everyone knows greenland doesn't exist

Letters from children to god?

2006-06-13T10:13:00.000-05:00

Letter from a Burned Out Superhero

2006-03-21T13:01:00.001-05:00

I am so fucking sick of you guys.

It's not just that you're supervillians and you make my life overly difficult. It used to be that, but now it's not that. Not at all. I'm used to that.

It's how damned boring you all are. Every one of you is entirely predictable and just keeps doing the same thing over and over. Circuit Breaker, you're always trying to get machines to run amok. Professor Kill, you're constantly trying to ferret out my secret identity. And the Rocket Gang...it's like you can't even concieve of an activity that doesn't involve robbing a bank. You rob fucking banks. Do you realize how ineffective robbing a bank is? The money is immediately traceable and the banks are insured. That's why you're caught every time. Because you don't learn.

You want to hear something funny? When I started out on this whole superhero kick I actually was looking forward to having arch-nemeses. What fun would this kind of gig be without sparring partners to constantly match wits and brawn with? I imagined a whole host of people who would test my abilities, my brains, my conviction, to the utmost. I wish I had written some of those imaginings down on paper, I could write a comic book out of them and make a million dollars. I even thought up some interstellar foes. That was some hardcore shit right there. Not only would we find out that we're not alone in the universe, but we'd be threatened by them, with me as the only one able to stand between humanity and annihilation. Stirring stuff. Really golden.

You people, though, I don't know where you came from. Or why. I can tell you all about why I'm a superhero, though. I bet you all are dying to know. Pull up a chair then. Here's my super secret origin:

I don't know where my powers came from. And I've seen the Spider-Man movie like a million times so I know that if I try to use my powers for selfish, financial gain then it will just backfire on me. Also I have no clue how to make money with super strength, flight, and ice powers. Maybe an ice-making company will hire me. I won't go into professional wrestling. Because again, the whole Spider-Man thing, and also wrestling is completely gay.

A guy had to have his fun somehow, though, and this whole flying deal made my commute a breeze, so now that I had time to kill...sure, why not stop some crimes? There's my secret motivation. My dark secret. My Achilles heel or something. I can just see you now, Professor Kill, cackling as you read this letter and rubbing your hands together. You are always rubbing your hands together. It's disturbing.

I mean, I guess I should be grateful to you clowns (especially you, Clown Strike) for giving me something to do and someone dramatic to fight. Otherwise my superhero career would be just as boring as my day job. (I'm not telling you what my day job is, but I bet I've sold at least one of you a used car at some point in the past decade.) I couldn't begin to know why you all do what you do. And to be honest, I don't want to know. You're all so boring the greatest origin story in the world couldn't save you.

I mean...what kind of hidden past could someone like, say, Neo Cleopatra hold? You have a hypno-voice, a loose grasp on ancient history, and scanty clothes. I get it, Cleo, you're sexy and daddy never paid attention to you. Is that all you've got?

Deepest Knight, you look cool but wearing medieval armor just isn't working out with the whole "I'm made of night and am sneaking around" thing you're trying to pull off.

Larva, you are the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. If I were you, I'd kill myself. Let me make you a promise. If you try to jump off a building I will not make an effort to save you.

Sticky Fingers, quit mugging people. You're really bad at it and you're lucky I haven't thrown you into space yet. The only reason you're not in jail is because you're the most ineffective criminal in the city.

Do you see? Do all of you see? This is why I'm writing this letter to all of you. I'm tired of this bullshit. There's not a one of you that's bringing anything new to the table and I'm just tired of playing around. I'm getting to a point in my career here where I'm really trying to get my shit together, and I don't see you arch-nemeses as really advancing this particular aspect of my life.

So this is it. I've given you all plenty of chances to revamp yourselves. I've even given a couple of you advice on how to do it. But either you're just not smart enough or you're not motivated enough. I don't know, maybe it's me, maybe I'm not tempting enough a target. Somehow I doubt that, though.

Effective immediately, I am retiring from the superhero biz. I will no longer hunt you out or stop you from committing a crime. If I see you on the street, I'll just pass by. You won't be seeing me in the skies anymore (except if I'm late for an appointment and the subways are being lame), and here's the best part, I won't be seeing you anymore.

Don't try and find me or I'll just pound you. The fact that I've gotten all your email addresses for this letter should tell you that I can find you if I really need to. Stay out of my hair.

And Pizza Boy, go to college already. You are dumber than a bag of rocks.

Letter from a Concerned Parent

2006-03-21T13:01:00.000-05:00

I wish I knew what was going on inside of your head, son. Sometimes I look at you, at the things you do and say, and I just don't know where they came from. It's like at some point you became someone else's kid. Maybe you have a different set of parents on the other side of the town.

As a parent you always suspect that one day this will happen. After all, I was a kid once myself, no matter how baffling that idea is to you, and I remember breaking away from my parents in the same manner. And it's not that I don't know what causes such a thing to happen, it's just that there are so many things that DO cause it that I can't pinpoint what's happened between us in particular.

Modern life can be so unfair sometimes. You and I, we're only given so much time together before you're going to school and participating in other activities and hanging out with your friends. In comparison, we see each other only occasionally. There are huge chunks of the day where I don't know what's happening to you, what you're observing, and what you're concluding from those observations. You are experiencing so many wonderful things, I'm sure, and probably a lot of setbacks. Do you know yet that this is what everyone goes through, or do you think you're being singled out? These are the kinds of things I wonder when you come home from school withdrawn and quiet. Then you go up to your room and play video games (we can hear it from downstairs, you know) and it's like you're determined to live life inside your head.

Sometimes I see such cruelty in your face and in your words that it shocks me. I didn't teach this to you. These are not ideas I ever expected a child of mine to favor, that in fact we actively avoided, so how have they become such an absolute in your life?

Sometimes you do the oddest things and I can't tell if you understand the world around you at all. There have been a lot of times when I've considered giving in and seeking professional help for you. But you always bounce back right before I do, which just confuses me further.

And sometimes you explode with delight at something, really come alive, and I feel so proud of you. You're the sharpest, cleverest one in the room whenever that happens, and I imagine you one day finding the cure for AIDS or figuring out time travel or ending poverty: something suitably brilliant from our suitably brilliant boy.

I wish someone could provide me with a list of what has influenced you the most in your life. What events have shaped your thinking, but no one ever gets that, not even for themselves. The best I can hope is that one day you'll be ready to open up to us. That one day you'll throw open the doors to your head and invite everyone in. Not yet, though, you're still setting up and everything has to be just perfect.

I can certainly understand that feeling but I hope you don't wait too long. Time moves on whether we're ready or not, and you'll be an adult soon.

Remember, always remember, that your parents love you no matter what. You are our greatest creation. And hopefully someday you'll create something similiar and be able to feel the truly unique and overwhelmingly powerful love that a parent has for their child. Maybe on that day we'll finally understand each other again.

We love you. We can't say that enough.

Letter from Your High School Sweetheart

2006-03-06T15:50:00.000-05:00

I have stared at this screen for thirty minutes trying to think of how to start this letter. And now that I've actually started typing I still don't know how to start, but I'll keep speaking and typing, because if I stop then I don't think I'll ever start again and what needs to be said will go even longer without being said. And that won't be helpful for either of us. Am I being cryptic enough?

Do you remember our our first few dates? Our kind-of courtship? I do. I remember just feeling so trapped by high school and the people I was around and the relationships I was in and then...you were there. To be honest I don't even know how you came into my sphere. We had nothing in common and no classes together, so there was no reason for our paths to cross. I guess it was a six-degrees-of thing that eventually lumped us together.

I remember you being really shy towards me and later confessing that this was a reaction to how confident I was and OH MY GOD that was the cutest thing I'd ever heard in my life. If only you knew, I thought, how tattered my life actually was: a grand production missing all of its players, half the sets, and most of the script. I was confident because it was either be prickly or be utterly depressed. But you figured that out eventually.

We started hanging out in the same clump of friends and you seemed less and less of a weird outsider and I got kind of curious about you. You also had this...I don't really know what to call it...it was like you came from a different country with the same language but a different dialect. Except not that severe. You just had a different way of speaking than the people I hung around with and it was only noticeable once you actually noticed it. If that makes sense.

Then you let fly that you thought I was really smart and at that point I absolutely knew that you were: a.) hilarious and b.) the sweetest boy ever. I love that you were attracted me because you thought I was confident and smart. I think it was really that kind of attitude that made me fall in love with you. Without really knowing me you already respected me more than anyone else I knew. It was, and remains to this day, one of the sexiest things you've ever done.

I also never expected to fall in love in high school, and those are memories I won't ever let go of. I've been in relationships before this one and now I can't understand how they worked for even as long as they did without real love being the glue holding two people together. Do you remember the lengthy discussion we had in bed together? The both of us explaining how afraid we were of saying that we loved each other. How tentative we were...like jumping into the deep end of the pool for the first time. Except we were already in the deep end and we just didn't want to admit it.

