Wrestling and Cover Letters

I know I’m on the right track in life when I wake up in the morning and see that the first thing on my to-do list is ‘hang out with professional wrestlers’. When carrying on in the tradition of the unskilled twenty-something, watching scantily-clad dudes wail on each other is as good a thing to do as any. It’s an afternoon of distraction from my fear of the mild depression that awaits me as I, at some point, go back to doing what I should be doing — writing cover letters. Cover letters for big boy jobs with big boy sounding titles that involve words like “analyst” or “consultant”. In the meantime, before I put my big boy pants on, I want to see some wrestling.

Not anticipating the time it would take for me to find the place, I show up about half an hour later than I had said I would. Just Pro Wrestling (JPW) is in Chicago’s Hermosa community — where, I learned, Walt Disney was born, not important, but interesting — just west of Logan Square. It shares a space with an organization called Chicago Combat MMA, and it is for this organization and not JPW that the inconspicuous door on a building surrounded by used car dealerships is marked. I check the address on my iphone one more time to make sure I got the address right before I walk in. After walking up a flight of steps, I enter a frankensteinish cross between a workshop and a gymnasium. It’s riddled with wooden blocks, tools whose names I don’t know, tumbling mats, lifting weights, and a foreboding sense that I am not yet man enough to be here. A carpenter would be just at home here as a martial artist; a cross between Jesus and Bruce Lee maybe. And, as it turns out, I am pretty far from being either of those, especially Jesus. The closest I have ever come to being a carpenter was the one time my brother and I decided to build a tree house and got as far as nailing a single wooden plank to a tree before realizing that we’d be better off busting into somebody else’s cool tree house. And my brief brush with the martial arts was as a tae kwon do instructor in fourth grade. This prestigious job lasted about two seconds before the adults caught on to the fact that I just wanted to goof off, you know, like a nine year old. This is exactly the kind of stick-to-itiviness and professionalism I should be advertising to potential employers on all of those cover letters I’m not writing.

I ask to look around the gym, and the wrestlers tell me to go for it, shooting looks at each other. As I walk, I laugh as they joke about a wide array of topics: penis size, each other’s mothers, race, slavery, celebrities.

The walls are decorated with stylish graffiti-inspired spray paint, and flags from all over the world hang from the ceiling. For a minute, I feel like I’m in a deleted scene from the 1992 film 3 Ninjas; the one where three kids learn from their grandfather how to mix their spunky 90s sensibility with ancient ninjitsu tactics to wholesome — if culturally insensitive — comedic effect. But come on, don’t act like you don’t know what 3 Ninjas is.

3 Ninjas is one of those movies where everything has a (insert random theme) version of itself. In 3 Ninjas, that theme is, you guessed it, ninjas. Because of this it is not okay to just do something, you have to ninja do something. For example the three kids Samuel, Jeffrey, and Michael are told by their grandpa that they “may have family names, but not NINJA names!”. And presto, a little ninja magic from an elderly authority and they become Rocky, Colt, and the lovable if all so clumsy Tum Tum. They are never referred to by their old names again and stick to their ninja names for the rest of forever (that is, four whole feature length films), because they are ninjas now and that’s what ninjas do.

It also makes sense that this gym reminds me of 3 Ninjas since the last installment of that franchise, 3 Ninjas: High Noon at Mega Mountain, features the man himself. He has gone by many names, Mr. America, Sterling Golden, Terry Boulder, Thunder Lips, Ichiban, Hulkamania,The Hulkster, Hollywood Hogan, the Hulk Hogan. Pro-wrestler, reality star, light of our lives. I’m thinking about these things not only because of the gym’s styling, but because as the noble unskilled twenty-something that I am, these things are, whether I like it or not (I like it), part of my childhood. And whether I want to admit it or not (I don’t), I am still a giant baby who finds it difficult to think about real things. Real, not related to goofy movies where kids beat up adults and Hulk Hogan saves a theme park from terrorists, things. Again though, if you are going to ask me to choose between figuring out the best way to sell myself in a cover letter that is going to get added to a pile of ignored cover letters and wallowing for awhile in self-indulgent nostalgia for an afternoon. The nostalgia wins every time. It honestly isn’t even a contest.

