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Hipsters are nothing to be proud of and they are certainly nothing for a national media organization to celebrate. They represent indulgence and failure of every kind. From their incessant need to have pre-marital sex or else masturbate themselves numb to their shameless willingness to feed from the trough of hardworking Americans to support their blogs, indie bands or t-shirt companies, these people embody the death of the Puritan ethic. They live like 14-year olds– emotionally stunted, egomaniacal, crying for no reason and then twittering about it. They dress like 14-year olds as well, often in cartoon character clothes that show off unpleasant patches of skin. Were it not for their bruises and awkward facial hair, it would be impossible to tell them apart from actual drunk teenagers. —“The New York Times Offends & Outrages With Its ‘Hipster’ Agenda,” Stephenson Billings, Christwire

What does it mean when someone takes a photograph of their own beloved pile of shit, or a remarkable thing in the world. See, I think the trick to capitalism and all that it entails, like the dog running round and round after itself, is that ultimately what you’re loving and owning becomes a form of worship. I love David Armstrong’s big naked man statue holding a little naked fella. That is some kind of god. That is David’s church. That a snowman is doomed, that a chewed pile of gum looks like a brain, that a gaping hole in an old tree is lopsided and looks like a talking tree in a fairy tale or a cunt, that the worst kind of fake diorama with tiny trees and doleful instructions or directions, that this pile of things was at one time someone’s ambition, now moved or left to rot in the right or wrong place and someone else saw it… it’s interesting that a picture of a person, usually a woman, is generally a thing—distorted, turned on her edge. And presidents quickly become cardboard figures or masks. Presidents like women can be things. —“Still Lifes,” Eileen Myles, Vice

When we reached Bahia Honda, the palm trees were all curving down, fronds flapping wildly. A construction paper notice greeted us outside the weather-stripped grey wood rental/concession stand: “Due to weather conditions, only experienced kayakers may rent boats today.” I pointed out the sign to Bambi, who smirked and shrugged. Inside, the woman repeated the sign’s assertion, and my mother assured her we were experienced. The woman looked at me, so I grimaced and shook my head, tempted to verbally confirm, no, we’re not experienced, I’ve never been in a kayak, haven’t been in a canoe in a decade, who knows when she was in one last, and I don’t want to go out into an angry sea with a madwoman. I kept my mouth shut. —“Serendipity,” Harmony Neal, Gulf Coast