Now, all of the appropriate and inappropriate jokes have been made about the Obama campaign’s latest ad, which has solidly locked up the Williamsburg/Wicker Park/Portland disaffected upper class white hipster vote. But this isn’t your normal blog, so we’re just gonna keep at it.
For a celebrity spokesperson carefully selected to speak to a bunch of overly-dramatic people who live off their parents’ trust funds in heavily-secured lofts (designed to keep out individuals of color or minority who have not been pre-approved for their hipster status) in recently-gentrified areas of major cities, the campaign could not have done better than Lena Dunham, who stars in the show Girls, a drama about overly-dramatic women coming of age in the kind of small apartments in just-slightly-run down neighborhoods where hipsters imagine they live. See, hipsters are an intriguing lot in that, while they live relatively comfortable lives, they always want to believe that they don’t, that they’re always broke, or that they are the recipient of every bad lot in life. Which is why they watch shows like Girls, where people have horrible lives, mostly because they’re poor and codependent and probably stupid. Because after six PBRs after their part time job on a Tuesday, they can talk about Girls like it’s exactly like their life. Even though it’s not. But wouldn’t it be cool if it was. As long as it never actually happens to them.
Is Lena Dunham’s life really like her character? Probably not, but neither are her fans lives. And as far as Lena Dunham’s real first time? Well, she wrote about it. And it was pretty much nothing like voting.
The best way was obviously to throw a wine-and-cheese party, which I did, in my 8×10-foot room on the quiet floor of East Hall. Procuring wine entailed a sub-zero bike ride, so it ended up being beer and cheese and a big box of Carr’s assorted party crackers. Jonah was “casually” invited in a group email that made me sound a lot more relaxed than I actually was. And he came, and he stayed, even after the entire gang had packed up and gone. We talked, at first animatedly and then in the nervous generalizations that substitute for kissing when everyone is too shy. Finally, I told him that my dad painted huge pictures of penises for a job. When he asked if we could see them online, I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and just went for it. I removed my shirt almost immediately, and he seemed fairly impressed. Wearing just a too-tight slip-skirt from the local Goodwill, I hopped up to get the condom from the “freshman survival pack” we had been given (even though I was a sophomore).
Because, when you vote, you don’t just do it to do it. You should probably think about it a little more than just long enough to point and decide. And you should probably think of the consequences. Because, you know, your ability to have sex is one thing. Your ability to, you know, get a job is another. But whatever, this isn’t about reality.
And actually, this is the sadder part.
Jonah wanted to date, and I figured out pretty quickly that I did not. I went over to his dorm and broke up with him in the laundry room, sitting on top of a running washer. He seemed genuinely hurt and perplexed, and I told him I’d been a virgin because I thought it made me seem like less of a she-devil. Later that year, Audrey saw him in the student post office picking up a package with a pair of used Merrills to replace his really used Tevas, and we laughed about it like mean girls.
Sooooo she’s kind of a total bitch who used a dude. Great. Well, that should make for some good voting metaphors.