A few punching bags hang lonesomely in the corner in the gym; for whatever reason it’s hard not to feel for their dejection and even identify with them as the students are too preoccupied with the real star of the show — the ring. The owner of JPW, Lewis, assures me that even though there is no real documentation proving it at all, and that all the information he’s getting comes from word of mouth (but still totally legit), the ring holds a prominent position in wrestling history.

At 18-feet by 18-feet, the Just Pro Wrestling ring carries with it the electricity of possible, could-be mythology. It’s the same training ring that was maybe used by the legendary Road Warriors — a tag team, composed of Micheal “Hawk” Hegstrand and Joseph “Animal” Laurinaitis, that used painted faces and imposing shoulder pads as their gimmick. And it was perhaps used by CM Punk, currently self described as “The Best in the World”. It is a twenty-something year old piece of historic hearsay, and I can’t help but to link Lewis’ car dealer like attempt to sell me the relevance of the ring, to the nature of my cover letter writing. This time though, I am both the used car dealer and the used car. Give me a chance, I’m a real fixer upper. I assure you my time working at such and such has absolutely prepared me to now work for you, seriously, stars are crossing here, we’re lucky to have found each other, it’s fate really. I’m a ‘fast learner’ looking for ‘opportunities for growth’. Opportunities for growth? I am a used car, a used car dealer, and now; a fungus, possibly a tumor. Back to the ring.

The frame, supported by steel and floored with wooden planks and layers of foam padding covered by a canvas mat, is begging to give way after years of taking a barrage of ‘bumps’ or falls. These occur either when one wrestler tosses or slams the other or when a wrestler leaps off the ring corner. To fix the ring a bearded student takes a tricep bar and uses it to smash the frame of the ring into place. The mentality here being: if it is broken, hit it until it’s not. While it sounds counter-intuitive, given a few minutes — and the application of tools that don’t also double as weight lifting equipment — the gang deems the ring good to go and leap in without hesitation. Lewis stands ringside, proud as can be.

Lewis wears black sweatpants and a track jacket with the school’s emblem on it. He’s a bearded man of sturdy build. “Buddha Beast,” he tells me “That’s what I used to be called because of my height and weight.” His face is one used to smiling. So the way the story goes is that Lewis, along with long time friend Tim, got into wrestling fifteen years ago during wrestling’s “attitude era” when wrestlers like “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and “The Rock” became cultural icons. Together they trained and performed with the midwest independent circuit, comprised of promotions like Windy City Pro Wrestling (WCP) and All American Wrestling (AWA). After a few years of this, Lewis had decided to run his own promotion, “I stopped wrestling so that I could focus on my career [as a teacher], I knew I had my time and that I wasn’t going to get into WWE.”

Imagining Lewis as an attitude era professional wrestler brings me infinite joy. Even though when the attitude era was at its height I was too busy getting fired from jobs I was way too young to have, having a consciousness at all at the time meant that there was no escape. You were going to know about wrestling. It was a time when our wrestlers weren’t just our wrestlers, they were also our Scorpion Kings. Steve Austin chugged beers, The Rock asked us whether or not we could smell what he was cooking, and The Undertaker made us think that maybe warlocks are real, and sometimes they wrestled. All the makings of attitude were there; ladders, chairs, cages, attitude, flashy title belts, and perhaps most of all, a friend named Vince. What, I wonder, was “Buddha Beast” like in the ring? The man before me is calm and cheerful, and call me crazy, but something tells me that “Buddha Beast” is neither calm nor cheerful. I hope he has a catchphrase like, “Time for the Beast Feast”, or maybe something more aggressive like, “time to die!”. And I hope he screams it until his throat goes hoarse. Something I imagine the real Buddha would do. Dreaming about this is without a doubt far more satisfying than figuring out exactly how to tell an employer that I am very much afraid that I am not good enough but ignore that because look at this amazing cover letter I’m writing that demonstrates the competence of me, the hopeful candidate, to you, the imagined monster person that might someday be my boss. If you don’t believe the cover letter, maybe we’ll just settle this in the ring. No? You want me to leave your office? Don’t contact you again? Alright I’ll go, but I’m going to stick my finger in your coffee first. Wow, okay, that was a lot hotter than I assumed it was going to be. Good day sir.

