There is a bar. It is on Belmont, near a traffic signal, west of 39th ave. It has few beers on tap, a high-priced wine list (but with quite generous pours), an attempt at a high-end bar menu (no comments here, I didn’t eat anything), tons of cocktails and so much hipster chic it must clog the drains every night. Mopping must be a bitch.
You think I’m kidding? The bar is dark, but there is never a shortage of hipsters straining their eyes to read arbitrarily intellectual texts for an audience. Writing this has forced an epiphany. I think hipsters with books in singles bars (Aalto is very clearly a low key meatmarket) is a lot like the now-archaic hanky codes.
I present to you:
The People-Who-Read-in-Bars corollary:
Reading Camus–don’t talk to me unless you’re faking a painfully depressing existence fueled by inappropriate amounts of eye-shadow, emo and a deep-seeded hatred for your well-intentioned parents.
Reading Chomsky/Zinn et al–don’t you bother talking to me unless every fiber of your being is organic, local, fairtrade and 100% committed to the revolution.
Grading papers?–don’t talk to me unless you’ve been fantasizing about Mr. Lindsey, your fourth grade teacher, for the last 8-15 years.
Reading books in a foreign language–I’m just biding my time, trolling for a chance to cockblock some guy who tries to impress a girl with stories of worldly escapades. After all, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen the sun rise on the plains of Seville
Reading Che/Marx–Talk to me if you also got your political ethos from the liner notes of a Rage Against the Machine album. Can I bum an American Spirit?
Reading the Beats–talk to me? Please? please? My mom says I’m cool. Don’t I look cool?
EDIT: a donation from Van Dusen:
– Anything by a Russian author. “Wow Mr. Park Slope black hoodie, toothhpick of a man. Your sincerity and affectedness is making my nipples cut glass. I would tear off your Diesel jeans and start blowing you right now if they actually came off, but I suspect that there is neither flesh nor bone under that thrift store get up.”
The corollary is not an Aalto lounge thing, it’s a nationwide observation that happened to rear it’s ugly head during an innocent write-up about the lounge, so let’s get back to it.
There’s a mounted deer head with a trucker’s hat.
My heart sunk to my shoes when a DJ showed up, but he spun a respectable mix of downtempo soul, old country and funk–each song he played could be found in my music collection. That’s refreshing. I’m often driven out of bars because of awful DJs/internet jukeboxes. Basically, Aalto is a hipster meatmarket that one can easily enjoy if you go with a friend for a pint and a conversation. If you’re out of walking distance, however, there are better places to go.