this/is/depression.

CAT TOUCH THIS

Hand out Flyers in a Cat Suit - 4 hrs. $30
Reply to: job-32250407@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-05-27, 11:33AM EDT


It is what it is. A cat suit, a bunch of flyers and $30 cash. Could become somewhat regular. E-mails without phone numbers will not be responded to(unless you have a real good reason for not giving one i.e. you don't have a phone). No resumes or excesssive infos.


Job location is 26th @ 3rd
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: $30
Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
Reposting this message elsewhere is NOT OK.

May 27, 2004

Dear Sir or Madam,

This letter is in reference to your posting today on the website Craig’s List. With regard to the position in question—a person to hand out fliers in a cat suit—I respectfully submit my offer of interest. However, there are a few questions I have whose answers would aid me in my enthusiasm.

Firstly, is the cat suit white? This would be optimal. Off-white is also okay, but beige or maybe even “Robin’s Egg Gray” would be acceptable. Anything further along the chromatic scale may well be too polarizing for the intended clientele. You see, we live in a society where race and class disparities are still significant barriers. Don’t deny it. It’s hard for certain ethnic groups to forget the societal evils of the past. I for sure wouldn’t want to offend certain demographics, thereby impeding the potential of earning their patronage. I’m all for the company’s success, I just don’t want some large African-American man thinking I’m portraying the old “humble black cat in the city” stereotype.

Secondly, what material is the cat suit made of? I think I read somewhere that most cat suits are made of a highly reflective polymer-coated cotton/polyester blend. That sure would be swell. I recall a few years ago knowing a guy in Kansas City who handed out free samples of foie gras in a beagle costume. Turns out the darned thing was made of DuPont LivingWare high-grade 30/70 rayon and Home Depot-generic duct tape. The guy would come home after a long day of work and look like one of those circus clown paintings you always see in dentists’ offices. Not a very chic look for the summertime.

Thirdly, with regard to the fliers I’d be handing out, what is the product I’m advertising? Because of religious beliefs, I have to decline any work related to the following fields:

--Agriculture
--Microbiology
--Puppies
--Foodservice and/or thoughts of Foodservice
--Automotive Repair
--Banking
--Arts and Crafts
--Aerospace (on Tuesdays only)

I sincerely hope this won’t pose any problems for you or your company.

That about rounds it all out. I am eagerly awaiting your reply and I thank you immensely for your consideration. I remember as a kid growing up on a tobacco farm in rural Virginia, my daddy used to bend me over his knee and say, “Son, one day you’re gonna be handing out fliers in a cat suit on 26th and 3rd in Manhattan. Take the number six train to 28th street, make a right at the turnstiles, take the left staircase. You’ll make me and your mother proud, you will.” It’ll be so nice to finally make it.

Sincerely,

Paul R. Nair
Enthusiastic Applicant

P.S. Is it possible to take the cat suit home after-hours? My girlfriend would get a kick out of it. I don’t really have a girlfriend, but if I did, she’d sure get a kick out of it. Can I still take the cat suit home?

P.P.S. About compensation; I noticed you posted $30 for four hours of work. Is it possible to increase the hours to 12 and the pay to nothing? I don’t know how I’d feel taking money for this. It’s in my bloodstream.

P.P.P.S Sorry, just one more question. If a cat had a can of mace, and some Hispanic guys kept messing with it, would I get arrested? I mean, would it get arrested? Thanks!

I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN GET IT UP

Today, during my daily walk home from work, I suffered from a disasterous medical malady. I believe health care professionals call it "Permanent Boner."

I'm not quite sure how exactly it happened. All I know is, I'm walking up Central Park West, backpack strapped on, loose-fitting clothing swishing to the beat of my footsteps. Suddenly, a raging chubber is in full effect, and I am powerless to its stubbornness.

I believe that the exact positioning of my boxer shorts and their effects on my tweeter may be to blame, however at this juncture I am recalcitrant to blame any one single factor. It had been a while since I had cleaned the pipes (or as the laymen prefer, masturbated furiously) and the cool 72 degree breeze did permeate my cotton slacks frequently. In addition, there were numerous attractive women in various styles of low-cut dress.

Two strong lessons were learned today. First, Manhattan is a terrible place to be when cursed with Permanent Boner. Especially in or near Central Park. There are gaggles of school-aged children EVERYWHERE, and it is very hard to determine whether they or their cell-phone clutching and paranoid nannies are able to spot the dork knob-related protrusion from the front of your trousers. Throughout the course of the walk home, I was repeatedly concerned about the possibility of being arrested. I recall television shows set in prison explaining how people caught with boners near playgrounds get their testicles forcibly removed by other inmates. Oh, perilous vengence.