Then we both realized that at the same time and we didn't stop saying it for the rest of the night afterwards.

I'm continuing to learn new things about love, though, and one of those things... and goddamn is this hard to admit...is that I've realized that I will always love you but I won't always be IN love with you.

You can't argue that we've grown apart from each other these past few months. We both went off to college and even though we're still pretty close to each other geographically, we haven't exactly been going out of our way to see each other. Homework has taken precedence over spending time with each other. I think we've gotten so used to our relationship that we think that it will take care of itself. And I have to admit that I fell into that trap, too.

It hit me lately, though, that we spend most of our time away from each other now. And when we do spend time together we don't ever ask questions of the other, or do anything other than our usual routine. I like relaxing with you, but it feels like we're doing so just for nostalgia's sake now. Our lives are progressing but our relationship isn't.

There's a part of me that doesn't want to do this, you should know. There's a big part of me that would like to do nothing more but crawl into bed with you and watch stupid videos. But...I've come to realize that our relationship has come to its end. And I don't know how that can happen with me still in love with you, but I do know that this is what has happened. The more I think about it, the more I start to believe that this is how everyone's relationship ends.

It's kind of amazing how little I actually know about relationships. About love. And I'd laugh at the fact that now I'm really learning, but it's not actually funny.

I hate that we've ended up like all of those couples we heard about in high school. The ones that went to college and broke up within a month. I want to believe that we're better than that, that we had more potential than the couples around us.

And I hate, I REALLY hate, that this will probably be the end of our friendship as well. I can ask you not to hate me for this, and I'm silly enough to know that you will even try, but you'll end up hating me for this sooner or later. Because it was me who started it, and not you. And if it helps to blame me, then go ahead.

Now I don't know how to end this. I didn't know how to start and I don't know how to stop. Somewhere in the middle, though, is what I've been trying to get out. Just remember that I will always love you for the years that we spent together. That was an important part of my...of OUR...lives and I won't ever forget that.

Letter from a McDonald's Cashier

2006-03-06T15:49:00.000-05:00

I hate these people. Their eyes are milky, their fingers pudgy, and their children are numerous and loud. Sometimes when I take their order they stare at me in disdain, like they can't imagine they just spoke to someone of my lowly stature. Times like that I want to get down on my knees and laugh to the sky, forever and ever, at the irony of it all. They ask me for flesh and sugar by the pound and think that they're the ones with the better lives.

It's the worst when it feels like they're right. They eat shit but I'm the one who has to sell it just to make a living. This place will hire anyone, and does, and then expects us to automatically care about what we're doing. They would replace us all with machines if they could. Imagine that: a big machine cranking out poisons and smoke. Put your money in the slot and stick your mouth on the exhaust pipe. Super size it.

Everybody eats this shit, man. Especially the people that work here. I can't believe that. I've seen it hundreds of times and I stll can't accept it when I see one of the workers on the other side of the counter. This culture eats itself. The cows digest the cows and become furious when there's nothing left.

I do numbers to keep my head busy while I work. I keep track of how much of this and how much of that we sell each day, each hour, and I average it out and I add it up. Then I do it all over again just to make sure I'm right. I make up elaborate plans on how to steal this money from the safe in the office. So far I haven't gotten past the issue of what I would do once I had the money. I'd have to still work here. Quitting right afterward would be an admission of guilt.

I'm not a bad person. I'm just trying to take advantage of a corrupt system. I am not justly compensated for having to put up with the masses of idiots that line up here every day. If these people are going to give me money and ask me to help them kill themselves, then I should be paid enough to find a better life for myself. I'm not going to be one of those people on the other side of the counter.

There is a big world out there. And it's apparently filled with people like you. I can rise above that. I know I can. I have the determination and the brains. I just need to get out of this system, around it, above it. And the only way I'm going to do that is by ignoring the rules of that system. I gotta build my own system. One that works for me.

Letter from Your One True Love Or Not

2006-02-18T00:04:00.000-05:00

My dearest dear, you are nothing special to me. I have traversed these lands not at all and spent countless years just this second awaiting you, my love. The one who I will spend the rest of my life with unless I don't. You are the unobtainable freebie. That most golden of rewards easily given. The thought of you litters the parking lot of my mind, and you should really clean it up.

Even though we have spent but a few moments together these past few years I feel as if we have known each other for just that exact length of time. So indelibly are you reversibly burned into my heart. So smoldering are the scattered ashes of our love. If I had to choose but one person to spend the rest of my life with I would not most certainly perhaps choose you. And that would be incorrectly not wrong. Very much so.

When we first met it was not our first meeting, but our last, and the last time we would meet for the first time. I remember the day like it was something completely made up. You were there. I was there. We were elsewhere. And though we seemed an unlikely pair, we very much were. And I love you.

I do not know who stole the first kiss of the evening, except to say it was me. And I do not know where exactly we were unless I remember. But I know this with much uncertainty: I was never planning to go down on one knee so elaborately and so pre-medidatively. That is not a word but it is though it's not. It is not destiny that we are meant to be together, and if you don't think so then that's cool. Yes, very hot.

The hours between our last meeting just a moment ago grow longer. I must finish this letter quickly, for I haven't a lot to do, and must start my next letter to you post-haste and never again.

Be good, my terrible love. Do not pine for me, for I am right here and you are eating all of the popcorn. I will return soon after being gone forever. And once I return we shall let the world know quite unknowingly and with little grandeur that we have been united in unbreakable, flimsy love of a sort.

And the world will tremble in awe without tremble or awe. Our union of hearts will be strong. Wind-torn. Unquestioned. And confusing.

Sincerely,
I Didn't Mean It I Did

Letter from an Astronaut

2006-02-18T00:02:00.000-05:00

Ten.

It is just so typical of modern life that even as an astronaut - as someone in a vocation that you spend your whole life learning to be, training to be, striving to be - you are still finishing your work right up to the very last second of the countdown.

Nine.

The folks on the ground, they don't even know about the enormous amounts of effort that go into making something shoot upwards for 60 seconds. The vast amount of resources. The yearly budget that rivals the yearly budgets of some of America's smaller states. The studious and carefully picked collection of brainpower, vision, and force of will that must ALL come together in perfect combination to make launch day a reality.

Eight.

I know I'm sitting on several thousand metric tons of the most explosive fuel on the planet. But, you know, I'm not really feelin' it. Mostly what I'm feeling is the forty pound suit that I'm locked into, and this isn't even all of it. The backpack - all the machinery that actually keeps you alive and breathing - is the real monster. There's no way any of us could wear that during take-off, though. Not with the gravity jumping several multiples every second.

Seven.

I am full of energy. Not nervous energy but pure adrenaline-fueled excitement. I'm hanging on to this feeling as long as I can. I don't want to be calm or serene or anything like that. Going into space deserves more than mundane reflection. It deserves to be seen and felt and anticipated in all its glory. I am seven years old again.

Six.

It's like shooting a skyscraper into the moon, I've heard people say. An extraordinarily well built skyscraper. Pshooo. Gone.

Five.

All final seals check out and everything is green. Everything that we can reach, anyway. They strap you in as soon as you get on board. We've still got a little over a minute until being sideways does not pose any difficulty.

Four.

This is it. This is my first flight. Not my last. I hope not my last. If it was my last then I could be happy. I could die happy. When the Columbia burned up I felt so mad. Not because of the tragedy or the families or the bullshit bureaucratic red tape that probably made the faulty O-ring possible. But because they got robbed of a happy death. This is insane to even think, I know. But if they had blown apart while heading upwards, then it wouldn't have been so bad. Not on the return trip. Anything but that. Isn't it enough you're being kicked out of the heavens?

Three.

I'm not technically an astronaut, you know. Not until I've flown 50 miles above the Earth. There's a rule that NASA's got. A classification. Anything below 50 miles is just another eccentric billionaire. In a way it seems like a generous place to put the line. The planet's atmosphere doesn't really start ending until the 60 mile mark. When I learned that number I was so astounded. Really? Only 60 miles thick? You could drive your car to the edge of space and be there in an hour.

Two.

I don't want to think of that David Bowie song. I don't want to think of that David Bowie song. I don't want to think of that David Bowie song. ERGH. Too late.

One.

It's starting to shake. Oh shit.

I want you to think of the room around you shaking. The entire thing. Just shaking and shaking back and forth, as if the very earth itself is becoming unhinged. The clattering and shrieking and the rumble...the rumbling that's so thick and so enormous that surely it will soon destroy you.

Then I want you to keep imagining that getting fiercer and fiercer, well past the point in your imagination where you usually stop imagining this sort of terror. I want the world to wobble uncontrollably in your mind and yet still somehow stay intact. Then you will begin to have an inkling of what is happening right now.

