This weekend

I always dread being asked what I did over the weekend. I rarely remember, not from debauchery, but because of a lot of sitting around, staring at a wall, television, or, in the case of this weekend, Israeli novel that unfortunately has nothing to do with any paper I'm likely to write this semester. But this one was an exception. A lot happened over the weekend:

1) Early Saturday morning a cop was shot quite near where I live. A whole block was taped off, NBC and ABC sent in news vans with giant antennae, and all of a sudden, the recent hold-up of the local Dunkin Donuts is no longer what I must reference to counter people's claims that I live in a yuppie neighborhood. Also, time to consider a smaller room in a neighborhood whose gentrification level is not subject to debate.

2) The IFS women made a pilgrimage to land of the hipsters, the Misshapes party at Don Hill's. It's possible but unlikely that there will be embarrassing photos of us on Gawker this Friday. "Hipsters" these days are apparently gay 18-year-old boys (or, not to make assumptions, they may have been 19 and especially affectionate but hetero) with intentionally greasy hair. And "hipster" music was neither obscure nor 80s, but instead a mix of the greatest hits of 5th and 6th grade, for those of us in the 23 range. Which means, of course, that 18-year-old hipsters are listening to Ace of Base ironically. Such disrespect!

3) The time spent at Bobst! OK, this was just so there'd be three items; nothing remarkable about spending time at the library.