Well, dear readers, I have successfully procrastinated on my grand Found Audience Telephone piece for five days, and to be perfectly frank, I might continue to do so indefinitely. It turns out, much to my surprise, that hipsters do not expect much in the way of follow-through!
To be clear, I fully planned on enlisting John's aid this week, but there always seemed to be something better to talk about: John's apparent jealousy towards me, an alarming rash I found on my thigh (which was not, if my physician is to be believed, cancer, but the result of my new, more form-fitting jeans), the respective speeds of Superman and the Flash . . . I confess, however, that I was, to the most minuscule degree imaginable, the teeniest bit hesitant to approach him. You see, John tends to take his job far too seriously, and is prone to lecturing about every minor infraction--taking a two-hour lunch instead of a one-hour, for example, or disconnecting his phone during a sale because he was late to our coffee break. It's not that I am afraid of him, mind, but he is so tiresome when he gets up on his high horse, I just couldn't bear the thought of the inevitable blah blah blah that will ensue when I explain that I'd like him to put his job on the line so that I can improve my standing in hipsterdom.
As a result, I stayed away from Williamsburg until yesterday, and that only because I wanted to make sure I hadn't missed out on some new fashion trend during my time away (I hadn't!). In an attempt to stay incognito, I wore a floppy hat and overlarge sunglasses, but my stature is apparently such that even then I am instantly recognizable, because within minutes, someone I had met last week did in fact approach me. Predictably enough, his first question was about my Found Audience Art. I answered, as mysteriously as I could, that "The time was not yet right," expecting him to see straight through me, then begin to point and laugh, which would in turn prompt our fellow hipsters on Bedford to begin flicking their cigarettes at me while chanting in unison "Poseur! Poseur! Poseur!" (I have not quite recovered, I fear, from the infamous Infinite Jest incident.) Instead, he nodded as if I'd said something profound and began to talk about delays on his own project du jour--a literal rat race that hipsters would be able to bet on.
Well, needless to say, I was quite relieved! Subsequent expeditions confirmed the fact that only some small progress in one's project (beginning construction of a tiny race track, in my friend's case) is necessary to maintain one's standing in hipsterdom. Indeed, I began to get the impression that merely thinking of a clever idea is enough to establish one's bona fides, which is really quite extraordinary! Imagine if our financial system operated in the same way; why, it would be a disaster!
But I digress. My current plan is to continue stalling until such time as I can phase out my ambitious Found Audience project in lieu of something a bit more manageable. Until then, I will maintain my presence in Williamsburg in the hopes of gaining admission to a genuine hipster fete. Next on the docket: an independent musical concert!
Handlebar mustache update: it has now been 24 days since I began, and to be honest, it is taking far longer than I thought it would. I have more or less acquired a mustache (more of the Burt Reynolds variety than the Errol Flynn), but the handlebar portion is still weeks--or even months--away. I shouldn't be too disappointed, I suppose--Rome having taken more than a day and all--but every time I see my little jar of Pinaud Clubman (purchased ambitiously on Day 2), a deep feeling of sadness wells up inside me.
Showing posts with label Found Audience. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Found Audience. Show all posts
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
My Descent Into Madness
Pride cometh before a downfall, dear readers, and I fear that today, I have heralded my own.
It began, as these things often do, in a Williamsburg coffee shop, with me modestly admitting my previous triumphs in the art world, and a small group of fellow hipsters expressing their understated admiration for the same. Then these inquisitive hipsters began to wonder, innocently enough, the purpose of my art. I panicked, as you can imagine, dear readers, since my "Art" was a sham--an excuse, if admittedly a clever one, for my own failings as a hipster. I began to hem and haw, and was, I saw quite clearly, losing my audience, when it dawned on me: just because I hadn't intended to create art didn't mean I hadn't. After all, art is a relative proposition. Warhol could easily just have been some guy who liked to paint soup cans, but the world perceived him to be an artist, and so he was. What was the difference in my case? The fact that I could not readily conceive of an answer had a salutatory effect on me, and my confidence grew. As my pontification became assured, more and more "cools" and disaffected shrugs followed. This high praise intoxicated me, as a dance troupe of slim-hipped youths would a pederast, and when they asked me what my next project was, I carelessly alluded to telemarketing.
