As a life long vegetarian, hunting has never really been my thing. I find even the occasional mushroom foraging foray a (a “fo-fay” as we call it), less than stimulating. A birthday present from my meat-eating uncles was a one-year membership to the North American Most Dangerous Game Association (the foremost human hunting society in the United States), but I never made it past the entry-level stage of hunting small and hungry children. Much to the disappointment of my carnivorous uncles, my interest in putting on silly clothing and spending all day in the woods was more focused on hiking and mountain biking, not hunting.
No, hunting never held much interest, unless it was hunting for that rare bootleg Shakira compact disco or for the best espresso café in Brooklyn for agreeing earnestly with other people’s crap opinions on art.
Job hunting, too, is something I am not overly motivated to involve myself in, especially given my especially dignified departure from my last gig as a gurlnalist (See “On getting fired (and still enjoying your peanut butter”). No I would rather retain my dignity, and spend my time sitting around my apartment coming up with opinions on art and writing letters to Shakira.
However, as it turns out, postage costs money. And so does food. And while the worry of parents and relatives is free, it does begin to grate, so recently, I put on my best camouflage suit and went out looking for a yob.
After exhausting the known wilds of Bushwick, with their cafes and bars and restaurants, and finding no worthwhile yob offers (yoffers), I was forced to venture further into the woods of unemployment, entering into the deep and dark atmosphere of craigslist (carefully skirting the ravine of “kinky” gigs).
For the sake of my mother’s worrying, I will not enumerate all of the gigs that I responded to, but of particular interest was one as a bicycle messenger.
Within 5 minutes of sending an email expressing my new and passionate desire to ride around and terrorize pedestrians while delivering packages, I received a phone call scheduling an interview. Just as “Sean” was about to hang up, he quickly muttered something about me possibly being filmed.
I decided not to dress up too much for this interview (I wore the nicer of my two helmets, and a nice camouflage shirt), which turned out to be the right choice, given that the “office” was an espresso shop in the village. This was relieving, because I already have a lot of opiinions about art.
Before I got to interview, a film crew put a mic on me, had me sign a release, and asked me to repeatedly walk through the front door until they got the shot they wanted. The interviewers, presumably preoccupied with the thought that the camera added ten pounds and made them look fat in their designer jerseys and spandex barely asked me any questions related to things like experience, bicycle, dependability, knowledge of the city, what I wanted to make. Pretty much anything that would involve a job.
After the interview, the film crew followed me outside, and did another interview asking me how the interview went, which was totally meta and awesome, and I can only imagine what sort of awesome bicycle film I am going to be put in. I put on my best sense of irony and said things like “post modern” and “negative space” and “metaphysical modes of transport”
I may not have a yob, but I do hope I get to be in this film.