Urban Outfitters is, before anything else, Abercrombie & Fitch for the hipsters of the world. But to really understand the phenomenon of Urban, you need to look closely at the clothing tags. Penguin notwithstanding, do you recognize any of these companies? Didn’t think so. And herein lies the rub: Urban is the ultimate rich-kid clothing cooperative for brand names that didn’t quite make the big show. A glorified T.J. Maxx, if you will, but without the nonstick T-Fal cookware and anachronistic computer games. Throw in some trendy literature and gaudy apartment accoutrements, and Urban becomes the most delicious irony on State Street: the merciless fusion of hipster and corporate culture. This isn’t just tongue-in-cheek; it’s tongue-through-cheek.

But try telling that to the hundreds (dozens?) of UW students who selected Urban Outfitters as the best clothing establishment on State Street. More power to you, my friends. You know something that the rest of us don’t. You know that a neon T-shirt rendition of the periodic table is worth no less than $27. You know that no corduroy blazer is worth buying unless it has been torn or marred (excuse me — depressed) in at least seven different places. You get it — as do your parents who replenish your bank accounts every morning. The rest of us, however, might throw a brick through Urban’s window — if they weren’t already broken.