Yes, I had brazenly exposed my own greatest weakness! They raised their eyebrows--the hipster equivalent of a shocked gasp--and I wildly sought to reassure them. I had faked my way into telemarketing, I told them, so that I could execute a Found Audience Art masterpiece. Which would have been well and good, had what I had so crapulously laid out not committed me to something I fear 1) is not possible, 2) will cost me my job if attempted, and 3) will cost the job of my dear friend John, without whom this attempt cannot be made.
A disaster, dear readers, entirely of my own making. If only I'd left it simple--claimed that I would, say, passively resist, like Bartleby the Scrivner--I might have escaped unscathed, but oh no, I had to make this grandiose announcement: that I would convince my fellow telemarketers to play a game of telephone with a rival teleconferencing company.
I knew that the idea--a long-running joke I share with John--would be well-met (how could it not?) but even I could not have predicted the collective excitement from the group. I even got not one but TWO admiring chuckles! Suddenly, I was the focal point of the entire room, as hipsters began hurling suggestions at me faster than I could take them in, each one hitting me like a snort of snuff. Before I knew what had happened, I had giddily committed to not only performing this insane feat, but making an audio recording of it to boot!
I believe I have worked out the logistics, dear friends, but it is madness--a veritable suicide mission--and its success will require not only my efforts, but those of my closest friend, who I fear will not be easily convinced. At stake: my reputation in the hipster world.
It began, as these things often do, in a Williamsburg coffee shop, with me modestly admitting my previous triumphs in the art world, and a small group of fellow hipsters expressing their understated admiration for the same. Then these inquisitive hipsters began to wonder, innocently enough, the purpose of my art. I panicked, as you can imagine, dear readers, since my "Art" was a sham--an excuse, if admittedly a clever one, for my own failings as a hipster. I began to hem and haw, and was, I saw quite clearly, losing my audience, when it dawned on me: just because I hadn't intended to create art didn't mean I hadn't. After all, art is a relative proposition. Warhol could easily just have been some guy who liked to paint soup cans, but the world perceived him to be an artist, and so he was. What was the difference in my case? The fact that I could not readily conceive of an answer had a salutatory effect on me, and my confidence grew. As my pontification became assured, more and more "cools" and disaffected shrugs followed. This high praise intoxicated me, as a dance troupe of slim-hipped youths would a pederast, and when they asked me what my next project was, I carelessly alluded to telemarketing.
Yes, I had brazenly exposed my own greatest weakness! They raised their eyebrows--the hipster equivalent of a shocked gasp--and I wildly sought to reassure them. I had faked my way into telemarketing, I told them, so that I could execute a Found Audience Art masterpiece. Which would have been well and good, had what I had so crapulously laid out not committed me to something I fear 1) is not possible, 2) will cost me my job if attempted, and 3) will cost the job of my dear friend John, without whom this attempt cannot be made.
A disaster, dear readers, entirely of my own making. If only I'd left it simple--claimed that I would, say, passively resist, like Bartleby the Scrivner--I might have escaped unscathed, but oh no, I had to make this grandiose announcement: that I would convince my fellow telemarketers to play a game of telephone with a rival teleconferencing company.
I knew that the idea--a long-running joke I share with John--would be well-met (how could it not?) but even I could not have predicted the collective excitement from the group. I even got not one but TWO admiring chuckles! Suddenly, I was the focal point of the entire room, as hipsters began hurling suggestions at me faster than I could take them in, each one hitting me like a snort of snuff. Before I knew what had happened, I had giddily committed to not only performing this insane feat, but making an audio recording of it to boot!
I believe I have worked out the logistics, dear friends, but it is madness--a veritable suicide mission--and its success will require not only my efforts, but those of my closest friend, who I fear will not be easily convinced. At stake: my reputation in the hipster world.
