Istvan Bio 19
Let's workshop this author bio about one of Istvan's--now dead--dreams back when he lived in Texas a few years ago, a bio that captures the pretentious delusionality of an eccentric PetSmart stocker
M. A. Istvan Jr., PhD, is an enterprising animal dealer (and, “for now,” parttime PetSmart stocker) based out of Austin, TX. The fiery man, his weather-beaten look heightened in contrast to the good-teeth youth bustling around him in the same company-logoed navy polo, has “spearheaded a campaign” to reimagine the zoo experience. The groundbreaking idea, which he has been trying in vain to present to J. K. Symancyk (president and chief executive officer of the superstore chain)—what could it be when this is a man, a zoological outsider, who wrote a thousand-page dissertation on Gadamer’s notion of play? It boils down simply to displaying zoo creatures in bizarrely unnatural settings that, so Istvan puts it, “bring what’s most important into relief—dramatic relief.”
“We go to zoos to see animals,” Istvan proclaims with flamboyant bluster (as if an old-world barnstormer in aviator goggles and scarf). “The problem is, when placed in replicas of their natural habitats (these,” he scoffs, “pseudo-savannas and whatnot), animals tend to fade into the background—the homogenous plenum, if you will.” Ever ready to lean upon his graduate studies from over twenty years prior, Istvan—despite a preemptive apology for getting “technical”—makes his point in cryptic fashion (and one gets the sense that he struggles each moment to hold such material back). “We need to create a Heideggerian clearing: a space conducive to aletheia, a space in which the animal can stand forth out of the river of Lethe.”
Istvan’s frustration becomes visible when such lines do not draw out visible awe and emotion from those around him, the eureka recognition he feels they deserve. It becomes visible through the redness of his face and the pit stains of his polo, through his slip into a slang and tonality of almost another personality. “How the fuck they gonna compete with Dippin’ Dots, with gifts shops, when I ain’t even know where a mahfucka’s at!? That’s what the fuck I’m sayin’! But mark my words.” He gathers himself, nearly back to baseline personality. “The days of children—squinting, crying—wondering where the lion is, those days are numbered.”
Istvan dubs his innovative notion “the defibrillator shock-paddle approach,” which he calls simply “the DSPA” (never unpacking the initialism unless someone inquires). The DSPA, he believes, will revitalize a flagging zoo industry whose “dwindling patron numbers over the last decade has meant dwindling resources for animal conservation.” “At the end of the day, I’m defending the animals,” he stresses (visibly self-conscious about all the sweat). “It’s really about them: our furred and feathered brethren”—a message Istvan demands be “fully conveyed in proper context,” threatening to “walk out this bitch real quick” otherwise.
The man’s passion is palpable, bordering on unsafe. “I don’t mean to lose my cool,” he says (reining in the intensity of his chronic hand gestures and, finally, hanging the red KONG chew toy—its cardboard backing crumpled and damp—on the display hook, sensing—as clear by the uptick in side glances—that the patience of his floor supervisor has run thin). “It just needs to be clear that I’m no defender of the technological worldview where animals, like everything else, are no more than stock to be used for our ends.” Istvan grabs another KONG from the shipment box on the dolly. “I stand with Heidegger on that!”
With a blend of wit and wild ideas (over seasoned with David-Foster-Wallace-level paranoia about being misunderstood and mischaracterized), Istvan no doubt has set the stage for a zoo experience as unforgettable as it is unconventional. “I do not call for a return of the bear back to the cramped cage of some Victorian menagerie,” so he insists against all the “unempathetic detractors” terrorizing his fantasies. “I envision, for example, walruses”—he shouts as if outdoors (as if, and it truly is hard not to imagine Miyazaki’s pigheaded Porco Rosso, years of open-cockpit flight in a prop plane has rendered him hard of hearing). His maniacal glint and perfume of pipe tobacco are as pungent as his ploy. “I envision them lined up in replicas of office mailrooms: minimal adornment on the animal itself—perhaps only a bowtie in the case of the walrus, or a monocle on the bear in the golf cart.”
The mad doctor has certainly delivered an unforgettable pitch. Whether his brazen bestiary will find any backers, however—well, that remains to be seen.
