Overthunk

      Last night, I was dragged by my far thinner, more stylish, more trend-conscious sister into Urban Outfitters. These Outfitters, cleverly named as a depot at which you'd gear yourself up for an expedition through uncharted territory (except it's a city), comprise a habitat for the much maligned Hipster: a young person for whom anachronistic bad taste is akin to those two stone tablets we've all heard so much about.      As we entered, with two kids in tow, we were hailed briefly, dutifully, by a vision of Today's Nonconformist Youth: of medium height, relatively slouchy as he carefully folded some t-shirts at a table, cropped hair encircling his head except for a wildly curly blond crown, round glasses reminicent of Rick Moranis, or maybe even Mary Gross, gray v-neck t-shirt dipping low over his sternum, exposing his somewhat abundant chest hair, turquoise cardigan hugging him from behind, loosely flapping at both sides like deboned wings, skinny deni