With a small group of core students, Just Pro Wrestling opened in 2010 with only a handful of students, including a 14 year old named Reuben, who goes by the name “Kid Prodigy”. Along with Kid Prodigy there are about eight other wrestlers running the ropes — sprinting across the ring from one side to the other using the elasticity of the ropes to propel you forward. Talking to Lewis, I ask where does the typical professional wrestling student come from, and the answer he gives is “everywhere”. And it’s true. Among the wrestlers is a school teacher, a veteran who served in Iraq, an amateur wrestling coach(“amateur” wrestling being the kind of wrestling you’d find in some podunk, no-name organization like, say, the Olympics), and an airline employee. Then there’s Billy “The Tiger”, an ex-pro wrestler and luchador hailing from Puerto Rico. He keeps quiet and and watches from outside the ring with his arms crossed tight. “The backgrounds are diverse, but they all share the love, we’re all marks (fans), that’s how everybody starts off. That’s why you get involved.” If Just Pro Wrestling is about anything it is the authentic love of it all. Nothing else can really drive someone to constantly risk neck and limb while trying to take down an opponent you’re not actually fighting, to do things others would only maybe attempt if intoxicated or otherwise feeling particularly untouchable. This, Lewis says, is what separates the independent circuits from the high profile promotion WWE.

While the WWE promotion has for years now produced melodrama on the level of Greek tragedy, Lewis claims that they don’t have the same variety of moves, holds, bumps, and submissions as what you’d see at an independent exhibition. “We offer something different,” Lewis explains “a lot of the independents in the midwest, they try to emulate WWE, they’ll have two guys with microphones bad mouthing each other — that kind of thing — but the WWE already is WWE so we try to do our own thing.” What their own thing is is not entirely clear to my untrained eye but I go ahead and nod my head regardless since I feel that there might be a lesson here.

Maybe it’s the uncertainty of my youth, maybe it’s Lewis’ conviction, and maybe it’s that I’m grasping at straws, but to me what Lewis says feels important. Important in that sage-like advice from a stranger in a wrestling school way. For me, twenty three feels like I’m staring down the barrel of a gun, and that gun is the life I am going to lead as soon as I pull the trigger. If that sounds obnoxiously overwrought and dramatic, it is because it absolutely is. But it’s how I feel. Looking for nuggets of wisdom / desperately-spazzing-out-in-hopes-of-finding-something-to-hold-on-to, is par for the course. So when Lewis is talking about and, this is important, only talking about the importance of JPW, veering away from WWE to go its own way, I know what he’s really talking about is me. I don’t know if you realize this, but everybody exists only to teach me things. What Lewis is oh so subtly getting at here, is the importance of knowing when to follow the advice of Fleetwood Mac, and go your own way, hopefully with less of the bitter love triangles, but if that’s what happens, that’s what happens. There is sometimes a strong temptation to lose faith in your own ability to make decisions and default to what those around you are doing. It is as easy as looking left, looking right, and following suit. But that’s not the way of JPW, and that’s not going to be my way either.

Should I write that in my cover letter? “Dear Sirs, one time, I visited to a school for professional wrestling, and it tenuously taught me about having conviction in who you are as a person, so uh, that’s what I’m doing now. Also, I love Fleetwood Mac. Signed, excited job applicant!”

After my brief talk with Lewis I ask if I can sit around and watch practice. Everybody seems thrilled to have an early spectator, later tonight they’ll be performing in front of a larger, much more impressive crowd. Kid Prodigy readies himself in the position of referee as the two adults take opposite corners of the ring and prepare to pretend to beat the living shit out of each other. I’m halfway through a blink when the action erupts. Ten seconds in, one of the men whips off his shirt and graces his audience of one with a display of tongue-thoroughly-in-cheek machismo as he flexes his tapioca-like body into a strong man pose. The two, despite Reuben’s continued insistence, refuse to shake hands and shenanigans ensues. Soon there is yelling, slapping, stomping, throwing, cursing, groping, kicking. After only a few moments there are three, four, five wrestlers in the ring, some of whom have followed the rules and “tapped in” while others simply decided it was time for them to join in the brawl which leads to a skirmish with the mini-ref. If there is any narrative to the goings on in the ring turned stage it is lost on me and now that Reuben the ref, and only hope of order, is knocked out I worry. It’s an unsettling sight, an adolescent face down in the ring as men around him leap on one another and perform masterful takedowns and thrash each other with trash can lids, but it’s also damn cool. Where else would something like this even be in the realm of a normal and okay thing to occur (that’s not actually hurting 14 year olds) than in the form of some divine intervention from the gods of professional wrestling?

