Back to hipsters

So that's why I love hipsters. Not the pants. The people. 

I can sit in the south end of Smith St and not have to even try to manifest even a molecule of that factor that would allow me to pretend, even in the slightest, that I care about the outcome of sport, any sport, or reality TV, or the Royal damn Visit. 

I don't have to be in the cool group. I don't have to wear a single Label. I don't have to listen to any of the neurasthenic pap they play on the radio, or pay a single jot of attention to the asinine jumble of far right ideology they mass manufacture in the daily papers. 

The internet is my playground and Smith St is my flat and I don't have to pretend here or put on the makeup or ingest the required toxic crap here. 

No, I can go to the gallery and photograph works and publish them and not worry. It's not Grade 8 down here. 

Look. 

Light, skylight, artwork. Slopes Gallery. Paradise Structures work. 

Thin screen of cellophane over old Peugeot repair shop. Paradise Structures again. 

Gallery. 

Thirsty? Paradise Structures work from found objects. 

Katherine Botten. 

Paradise. Hmmm. 

Cool group, get f*cked.