Picketfits

I showed up. I walked almost every day.

I organized meetups with the cast and writers from old shows.

I made new friends.

I believed in the cause.

I did everything you’re supposed to do during a strike.

I also quietly believed that one day, someone from PicketFits would stop me on the sidewalk and say, “Hold up. We need a photo.”

I really wanted to be on PicketFits.

If you weren’t in Hollywood during the Writers Strike, PicketFits was an anonymous Instagram account that photographed writers on the picket line.

I became convinced I belonged on it. On paper, it was incredibly superficial.

In practice, I wanted to be on it more than I care to admit. I checked the account.

NOTHING.

Friends got featured. I told them I was happy for them, through gritted teeth, that were doing a lot of hard work.

Why them?

Why not me?

There had to be a formula.

I found myself spending too much time on GQ.com.

I asked my wife, “Too much pattern?”

I can’t remember what she said. I wore it anyway.

Different shirts.

Different shoes.

Different pants.

Camp collars.

Florals.

Colorful socks.

Tie-dyed Vans.

Still NOTHING.

I walked with people I considered stylish because I figured I’d happily be the plus-one in someone else’s photo.

Friends tagged PicketFits in pictures of me.

NOTHING.

At some point I stopped wondering what I liked.

I started wondering what PicketFits liked.

The funny part is, I actually loved being out there.

I wasn’t pretending.

I loved seeing friends.

I loved meeting new people.

I believed in why we were there.

That’s what makes this even dumber.

One afternoon I noticed someone taking my picture.

This was it.

Finally.

PicketFits.

I spent the rest of the day convinced this was the one.

NOPE.

Deadline.

I knew exactly how stupid this was.

It changed absolutely NOTHING.

Somewhere along the way, this stopped being about clothes. It became about getting picked.

It was a ridiculous thing to care about.

Looking back at these photos... I cared about it anyway.

I once told my therapist that I wanted a career worthy of an In Memoriam.

He flipped out on me for being so superficial.

I have not changed my opinion on In Memoriam, my therapist, or my unrequited dream of being featured on PicketFits.

If you’re reading this, PicketFits…

There’s a whole album with your name on it.