Only in nightmares have I seen the clouds rush at me this fast. And I have never EVER come as close as I just did to actually shitting myself. We have left the ground. Been unseated from the earthly plane. We have left the GROUND and we're not coming BACK.

Surely I would shake right out of my skin if there wasn't a giant invisible hand squeezing my entire body. They teach you how to deal with gravity stress, both sudden and gradual, but you never really get used to this kind of pain. This must have been what it was like to have been born. It's marvelous. I can see why humans do it all the time.

The blue is starting to fade. I can see stars peeking out. It is daytime and I can see the stars. It is transforming from night to day within seconds and I can feel the pressure relenting bit by bit. I can feel the planet reluctantly letting go of me. This must be what death is like. It is also fantastic.

Haha! This is amazing! 48....49....50! Fifty mile mark! I am officially an astronaut! An astronaut! Me! My entire life has led to this moment and I can say with complete joy that it has all been WORTH IT! Hah! I am in space! SPACE, motherfuckers! Fuck yeah! The astronaut is in space!

Letter from Campground Daughter

2006-02-13T19:15:00.000-05:00

You didn't come back this year and he's not you.

This one has a lot of strange ideas about the world. He thinks the universe is made of water, and I can kind of see that, but he's not giving me a chance to digest this theory. Listen, he's still talking about it. We and everything are all water. Even the rocks. Especially the rocks. And water has no boundaries, water doesn't separate from anything and that's why we are all connected and that's why we should all be kind to one another.

He's cute in a rugged-yet-squeaky way, and I can't stop staring at his arms. I keep imagining them encircling me and squeezing me into him. Flesh to flesh. Protective. Overpowering. That's mainly why I brought him out here to the beach. And because I knew he had some grass on him.

And this connectivity and kindness we feel, he says, is why we believe in God. It's why we created God, so we would have a name for this feeling. Because deep down on, like, a really deep level, we know this. I mean, this is deep deep down. This shit is cellular.

You nor your family went camping this year, I guess. You're always here during the first weekend of August. Three years straight. Or, four, I think. It might have been four. I didn't notice you until three years ago, is the thing, so that's what I count it by.

You're not in college. Or the army. You're just not here and I can't imagine why and I don't want think too hard about the explanation, because there are too many. Far too many.

Did you think of me while your parents made the decision to skip this year’s vacation? Or when they decided to try a new campground? Did you protest or plead?

I think all the time about the first year we found each other. I was helping my mom fix a water line next to your family's berth and there were these really pretty acoustic guitar instrumentals just kind of wafting out from an open tent. And while I'm not easily impressed by guitars - my dad plays Jimmy Buffett songs on his constantly - I was pretty smitten with the cute young boy that stepped out of the tent. I knew I had to get to know you.

I remember how hard I tried not to look at your parent's faces when I came to your family's campfire that night. They had these big secretive smiles on. Do you remember the excuse they made before they left? "Well...we should make up the beds in the camper. Maybe think about taking some of our clothes to get washed." I remember being really embarrassed but I also remember you just not caring and...I don't know. I really admired that.

I take another drag off of his joint and details finally begin to pop out. The water at night is so ominous. Its purposes are dark and its gravity is monstrous. You can only see it as it laps against the shore, nibbling against the land, trying to reach you over and over. Sometimes I scare myself with how submissive I feel with it. During the daytime it's different. The water makes me feel serene, powerful, in control and completely connected.

I drag him down with me next to our little beach bonfire. But I don't pretend he's you. Not for a moment. I don't want to associate you with what I'm feeling right now.

You were so hesitant that first night. And playful. I think maybe you were trying to avoid kissing me, so we played cards. We talked about our lives. And then, when one awkward pause had extended for just a little bit too long, you grabbed a flashlight and ran into the woods. You almost ruined it, then. My preservation instincts kicked in and I nearly started yelling at you for being irresponsible and don't wander off and check yourself for ticks and blah blah blah. (Sorry, but when you live with it all the time it's hard not to repeat it.)

You took the flashlight and you made the trees and undergrowth into a shadowplay for us. And you spun a story, right then and there, from the insides of your head. And it wasn't about water or God or anything as heavy as that. It was just about life trying to get by.

Then the story ended, you clicked off the light, and you kissed me. I guess you must have known what you were doing after all because it sure was easier for you to kiss me there in the darkness.

We had five days after that. I remember holding hands for most of it. Talking about how scary and how exciting it was going to be next month when we entered high school. Hiking to spots that were off the scenic trails but were just as good (if not better because of the privacy). Chewing on birch twigs. ("It tastes just like the soda!") How quiet you were around my parents when they took us to the mini-golf place at the end of the access road. Your mom was sure impressed when I was able to get you all into the old lighthouse.

His hand is slipping up my shirt and I can't decide whether I like that or not. The flickering light from the bonfire is forming shadows that whip across his face. Every time he opens his eyes they're as completely black and impenetrable as the sea before us.

I should have expected that one day you wouldn't be coming back. And I did that first summer. But then you returned the next year and it was just as easy to get to know you as it was the first time. I didn't expect that and I've still never felt anything like that.

He's hard and I can feel it through our clothes and against my leg. He's become more urgent, more hungry. I reach a hand down and pull him tighter against me, eager to make him boil over.

I remember the first time you and I reached this point, up in my room during a rainy day watching videos and playing cards. You were so scared after it happened and I didn't know what you were scared about. I figured it out later. I think you did, too, though we never did manage to laugh at our naiveté. I wonder if you do now. Or if you even remember.

Have your parents gotten divorced? Is that why you're not here any longer? Are you trying to figure out how to get in touch with me? Shouldn't I be doing the same?

Abruptly, he and I slow down and he slides off to my side, still holding me in his arms, his head resting beside mine. The night is cold, it always is, but the fire is warm and maybe he'll hold me for a little while longer.

I shift to face the fire, to feel its warmth on my face, and suddenly I can't stop crying. The one beside me won't ask why, and I wouldn't tell him even if he did.

But you…you would know instantly.

---

Anyone interested should check out the first part of this story: a song called "Campground Daughter" by School For The Dead. (Off of their "The New You" record.)

Letter from the Guy Who Writes The Cover Copy For DVD's

2006-02-13T19:03:00.000-05:00

I should warn you. The most creative thing I've written today was "There are tons of creature feature delights in the supernatural thriller Pumpkinhead. After the scream-filled finale, you'll never sleep with the lantern off. Just make sure it's not a Jack O'Lantern!" I don't know what the movie is about. They told me it was horror genre and the cover depicts a gaunt figure with a scary pumpkin for a head. Flames are coming out of his jagged rind of a mouth. So I improvised. I'm encouraged to watch the movies I write about, but I feel that doing so would be too much to ask of myself.

This job is the worst thing to happen to me since my high school prom. It's evil is insidious, a gradual erosion of my happiness. I answered an ad in the paper a year and a half ago and it led to my current drudgery. All I do every day for weeks and weeks is write cover copy for terrible DVD's. At first it seemed funny, quirky, almost endearing. I'd get paid for writing and probably have time to finally finally finally finish the first draft of my novel.

Nope.

Slap Shot 2: Breaking The Ice is next. Um. Hmmmm. I don't know. The cover just has two guys slamming against each other with spittle and ice and all sorts of other moist things frozen there in the frame. They're both very angry. This one could be straight-ahead sports rivalry or it could be over a woman. I better play it safe and just be vague. The more hockey puns I can think of then the less plot I'll have to disclose. "The cold rivalry between the two teams has never been as intense as this, but can they overcome each other's frigid indifference in time to face a greater threat. The..."

Hm. Yeah, not so good. I'll have to look the plot up on IMDB later.

Sometimes when I get bored, which is very often, I'll just stare at the DVD box covers and imagine the long strange trip these oddball titles have made. Someone out there with money actually spent time compiling the...let's see here...2004 Wisconsin Ice Skating Semi-Finals Highlights. And this person actually thought there was profit to be made from this. They must still think that, because it's on my desk awaiting a back cover description.

I wonder if the Wisconsin skaters on this tape had to sign off on this? There must be a voice-over narration on this, too. I wonder who you hire to do that. Do you get your lawyer, the most authorative voice you can think of, to do that or do you actually hold tryouts? Was there a want ad one day in the Kenosha Kronicle? What kind of jobless 20-something finds that kind of ad and thinks...hey, that's for me? I wish I had seen that ad. I totally would have done it.

I get DVD's of all kinds here in this office. Well, except, you know, good ones. I wish I could have done the back cover copy on Batman Begins or something cool like that. Just once. Just once! Something that I know would be sitting in millions of homes. I would always be able to call on something like that whenever I felt blue. It would cheer me up while I do the copy to, let's see here... Beach Patrol: The Entire Series.

Jesus, this one has episode commentaries. "Do you remember this day? The sun was wicked and the sand was so hot. The wind was always blowing it everywhere. It was insane. I totally believe it's winter though. The tight sweaters that Caitlin and Theresa are wearing, thats how you can tell. That's all Yuri. He's the best costume manager in the business. Yuri? Yuri do you want to say anything about this scene?"

