist from Franz Ferdinand. Rosé was the "summer drink to be seen with;" the owner of the Maritime Hotel—that's where Hiro Ballroom is—compared one brand in particular to 501 jeans and called it a "groundswell buzz name." This weekend, almost a year later, the trend comes full circle, as rosé is featured in "Tastings," the Wall Street Journal wine column written by a pair of old people named Dorothy J. Gaiter and John Brecher. The sun, they say, is "rising on rosé." And in true hipster fashion, they claim that they've been saying it since 2000.

"THE HIPSTER MUST DIE!" screams the cover of this week's issue of Time Out New York. Uh oh, does this mean that the backlash has finally begun? Showing that they're not afraid to take on a cultural movement held near and dear by many, Time Out courageously tackled some touchy subjects. They're not afraid to offend fans of the MisShapes or Vincent Gallo or trucker hats! Is there any dated "hipster" reference point that will escape their barbed wit?

Despite the shattered toilet, the holes in the dry wall and the culino-urinary display, it seems our coverage of the Chinatown Hipster Riot Party missed at least one salient fact. That salient fact was pointed out to us by none other than the man behind the CHRP, "The Tux," who writes:

If there is one thing hipsters like doing above and beyond destroying property, it's documenting themselves destroying property. Saturday night's hipster wrath party, documented in these pages yesterday, provided the perfect opportunity to preserve the partyer's youthful exuberance on tape for a later date.

Last night Doree and camera-man Nikola Tamindzic headed to deep Greenpoint for a party celebrating the opening of the Manhattan 55DSL store. (See how that works now?) 55DSL is Diesel's younger, cheaper line, and so they got a big yellow schoolbus to ferry people from the store over the water to Studio B, where they could revel in sharing the evening with hundreds of their closest friends who looked exactly like them and listen to the British band Klaxons do their dance-music thing. Nobody danced. They just stood around looking cool. Then they went back to Manhattan, where we hear that the after-party at Hiro Ballroom was "okay." The kids are so verbal.

A tipster alerts us to an incident involving Andrew Bird (whose great new record, Armchair Apocrypha, is a frequent presence on the office soundsystem) during a secret show last night at Brooklyn's Union Hall:

• This guy wants to be "made" into a hipster. [Imaginary Socialite]
  

We hear that the "West Bushwick" gang, with whom we are now obsessed, threw a party this weekend. (For latecomers, the tale of madness and gentrification began with an investigation by a Cornell reporter.) Until we hear about that fiesta, we'll have to make do with a Facebook photo album named "West Bushwick," in which there's some great shots from their parties last fall. This picture is helpfully labelled "living room, almost the cover of the latest rapture album." Please be cautious of these extremely hip children!

Yesterday's story about a Cornell undergrad navigating the big, bad world of the Graham Ave. L stop inspired a tipster to regale us with his (her?) own tale of woe:

It's a familiar tale: College student arrives in New York, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and finds everything's not the way she pictured it from The Devil Wears Prada or what have you. Today's installment of that story comes courtesy of the Cornell Daily Sun, whose columnist paid a visit to her friends who graduated last year and have since moved onwards and upwards to Brooklyn. At first, things seemed like they'd go well!

Oh, you "starving" "artists" living in your "East Williamsburg" "lofts"—if only you were a little more hard-core, you would understand what true hipster living is all about. Angel Hess is a 28-year-old dance photographer—dance photographer, WTF? But he also does weddings!—who bought a 1953 bread truck for $2,500 on eBay, and lives in it with his girlfriend in a parking lot at Bedford and N. 12th St.

We're kind of into this White Castle Valentine's Day idea. There are two options: V-Day at White Castle ("Enjoy hostess seating, candlelit dining and your own server. Reservations are required") or the "Cupid Crave Kit," so you can "treat your honey to a romantic White Castle dinner in your home" (with eight cheeseburgers, one sack of fries, two sodas, and a "keepsake item"). We'd like to suggest making a reservation at one of the New York White Castles, but would suggest avoiding the one at Metropolitan Ave. and Humboldt St. in Williamsburg, as it will be overrun with hipsters eating there on Valentine's Day "ironically," and they just might spoil your slyder and milkshake.

Today's installment of Casual Indie Racism comes courtesy of that old chestnut, the Daily Slope message board (why not start with the best, right?), where a poster laments that his late, great hipster hangout, the Royale, has seemingly become overrun with ... well, you can read for yourself:

Ghetto Pass correspondent The Assimilated Negro weighs in on yesterday's groundbreaking NYT coverage of black people who listen to white people music (which, the paper helpfully informs you, was actually invented by black people. His report follows.

The Toronto Star takes the pulse of the culture:

We've long heard of a fabled downtown Manhattan scene that's at the nexus of art, fashion, and media. This scene, one hears, is filled with impossibly thin people with asymmetrical haircuts and skinny jeans, who all have vague jobs as "stylists" or "designers" (of what, one wonders?), and have an air of trust-fundedness that's even stronger than their Williamsburg counterparts. Last evening, Gawker Associate Editor Doree Shafrir and fill-in photographer Alice Wetterlund stumbled upon said scene at a launch party for The Last Magazine, a big fancy coffee table book that chronicles a whole bunch of independent magazines, at Visionaire Gallery, where they learned that the audience for Blue States Lose is a lot larger than they'd ever suspected. (The evidence, such as it is, can be found here.)

Tired of riding the L train back in forth clad in your nondescript Gap-wear, never catching the eye of that soulful tattooed hottie who doesn't even bother to look up at you from her copy of Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name? Help is at hand: This Craiglist post promises instant indie cred:

The Style.com video library just keeps getting better! After chronicling the Tinz and co. on Halloween, they've now moved on to the socialites of the Lower East Side, the MisShapes. They've filmed Geordon and Leigh "Princess Coldstare" Lezark (or Lezard, if you're Vogue) waxing nostalgic about the early days of their empire ("Three years ago we threw this New Year's party. It was kind of a joke—we didn't want to go out") and the legions of partygoers who have paraded in front of the infamous white wall ("People come dressed to the nines. People come in a tank top. To us, there's no difference").