The second lesson I learned was that women are really fucking hot. Just as I thought I had the Permanent Boner defeated, some damned vixen in nylon short shorts would strut by, her pugnacious tatties aimed for the heavens. Why, it was enough to make me rip my turgid manpole right out of its mooring in my vexed crotchspace.

For one brief moment, I passed a kindly old man passing out fliers for a nearby church. Hoping the possibility of human interaction would humiliate the boner into submission, I walked towards him. About four feet away from taking one of the man's leaflets, I gritted my teeth and surged past swiftly. The boner remained steadfast despite all obstacles.

In the long run, I tried using my mind to defeat the cells upon cells of blood pooling in the spongy suburbs of my uber-schlong. I conjured images of all the elderly people I knew, but alas, the images would poof and disappear, replaced by a vision of the two girls from the apartment next door in a vigorous "Manitoba Twat Blaster" position. In desperation, I aimed my gaze at an errant bird pecking at the ground. The Permanent Boner remained strong. Interesting, I thought, as I have no real affinity for birds.

(At one point, I stared down a Weimeraner taking a piss in the street. In a fascinating turn of events, the Permanent Boner grew! I swear now and forever that I have no sexual interest in dogs, regardless of breed or color.)

Finally, upon exiting the park, the Permanent Boner faded. It was assisted by a group of young African-American schoolchildren, whom I think had noticed my eagerly attentive cervix-prodder. It may also have been that they were laughing and pointing at me just for the hell of it, as middle schoolers are wont to do from time to time. Either way, the boner receded into a steamy jungle of sweat and pubes, much like some sort of Kiplingesque sub-tropical creature, giving me ample time to walk briskly home.

Upon entry of my apartment, I quickly laid waste to any future possibility of P.B. using some rather anti-authoritarian literature and Kleenex brand Permanent Boner Eradicating Tissues. I strongly suggest to each and every adult male in New York that he does too.

A WALK IN THE PARK

It's Monday. Every Monday rolls around and sweeps me into a soft grey depression of sorts. I always snap out of it by Wednesday, but the first two days of each work week (and especially the cold front that is Monday morning) are consumed with thoughts and feelings of despondence, isolation, inadequacy, et cetera.

This afternoon I was walking home from work in my requisite Monday doldrums, mainly ignoring the sights and sounds around me, eyes focussed solely on the concrete sidewalks below me. It was a group of small children, however, who stole my attention and sparked a chain of beautiful events, each reminding me of the unique joy that is this experience called life:

--At a big rock formation near the West side tennis courts, three little kids were playing, holding sticks as swords. One little boy, his blonde hair like strands of wheat in a Kansas field, shouts "ONWARD...ATTACK!" to his two compatriots. With all the seriousness of real soldiers, the three go scampering up the large, dark rock, worn smooth by the sneakers of generations of children with active imaginations before them. I thought about my imagination, how in my childhood it flourished like theirs. I thought about my imagination now, how frail it has become, to the point where to conjure fantasy I have to drink a whole bottle of wine. I realized as I thought even further, that now when I coax my imagination onto paper it is with the intended goal of getting published, then paid, then laid. I can't help but feeling a bit shameful for this.

--A little past the rocks, three Asian teenagers were standing in the middle of the pathway, giggling hysterically. They had the small Nike backpacks and urban/basketball clothing that immediately identified them as New York City high school kids. As I got closer, I noticed they were laughing at a large brown dog some yards away. The dog had caught sight of a squirrel nibbling at an acorn, and in hilariously futile dog fashion, was ridgidly advancing in a slow, slow slink, movement barely perceptible. It was a funny sight, granted, but I began to wonder whether the kids were stoned. It reminded me of my salad days as a teenager getting high in the park with my friends, exhaling that stinky blue smoke towards the glowing green of the leaves, free of any real worries beyond an algebra test...

--Further on, I saw a young couple in a sunlit patch of grass, furiously embraced. Some old black dude walked by me, watching them, and said (to no one in particular) "Old girl wanna boner!" I disagreed, and sourly thought to myself 'No, they're just in love, you jerk,' but then regained my contented mood. I wished it was me on that grass, with some pretty Upper East Side girl to share a blanket with.

--At the East Drive crosswalk, I passed a mother and her son, both eating ice cream cones. They approached a rather shady path leading downtown, when the son stopped in his tracks. "Mom, can we go that way?" He asked, pointing in the opposite direction. His mother replied that of course he could, and while it was no big issue, there was something concilliatory in her tone, as if at this point in time, any request of his would be granted. I wondered if something tragic had happened to the child recently.

