On Friday I went to Lit, a bar on 2nd between 5th and 6th. At first glance, there is nothing “Lit” about it--the front facade is just black with no sign to indicate a name, just tacked up scraps of paper announcing the DJs playing this week. I guess this is a bar you have to know about. My friends know about it so in we go in.


We’d already done the drinking-at-home routine. I’ve become a real wino since getting to New York. Example: I frequent the Trader Joe’s Wine Shop more than its grocery store. I walk into Lit oblivious to my surroundings as we descend to the lower floor of the bar.

Upon entering this overheated underground lair, I realize that I’ve stumbled into Hipsterville.

Let me pause to acknowledge that labeling people is wrong. Parents, teachers, and generally all figures of authority taught me not to judge a book by its cover, but New York is kind of like rushing around in an immense Barnes & Noble. There’s really no time to read beyond that glimpse of the cover. Could it be that it’s more fun just to judge?

Amongst these many titles in New York City, one of the most definitive has to be the Hipster. Lit is swarming with them: a hipster breeding ground.

I don’t know how the males saunter around as they do, because it can’t be easy to move in such tight denim. The jean uniform ranges from straight-leg to skinny. Their v-neck shirts reveal a malnourished sprout of chest hair. When not sporting the deep v-neck, they choose between stripes and plaid.


Females gallivant about in high waisted shorts and leotard tube tops, vintage printed dresses and suede brown booties. I am wearing my Lamé gold headband. From previous experience, I know that this choice in apparel tends to invite criticism, specifically a social syndrome I formerly identified as PHH--Perpetual Headband Harassment.

A tall, dark, almost-handsome guy with a carefully tousled mane and blue vintage tee approaches me.

“Hey,” he says. “Nice headband. I have it in black.”

Did I just experience acceptance? Almost-Handsome walks away, but Lit gets my stamp of approval. And with the DJ playing everything from “Still Fly” by Big Tymers to “Blue,” that Eiffel 65 one hit wonder, to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” we all shake our hipsters long into the night. (Excuse the pun.)

As I leave the bar around 3:00, I witness a guy in a loose t-shirt and baggy khakis--blaring dress code violation for this place--getting turned away from the bar.

“Only letting in NYU hipster shits,” he spits as he stalks away.

I pause, contemplating this comment.

Am I a hipster shit?

I pass a group of business casual wannabe yuppies with too much gel in their hair and hear someone murmur, “Yo, yo check the headband.”

I spin around.

“Hey, fly headband,” one of them boldly mocks. Laughs follow.

“Yeah, whatever,” I retort with my back already to them, wishing I’d been bold enough to at least flick off the business casual brigade. PPH always leaves me tongue tied. Or maybe it’s just that my headband is Preventing Proper Circulation. Please note, headband enthusiasts, PPC sometimes contributes to the emotional damage caused by PPH.

I self-consciously run my fingers along the gold band.

Am I, in my American Apparel dress and my gold headband, just as hipster as the rest? What’s my cover? Amidst all of my judgments, I’d forgotten that I was just another paperback: easily appraised and not worth a second glance.

Such gloomy self-realizations cannot tarnish my good time at the bar. While it’s easy to define the place as just a hipster hangout, Lit is worth reading between the lines.