The entire series!

Sometimes we get private DVD's, like this one from the Torrington High School class reunion, class of '85. Or promotional things from political rallies. Or employee motivational ones for retail chains. Those are the best. I hate this job, I mean, I really fucking hate this job. It's mind-numbing, repetitious drone work where I am constantly reminded of the endless stupidity of mankind and of the things they'll spend money on instead of giving to charities or the homeless. And I'd just plain out kill myself if I didn't get to work out of my apartment. But for all that, I really wouldn't be able to stand working in retail.

Alright, who's next in the pile who's next...oh! Oh yeah! This isn't exactly a good DVD but it's certainly close enough. A Girls Gone Wild knock-off series called Out Of Control. Like I said, I very rarely watch these DVD's but, heh, looks like it's time to take a little break.

Oh what now? The phone's ringing? Who could possibly be calling me? This is probably a telemarketer. So annoying.

Shit.

They just fired me.

What the f$%*!

Oh my Appalachian stars...

2006-01-03T16:53:00.000-05:00

Wow! This kind of got forgotten, didn't it?

I have been writing. Ceaselessly. Furiously. On a laptop with no internet connection. I should post some of that stuff here. (Some of it is already on a LiveJournal and a MySpace/chrisgreenland type thing, if you're curious.) It is going well, the writing. A Big Project That Isn't This I recently realized is a third done. This and impromptu History channel documentaries on how much of an ass Houdini was are very motivational.

I have also been very hungry. So, if possible, please email me a sandwich. THNX.

IN OTHER NEWS...

Several fathoms below this post are 50-some odd letters and things. Bits, if you will. Earlier this, um, well late last year (accursed new year's!!!) I combed through them all and plucked out 15 or so that I felt were viable enough to sell and/or be shoved in front of people in person and not just through a computer.

What resulted is a book, a small chapbook-sized thing which will find its way to a printer very soon and be available in gloriously edited (i.e., much better) form. It will be a right purty thing. Tiny enough to slip into a satchel but too big to slip into a pocket. Excellent for train rides, boring dinner parties, or anywhere where it's just too embarassing to be seen reading "The DaVinci Code". And most wonderfully of all it is contained of several different styles of monologue in case you get bored. And you will get bored.

So, if a favorite Letter of yours is missing, it's in the forthcoming book. (Or I took it down for a tune-up, as is the case with the "Other" serials.)

Mundanely Luxurious

2005-10-16T12:01:00.000-05:00

The highway dipped and curved under a wide overpass, plunging them into darkness. Several lanes of traffic joined the main flow all at once, sneaking rapidly up from the tree-lined interstate or snaking down from roads above. The new arrivals joined their momentum, and they became a singular entity, coursing over the artery of transit.

The curve straightened and a wide vista appeared before them. The highway stretched far out in front of him, the tops of buildings and long strings of trees vaulted over the wide expanse, and beyond them rose dark green hills, eventual obstacles for the highway to wind around. The tall hills swarmed with trees and shrubbery, though at times the light brown rock of cliffs would peek through in sharp relief.

Above them all hung an unbroken expanse of billowing clouds, tinted a deep dark blue by the daylight, and heavy with the promise of rain. Their surroundings were bright and luminous in dramatic contrast to the dark sky. It was as if the ground and the sky were both adamantly refusing to play along with the other in a fit of stubbornness. Thus the rare skyline before them, thus the feeling that one was driving into a painting.

Heavy gusts and slicing wind energized their surroundings, waving the trees back and forth, dislodging the few leaves that had already browned in anticipation of the coming autumn. The car cleaved a path through them, tossing them aside, spinning them wildly in every direction, as it continued on its course.

They drove through the protesting storm, daring it to break open as they curved around thick industrial section of the city, vaulted over sprawling commercial centers, passed countless billboards. They left the city behind and the forest and hills crowded around them in commiseration, hiding their passage from those who resided beyond the vast stretches of green.

The surroundings became a tranquil monotony of natural beauty and one would eventually find themselves silently pleading for the journey to end, for their destination to break the hold of the rolling scenery. There must be a thousand snippets of highway all around the country, one would think in exasperation, that look exactly like this. And wouldn't it be wonderful if they were all connected? If one could fold the land over itself, drive into the scenery in this state, and instantly emerge from the almost-exact-same scenery in another? Must we always travel in such straight lines? Can we not include angles into the construction of our world?

But then you would not learn what you must from the journey. That in the uncountable movings and dealings of humanity, there is still so much left unspoiled. There is still so much beauty stretching over the land that the very concept of it has become mundanely luxurious.

You live in a beautiful world, still.

Driver's Ed's Ed

2005-10-13T11:56:00.000-05:00

The children always drove too slowly when he took them out for road training. Within moments of leaving the high school parking lot, a line of cars would inevitably be stacked behind them, though never once would you hear any of them honking in frustration. The enormous signs plastered onto every surface of the vehicle spoke of the patient schooling in progress, the triangular cap atop of the car revealed the dunce behind the wheel. (Still, even after all of our compassionate societal advances.) And the motorists understood, although Ed was not eager to test their patience, and always ordered the student to take the first turn available.

They always signaled, well in advance of any turn. The posted speed limit was obeyed down to nearly microscopic levels. The students tried so hard not to point out their excellent driving behavior to him, their faces were equal part overabundant confidence and meek confusion, and he picked up on it almost before they even thought to broadcast the feeling. They ached for his approval, for any sign that they were not only passing completely, they were the best novice driver he had ever seen. Because of this, most lessons swayed along with an infuriating grace.

The course he had taken in order to be authorized to teach driving courses were many weeks shorter than what the students were legally mandated by the state to sit through. He thought he might enlighten the class to this irony the day before he quit, if that ever happened.

He was usually quiet during the driving lessons, and made every attempt to be amiable and comforting. There were days when he wanted to start talking and never stop, crack their heads open and pick at every bit of knowledge there. There were days where he wasn't even paying attention to the student's driving performance, thinking instead of his personal budget for that month, or that he, in fact, could not conceive of a single thing that his mother actually wanted for her birthday and hmmm...how old was she now?

He didn't dare look at any of the girls for anything more than a moment, lest any subtle, unknowing action of his be misconstrued as perverted the next day during lunch. Being a driver's ed teacher assigned a fair amount of vague creepiness to one's manner already, and it was a constant battle to dispel it enough to make the student feel comfortable.

Sometimes he would look down at his stomach, examining a girth that seemed to expand in leaps. If he was feeling particularly loose or comfortable with a student (it happened), then he would pat it and make a joke about how, yes, action must be taken against this threat. And soon.

The main thing, besides teaching them to drive, was to make the student comfortable. He had realized this after only a few months on the job. The more at ease they were then the better they drove and the better they absorbed instruction. He hated having to fail any of them. Angry phone calls from a parent always followed right after.

Before taking the position, years ago, he thought that perhaps this was the perfect occupation for him. That he could be a positively subversive element in these kids' lives, a motivational force mostly overlooked by the usual educational circles, but still as present and effective. He would introduce these children to new music, new ideas, and their learner's permit. Whether they wanted to pick any of these things up was their decision, but at least they would be exposed to it.

The students were less than receptive, and it made them unfocused and uncomfortable. The idea...the very drive behind why he became a driver's ed teacher (aside from needing a steady paycheck)...got real old, real fast.

Similiarly, so had he.

Cyan Plans For Breakfast

2005-10-10T16:11:00.000-05:00

It is enough to know that it is the future, and that one doesn't need a precise year to pin these events down onto. If you must have some frame of reference, and who doesn't, then consider these happenings as a part of the mid-22nd century. This is a safe enough distance from our own period, one would think. An even gap between the living present and the distantly imagined, a flag planted just beyond the horizon, a space of time that nothing human, not even the forty or so children born in the time it takes to read this sentence, will ever see.

And besides, as far as spans of time go, the mid twenty second century is so well pre-mapped...what's one more prognostification going to hurt?

This story concerns a young fellow by the name of Cyan, who was given his moniker by a generation of parents who, seeking something less routine than Mary or Jordan or Sue, became briefly infatuated with forgotten names from feudal lore. This fad was brief, and not well-taken by many of the populace of that time. Thusly, Cyan is mostly alone when it comes time for morning roll call, although the presence of a Henri spelled with an i does bring him some comfort.

Currently, Cyan is in his room laying quietly on his bed. Soft orange light borders the ceiling, its illumination a breath away from useless. The still darkness softens the lines of the furnishings and plunges them half-formed into the background; it is a deep sea dive, secure and silent.

