Feline Ponzi Scheme
This Performance Was (I'm So Sorry) A Cat-Astrophy
A certain prestigious alternative comedy festival has rejected me yearly for over a decade.
Is prestigious + alternative comedy = an oxymoron?
Anyway. It occurred to me that perhaps this ex-nun genderqueer comedy business is a bit of an acquired taste. Or at least a very specific one. So I’ve been searching for a show topic with a wider appeal.
What could be better, I thought, than making off-off-off-off-off Broadwaytheater about the internet's favorite animal, cats?
Not–and I want to make this 100 percent clear–like Cats the Musical.
And certainly not like Cats the Musical the Movie, which, through a series of choices demonstrating extremely poor judgment, I inadvertently watched on Imax.
The music was lovely, but the costumes were so, what's the word? Amazing? Stunning? Well-crafted?
Oh no.
Inexplicable.
The word I'm looking for is inexplicable.
Without any costume designing experience or knowledge, I could only conclude that the costume designers' goal was for the on-screen cats to appear very sexy.
But not to the other cats.
To us.
This seems both unfortunate and fiscally ill-advised.
If a movie watcher has the thought: "Oh, I'm developing a tingly physical reaction to the image of this person dressed up like an animal dressed up like a person," it seems improbable that their first action would be to recommend said movie on social media.
A more likely response is to leave the theater immediately, hide in a dark closet shaking for several hours, never voluntarily speak of their experience again, and if asked, vehemently deny knowledge of the movie's existence.
No my cat-related theater piece would nothing like this.
It would be, I decided, a parody of a TED Talk.
The motto of TED Talks is Ideas Worth Spreading.
My show would be Cat Talks: Ideas Worth Shedding.
For maximum impact, I would begin the presentation as a regular human person.
But then, as my Cat Talk unfolded, I would slowly adopt feline appearance and comportment.
By the end of the presentation, I would appear to be a cat.
I summarized this Cat Talks plan (plan-ish?) to my Kind And Reasonable Friend, who undoubtedly regretted her ill-advised decision to co-work with me that particular day.
I typed the information into the Prestigious Alternative Comedy Festival's Google form application. I was about to hit submit when KARF said, "Oh- you should probably include a few details about how you plan to make this cat metamorphosis happen."
I couldn't include a few more details about how I planned to make this cat metamorphosis happen because I didn't have a few more details on how I intended to make this cat metamorphosis happen.
Or really, to be honest, any details.
And then, like the Elizabeth Holmes of the alternative comedy world, I said, "Good ideas figure themselves out,"
And hit submit.
"Anyway," I explained, “I don't need to flesh it out because no matter what I do, there is a zero percent chance they will take this show."
Two months later, I got an email.
They had taken the show.
So the good news is, I got to perform Cat Talks: Ideas Worth Shedding.
But the bad news is, I had to perform Cat Talks Ideas Worth Shedding.
It's perhaps possible at that moment, I developed a little queer chip on my shoulder.
I look like this.
And the only subject anyone in the Semi-Presigious Alternative Comedy Festival believes I'm qualified to speak about is cats?
Well.
Upon further reflection.
Ahem.
I do know a lot about cats.
For example, in the queer Brooklyn comedy scene, such as it is, I am the indisputable authority on using cats to promote shows.
A few years ago, I created a Facebook post asking friends:
Hey, does your cat want to be a spokescat for one of my events? Please send me a picture.
From a promotional perspective, this idea was a stroke of genius. From a time management perspective, it was a stroke of, well, not genius.
You might guess the difficulty was due to every queer on this continent (and many more from other continents as well) sending me a photo. Nope. The volume, while substantial, was ultimately workable.
My predicament developed because out of everyone who was kind enough to share a photo…
Everyone.
Not some people.
Not most people.
Not 98.275 percent of people.
Every last person who submitted a photo did so with an email written in first person from their cat.
I really appreciate that level of commitment.
Dare I say cat-mmitment
But not answering your friend's email is a Hey, That's Not Nice level of impolite.
Not answering your friend's cat's (and sometimes friend's cats') emails is quite another.
There are certain transgressions queers can forgive.
Questionable fashion.
Continuing to live with your ex for up to three decades post-break-up.
Even throwing home before first tagging out the easy play at second base.
But neglecting the emotional vulnerability of their animal companions is like bringing a spotted owl casserole to the potluck. It might be an honest mistake, but your social life will never recover.
So, I'd hit reply.
Dear Fluffy,
Thanks so much for your comprehensive bio and exhaustive explanation of your qualifications for the role of spokecat. As per your question, yes, you would keep all rights to your likeness. Yes, I do agree Big Pharma is orchestrating the conspiracy against catnip that keeps it from being understood as a healing plant, but no, I wasn't aware that it can help with glaucoma, scurvy, and hairballs. Thanks so much for sharing…
Seven paragraphs later
love
KellI
And that is how I spent an entire summer corresponding with other people's cats.
I wrote the script and even made a cute slide show featuring some. of the spokescats. I was ready—if not exactly enthusiastic— for Cat Talks at the semi-prestigious alternative comedy festival.
But then, Trump was elected president…
You can read part two now! I mean, if you want. But maybe you do want to? Because you desire to know what happens? Or maybe desire is a little strong. Maybe cringingly curious? Cringurious?
Also the bonus post with my mom’s coconut rum balls recipe is here too!
