Tuesday, May 15, 2012

My Descent Into Madness: Business Cards

So the other day, I finally took the plunge and ordered some business cards like I had been considering for ages. Today they arrived and, true to form, I began to question everything I know about life. It was a vistaprint deal, "free" cards...with $7 shipping...and $2 extra for the luxury of not having a vistaprint ad on them. Whatever, they're a little weak -- you'll notice the tone of the gray there is reminiscent of printing a black field with a garden-variety ink-jet -- but fine considering. Or are they?! Should I have just spent the extra, say $10 for higher quality stock? A custom design? Glossy finish? After all, I've got a lifetime supply of these little fuckers now. 
Why can't I hold all these business cards?! Also, yes. My foot. So what?
The answer? NO! Of course not. The fact that I even have these is completely absurd. First of all, like 95% of the information on that card is my name. Homepage URL? Name. Twitter Handle? Name. Email? Name, albeit with initial, but easily available through homepage. Name? Name. Practically the only useful information on that card is my fucking Google Voice number and that is the second to last way I'd ever want anyone to get in touch with me, aside from maybe smoke signals from a fire fueled by one of my own recently amputated limbs; I hate phone calls. Besides that, there has literally never been an opportunity where I've thought "Damn, I wish I had business cards." But if there was to be one (like if I suddenly found myself in the 90s), I'd kick myself hard for not being prepared. 

Ultimately, I think it comes down to this: my desire -- my need -- for business cards of some sort is symptomatic of a desire to have some kind of talisman, some kind of proof, that I'm a real person in some vaguely professional sense and business cards, though antiquated, are one of the few touchstones I can use. I used to write up fake info on the back of my dad's business cards as a kid. Business cards are(/were) legit. 

In reality, it's far more useful for me to say "follow me on twitter" to someone, than to hand them a god damned business card, and I very well may still do the former as opposed to the later. That said, any fuckhead can tell people "follow me on twitter" only someone who has shelled out like $12 to vistaprint can hand out a business card. So...wait. What was the point again? Something about a 20 something struggling to define himself as an adult in an increasingly digital age where "dicking around on the Internet" has become a job that pays the bills, but comes with a sense of professionalism that is questionable at best?

Oh, oh, I remember Here it is: I better win some god damn business-card-in-a-fish-bowl open-bar raffles. Also, all that said, they still make me feel like a big boy.