It occurs to me that Reuben is living the dream. It’s no secret that the major constituency of professional wrestling are adolescent males. This is part of the reason WWE has shed its attitude era edge in favor of ‘cleaner’ top billers, like John Cena and CM Punk. Reuben then, isn’t just some kid in a wrestling ring, he’s any kid that’s ever wanted to walk among their heroes and played make-believe that they were in fact those heroes.

There is a darker side to this. While Reuben has the advantage of being in a controlled environment, and is being taught real techniques, other kids his age emulate those same moves with or without a ring which has resulted in injuries and death. The most tragic example being another 14 year old, Lionel Tate, a Florida resident who in 1999 ended the life of six-year-old Tiffany Eunick while practicing wrestling moves with her. He is the youngest American citizen sentenced to life imprisonment without possibility of parole. Reuben lying there then has become for me an image of both the ideal of following what makes you happy, and a reminder that this isn’t just a game, and my mind is again thrust back into the reality I’m doing my best to avoid.

Reuben’s eyes shoot open, his face curled into a mask of vengeance as he launches himself to his feet, a referee no more; Reuben has joined in the clash of would be titans. This continues for another half hour and in that time nobody in that ring can quite hide their smiles.

Throughout the fray some of the participants step out of the ring to get some water or to throw out an insult or two along the lines of “crack head,” and “micropenis”. To a totally green writer, now feels like a solid time to start getting some interviews.

When I start asking wrestlers questions all of them start to look at me from the corners of their eyes as they go about their practice. Each wanting a chance at a spotlight even more imaginary than the drama of the ring, had they forgotten that I wasn’t a real journalist, that I wasn’t representing any kind of magazine or online publication? The real question is, does it even matter?

The first wrestler I approach is a man named Matt Hanson, in the ring he goes by “Gorgeous Orv”. He wears glasses and is constantly rattling off jokes (the “micro-penis” bit was his handy work). He tells me that during the week he is a teacher, and that for him wrestling is “a release, I get to be a dick to people. I basically get to say to kids in shows what I can’t say in class.” Watching him in the ring I agree, Gorgeous Orv is kind of a dick. Ecstatically so. He relishes in his dickishness the way a christmas elf relishes in the warm fuzzies of the holiday season. He tells the other wrestlers how much they suck and assures them of their absolute worthlessness. In any other setting this would be completely inappropriate. But again, this is what’s interesting about wrestling, sports, and yes, places of work.

Context is everything. This isn’t new. People talk about and marvel at it all the time, that feeling that they are multiple people all in one. For example, let’s say that you are a 25 year old graphic designer named Jesse. You are a coffee fiend, love Broad City, and today you will be a three different people. You wake up in the morning and see a text from one of your friends asking you if you want to come over tonight to get fancy wine drunk and maybe go halfsies on a weed brownie and asks you about your other night with Chris, your dude of the month. You say uh duh that sounds like the best time ever and that your time with Chris was just okay and that he’s kind of boring and quite possibly holds the title belt for stupidity. He asked you twice what the word ‘olfacious’ meant, and you twice told him that it’s not even a word. You feel cool with your friends, you’ve got your own language, and your own understanding of the world. Then your mom calls. She wants to know if you asked about getting a raise, and whether or not you are still going to church. You lie twice. You love your mom but she doesn’t need to know everything; when you talk to her you are still about twelve years old. Then you go to work, where you feel misunderstood, overworked, unappreciated, and underpaid. You do not feel cool here, but are sometimes yelled at like you are twelve. Here you are not entirely sure who you are and mostly want to leave. One day, three people, all context. When you feel tugged in all these different directions getting into the ring to verbally abuse some youngsters sounds like the grandest of times.

Unsurprisingly Matt / Gorgeous Orv is not the only one to see professional wrestling as a release. Manny, a fellow twenty something that goes by the name of “Montezuma” relays his story to me. “I’ve loved this since I was a kid,” he explains. “I would watch all the time until I was about twelve and for some reason I left it alone for about a decade or so.” Totally normal, I think to myself, tons of people outgrow their childhood interests. “But then when I was twenty two my father went to prison, and I started to go through a pretty depressive time. Then when I was hanging out at one of my friend’s places he just turns on WWE and my eyes light up,” from there Manny started looking online for how to get involved in professional wrestling until he found Just Pro Wrestling, a golden ticket back to a time of joy. Who hasn’t felt that need to let out what’s been boiling inside their chest, or longed for friendship and laughter in dark times?

