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.

The Manner in Which I Earn My Rent, John

Dear readers, now that I've achieved some modicum of success, I find it incumbent upon myself to disclose perhaps the single greatest impediment to my ultimate goal: I am a telemarketer. Lacking a trust fund, or the fortitude to survive under the conformist pressure of corporate America, I have turned to that bastion of the unsuccessful artist, that haven of single mothers, that last refuge for the unambitious. Yes, that pest whom annoys you daily at dinner time and I are one in the same.

Now, having laid out ample cause for alarm, I hasten to add that the job is not all bad. In fact, aside from the disdain with which the public holds the profession, it is scarcely bad at all. The hours are flexible, the pay decent, and once one has mastered one's fear of rejection, it's not particularly difficult. The most appealing part of the telemarketing, however, is the colorful characters with whom one interacts on a daily basis. I do not speak of the sad sacks whom we call, but those worthies with whom we work. As alluded to above, they are artists--actors between parts, painters between grants, directors between producers--sweet, sassy, hardworking single mothers drawn in by the flexible hours, and, most enticing of all, those unambitious nonconformists whom, for whatever reason, are simply not cut out for other work.

One such telemarketer, whom I know only as "Tex," wears a cowboy hat and boots--with spurs!--in the office, every single day. He never speaks, either to me, or any of our fellow coworkers; in fact, the only time we hear his voice is when he makes sales calls, during which time he speaks crisp, unaccented English. All in all, he is enveloped in an impenetrable shroud of mystery that I find quite intriguing. Granted, this mystery may well be solved when he brings in a six shooter and uses us as target practice, but until such a time, I consider him a delicious distraction from the daily monotony.

There is also a shared camradrie between us, and a reckless spirit which finds its outlet in various games and contests we employ to help pass the time. For example, in our office, Talk Like A Pirate Day is not just a wry Internet phenomenon, but rather an opportunity to see who can employ more pirate vernacular during a sales call. Or there was the day where, at John's rather brilliant suggestion, we adopted fake Indian accents for all our calls. Granted, this wound up exposing a virulent strain of racism in our office, and left our sales efforts in shambles, but in terms of livening up our day, it was entirely successful!

But I digress. The point is, if I wish to be a respected member of the hipster community, I lack a suitable job. I am also, for all the above reasons, reluctant to find a new profession, as interesting as (and these are just shots in the dark at respected hipster jobs) beekeeping, knitting, or tending bar might be. At the moment, I am not so enmeshed in the hipster community that this is an urgent problem, but a little advanced planning never hurts. I could, for example, construct a story in which I live off a trust fund and moonlight there to amuse myself, or tell a half-truth: that I work in an office filled with fascinating people and spend most of my time on the phone.

This problem will not be solved in a day (they rarely are!) but I hope to have worked out something by the time I'm invited to my first hipster party, during which such topics are sure to arise.

In other news, John and I have officially made up. He apologized, I apologized, we manfully shook hands, consumed several alcoholic beverages together, then leered drunkenly at the bar's female patrons. I have not, however, yet told him of this blog. You see, in the recent past, John started a blog, and I somewhat childishly (or so it seems now; at the time, it was all quite amusing) undermined him in the comments section as often as possible, relying on my vast knowledge as his closest friend for most of the past decade. I fear should he learn of this blog, he may be inclined to do the same to me.

John, if you should stumble across this, please accept my humble apologies for my juvenile behavior regarding your blog, and let me remind you of your wonderfully frank advice to me at the time, "Don't be an asshole."

Unresolved questions:

1. The title of my blog.
2. Animal Collective.
3. Suitable hipster professions.

Newly resolved:

1. Hipster-approved cold weather wear. A pea coat has been purchased, and is proving quite warm. Thank you, Anonymous!
2. John. I have forgiven him.