So I went to a butcher shop in Williamsburg the other day to get some meat for a little gathering at a friend's house. I walk in, scan some meats, and when I look up at the butcher to order some chorizo, I see a fucking sub-Wesleyan hipster. "Hey dude, what would you like today?" he asks sweetly. "We have some culatello from Northern Italy and a fine capacola sausage from the isle of Sicily. Try some - no charge, bro." You're telling me what to do?
Here's what I want you to do, bro - I want you to stop taking a job in a working-class profession, and for all your hipster buddies to do likewise. When I walk into a butcher shop, I want to be greeted by a gruff, brusque, downright scary guy who stopped going to school in 10th grade and couldn't tell the difference between Flaubert and Clifford the Big Red Dog, who doesn't have a fucking clue where any of the meat comes from but can cut a perfect slice of meat in the way that trade workers for centuries have learned one physical thing really well but have no pretensions to being engaged with the world of ideas. While you're at it, tell your hipster bartender friends that I want my bartenders to be named Jack and say, "the usual, Danny?" even if I lose out on learning about some great microbrews (which seriously crushes my inner yupster spirit, but so be it). Try it- no charge, bro.