Manny’s story is more interesting than Montezuma’s. Montezuma, whose namesake comes from the Aztec Emperor, is Manny’s way to honor his heritage. Montezuma is a character that holds himself with regality, he is ring royalty. But he’s an emperor that hasn’t really conquered anything. But Manny actually has. His story is that of a young man who’s pain of losing his father could have sent him going into a number of directions, mostly of them probably negative. But he rose above his depression by combating it with something that was pure to him. If Montezuma the character has any air of kingliness to him it is because it comes from Manny the person. Make no mistake though, Just Pro Wrestling is not a therapeutic love-in, Ricky assured me of that.

If anybody at JPW can personify my current bewilderment at the world at large, it is without a doubt in my mind, Ricky.

“And this is where I took a steel toe to the gut,” Ricky says, and without any prompting lifts his shirt to show me a scar directly under his belly button and perfectly parallel to his waist line. So the good news is that I now know what a wound from a steel toe looks like. He also shows me the scars from his hernia surgeries and even though I recognize it as a ridiculous question, I begin to wonder if I am less than a man because of my lack of hernia and steel-toe-to-the-gut scars. But then, Ricky is a class of his own, and it is probably best to not try to get on his level.

Going by many ring names like “Ricky the Janitor”, “El Hermoso,” “Wild Windham,” and, my personal favorite, “The French Cactus”, Ricky is the trickster god figure of the group. While the gimmicks of the other students are all conservative by the standards of professional wrestling, Ricky’s are all touched with madness. His janitor persona for instance, carries a windex bottle of gatorade around with him so that he can quench his thirst with what looks like a cleaning product. And the French Cactus, I’m not sure what the French Cactus is about actually, but nonsense french sounds are involved. If there is anybody out there reading this who can make nonsense french sounds, you are about one third of your way to joining the cult of the French Cactus if you are at all interested.

I ask Ricky if he thinks he can articulate wrestling’s appeal. “No you can’t really put it into words,” then his attention moves away from the ring as he stares me dead in the eye and says “for those who are fans no explanation is needed and for those who aren’t, no explanation will do.” It struck me as a disproportionately profound way to explain why people like a thing, and had the smell of a motivational quote someone might find online. Turns out, it was a borrowed quote, from a turn of the century mentalist named Joseph Dunninger. Dunninger used to hang out with the likes of Houdini and was the model behind the comic book character The Shadow. His claim to fame was mind reading, and generally awing people with mystic mind games. What in God’s name is going on? Donald Trump might become our president and I am sitting here listening to quotes from a turn of the century mentalist as relayed by a man who calls him the French Cactus, and I still don’t know how the hell to write a cover letter. The situation is real but it feels so far removed from reality that I might as well be eating a fake cake covered in fake icing while standing in the middle of a stage of an absurdist play. It feels like somebody just lit off a firecracker in my head. I shake his hand to thank him as I’ve run out of things to say and have begun to feel self-conscious.

With the French Cactus laying it on pretty thick I ask myself again, does it even matter? It is tempting to fall into the rabbit hole of questioning the nature of reality vs the nature of representation in wrestling, but it’s really not that complicated. Wrestling is not a sport. It is representation. Wrestling is in fact a masterclass in representation. If you want to create a baby face character, make him sympathetic, good-willed, loveable. You want a heel, make him gross and be really spiteful towards the host city. Hey, that’s my town that guy says sucks, my town doesn’t suck, he sucks! Wrestlers know how to carry themselves, and are aware of how they come across. Everything you think about them, is what they want you to think about them. It is a demonstration of the catered image, and it is something we all do. And while we all on some level already know it, seeing how it plays out on stage in balls to the wall fashion, makes me that much more aware of how it plays in ‘real’ life.