Friday, January 23, 2009
A Portrait of the Found Audience Artist as a Young Hipster
Well, dear readers, yesterday I discovered something remarkable: Found Audience Art, created in a panic by me just a few days ago, had taken on a life of its own. Or at least, that's how I interpreted the new signs springing up in Williamsburg like so many Spring flowers. They were unadorned, plain sheets of paper bearing the printed message, "Have You Been Found?" and they were stapled to trees, taped to street lamps, and hung in the odd window.
At first, I thought it a mere coincidence, but as I saw more and more of them (at least 30, dear readers!), I grew increasingly hopeful that they referred to my new art form. Wishing for confirmation, I stopped at one such poster and pretended to look at it more closely. Within seconds, a baby-faced hipster joined me! I nearly asked him if he knew what the poster meant, but fearful of projecting ignorance instead of hipness, I remained silent, thinking rapidly. How to signal that I knew exactly what it was, approved of it, and wished to initiate a conversation about it? Obviously, saying those things were quite out of the question--from hard experience, I have learned that one does not approach a hipster in such a direct manner. Then it dawned on me; acting quickly, I nodded once at the poster, said "Cool," and turned to go, pausing ever-so-briefly before doing so.
"Yeah," said the young hipster next to me, halting me in my tracks. It had worked! "It's like, the newest thing."
"Indeed," I said.
"At first, I thought it was like some sort of corporate marketing campaign--it's not, though" he added quickly, "and I was like, that's totally lame, but then I heard about Found Audience."
"Genius," I said, and I confess, dear readers, I began to preen a bit.
"Yeah, it's pretty cool."
"So, have you been found?" I asked.
Obviously, this young man was, like me, just starting down the road to hipsterdom, as his face all-too-clearly telegraphed his embarrassment at having to answer, "No."
I knew that the hip thing to do would be to snort, then walk away, asserting my superiority, but my tender heart went out to him, and instead, I nodded, staying where I was. He just barely managed to contain a pleased smile (which made me, I confess, quite proud of him. He was learning so fast!).
Then he asked me the logical follow-up question.
"No," I said, to his obvious surprise. "I find; I am not found."
His little brow furrowed, and, pleased with my riddle, I turned, and walked away majestically. Or at least, I tried to, but a patch of ice hindered my exit, and instead of exiting majestically, I slipped stupendously. Limbs flailing, I groped for the pole, tearing off the "Have You Been Found" sign, then falling onto the sidewalk.
I got up as quickly as possible, surreptitiously rubbing my rump, which had born the majority of the impact, then slipped, again, on yet another patch of ice, lurching this time into a female hipster. Groping for purchase, I latched on to her shirt with my free hand, and very nearly righted myself before her shirt tore. I caught only the merest glimpse of bare flesh before I returned to the ground, this time hitting my elbow. The pain was quite severe, dear readers, and I confess to rolling around on the dirty road, yowling in pain.
By this time, needless to say, the progress of my fellow hipsters had all but ceased as they watched the spectacle before them. I could scarcely blame them; why, the sight of a half-naked hipsteress along would have been enough to make me stop, and with the addition of a rotund hipster moaning on the ground in agony, I expect only the blind and deaf would have kept moving! As the pain slowly subsided, I realized that I was still holding both the shirt and poster in my hands, and became acutely aware of the infamy such an embarrassing display would provoke.
I had, I knew, only one option, and extracting a pen from my coat pocket, I held the muddied poster in front of my face, and changed the text to read, "Have You ^(Have) Been Found," then rising (carefully!) to my feet, handed it, along with the scrap of shirt, to the hipstress, whose arms were now crossed protectively over her chest. She accepted them wordlessly (looking a bit shocked, I must say), and I bowed with as much of a flourish as I could manage, then picked my way slowly, but nonetheless with a certain regal dignity, towards the subway station.
I held my breath as I walked away, hoping against hope that I would hear a light patter of applause swell behind me. Alas, this did not happen, and I quickly drew the conclusion that I, along with Found Audience Art, were finished before they could properly have begun. My squalid trip home was wholly depressing, dear readers, and I might have even succumbed to tears had it not been for a conversation between two hipsters that I overheard at Union Square.
