More hating of the hip, which can only be done by those hip enough to know what to hate

This is from an old article about Wes Anderson, which I am reading a propos to nothing, except to quell the stultifying boredom that is my office job existence (for only another 2 1/2 months, ayayayay!)  It is from a "literary" web/magazine which Gawker.com has now decided to hate, for reasons unbeknownst to me.  Anyway, does anyone have the feeling that sometimes what defines you is what you don't like, rather than  what you do like?  I've noticed this in myself from time to time and feel badly about it.  However, I don't think the solution is to ironically appreciate something, like so many people do (myself included, see Hall and Oates, William Shatner, etc...).  That, I believe, is pretty much laziness.  It's hard to cop to something that you do sincerely like, because what if someone else doesn't like it?  Then you have to sincerely explain yourself and your amore of a certain something (trains, ceramic clown figurines, The Shins, velveeta) and that, I guess, makes you more vulnerable than say: disliking something ('whatever, Metallica fucking sucks.  It's like a turpentine and lysol shot to my ears.' End of discussion); or the ironic appreciation ('what's not to love about Frank Stallone? ha ha!' end of discussion or possibly moving on to discussion of Xanadu, ELO, or blaxpolitation).  When you like something, and you really care about it, sometimes it is necessary to earnestly defend your taste, or try to at least validate your personal opinion.  And earnest sincerity has been pretty absent from the cultural landscape for a while.  I could go on and on...  But before I leave to go watch tivod episodes of Saved by the Bell and then throw water balloons at people with faux-hawks, here's the original point of today's posting:

Some one, somewhere, doesn't like hipsters.  SHOCKING!  Here's some of the more thought-provoking quotes:

Money is a funny thing with hipsters. They exist in a state of perpetual luxuriant slumming. They drink blue-collar beers but hold white-collar jobs. Or vice versa. Whether he comes from above or below, the hipster takes care never to appear to be striving. Class anxiety isn’t hip...But of course the hipster couldn’t afford to dress down if there weren’t a taut social safety net in place. Debt relief from mom or dad might be just a phone call away. Then there’s that steady freelancing gig that’s always there when you need it, no matter how distasteful it might be to proofread ad copy or put on that catering uniform.

Hipsters, though, they may be mostly white (and rich) welcome minorities to their ranks. In fact they get worried if their aren’t enough colors on the social palette...This all seems resonant with a theory I have heard spouted (though never read) by and about young people today—that growing up in “diverse communities” with friends of every color and creed, they are “postracial.” It follows that they make racist jokes without malice, as a way of rebelling against the tyranny of political correctness.

This one is just sort of funny to me:

Hipsters, at the end of the day, are still people. Hearts do beat under our faded t-shirts. At a bar the day after I saw Aquatic I bumped into a guy who’d sunk into a mild melancholy after seeing the film. “Wes Anderson was the one guy I thought I could count on,” he said, “and he really let me down.”

This one is sort of validating?

Perhaps he sensed that there is an artistic limit to the parody and decided that he’d rather cruise the high seas animating jellyfish than remove the faux from his earnestness.

And this one is just ridiculous:

Come to think of it, I’ve been seeing a new breed of male around Brooklyn lately. He’s put on some weight, gotten burlier, more menacing, and grown a beard. He drinks harder and he’s been stealing the pretty girls from the effete indie boys. ...He looks, well, sort of like Charles Manson.