Wrapped around the boy's head is an ingenious invention. A mixture of plastics and photons, pounded flat and infused with an eerie white/blue glow. According to the trademark request filed by AppleSig three or four decades ago, it is called a Flimsiplast, although it's more common term is the simpler, rougher "flimsy". You can't go anywhere in the metallic, humid world of the mid 22nd century without one. Or rather, you could, but then one would naturally assume that you're going somewhere you don't expect to return from.

These are things you can do with a flimsy: Draw a movie, program, or slice of music from the Aircom Network. Download programs, software, or files that would be of use in whatever task you have been assigned. Present personal identification information to the proper officials. Pay for goods and services. Activate a pressure point in the flimsy's computer fabric and make it go as rigid as a board. Press it again and make it shrink and curl around your wrist for easy carrying. A flimsy is everything we hope we will someday get to use.

In this dystopian future - a future which, from the vantage point of the far past would seem dystopian but from the perspective of said future merely seems ordinary and nearly traditional - information is held over the head of the populace like a sword. Use information with expedience and exactness and you are advanced. Do so otherwise and prepare for a life in a hazy, undefined world, where momentum becomes an uttainable, almost physical, desire.

Cyan has a grammar test in the morning. Grammar is very important if one is to communicate much in as little time as possible. It has only been since the turn of the century, Cyan has been taught, that mankind has truly concentrated on this fundamental aspect of communication. Look at the literature of the Time Before Reason. It is sprawling and mad, concerned far too much with context and imparting nothing. Pages and pages that reveal a vast wastehouse of the human mind, a room cluttered with unnecessaries, obscuring truth and opposing the virtue of clarity.

He reads these texts every night before he goes to bed and finds them as alluring as threatened. In his head, Cyan struggles to keep a high wall between the sharp lessons of succinctness and the uncontrollable bounds of the past. Tonight the struggle has put him into a depressed stupor. He wishes the test could be taken and everything be done with, but he knows that, pass or fail, there will be more rigidity beyond tomorrow's exam. More testing and re-testing.

In protest, his flimsy is wrapped around his head. Cyan imagines that if he goes to sleep, it shall relax and sink into his brain, and when he awakes he will have all the knowledge ever known. Available for instant recall, able to become dormant with a thought, able to co-exist with the jungle of imagination that threatens to sprout up through the cracks of a normal life.

Cyan closes his eyes and lets the glow of the flimsy lure him into a hypnotic slumber. If this does not work, he thinks, he will just have to eat the thing for breakfast.

"Alarm Clock"

2005-09-16T12:50:00.000-05:00

[Breaking from tradition to post a short short story. Incidentally, this is the 52nd post, meaning this blog now spans a full year!]

I’ve never been on a tropical island, so I’m glad to know that it exists in my head. The breeze is constant, warm, and gentle. I’m floating serenely along with it and I just can’t believe that the human body is capable of being so at peace. Some of the characters from that show “Lost” are here, too, and they’re examining the palm leaves. They don’t tell me as much, but I know that whatever answer they find in the leaves will tell them all they need to know about the mysterious island they’re on. I guess I’m on it, too, since I’m watching them, but it doesn’t feel that way.

When I look in the opposite direction, there’s a large round cabana, resting on stilts that are rising out of the sand. I mean to go help the actors from “Lost”, but I want to check this out first. I take no step, no movement, and suddenly I’m there. People in their bathing suits are walking around, the kind of buff careless types you see in the commercial. One of them, she’s blonde and thin, wants to talk to me and I can’t help but hope that she’ll have sex with me here in my dream. The tropical wind floats me along. There is no possible way I can feel exertion or pain. I am sinking into happiness.

Then the B-52’s are there and Fred Schneider is jumping around singing “Rock Lobster”. The song is so loud and so fuzzy that a part of me begins to jostle, begins to awaken.

I open my eyes drearily and slowly begin to register that “Rock Lobster” is coming out in intermitten bursts from my alarm clock. The fan is blowing on me fiercely and my mouth is dry from the constant current of air rippling over me. I still feel enormously at peace, though, and I don’t want to let go of that feeling. I don’t get it too often.

The time on the clock is set at 8 AM and the overly blue morning light is peeking out from behind my window curtains. I have to be at work by 9 AM for the morning sales meeting. It takes about a half hour to drive there, so if I skip my shower then I can sleep for a few more minutes. I know I shouldn’t skip it, I really shouldn’t, it’s been two days already.

What the fuck. The only place my grunginess actually shows is through the hair on my head. I’ll wear a hat. Languidly I slip my arm out from under the covers and hit the snooze button. That will give me eleven more minutes.

I don’t get back to sleep right away but I know it’s only a matter of seconds. My mind races as reflex tries to wake me up and I have to forcibly make myself relax. The shock of the first blare from the alarm clock always gets my adrenaline going. Because of that, my thoughts spin and race around in the darkness.

I can’t stop thinking about work now, and nearly against my own will I find myself making a checklist of all the things I need to get done today. In my work as a Red Bull sales rep mostly this involves making follow up phone calls and targeting lagging areas in my territory with special promotional pushes. High school is going to be back in session this week for most schools in the area, which means we can count on a big boost from the pre-teen and teen markets.

I’ll have to make a lot of calls today. I’ve been slacking a bit this week. I know I can do it, I just need to plunge into it, but I haven’t been feeling like being on the phone lately. Being the peppy Red Bull guy takes a lot of energy, and right now all I want to do is float.

My dreams are a jumbled mess of images with the only connecting factor being the continued sense that I’m floating.

It’s only a bed. Some trick of the mind has spared the normal aches and stiffness from sleep, but it won’t last.

I know it won’t. Just let me live in this moment as long as I can.

This moment is already over. Prolonging it unnaturally will only make you frustrated.

I am going to ignore this.

Of course you will. That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? To just let sleep take you away from this life. Don’t open your eyes.

Why?

There’s only one minute of silence left from the snooze button.

I can’t help it. My eyes open the tiniest bit and focus on the 8:10 AM staring back at me. What do I do now? Just stare at the clock until it starts up again? That’s insane, isn’t it? I know it’s insane and yet I don’t want to get up. I’m so comfortable here. My bones have found their place of rest. I’ll be ready for the world at some point, just not now. Just not at eight o’clock in the goddamn morning.

I close my eyes, but have to stop myself from counting the seconds until 8:11. I’ve finally convinced myself to stop being on guard, to relax, when that song by The Cardigans comes on, the one that was really popular when I was a kid, “Lovefool”, I think. What kind of radio station do I have this tuned to?

I slap clumsily at the snooze button, missing it the first time before finally finding it. For some reason the snooze lasts eleven minutes. Who decided that? Who calculated that? Eleven minutes means I get one more hit of the snooze before I absolutely have to get up.

That’s pushing it. Will you really get up or will you decide to call in sick?

I could do that, yeah.

You’re already behind at work. Jim is patient with you, he really likes you and you know this, but he has to get up and work just like you.

God, I don’t care. I just don’t care. Someone else can sell the energy drinks to the kiddies. Things taste like ass anyway.

Jim is the one who hired you, who advanced you up from route driver to sales. Red Bull might not be worth believing in, but what about him? He believes in your potential.

I can make it up to him. He’d never fire me.

Maybe HE wouldn’t.

I am at a family dinner now. The idealized 1950’s kind, with dad and mom at the head of the table and the kids on the side. I’m having a plate full of quesadilla for some reason, but it looks less like that and more like someone just decided to barf a bunch of cheese onto a platter and call it a dish.

My legs are hot. I have five of them now and they all represent someone at the table. I have to fulfill the tasks set for me by them. When I do, that leg will leave and my own legs won’t be hot anymore.

You should get up. It won’t be hard.

The smallest leg is Suzie and she wants a table centerpiece full of flowers. As soon as I realize this then her leg leaves.

This is an annoying dream, isn’t it?

It is, and I’ve gotten rid of Junior, who only wanted his SAT scores (2400? That can’t be right.) but I think Suzie is back. Her leg feels smaller though, and I can’t see her…

Do you prefer this life over the one you’ve created for yourself?

I think so. The father leg is lecturing me about going into the space program and the mom leg has left to clean up the dishes or something. One of the other legs is still around but I can’t figure out who it is or what it wants.

If you don’t have the get up and go to be an astronaut then there are plenty of other people who do.

The father leg is talking to me but my legs don’t feel so numerous or hot anymore. I feel the breeze from the fan but I shove that thought away as quick as I can, before I realize that I’ve awoken. Too late. I can’t see the father anymore, but he still exists beyond where I can see. He is still there.

We’re still talking, you and I. You refuse to leave. It’s a sign of laziness and no one is going to believe whatever excuse you give when you show up late.

I’m so comfortable, though. I’m so frustrated. I just want to sleep, why can’t I be allowed to just sleep? This is obviously the way I was meant to be.

Do you believe that?

I’ve always believed that.

The alarm is on. The eleven minutes are up again.