"Check it out," said one hipster, holding up his cell phone to his friend.
"Cool," said the other. "Found Audience is deck."
Now, had it not been for my dear friends over at How To Impress a Hipster, I would have been sure that "deck" meant either "lame," "embarrassing," or "tragic," and might very well have died from this confirmation of my worst fears; instead, my heart, like the Grinch's, grew three sizes in that moment, and for the rest of my trip home, I felt like the returning conqueror!
At first, I thought it a mere coincidence, but as I saw more and more of them (at least 30, dear readers!), I grew increasingly hopeful that they referred to my new art form. Wishing for confirmation, I stopped at one such poster and pretended to look at it more closely. Within seconds, a baby-faced hipster joined me! I nearly asked him if he knew what the poster meant, but fearful of projecting ignorance instead of hipness, I remained silent, thinking rapidly. How to signal that I knew exactly what it was, approved of it, and wished to initiate a conversation about it? Obviously, saying those things were quite out of the question--from hard experience, I have learned that one does not approach a hipster in such a direct manner. Then it dawned on me; acting quickly, I nodded once at the poster, said "Cool," and turned to go, pausing ever-so-briefly before doing so.
"Yeah," said the young hipster next to me, halting me in my tracks. It had worked! "It's like, the newest thing."
"Indeed," I said.
"At first, I thought it was like some sort of corporate marketing campaign--it's not, though" he added quickly, "and I was like, that's totally lame, but then I heard about Found Audience."
"Genius," I said, and I confess, dear readers, I began to preen a bit.
"Yeah, it's pretty cool."
"So, have you been found?" I asked.
Obviously, this young man was, like me, just starting down the road to hipsterdom, as his face all-too-clearly telegraphed his embarrassment at having to answer, "No."
I knew that the hip thing to do would be to snort, then walk away, asserting my superiority, but my tender heart went out to him, and instead, I nodded, staying where I was. He just barely managed to contain a pleased smile (which made me, I confess, quite proud of him. He was learning so fast!).
Then he asked me the logical follow-up question.
"No," I said, to his obvious surprise. "I find; I am not found."
His little brow furrowed, and, pleased with my riddle, I turned, and walked away majestically. Or at least, I tried to, but a patch of ice hindered my exit, and instead of exiting majestically, I slipped stupendously. Limbs flailing, I groped for the pole, tearing off the "Have You Been Found" sign, then falling onto the sidewalk.
I got up as quickly as possible, surreptitiously rubbing my rump, which had born the majority of the impact, then slipped, again, on yet another patch of ice, lurching this time into a female hipster. Groping for purchase, I latched on to her shirt with my free hand, and very nearly righted myself before her shirt tore. I caught only the merest glimpse of bare flesh before I returned to the ground, this time hitting my elbow. The pain was quite severe, dear readers, and I confess to rolling around on the dirty road, yowling in pain.
By this time, needless to say, the progress of my fellow hipsters had all but ceased as they watched the spectacle before them. I could scarcely blame them; why, the sight of a half-naked hipsteress along would have been enough to make me stop, and with the addition of a rotund hipster moaning on the ground in agony, I expect only the blind and deaf would have kept moving! As the pain slowly subsided, I realized that I was still holding both the shirt and poster in my hands, and became acutely aware of the infamy such an embarrassing display would provoke.
I had, I knew, only one option, and extracting a pen from my coat pocket, I held the muddied poster in front of my face, and changed the text to read, "
I held my breath as I walked away, hoping against hope that I would hear a light patter of applause swell behind me. Alas, this did not happen, and I quickly drew the conclusion that I, along with Found Audience Art, were finished before they could properly have begun. My squalid trip home was wholly depressing, dear readers, and I might have even succumbed to tears had it not been for a conversation between two hipsters that I overheard at Union Square.
"Check it out," said one hipster, holding up his cell phone to his friend.
"Cool," said the other. "Found Audience is deck."
