Mr Eggers and Mrs Spears
I went to hear Dave Eggers speak last night. The author of the most amazing book I haven't read yet - The Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius. Some might know him from his work in The Believer. Or from McSweeneys, the print/online journal and mast head under which The Believer is published. Also his baby. Which he said he started just to say that he could do it. Even though it would probably lose a lot of money.
He was in Chicago as part of Columbia College's Literary Festival : The Politics of Story. The Literature of Rock and Roll. Dave was joined by Joe Meno, another writer who wrote a book I've been meaning to read, Hairstyles of the Damned. But I am here to pay homage to Dave right now. He shared quite a few pieces of fiction, beginning with a list of nine conceivable titles that Charles Bukowski might have written if he wrote kid's books. The list had been passed to him by a friend, but it was hilarious and dead on, though not from Egger's directly. Why don't I think of this stuff? My favorite title was Wishbones are from Turkeys, Harlots are from Hell.
My very favorite part of Egger's set, however, was his reading of several letters addressed to various CEO's of Fortune 500 companies. He wrote these letters under the guise of a man named Daniel, from Austin, Texas. And Daniel, from Austin, Texas, wrote under the guise of Stephen, a very frisky Irish Setter with a potty mouth. Follow that? (If not, I believe the letters were originally published in McSweeneys,(http://www.mcsweeneys.net/ , so you can check it out there.) But I laughed so hard when Eggers assumed the voice of this dog, that I thought it only appropriate to continue in my homage by testing out the device.
In order to abstain from any political critique (for today only), I will send my letter, not to any CEO, but to a pop culture icon. And in an effort to remove myself from any similarities to Stephen, the Irish Setter, my letter will be from Jason Hill, the black cat with no fear. Thanks for the inspiration Mr. Dave Eggers.
Dear Mrs. Spears,
I am writing to you today with the knowledge that it could be my very last letter. I am at the doctor right now and they are checking my pee, since I have continually had problems with blockage. It may be fatal. Hence the whole bit of melodrama about it possibly being my last letter and all. But death doesn't scare me. It's just been pretty damn painful. I don't know if you've ever had any trouble with blockage at all. Maybe Kevin has. But it gets pretty bad. Sometimes I just lay around on the floor and cry. But, anyway, I know that my blockages are not really your concern. Let me tell you why I am writing.
My name is Jason Hill, and I am a black cat. I live with these two women, and I guess you could say they treat me okay. But, honestly, they think I'm some kind of idiot. Constantly monitoring me as if they knew best. They don't feed me half the time. Well, they feed me, but the one tries to give me petroleum jelly like it's some kind of candy. And the strips off her maxi-pads. What the hell am I supposed to do with those? The other one tries to keep me from 'acting out' anytime I get it in my head to try and have a little fun. Okay, so I like to aggravate the other cat that lives here, Harrison. But I mean, he's a little bitch. Can't take a little screwing around. I ruffle his hair a little bit or get close to his food and he starts crying for his mommy. If he was just fuming about his name, I'd understand. It's just as stupid sounding as mine. But he cant even stand me near him. I'd like to pounce him. Like I said, he's a little bitch. Then the girls shot me with the water bottle. Well, one of them does. I mean, I don't really give a shit. It's all fun to me. But it's the principle of the whole thing. I feel completely misunderstood. I'm absolutely sure you understand this. Granted you probably don't enjoy burying things, but you probably do feel gravely misunderstood by the media. I see all that shit they say about you. She lines my litter box with the newspaper. So, I wanted you to know that I am on your side. Personally, I think your marriage to Kevin has a chance.
This leads me to the reason for my letter.
I don't know if you have a cat or not? Or if you've ever thought about it. I am aware of little BitBit from his pictures. And I can assure you that we would get along. But this is my plea to you for a relationship of emotional respect. Knowing that I have a condition that is possibly terminal. I would like nothing more than to be able to spend the remainder of my days with you and Kevin. In an environment where I am taken seriously, rather than one where I have to worry about getting squirted because I got on the counter at the wrong time. Or where I am made to play with some stupid fake mouse, hanging from a bungee cord on the back of a closet door. I hate that shit. I am so bored. Do you know that one time, I had to pee so bad I was screaming and they wouldn't even take me to the doctor because they had no money. They had spent their last dollars on some electric skillet from Amazon.com. At least I know that I'd never have to worry about that with you. I'm young and I would even keep my ass clean. All on my own. All for you Britney. Please consider this an invitation of my services to you. I would be a good cat. I know that you would not treat me like I was stupid because you understand the kind of abuse I have fallen victim to. And I could finish the remainder of my days in peace. Content to be your pet. Please contact me as soon as possible, because I could be dead soon. They're coming back to insert the catheter. I have to go now.