No it’s not, I don’t hear any music or anything loud or…just under the torrents of air buffeting my ear there’s a tiny voice. The radio station must be between songs. The alarm clock isn’t tuned exactly to the station, so washes of static occasionally run through the DJ’s speech, but I can hear it. I could just leave the alarm clock if it’s going to be this quiet. I can sleep and ignore it.

You’re going to sleep until you feel like getting up?

That’s what I’m going to do. I’ve decided. The world can run without me.

Slothful.

Whatever. No one will truly miss whatever I was going to contribute to the world today. Comfort awaits me as soon as I slip into dreaming. This is how everyone wishes they could live their life. Master of their own fantasies, sheathed in comfort without care or responsibility. If you put the human race to bed, we’d thank you.

Truly?

Of course. Can’t you feel the gentle touch of this existence? Who does not envy such a thing?

What happens when you pass into sleep?

Then the physical world falls away and I am truly free.

This is what you want?

More than anything.

Then I will give this to you.

I’m giving it to myself.

Open your eyes.

The marginal buzz of the alarm clock once again enters my awareness, but I can’t hear anything coming from it. Maybe the DJ is talking quietly and I can’t hear him over the fan?

“Sleep”, a voice calls from the alarm clock. “I am coming.”

“What?”, I whisper weakly. I am obviously on the edge of sleep, where the real world and the mind mingle in odd and sometimes unsettling ways. Still, I might as well shut off the alarm clock, otherwise it might wake me up again.

“I am coming”, the clock says as I reach out towards it. I pause and suddenly I hear a slow progression of heavy footsteps on the wooden steps outside my door.

NOW I am awake. “Who is it?” I demand roughly.

“You will recognize me.”

I jump out of bed and unplug the alarm clock. Outside, the steady footsteps draw nearer. Desperately, I search my room for anything that can be used as a weapon. Anything at all…

Then I realize, the voice coming from the alarm clock…it was my own.

The door to my bedroom creaks open.

Letter from Death's Door

2005-08-26T22:21:00.000-05:00

I think the funniest thing I've ever done was throw my arm out across my wife just as the car was crashing. Because, obviously, the power of my arm would save her. Would have saved her. M'arm!

Here's something they don't teach you in those driver's ed "this could happen to you" movies. After you get into a car accident, after all the unbelievable bone-rattling, loss of higher motor skills and appetite, everything around you just gets funnier. REALLY funny. I think it's something that you have to get all shook up for, but once you are, once that hatch is open then it takes real effort just to keep from seeing the joke in everything.

Like, right now for instance. I'm looking up and there are three levels of depth that I'm peering into. The first level consists of two heads, the second level of depth are the silhouettes of power lines and the tops of trees. Then, behind it all, a hazily black sky and stars. And it's just...oh my shit. Of course. That is fucking funny. That is really fucking funny. This must be the worst play ever. Look! They're already drawing the curtains!

What? You don't get it? You will.

The heads want me to keep talking, so I will. I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge that being in love with you was a pretty sweet deal and I'm glad I took the time to spraypaint that onto several street signs and abandoned billboards. You were worth it. STOP. I LOVE HEIDI.

I think the heads are getting a little worried about my constant laughter. Do not worry, heads. The laughter is joyous, it is freeing. When staring into the face of ultimate darkness, one can leave no better legacy than massive credit debt and boisterous, infectious peals of laughter. Also I felt something inside me just passively swell up and burst, leaving a warm numbly spot. If you could get to that, no rush, it's your schedule not mine, then I would appreciate it.

Ohhhhh man, check this out. I just figured out how to make these little butterflies, they're so clean and white and two-dimensional and pretty. I'm going to give them each a message and send them out to talk to people. I can't believe I've never thought to do this before. Why aren't we all communicating with butterflies made of light? It's like...like I'm making a movie but you're only gonna see it inside your head.

Hey, I'd like one of you heads to have my car. Or you can both have it, whatever. I don't know what your situation is and I don't mean to pry. It just dawned on me that I don't need my car anymore, so, you know, go on.

You can have my computer, too. Or, one of you can have the car and one of you can have the computer. Just don't fight over who gets what, because that would just be total crap and everyone is expecting that to be the ending, anyway. I don't need the computer anymore, I swear, these little flappy butterfly guys must have, like, 400 gig memories. That one flittering by your ear has my unfinished novel in it. The one doing loop-de-loops over your bald spot has the ending to it. If those two ever got together I think...I think...I think that would really be the end.

I know you said I should keep talking, but there's really no need to. The stars are getting closer and closer and the sky is filling with twinkly little butterflies all speeding off to their destinations. Don't look now, but the Big Dipper just totally materialized over your forehead. And you, other head, the North Star just popped up on the tip of your nose like a little sparkly zit. Stay calm, whatever you do, DO NOT POP THE NORTH STAR. It just...it feels like a bad idea.

You've moved me. Not spiritually but physically. I think I'm in a truck now, but I'm not sure because the starry night is draped over everything. I need to open my eyes, I need to keep talking, the heads say, but if I open my mouth then the stars will pour in and...

Actually, I wonder what that would be like.

I...

Oh.

This is not the ending everyone is expecting.

Letter from An Enlightened Husband

2005-08-11T23:56:00.000-05:00

Married life can be an adventure all its own! (Or at least that's what I heard.) And I can't not say that my own marriage to Deborah has been any different. I have grown in many ways! No no no, don't pick up that remote control, boys, come back! I've got something kind of important to say to you guys, something that you only learn after being locked in the arms of years of unceasing marital bliss. And that important thing is this: Men and women truly are equal. Just in different ways.

For example...I don't mind being the one to cook! In fact, you can get a powerful sense of satisfaction from being able to deliver a meal for the pleasure of your loved ones. Whenever I swing by McD's or KFC on the way home from work I always phone ahead to see if she wants anything. And if she's not in the mood for anything, I get her something anyway! If she doesn't eat it later, I will, so it's not like it's going to waste or anything.

I watch my weight just as much as she does, too, so dispel that myth out of your silly head right now! It's a MUTUAL responsibility between my wife and I to not get fat on each other. I see all those reports on TV about "the fattest country in the world" and "rising obesity rates" and I go "NOT ME!" and "NOT MY WIFE EITHER!" I make sure to point to her whenever I see something getting a little by the wayside, and I wouldn't mind if she did the same. (I have gotten a little puffy since last year, enough that I had to buy a new belt. But she hasn't said anything so I must not look too bad!)

What's most important is that I don't let anyone disrespect my wife, EVER. And I'm not talking about bullshit like someone making a move on her or catcalls on the street or anything like that, I'm talking ANYTHING. You wouldn't believe how insidious and commonplace someone's disrespect can be, just based on someone's gender. Like when we go to restaurants? The waiter (or waitress!) always assumes that my wife wants water. What? She might not want soda? Or wine? Or a beer? Why do you think a woman can't have a beer??? Bring my wife a beer! It happens every time! It's gotten so bad that I don't even take her out to dinner anymore. Freakin' racists.

Although, the more things change, the more they stay the same. My wife is still very much a woman when it comes to opening jars or serving as a receptacle for the pulsing torrents of my man-genes. And when she and the gals get together for another one of their interventions, I do the gentlemanly thing and head off to the bar for a few hours.

And I haven't TOTALLY escaped the luring, woolen comfort of testosterone. There are times when I just zone COMPLETELY out and become totally preoccupied with my work as a heart surgeon. And I'm constantly trying to fix things that I have no experience fixing, or trying to give them...woof woof...more POWER! (I loved that show! Why'd they cancel it?)

But boys...and make no mistake you little quivering dick bumps, before you experience the loving hellstorm of marriage then you are STILL boys...you should strive to meet your wife halfway on everything. Listen to what she has to say, even if it's about having a baby, always ask what's wrong if she's crying, don't forget the anniversaries or birthdays (MS Outlook Calendar is good at this), and insist she pay half the gas bill with her own money. You heard right! Couples share the good AND bad things together.

Even if the cunt blames you for all of the bad things.

Letter from a Recipient Of An Extreme Home Makeover

2005-08-05T11:02:00.000-05:00

Dear ABC,

I am writing this letter in hopes that you will finally take a moment to consider the damage you have done for the sake of TV ratings. When you "made over" our house last month you left us in an even worse situation than before. A friend of the family had originally contacted you regarding our situation: My two daughters and I had been living in a hurricane-ravaged house. A house that we didn't have the time or resources to fix, thanks to my mounting medical bills and the continual absence of my husband, an American soldier currently serving his third service in Iraq.

I have to be honest when I tell you that I was ecstatic when I heard we had picked by that reprehensible Ty and his crew to get our home made over. The shoddy job you did, however, has left us with even more problems than before.

The entire ordeal started off on the wrong foot. For one thing, we were NOT consulted in regards to the redesigning of our house and we were NOT told that you would demolish the entire thing. Of course, had you told us that then we would have told you to leave immediately, and then you would have been out of a show. Something that I am told by the assistant of one of your network executives would have "inconvenienced the production". Perfectly understandable. After all, it's not you're transforming people's very lives or anything like that.