Now, had it not been for my dear friends over at How To Impress a Hipster, I would have been sure that "deck" meant either "lame," "embarrassing," or "tragic," and might very well have died from this confirmation of my worst fears; instead, my heart, like the Grinch's, grew three sizes in that moment, and for the rest of my trip home, I felt like the returning conqueror!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Inauguration Day
As promised, I spent some time in Williamsburg yesterday afternoon to celebrate the inauguration of our 44th president, Barack Obama. Williamsburg was majestic as always, and my fellow hipsters indeed seemed to be in a festive mood--instead of their usual sullen and slouched demeanor, their heads were held high, and they even nodded (and occasionally smiled!) as they passed each other on the streets. It was all quite inspiring! Change I could indeed believe in!
I walked immediately to a dive bar I had read about online located near the Lorimer stop. As I approached, I saw a fellow hipster sitting outside the bar, which I found quite unusual, given the cold weather. He was perhaps in his early 30's, with artfully disheveled brown hair that he blew carelessly away from his face as I got closer, and was well-protected against the elements, having taken layering to an extreme level. He wore no fewer than 6 different shirt of varying thickness, with the outermost layer consisting of an oversized t-shirt which read "Special Olympics." The entire ironic package (including what I believe were tattered orange shoes that reminded me of those designed for skate boarders) was quite a remarkable example of hipster fashion, I thought to myself.
Cognizant of the new, more friendly attitude hipsters were taking towards one another, I greeted him, and inquired as to whether he was excited about the inauguration. He mumbled something that I couldn't quite make out in response, but I distinctly heard the word "Change" in his answer, and thus encouraged, I sat down next to him. He companionably made room for me, then mumbled something, of which I only caught the words "drink" and "cold." Thinking this mumbling was perhaps a new hipster trend, I quickly adopted his lingo, inserting the words "Obama" and "Inauguration" into a stream of gibberish. He seemed impressed by my quick grasp of the vernacular, and invited me in to the bar for a drink. Either that, or he asked me to buy him a drink, but either way, I was quite sure he wanted to go in to the bar, which was just as well since I was not quite as well-prepared for the cold weather as my new hipster friend. Concrete is cold!
I readily accepted, and he sprung spryly to his feet. I imagine you know me well enough by now, gentle readers, to guess that I felt quite proud of myself for having made such a successful entry to the hipster inaugural celebration! I held the door open for him, and he immediately procured a table in the mostly empty barroom. I headed to the bartender, and asked him for two hot toddies. He was, apparently, not as practiced in hipsterease (as I began calling it in my head) as I, and asked me to repeat myself three times before I finally abandoned the argot and asked him in plain Queen's English for two hot toddies.
When I returned to our table with drinks in hand, I couldn't help but notice that my new friend had fallen asleep! Undoubtedly, I thought to myself, he had been partying excessively before I had arrived (which would also explain his rather pungent breath), and the warmth inside the bar had lulled him to sleep. I mumbled to him that the drinks had arrived, and handed him the toddy, which he gulped down with astonishing speed. Before I could so much as begin to discuss the finer points of Infinite Jest or the latest Animal Collective album with him, he had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. Thinking this was perhaps the "hip" thing to do in mostly empty dive bars (after all, I told myself, one must conserve one's energy when one can if one plans to party all night), I plugged my nose, downed my toddy, and followed suit.
Before I so much as got comfortable, I was rudely shaken by the bartender, who told me, if you can believe it, to take myself and my "bum friend" out of his bar. At this point, the few other patrons, hipsters all, were looking at us with what I took for intense interest. Mindful of the audience, I rose to my feet, and indignantly defended my friend, explaining that he was hardly a bum, but rather a fine example of your modern-day hipster, and that not only did he likely have a home in the form of an artist's loft, but a trust fund to boot! Unfortunately, I explained all this in hipsterease, which as you'll undoubtedly remember, our bartender did not speak. All he seemed to pick up from my speech was the word "hipster," and it seemed that he took it for an insult, as he responded by saying, "I'll show you a fucking hipster, asshole," then he bodily dragged me to the door and tossed me outside, followed shortly by my new friend.
