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Young ReadersSome of my first stories were aboutnotable young people—the 25-yearoldphotographer who’d become thestar of the New York art world, a marketingguru who was Sean “P. Diddy”Combs’s right-hand man, a young magazinepublisher and a novelist who hadstruggled for 10 years to finish a shortstorycollection. I also wrote aboutmore challenging and serious aspectsof dating and sex and about booksmeant to help young women sort it allout.Amid this kind of coverage, I alsofound myself veering towards lighter“fun” topics such as fake tans (probablythe story that garnered the mostresponse), style and shopping. I lovefashion and think it’s important to writeabout it—getting dressed is a big partof our lives—but I still struggle withciting such stories among the maintopics I use to connect with youngerreaders. They are a far cry fromQuindlen’s columns.In late spring, top editors at TheRecord established a young readershipcommittee to examine what additionalsteps the newsroom could take to reversethe ebb of young readers. A groupof about 10 young reporters, myselfincluded, along with one of our Internetcontent providers and three editorshave met almost weekly to decide onour recommendations. In our initialmeetings, as my colleagues talked aboutwhat young readers want, hard newswas rarely included. Stories about stateand federal budgets and school boardswere shunned in favor of celebrity profilesand news about local bands.So noticeable was the absence ofimportant issues that one of our editorsasked if we had given up trying tomake serious news appeal to youngreaders. Few were willing to acceptthis premise and, in fact, the paper isgoing to start publishing a weekly opedcolumn in November, written by arotating group of young staffers, abouttopics ranging from the high cost ofhousing to the future of altar girls inthe Catholic Church.Will this op-ed column—written ina young voice—appeal to young readers?I hope so, but then, I love news,and I like being informed. Newspapersdidn’t have to force news on me whenI was younger because my parents readtwo newspapers, and social and politicalissues of the day were commondinner conversation. To take part, Ihad to be informed.“Good girls go to heaven, bad girlsgo everywhere”—there is glory forthe bachelorette.• According to the literature, the sprayontan lasts for about five days,though mine faded significantly afterthree. But boy, were they threeglorious days. “Did you go on vacationor something, you look niceand tan,” said the first colleague Isaw upon returning to the officepost-tanning. “You’re tan. What didyou do to yourself?” asked my boyfriendas soon as I walked into ourapartment that night. “You aresooooo tan. Where did you go?”asked my yoga teacher as she adjustedmy triangle pose two dayslater. My response—“A new tropicalisland called Paramus”—was notentirely convincing. But the tan was.No one could believe it was fake.“You definitely have that glow,” saidanother coworker.• Near the end of the 25-foot catwalk,past the dancers in white hot pantsand under the neon pink lights,Jameel Spencer clinks shot glasseswith Sean “P. Diddy” Combs anddowns his tequila. Two large bodyguardsflank the table. Hip-hoppulses in the Chelsea club. The timeis 4 a.m., and Spencer’s work isfinally done.It began at 8 a.m., 20 hours earlier,and in another four hours, hewill wake again and drive his twochildren to school. But sleep doesn’tconcern this man. He’ll do that whenhe dies, he says. Being well rested isnot what got him where he is today—right-handman to the formerPuff Daddy, head of a lifestyle andmarketing company, and usheredthrough velvet ropes from New Yorkto St. Tropez. If he is tired, he doesn’tshow it. He follows his boss out ofthe keyhole-shaped door, onto awell lit Manhattan street, and intohis sporty silver Mercedes, which hewill steer across the George WashingtonBridge and into his two-cargarage in Closter. This is living life inthe hottest part of the flame. Speakno excuses, offer no doubts, andshow no fear.• Well, fellow suburbanites, take heart.There’s always Denny’s. Otherwise,I’m afraid, our collective hipster indexis—frankly, it doesn’t exist. Butthere is hope. “I grew up in thesuburbs,” said hipster aficionadoRobert Lanham. My, how far he hascome. The 31-year-old Virginia nativeis now ensconced in a hipster’shaven, Williamsburg, New York. Hewears long sideburns, old-schoolmustard and burgundy Adidas (witha gray suit, no less), and suggestsmeeting at a café that offers freeBuddhism classes. And he has cometo the service of hipster wannabeseverywhere. His new treatise, “TheHipster Handbook,” is an unauthorized,tell-all ethnography of thosestylishly evasive and elusive followersof indie rock bands. More thanan anthropological study, Lanham’sbook offers vital information for thehipster in training. Besides eating atDenny’s (it has enough kitsch appealto qualify, says Lanham, whoespecially likes the menus), you haveto be up on styles and then you haveto pretend you aren’t. No self-respectinghipster would ever admithe or she is a hipster. ■ —L.K.38 Nieman Reports / Winter 2003