A Conversation with My Cat
I was on zoom, in the middle of giving a presentation to clients, when my cat walked across my keyboard. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe he did that. I told him this was an important meeting.”
They all laughed and I’m glad they did. But it was true. I had warned my cat an hour prior. I said, Charlie, I need you to stay off my desk later because I have an important meeting, and you know what he said back to me?
“None of your meetings are important. You work in advertising. You’re not exactly saving lives.”
Some cat owners might stand for that kind of behavior but I wasn’t gonna let him talk to me like that. I countered...
On the spectrum of occupational importance, there’s a lot of real estate in between saving lives and a complete waste of time. I’d like to think I’m somewhere between those poles.
“But which one do you think you’re closer to?”
I could ask you the same thing. Where exactly does napping 14 hours a day fall on that spectrum?
“It doesn’t because that’s not an occupation, it’s a lifestyle. Only one species has been dumb enough to not only invent jobs, but to willfully take them, and it’s yours.”
If my job isn’t important, why am I paid so well? Huh? Why can I afford to give you wet food in your bowl for every meal?
“Oh sure. Because our perfectly calibrated economy would never dream of giving someone a reward disproportionate to their contributions to society.”
Is that sarcasm?
“You tell me, professional writer boy.”
Condescension aside, you prove my point. I am a professional writer boy. By definition that means I get paid to think and write. I come up with ideas that are good enough that people will pay money for them. That’s incredible. How is that not a respectable use of my time?
“Oh please. Let’s not get confused. You make ads. Real artists make real art.”
Oh and ads can’t be art? Why is that?
“If the art you create is actually good, people will pay for the privilege of consuming it. What you make is so bad, your clients have to spend boatloads of money just for it to be shown to people. And even still, those people will try their best to tune it out or avoid it. Your industry is relegated to riding the coattails of content people actually desire, desperately hoping to snag some secondhand scraps of their attention. Face it, you’re creating something nobody asked for and nobody wants. You might as well work at a candy corn factory.”
That is a totally unfair exaggeration. There are definitely some ads people enjoy watching.
“But what about you? Are there any ads you enjoy? Do you ever see one and think ‘wow, I wish I had made that’?”
Well… no.
“And answer me this: if people like ads so much, why is the premium version of every digital subscription service ad-free? You may get paid to make them but if people will pay money to avoid them, isn’t that saying something?”
I understand all of that but you’re missing the point. If every ad creative quit and tried to make a living off “real art”, where would they go? They’re not like you, they won’t all land on their feet. The advertising industry is practically a charity for wayward creative souls who may not have any other way to capitalize on their gifts. It can turn starving artists into well fed artists… who are maybe a little unfulfilled but the point is they’re living off their creativity and they get healthcare. You have to concede that’s a win, however small.
“What about comedy?” he asked me, stretching his paw and licking between his toes.
What about it?
“Why don’t you do that for a living instead? Isn’t that why you moved to New York City in the first place, to go pro? That’s real art with no ulterior motive. It’s something you actually have intrinsic motivation for and you’re good at it, better than some comedians who do it full time.”
Yeah, I love doing stand up comedy. But to do it as a full time job requires a lifestyle that would make me miserable. I know I have what it takes creatively and if there was a way to be a comedian with a steady paycheck and benefits and you didn’t have to travel all the time and write every day and go to shows every night and promote yourself on social media and schmooze with strangers and you could call in sick on the nights when you’re depressed and not feeling funny, I’d do it. But there isn’t. You have to be able to tolerate all of that and be great on stage at the same time. And the good ones don’t just tolerate all of that, they actually enjoy it. It took a long time to realize, but that tradeoff isn’t worth it to me. And it hurts to reckon with that because there’s still a little kid inside of me who dreams of being a famous comedian. He wants it so bad because it would mean that he’s special and that’s all he wants to be. He’d be respected and admired by the cool kids at school whose acceptance he craves and anybody else who ever thought little of him. It’s equal parts divine calling and revenge fantasy for that little guy. And I’m the one who has to sit him down and tell him ‘buddy, it ain’t gonna happen’ and you should see the look on his face. Every time he’s so disappointed. The thing is, he’s dumb. He doesn’t know about all the sacrifices involved. He hasn’t accomplished enough to know the emptiness that waits on the other side of those accomplishments. He doesn’t realize life has no finish lines, no point at which satisfaction is permanently secured. All he knows is that when he’s at home on summer break watching reruns of Comedy Central Presents, it feels like these people are speaking a language he has an innate understanding of. He looks upon them with such reverence and if he could become one of them, he believes people would surely look at him the same way. He somehow thinks comedy is both bigger and smaller than it actually is.
“So it’s just kind of like a hobby for you now?”
Wow. Really? That’s all you have to say? I opened up to you in an extremely vulnerable way just now and, like, really showed you my belly, so to speak.
“Yeah ya sure did. I feel like a licensed emotional support animal after listening to all that. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m your cat, not a therapist. I don’t know what to do with all that inner child stuff.”
At this point he hopped into my lap, made himself comfortable and looked up at me. “So what’s the plan then? What are you doing with your life?”
I’m not sure. What are you doing with yours?
“You know, I have nine lives and I’ve never spent a single moment planning how I’ll spend any of them. I just do my thing.”
I’m jealous. I’ve always felt this pressure to be ambitious and successful in some kind of big, noteworthy way but it doesn’t seem like I would actually be happy doing that with comedy or advertising or anything really.
“Then where is the pressure coming from?”
I think it’s because our society really only gives a shit about productive, successful people. From a young age I internalized this idea that if you want to be admired and respected, you have to be great at something. Ideally, something that will make you rich and famous. It’s like a religious belief at this point. It’s so foundational to my being that I don’t even question it anymore. Asking if ambition is good is like asking “is water wet?” I mean, obviously. It’s so conditioned in me that I feel guilty to admit my favorite parts of life aren’t instances of achievement. They’re just the simple, ordinary little moments.
“Like what?”
Um, I don’t know like… like being here with you. Right now.
He purred and smushed his face into my bearded chin and I planted little rapid fire kisses on top of his head, right between his ears.
“I’m still gonna walk across your desk later during that presentation”
You know what, fine. Do it. I know I can’t stop you.
The presentation ended up going well and the clients said they loved the work we shared with them which seems too strong a thing to say. I don’t see how the same word could accurately describe your feelings about your own children and a social content series with a stupid pun for a name. But they said they loved it and I was proud. Not of the work we presented, but of that little joke I made about my cat at the beginning of the meeting.