As we dusted ourselves off, I couldn't help but notice that my friend did indeed bear some of the mannerisms common to one who was homeless: the few-days growth of beard, initially taken for disaffected scruffiness, now seemed the result of having neither hot water nor a razor; the the ripped jeans not a fashion statement but a necessity; the odor coming from him not an environmental statement against deodorent's chemicals, but rather the lack of access to a shower.
Suddenly I felt like quite the fool, and apologized to the homeless man for having mistaken him for a hipster. He was quite gracious, and (I'm fairly certain) thanked me profusely for the drink, and settled himself back into his original position against the bar. Meanwhile, I began castigating myself mentally for the error, and hoped--futilely, as I shortly discovered--that the bar's other patrons were ALSO bums instead of hipsters, as that would have negated the impact of my gaffe.
As I started to trudge away from the bar, the door swung open and two hipsters (I was quite certain they were hipsters and not homeless people, as one clutched a laptop to his chest and the other wore a Swatch; fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me!) emerged. I squared my shoulders, ready to accept their abuse manfully.
"Hey," said the one holding the laptop.
"Hey," I mumbled back.
"That was hilarious," said the other, with no expression whatsoever.
At this point, I paused, wondering if they were perhaps playing some cruel trick on me. Either that or they thought I had intentionally invited the homeless man in as some sort of joke. Quickly deciding on a course of action that would suit either scenario, I simply shrugged, then turned to walk away.
"Was that, like, performance art?" asked the Swatch one. I turned again, a faint flicker of joy budding in my chest.
"Yeah," I said, quickly dropping the mumbling and instead adopting their deadpan deliveries.
"Cool."
I had garnered a "cool" from a bonafide hipster! Containing my excitement, I shrugged again, then asked, "What do you do?"
"I make hats," he said, pointing at his own, which had red crosshairs superimposed over a yellow truck.
"Cool," I said.
"So, like, did you advertise at all or anything?"
"No," I said, thinking quickly, "I want the audience to be surprised. You know how Found Art is just made up of random objects? Well, I want my audience to, uh, be found. I call it 'Found Audience.'"
Both sets of hipster eyebrows raised as one. "Found Audience," said the laptop hipster.
"Cool," said the Swatch one.
Needless to say, dear readers, I wanted to shout my joy to the world! Instead, I shrugged again, said "Later," then walked to the L train. Not only had I survived what could have been a fatal gaffe, I had carved out a niche for myself in the hipster world! I was a Found Audience Artist!
I walked immediately to a dive bar I had read about online located near the Lorimer stop. As I approached, I saw a fellow hipster sitting outside the bar, which I found quite unusual, given the cold weather. He was perhaps in his early 30's, with artfully disheveled brown hair that he blew carelessly away from his face as I got closer, and was well-protected against the elements, having taken layering to an extreme level. He wore no fewer than 6 different shirt of varying thickness, with the outermost layer consisting of an oversized t-shirt which read "Special Olympics." The entire ironic package (including what I believe were tattered orange shoes that reminded me of those designed for skate boarders) was quite a remarkable example of hipster fashion, I thought to myself.
Cognizant of the new, more friendly attitude hipsters were taking towards one another, I greeted him, and inquired as to whether he was excited about the inauguration. He mumbled something that I couldn't quite make out in response, but I distinctly heard the word "Change" in his answer, and thus encouraged, I sat down next to him. He companionably made room for me, then mumbled something, of which I only caught the words "drink" and "cold." Thinking this mumbling was perhaps a new hipster trend, I quickly adopted his lingo, inserting the words "Obama" and "Inauguration" into a stream of gibberish. He seemed impressed by my quick grasp of the vernacular, and invited me in to the bar for a drink. Either that, or he asked me to buy him a drink, but either way, I was quite sure he wanted to go in to the bar, which was just as well since I was not quite as well-prepared for the cold weather as my new hipster friend. Concrete is cold!
I readily accepted, and he sprung spryly to his feet. I imagine you know me well enough by now, gentle readers, to guess that I felt quite proud of myself for having made such a successful entry to the hipster inaugural celebration! I held the door open for him, and he immediately procured a table in the mostly empty barroom. I headed to the bartender, and asked him for two hot toddies. He was, apparently, not as practiced in hipsterease (as I began calling it in my head) as I, and asked me to repeat myself three times before I finally abandoned the argot and asked him in plain Queen's English for two hot toddies.