Sincerely,
Jason Hill
He was in Chicago as part of Columbia College's Literary Festival : The Politics of Story. The Literature of Rock and Roll. Dave was joined by Joe Meno, another writer who wrote a book I've been meaning to read, Hairstyles of the Damned. But I am here to pay homage to Dave right now. He shared quite a few pieces of fiction, beginning with a list of nine conceivable titles that Charles Bukowski might have written if he wrote kid's books. The list had been passed to him by a friend, but it was hilarious and dead on, though not from Egger's directly. Why don't I think of this stuff? My favorite title was Wishbones are from Turkeys, Harlots are from Hell.
My very favorite part of Egger's set, however, was his reading of several letters addressed to various CEO's of Fortune 500 companies. He wrote these letters under the guise of a man named Daniel, from Austin, Texas. And Daniel, from Austin, Texas, wrote under the guise of Stephen, a very frisky Irish Setter with a potty mouth. Follow that? (If not, I believe the letters were originally published in McSweeneys,(http://www.mcsweeneys.net/ , so you can check it out there.) But I laughed so hard when Eggers assumed the voice of this dog, that I thought it only appropriate to continue in my homage by testing out the device.
In order to abstain from any political critique (for today only), I will send my letter, not to any CEO, but to a pop culture icon. And in an effort to remove myself from any similarities to Stephen, the Irish Setter, my letter will be from Jason Hill, the black cat with no fear. Thanks for the inspiration Mr. Dave Eggers.
Dear Mrs. Spears,
I am writing to you today with the knowledge that it could be my very last letter. I am at the doctor right now and they are checking my pee, since I have continually had problems with blockage. It may be fatal. Hence the whole bit of melodrama about it possibly being my last letter and all. But death doesn't scare me. It's just been pretty damn painful. I don't know if you've ever had any trouble with blockage at all. Maybe Kevin has. But it gets pretty bad. Sometimes I just lay around on the floor and cry. But, anyway, I know that my blockages are not really your concern. Let me tell you why I am writing.
My name is Jason Hill, and I am a black cat. I live with these two women, and I guess you could say they treat me okay. But, honestly, they think I'm some kind of idiot. Constantly monitoring me as if they knew best. They don't feed me half the time. Well, they feed me, but the one tries to give me petroleum jelly like it's some kind of candy. And the strips off her maxi-pads. What the hell am I supposed to do with those? The other one tries to keep me from 'acting out' anytime I get it in my head to try and have a little fun. Okay, so I like to aggravate the other cat that lives here, Harrison. But I mean, he's a little bitch. Can't take a little screwing around. I ruffle his hair a little bit or get close to his food and he starts crying for his mommy. If he was just fuming about his name, I'd understand. It's just as stupid sounding as mine. But he cant even stand me near him. I'd like to pounce him. Like I said, he's a little bitch. Then the girls shot me with the water bottle. Well, one of them does. I mean, I don't really give a shit. It's all fun to me. But it's the principle of the whole thing. I feel completely misunderstood. I'm absolutely sure you understand this. Granted you probably don't enjoy burying things, but you probably do feel gravely misunderstood by the media. I see all that shit they say about you. She lines my litter box with the newspaper. So, I wanted you to know that I am on your side. Personally, I think your marriage to Kevin has a chance.
This leads me to the reason for my letter.
I don't know if you have a cat or not? Or if you've ever thought about it. I am aware of little BitBit from his pictures. And I can assure you that we would get along. But this is my plea to you for a relationship of emotional respect. Knowing that I have a condition that is possibly terminal. I would like nothing more than to be able to spend the remainder of my days with you and Kevin. In an environment where I am taken seriously, rather than one where I have to worry about getting squirted because I got on the counter at the wrong time. Or where I am made to play with some stupid fake mouse, hanging from a bungee cord on the back of a closet door. I hate that shit. I am so bored. Do you know that one time, I had to pee so bad I was screaming and they wouldn't even take me to the doctor because they had no money. They had spent their last dollars on some electric skillet from Amazon.com. At least I know that I'd never have to worry about that with you. I'm young and I would even keep my ass clean. All on my own. All for you Britney. Please consider this an invitation of my services to you. I would be a good cat. I know that you would not treat me like I was stupid because you understand the kind of abuse I have fallen victim to. And I could finish the remainder of my days in peace. Content to be your pet. Please contact me as soon as possible, because I could be dead soon. They're coming back to insert the catheter. I have to go now.
Sincerely,
Jason Hill
posted by The Passenger at 9:56 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home