I’ve read a lot of how-tos for cover letter writing, and I’ve read a lot of companies’ check lists for the ideal candidate. They all want ‘self starting’, ‘team oriented’, ‘game changers’. People who “live and breathe” whatever it is the company’s specialty is. And they all say it with a wink of the eye. Who and what is a self starting, team oriented, game changer? Dwight Schrute? The cover letter how-tos mostly tell me to be use action verbs (like ‘chop’?), stay clear, and to show some personality but really not too much personality because that’s unbecoming. What it comes down to is, the employer is the audience, and do you know the audience well enough to represent yourself pleasingly? Are you a Hulk Hogan, a Rey Mysterio, or a John Cena? And if you’re not, do you know how to act like you are, or can you come up with your own persona? I’m currently working on becoming The Cereal Eater, my whole thing is that I get on stage and make cereal puns. Instead of ‘Honey Bunches of Oats’, I’ll say ‘Many Punches of Throats!’. I’m still workshopping it.

So to answer the question. No. Here, it doesn’t matter whether or not I am a real journalist. What matters is what I represent. I’m the guy with the notepad, and the recorder. That’s all they need to know. It gives a lot of credence to the ‘fake it till you make’ it mantra.

Next up was Billy, “The Tiger”. His arms still crossed as he still stands on the corner of the ring. He is uncannily still and possibly not breathing. He smiles when I talk to him but he doesn’t have a lot to say, he explains that he’s done some lucha and has been involved in wrestling for about twenty years. He’s polite, but gives off the vibe that he’d rather keep his attention on the goings on in the ring, so I leave the Tiger be.

If there is any one thing that strikes me the most about this visit, it is quite simply the joy that emanates from everybody here. Hell, even though Billy “The Tiger” intimidates me I am not blind to his clearly being a contented man. They laugh together, they sit together to eat before their matches tonight, and they kick each other’s asses. They’re as real a family as I’ve seen.

At one point I have to stop to ask myself the same question I gave to Ricky / Ricky the Janitor/ The Wild Windham / The French Cactus; what is the appeal of wrestling? When I do this I realize that for me, as a casual observer, I like that wrestling is upfront about how not upfront it is. It’s all pretend, but it’s never pretending its not pretend. To make my point, currently there is a wrestler in the WWE roster called The Bunny, which is a person in a giant bunny get up who specializes in bunny-style wrestling, and nobody blinks an eye. It’s a blatant reminder to all of us that a lot of life is only as serious as you take it to be. Everybody in the audience of a professional wrestling match knows the deal and it doesn’t matter. It’s a giant ridiculous spectacle that doesn’t even feel like a spectacle any more. When looking at The Bunny, it feels stupid to even ask what ‘the point’ is. A game is being played, and it’s being played right out in the open without any illusions about the fact that it’s an illusion. Unfortunately this doesn’t hold true in other arenas in life.

LinkedIn, the social networking site solely for job seekers,employers, and the spiritually zombified, is such an arena. LinkedIn to me is basically a boring, social network version of a wrestling ring. Only instead of boasting about our ability to take on the world in a triple cage match against human titans, we assert our abilities to write press releases and make cold calls. I’m terrible at cold calls, but I will say that I can write a pretty killer press release. LinkedIn is a necessary evil, that yes, of course it’s a put on, but your image matters so this is what we have to do. But LinkedIn lacks the eye-winking nature of the transparent put-on of professional wrestling. It wants me to use it as a measure of my self-worth, of my validity in the world. It wants to put me into a submissive chokehold and laugh as I wonder which profile picture most conveys that I am so the guy your company wants to hire. It’s the most dangerous kind of pretend that there is, the kind that tries to convince you that’s it’s not.

The truth is I’m tired. I want to keep focusing on superfluous things like professional wrestling, and 90s kids movies, not in spite of but because they don’t hold weight to them. There is no ulterior motive. I’m at what feels like the last few stretches of that limbo before ‘adulthood’, and I’m afraid of somehow getting had. There are days when I feel overwhelmed and isolated because when ‘truth’ is claimed by so many individuals and groups I find myself wanting to grasp on to something, only to feel like scrutiny and skepticism along with a level of distance from things is needed in order to maneuver around today. It’s a fear of getting duped. It’s a fear that dissipates in the face of the shameless and gaudy circustry of professional wrestling. Maybe we feel safe enjoying what we know isn’t real because deep down we know the rug can never truly come out from under us, there’s no room to actually get hurt. Maybe it’s just fun watching somebody get body slammed. I don’t know; I have cover letters to write.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.