When I returned to our table with drinks in hand, I couldn't help but notice that my new friend had fallen asleep! Undoubtedly, I thought to myself, he had been partying excessively before I had arrived (which would also explain his rather pungent breath), and the warmth inside the bar had lulled him to sleep. I mumbled to him that the drinks had arrived, and handed him the toddy, which he gulped down with astonishing speed. Before I could so much as begin to discuss the finer points of Infinite Jest or the latest Animal Collective album with him, he had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. Thinking this was perhaps the "hip" thing to do in mostly empty dive bars (after all, I told myself, one must conserve one's energy when one can if one plans to party all night), I plugged my nose, downed my toddy, and followed suit.
Before I so much as got comfortable, I was rudely shaken by the bartender, who told me, if you can believe it, to take myself and my "bum friend" out of his bar. At this point, the few other patrons, hipsters all, were looking at us with what I took for intense interest. Mindful of the audience, I rose to my feet, and indignantly defended my friend, explaining that he was hardly a bum, but rather a fine example of your modern-day hipster, and that not only did he likely have a home in the form of an artist's loft, but a trust fund to boot! Unfortunately, I explained all this in hipsterease, which as you'll undoubtedly remember, our bartender did not speak. All he seemed to pick up from my speech was the word "hipster," and it seemed that he took it for an insult, as he responded by saying, "I'll show you a fucking hipster, asshole," then he bodily dragged me to the door and tossed me outside, followed shortly by my new friend.
As we dusted ourselves off, I couldn't help but notice that my friend did indeed bear some of the mannerisms common to one who was homeless: the few-days growth of beard, initially taken for disaffected scruffiness, now seemed the result of having neither hot water nor a razor; the the ripped jeans not a fashion statement but a necessity; the odor coming from him not an environmental statement against deodorent's chemicals, but rather the lack of access to a shower.
Suddenly I felt like quite the fool, and apologized to the homeless man for having mistaken him for a hipster. He was quite gracious, and (I'm fairly certain) thanked me profusely for the drink, and settled himself back into his original position against the bar. Meanwhile, I began castigating myself mentally for the error, and hoped--futilely, as I shortly discovered--that the bar's other patrons were ALSO bums instead of hipsters, as that would have negated the impact of my gaffe.
As I started to trudge away from the bar, the door swung open and two hipsters (I was quite certain they were hipsters and not homeless people, as one clutched a laptop to his chest and the other wore a Swatch; fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me!) emerged. I squared my shoulders, ready to accept their abuse manfully.
"Hey," said the one holding the laptop.
"Hey," I mumbled back.
"That was hilarious," said the other, with no expression whatsoever.
At this point, I paused, wondering if they were perhaps playing some cruel trick on me. Either that or they thought I had intentionally invited the homeless man in as some sort of joke. Quickly deciding on a course of action that would suit either scenario, I simply shrugged, then turned to walk away.
"Was that, like, performance art?" asked the Swatch one. I turned again, a faint flicker of joy budding in my chest.
"Yeah," I said, quickly dropping the mumbling and instead adopting their deadpan deliveries.
"Cool."
I had garnered a "cool" from a bonafide hipster! Containing my excitement, I shrugged again, then asked, "What do you do?"
"I make hats," he said, pointing at his own, which had red crosshairs superimposed over a yellow truck.
"Cool," I said.
"So, like, did you advertise at all or anything?"
"No," I said, thinking quickly, "I want the audience to be surprised. You know how Found Art is just made up of random objects? Well, I want my audience to, uh, be found. I call it 'Found Audience.'"
Both sets of hipster eyebrows raised as one. "Found Audience," said the laptop hipster.
"Cool," said the Swatch one.
Needless to say, dear readers, I wanted to shout my joy to the world! Instead, I shrugged again, said "Later," then walked to the L train. Not only had I survived what could have been a fatal gaffe, I had carved out a niche for myself in the hipster world! I was a Found Audience Artist!
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