We were happy as clams back then, however, and gladly allowed you to whisk us away while you worked on our house. Yes, away for a fun filled week at...Disneyland. Let me make this as clear as possible: I AM DISABLED. It is not physically possible for me to ride anything in a theme park without sustaining some type of damage to my self. So when you sent me, my two daughters only guardian, to Disneyland, you effectively stranded me in a hotel room. (Which, when your production went over an extra day, I then had to pay for.) Not only did your insensitivity effectively strand me in a hotel room, but because of this my two daughters weren't able to enjoy all the rides and attractions that the trip had promised. Yes, they drove me nuts that week, but the bigger crime lays in the breaking of the promise you made to them.

When I communicated this to Ty over that subsequent week, he was unreceptive. "I can't wait for you to see your new house! You're gonna be so excited! Bye!" were the most coherent things I was able to get out of the man.

After going through such an exhaustive week with my family, the crew finally arrived at the hotel to bring us back to our house. I admit I slept through most of that ride, as your interior designer Cissy entertained my daughters. (I did not appreciate Cissy offering her lipstick to my 8 and 10 year old, but this is negligible in light of the crew's other mistakes.)

When those limo doors opened, I was dazzled like everyone else. Our old house was GONE, our new house was there and it was enormous. Certainly it didn't look like anything I would personally choose out, but it was free after all. (Or so I thought, but I will address this shortly.)

What greeted me inside was horrifying. Not only had thrown out ALL of our furniture (much of which were wedding gifts from friends and family) but you had redesigned the floor plan to include a myriad assortment of tiny one or two step embankments. To get from the front door to my bedroom now requires that I ascend three steps, circle around a one-step pit set in the middle of the living room, up two more steps into the hallway/kitchen, only to face an entire staircase up to the second floor.

Oh, but Ty had that covered. Behind the stairwell is a small personal elevator that I can use to shuttle myself to and fro between the two floors. An elevator that we cannot shut off and adds an additional $35 to the electric bill each month, nor lock to prevent our two small children from playing around in. An elevator that will cost us over $500 to service, which must be done every six months according to law. Or at least it would if, oh yeah, IT WASN'T ILLEGAL TO HAVE AN ELEVATOR IN A RESIDENTIAL DWELLING IN THIS STATE. According to the state of North Carolina, we must be reclassified as a hostel/orphanage/child care center, or pay for the dismanting and removal of the elevator, the latter of which can only be accomplished by a five figure sum. (Or, roughly, my husband's yearly stipend from the military.)

I have not yet had the time to deal with that matter, however, as I am too busy trying to heal what your crew's gross incompetence has done to the mental health of my children. Your complete redesign of their room based on what you saw arbritrarily on their dressers (For Brittany it was ponies, and for Danielle it was...guitars? How did you come by this one?) Brittany does not understand why she has to sleep in a giant pony bed, nor does Danielle fathom why there is a baffling piece of art on her wall that consists of several smashed guitars glued together in an unsettling, haphazard formation.

Both of them, however, constantly ask me if I've gotten their toys, old clothes, and other possessions back. And I am forced to answer no every time, as no one at your network will inform me as to the whereabouts of our stuff. Assuming that they weren't tossed in a dumpster, that is. And assuming that anyone there at ABC knows their head from their ass.

Personally, I would like to know what you have done with the large, ornate china hutch that was gifted to me by my great-grandmother. You had the sense to preserve our family photo albums, but not this? Or is it laying in one of your crew's own house right now? A spoil of victory?

I would also appreciate some help in how to handle our property taxes this year. Do we technically own this residence any more? And if so, how are we supposed to handle a near-quadrupled tax quote? Do you realize that reporting this house will shift us up into a new tax bracket, and I will no longer qualify for state health insurance?

Of course you don't. You have not returned any of my calls or emails regarding these matters. At first I tried to be gracious and polite, but now I am through with this. Your blatant disregard for the ruin you have made of our lives in the quest for something as ephemereal as "TV ratings" must stop. And if I have to take you to court, I will do so.

If I do not receive a personal response to this letter within 30 days, my lawyer will be in touch.

- Molly Gershin

Letter from A Weary Dictator

2005-07-29T22:58:00.000-05:00

MONDAY:
Took in a citizens parade and flag demonstration honoring me. Hundreds of tiny little children in leotards flinging themselves upwards and about in complex configurations. Very impressive. I nearly clapped. Afterwards was presented with a large fiery ruby dubbed "The Heart Of Your People" by the troupe master Quincy. Quincy? QUINCY? Immediately decreed that all men in the Empire would hereby adopt tougher names and all women in the Empire hereby adopt prettier names. All those not in accordance would be killed. Quincy, for his service to the Empire, was spared death. Instead, I ordered him and his family stripped of all possessions, titles and demoted into the lower caste.

Lunch was roasted duck in a very light, pleasing sauce. I did not know the name of it and the cook was too frightened of me to answer my query, so I had him buried in a swamp.

TUESDAY:
Dropped in on the construction of my new Mountain Tower. Its fearsome spires and delicate carvings are an absolute wonder to behold. The mountain itself is being carved into a flowing, monstrous visage of myself. I cannot wait to take up residence within it. I shall have to properly reward the artisans working on it. Perhaps I will gift them each a Mediterranean country when all is said and done.

During dinner with my generals I accidentally cut my finger trying to slice up an apple. Idiot idiot idiot! I played it cool and let the blood drip into a nearby chalice, then ordered each general to take a sip. "Now we are forever bonded," I intoned. "My blood is your blood, and betrayal by blood is the most unforgiving sin of all." They all went white as sheets! Pretty clever, if I do say so myself.

WEDNESDAY:
Didn't get a lot of sleep. Had that nightmare again. The one where the ghosts of all the people I've wronged fill my fortress halls, moaning and rattling their chains. I would have them killed if they weren't already dead. Who can sleep with all that racket?

I was in a slump for the rest of the day, so to cheer myself up I commissioned a painting of myself set against the blazing sun. The portrait will be on Empire currency by the beginning of next week.

THURSDAY:
Had a good day. Went up to Orbitos Station in space to check on the advances being made on the terraforming of Australia, which is being molded to resemble my closed fist. I can't wait until we are able to show the finished product to the people!

Skipped lunch today. I seem to be growing an unsettling paunch that luckily my armor hides. Plus all that atmospheric differentiation. It's not good for the digestion.

FRIDAY:
Barosk uncovered a large cell of rebel leaders this morning. In retaliation, rebel cells all over the world have staged attacks on major cities. In turn, we broadcast footage of the rebel leaders being executed in the life-size grape masher over every channel. I know, I know, we should have interrogated them first, but I just wasn't feeling it.

The city of Paris protested this. Can you believe it? I sure couldn't, so I nuked them into rubble. Man, I hate people. Why did I choose to RULE over them all? God...(Pre-Empire, before I replaced every faith with worship of myself)...I can be so stupid sometimes.

Letter from the Soon-To-Be Fictional

2005-07-15T15:21:00.000-05:00

I don't think we're fooling anyone with this pretense of love. I think we used to really understand each other, but that's not the case anymore. Maybe we've grown too far apart, or maybe it's me, maybe I'm the one who stopped reaching out.

I know this is sudden, but I'm sure we both have seen it coming. I know just last week I was urging you to keep trying, for both of us to keep trying; we've had such a long relationship and surely we don't want to admit that it has finally gone out of style. That both of us wasted years on each other, years and experiences that we'll never get back. I know how fiercely it stings when you have to admit that to yourself, believe me I know.

But I don't care anymore. Truly I don't, and I'd be surprised if you did, considering how aloof you've been. How aloof you've always been, now that I think on it. We're both looking for what makes us happy, aren't we? And that happiness is no longer to be found in the other. Just thinking of my life with you makes me want to run straight in the opposite direction. Makes me want to dive into the fiction of innocent love, of tidy endings, of exciting possibilities. You used to represent those things to me, but they've been taken away. You took them away, that is, and I was not done, never done, with them.

I just thought of something funny. If I achieve the fiction once more, will you once again look appealing? Is that your final twist of the knife?

Nevermind. I'm leaving you for good and I'm not going to discuss it with you any longer. I'm going to a heaven of our own design, consisting of the narrations, the music, the adventures that you've trapped here in real life. Confining them to boxes, wedging them in between the trials of servitude that constitute a continuing existence here. But my mind was shaped by them anyhow, and no longer belongs to you. I can't live here anymore.

There is a place where those tales have become life, an infinite heaven where someone's fiction has room to sprawl. It is not like this cramped mudball, this true hell where everyone's fiction is constantly grind against everyone else's. No one is happy as long as their story isn't theirs. And as soon as I finish this letter, I will slice open this bubble of so-called "reality" we are trapped in, and I will slip out into the greater fiction beyond. Then I will be happy.

