August 19-25, 2004

naked city

A Pill for Your Problems

HEY KID, WANT A BETTER ECONOMIC PLAN?: Prozac Man peddles his Bush-bashing message under the watchful eye of Philadelphia's finest. Photo By: Michael koehler

Can Prozac Man save the day?

by Brian Howard

"I'm a superhuman dose of reality," spits a man in a giant foam-and-felt pill costume, while confronting rush-hour commuters near the Clothespin. Distributing fliers denouncing the Bush campaign's flippant remarks about employment and flanked by two cohorts dressed in doctor's scrubs, Prozac Man is the city's newest superhero in the fight for regime change.

If you've been in the vicinity of City Hall or Rittenhouse Square between 5 p.m. and 6 p.m. the last two weeks, it's likely you've run into — or carefully avoided — this crew denouncing (or are they supporting?) a slogan written on a large picket sign carried by one of the fake doctors: "Bush's Bad Rx for Unemployment: Prozac."

Prozac? What?

According to Reuters, in response to a reporter inquiring about low-quality jobs, Bush campaign worker Susan Sheybani was overheard saying to a colleague, "Why don't they get new jobs if they're unhappy--or go on Prozac?"

Though Sheybani has dismissed the comment as a joke, Democrats have seized upon the slip, arguing that recently created jobs are of inferior quality to those lost to overseas outsourcing in past years, and that the flippancy indicates a chasm between the GOP and the electorate.

Naked City decided to tail Prozac Man on his rounds and find out how the general public reacts to a grown man dressed as an antidepressant. It should be noted that fighting the Bush-Cheney spin machine is no small task, and as such Prozac Man is not just one man; a group of brave volunteers — under the umbrella of the Democratic Party's Pennsylvania Victory '04 coordinated campaign — have taken turns donning the tools of persistence.

The fellow peering out of the pill marked with a "P" last Friday offered no identification other than "Prozac Man" or "The Famous Prozac Man." Asked where he hails from, his responses ranged from "the lab" to notions of being born of the words of the Bush-Cheney campaign.

With his faux-doctor cronies at his side, Prozac Man embarks on his daily crusade to spread the word about the Bush campaign's remarks, distribute 500 fliers, and, oh yeah, to tout the superiority of the Kerry-Edwards economic plan.

Commuters ascending and descending the subway steps at 15th and Market seem to be generally amused by the antics of the walking capsule. They smile, take fliers and continue on their way. Perhaps on their way home they'll read over the flier that explains how Pennsylvania job growth is in sectors that pay 30 percent less than jobs lost and are 25 percent less likely to offer health insurance, meaning that Prozac prescription will be out-of-pocket. Or maybe those commuters will simply return home with tales of a guy dressed up as a pill.

"Occasionally we find someone who needs more serotonin in their system," explains Prozac Man while heading south down 15th Street. "What they really need is a better economic plan."

Reactions to Prozac Man tend to fall within three distinct categories: bemused, confused and distinctly not amused. Venturing down Walnut Street, a man with graying dreadlocks takes a flier and pumps his fist: "Yeah, Prozac Man!" A disaffected hipster wearing those "mug me" iPod earbuds does his surreptitious best to take a flier without anyone noticing. And as Prozac Man starts insisting to passersby that they get out and vote this November, one suit-clad man says to his companion snidely, "I will. I'm voting for Bush."

Approaching Rittenhouse Square, Prozac Man proclaims boldly, "Let's go fight injustice."

In the park, things get interesting. "Are you giving out free Prozac?" asks one man. No sir! Another man takes a flier and says, I shit you not, "Thanks, Prozac Man!" You're welcome, dude! The day's most gratifying confrontation occurs as Prozac Man and his entourage approach a group of 10 to 15 crusty punks lounging in the grass and espousing their own brand of radical politics. A group of four quickly surround our hero, smelling like their last shower took place sometime around their last job, and start petting and hugging the giant pill. Fliers are disbursed and, possibly, contact highs exchanged.

As the lovefest breaks up, one of the flier-holding kids says, "Wait, is this for fucking George Bush?!?"

"No, it's against him," explains one of the fake doctors.

"Oh, OK," replies the punk.

With a cloudburst threatening, and no one quite sure what a soaking would do to the costume, the Prozac team decides to call it a day, retreating to their secret lair at 1528 Walnut St. In a reassurance that the threat of a little rain can't dampen his drive, Prozac Man explains, "My day's work is never done until every Pennsylvanian has a job!"