--Near the 97th Street entrance to the East side of the park, I gazed up from my sneakers only to see, in the cool shade of a giant elm tree, an old woman pushing a retarded man in a silver wheelchair. In the man's lap was a black labrador puppy, licking his face while he giggled with a smile so wide it was his most distinguishable feature. Alright, I thought. Fuck this, what is this, fuckin' Emo Park 2004? I mean this is just ridiculous. First, God, you bombard me with scene after scene of construable beauty, but that's not enough? NOW YOU GOTTA RUB MY FACE IN IT. I felt my heart breaking, so I quickly averted my gaze and stormed off towards Fifth Avenue.

I got home to my apartment and told my roommate about what I saw. He found it funny, the sequence of tender moments I happened to observe. I agreed it was quite remarkable, and then BAM!

I remembered that between the stoned Asians and the makeout couple, I saw an old German Shepard in what I can only describe as a dog wheelchair (this two-wheeled contraption that supported his obviously broken hind legs) straining to loyally follow his owner as he walked among the splendor of the park. The owner walked slowly, glancing down every other moment, monitoring his best friend's course. The dog looked exhausted, but still he wagged his tail slightly, managing to enjoy the fresh air.

'Jesus,' I thought. 'I gotta start taking the subway.'

WRITER'S BLOCK

One of the first things they teach you in any screenwriting or fiction writing class is: NEVER WRITE ABOUT THE CREATIVE PROCESS. Nobody gives a good goddamn about how hard it is for you to write the great American novel; similarly, no one wants to hear the Woody Allen-esque neuroses of film production expounded upon for 120 minutes or more. [Note: One exception would be the wonderful Adaptation.]

Having studied screenwriting in college, I myself know better than to use my creative frustration as fodder for my creative output. Why, that would be like shitting in my own mouth in lieu of eating a good dinner. God, what a terrible analogy. Now do you see how stymied I am?

So, as you can see by the posting dates on the various blogs and/or websites I contribute to, I've been in a slightly erratic rhythm of writing these days. At first I thought it was the weather. I was writing a good 10 pages a night back in Autumn, and January was a barren parking lot of creativity. But now it's May, the trees are in bloom, the breeze is in the air, and...nothing. It's become more than frustrating. It's downright depressing. I wonder if I've become permanently blocked. Perhaps writing enthusiasm was located in a sector of my brain that withered away with time (just like that sector that used to tell me it was okay to urinate in bed). Or maybe the long, cold New York winter suffocated my artistic urges. Five months without a good 70 degree day certainly stifles the happier thoughts you could be having.

I pondered these theories and more as I walked with my roommate down 86th Street, my neighborhood shopping corridor, this weekend. Dipping into Barnes and Noble for a quick browse of new fiction, I turned a corner and came face to face with this:




I think several small Asian children actually stumbled over my jaw, which was neatly on the floor.

Lewis and Clark for Dummies? What the hell is the point of this book?

This thing is 382 pages long. Dummies don't tend to read anything longer than People magazine.

Also, isn't Lewis and Clark a little specific? As my roommate noted, "Anyone who would read 382 pages about Lewis and Clark probably knows all there is to know about them already." And anyways, if you're going to read a book the size of the Manhattan phone directory about explorers who have been dead for 200 years, wouldn't you at least buy a LEGITIMATE reference book? The phrase "for Dummies" conjures images of pop-up illustrations and cartoon bears ornamenting neon-colored pie charts.

I wasn't really sure whether or not to judge this discovery as positive or negative. On the optimistic side, it just might be proof that ANY IDIOT can get a book published, as long as said idiot just sat down and wrote the damned thing. Perhaps my idea for a 700 page comprehensive history of the Allen wrench isn't such a bad idea after all. Then again, the cynic in me screams that this is what the publishing world has become.

Yes, it must be true. There's no more room for smart and interesting literature. The McDonalds-ization of the written word has begun. No more beautiful novels; instead, serialized templates with a criminal or romantic aspect to the plot. No more wonderfully engaging works of non-fiction; instead, a handy reference to our history and worldy surroundings to peruse during the commercial breaks of "Friends."

Sad as it is, I for one will be the first to sell out. After all, if you can't beat them, join them. Join them and actually write for a living, instead of commuting to a windowless office to perform droll functions for a faceless corporate empire.

I've already come up with some potential bestselling ideas for the "Dummies" series:

"Thermodynamics for Dummies"

"Central Pivot Irrigation and its Revolutionary Effect on Middle American Agro-Industry for Dummies"

"The Excruciatingly Intricate Details of Cost/Benefit Governmental Spending in the Post-Industrial Third World's Metropolitan and Provencial Jurisdictions for Dummies"

And finally,

"Buckets for Dummies"

--prn