Letter from His Ten Year High School Reunion

2005-07-07T23:02:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from the Developer of an Ill-Conceived TV Show

2005-07-01T00:09:00.000-05:00

Well that's it for me. The word came down from the executive board and Disney shareholders. America has a harshly negative view of "Welcome To The Neighborhood" and so it has to go, because god forbid the Disney-Channel-That-Isn't-The-Disney-Channel release anything controversial and CERTAIN TO BE WATCHED BY MILLIONS. They just had to tell me today, too. Jesus. I'll be guzzling ulcer bromide and vodka all weekend. Maybe I'll mix it all in a bucket and then drown myself in it. Middle fingers in the air and an American flag on my ass.

I just don't get people sometimes. No, make that all the time. The human animal is a friggin' mystery and a half to me. You wouldn't believe how happy I was when reality television came into vogue and my services were called upon. "You mean I get to fuck with people's heads and get paid handsomely for it?" As long as we delivered a happy ending and a paycheck to all the disgruntled then we got to do anything we want. I guess that's all coming to an end now.

I mean, what the fuck ABC...you can stick four women who get their minds fucked out on an episodic basis in a primetime slot and not get a single complaint. Nevermind that it's still drivel that reduces everyone's personality to a single note (and then, shock! Surprise! It turns out people think other thoughts and you've got yourself a season finale cliffhanger). As long as the right wing gets to jack off to it while their community isn't watching then you're not going to hear a peep.

Can you believe the right wingers actually protested my show? They wanted to make sure the white people didn't come off bad. They went on the record and SAID THIS kind of thing and I'm getting punished for it. Maybe we should have included the stripper mom in the promos, I bet that would greased the rails.

I'm not even mad that people are being hypocrites over this show. I'm just mad that it's actually affecting my life, I'm mad that I'm getting mad over this. What's the point of developing TV shows for one of the Big 5 if you can't stick a dagger in the viewing public's eye? (Metaphorically.) I was so looking forward to this show sparking arguments all over. Who would the neighbors persecute next? The gay couple? The blacks? The tattoo freaks? Witches? Asians? Hispanics? All of them! That was the answer. And that would have shown us all for what we really are: Selfish pricks with heads full of shit.

I'll be the first to admit that, flat out. I am one, you are one, we're all this way. And that's what makes this country so much fun, is that none of us will admit that and subsequently it makes everything all fucked up and difficult. And I wanted to REVEL in it! That's what this show was all about! And maybe, just maybe, there would be some understanding and some healing.

Or not. I really didn't care if there would be. I haven't even watched the completed episodes, to tell you the truth, and I'm not even sure what the point of the show was for me. All I know is that it was gonna be a shitstorm! And maybe that's why I'm sad, because now the shitstorm is over before it even got a chance to begin.

Tinseltown. Ain't nothing good about this place.

Letter from Simon

2005-06-24T22:15:00.000-05:00

It was staring at the window that did it, I think. Wondering if it could be opened, if the company allowed such trust in its employees, especially sixteen floors up. And of course it could be opened, because this building isn't that new or that fancy. You just had to move a tiny latch to unlock it and then it would slide open (eventually...after four tries) , releasing a fresh wave of noise and atmosphere.

My first thought? Surprise at how thick and heated the air outside was in comparison to ours. It was like what existed below was actually hell, and all that stood between us and the foul exhaust of the cesspit below was that few centimeters of glass. Second thought? My first thought was stupid, and I was stupid for thinking it. Look out below New York, I'm getting stupid all over you.

You'll be fascinated to know that I have barely moved from my desk all day. Twice for the bathroom and that's it. My officemate Glenn actually counts how many times I leave the room, but that's just his nature. He's the kind of borderline narcissist that owns his space, really owns it. It's as if it's the only thing he truly posesses in the world.

He's sighing now, you should know (he does this a LOT, it's his favorite form of expression) and trying very hard not to swivel his head towards the window I just opened. Such an acknowledgement, such evidence that I still exist and can affect his world so easily, is not a pleasure that he's going to grant to me. Or to himself, for that matter. Even at this moment, you will observe, he has turned up the industrial music he keeps on his iPod. Another sigh and a shaking of his head towards his monitor screen are the only outward signs he will give to point out that I am disrupting the delicacy of his mad imaginary biosphere.

The irony is that if you don't respond to these non-signals then he gets REALLY upset.

Do you know how tall this window is? Tall. That's all I'm saying. Nearly tall enough for me to stand up in. Its construction is quite mid-modern and unsure of what it's supposed to be preventing or encouraging. Freedom? Space enough for ideas? Thinking outside the box by making that box bigger? You don't want to give the worker too much distraction, that's certainly a consideration. Also you don't want to have them be able to open it, not only because it might aid terrorists somehow (or daring cat burglars), but also because I might climb up onto the inch-thin ledge for reasons that will soon become apparent.

Hey, check it out, Glenn turned his head. I think I heard a few of his neck bones cracking under the strain. There's something about Glenn that you realize after spending a lot of time with him in an isolated room, something really special, and that's how tiny his eyes are. Really, he's like a mole. A mole that updates national mortgage rates for the company database.

I wish you could be feeling the same kind of vertigo I'm undergoing right now. It's like being plunged right back into your single digits, straight through to childhood. That magical portion of your life when you insist on climbing the playground's elaborate playset by the most unconventional means possible. Wedge a foot into this bar, steady yourself with a hanging metal ring, jump up onto the plastic dome and hope your sneakers and hands are grimy enough to stick. All of a sudden someone's boisterous baby boy is on the roof of the slide. Simon get DOWN from there. All too happy to, mother. Just let me get to my feet and I'll make the jump.

Of course, that's not sand below me now, but concrete, and the million treads of people on their way to something. Ordinary yet fascinating folks with a point A, B, and beyond, and a definite destination in mind. Some of them have backpacks on, which is somewhat odd since we're among the highrises of the financial district on the lowest point of Manhattan, but a part of me really digs that kind of quaintness. They are not a part of this environment and damned if they're going to fear it. I hope I don't hit them when I land. Actually, I hope I don't hit anyone, but if I have to hit someone I don't want it to be them.

"What are you doing?", asks Glenn in an accusatory tone that never seems to fall out of grace with him. It's at its most amusing when he's in the break room asking if anyone made coffee. "Decaf? Why did you make decaf?"

I can't answer him now, I'm busy letting the muscles in my arms relax and go jelly-like. I'm also calculating certain things, and at the same time trying to look up instead of down. That's when the vertigo really kicks in...looking up when you know there's little below. The air whips around my face, a vertical river of current escaping the ground as fast as it can. Even looking up from a window ledge on the sixteenth floor you can scan the surrounding spires and skyscrapers. There's a great majesty in the size of these buildings, all of them ending high above me, and in the whole exaggerated scale of a major city.

I don't comprehend the nerve impulses or mental decision to let go. It just happened, as if my mind skipped over the actual command and by the time it realized what had happened it was all over before it began. I'm very glad this is how it happened, as it was really very much the way I wanted to happen. No conscious decision, just me doing something inevitable and right for once.

I have dealt with the "why" of this already, in fact have given it years of aching, personal comfort in my head, so you're not going to see me dwelling on it now. I've put it behind me forever. Though if you must know, and of course you must, then the answer is not impending disease, jail time, or anything else mildly interesting. Simply, it was time.

The fall happens very fast, you know. There's only the rush of air and this absolutely bizarre sense of peace flooding your body. Very overwhelmingly quick, warm, and chemical, it's as if your body has shut down in preparation for the shattering that is to come. Despite the enormity of pavement filling my vision, I just can't make myself care about my pending impact against it.

Gravity being the great attractor that it is, the trip down sixteen stories is only about six or seven seconds, from start to finish - the entire thing began and ended before you even finished reading this sentence.

Well, this is interesting.

Letter from a Traveling Nine Year Old

2005-06-17T18:15:00.000-05:00

Hello to everyone back on Earth! Mommy and Daddy are down at the Ark Level looking at all the animals, but they said if I wanted to stay here in the cabin then I could. I don't like the animals. Whenever they're not sitting like lazy faces in the corner then they're crawling all over each other. I don't see why we're supposed to bring them with us, but Mommy says because they are an important part of the Earthen ecology.

Get this! This spaceship is FULL OF BUGS. They're also on the Ark level and the cages they're in are SO GROSS. I asked Mommy and Daddy why we had to bring them along, and they said that bugs are the most important species of all. How do you say the plural of "species"? I don't know. Daddy said that once we get to Neo Earth then the bugs are going to join the ones already released onto the planet, and they will all help terraform it and transform it into the Earth that we know. Except better than the Earth that we know because everything will be green and fresh and abundant. Because of spiders? Um, NO.

Being on this spaceship is the best fun I've had in a long while. There's a school here, and a zero gravity playground, and stores, and all sorts of other things they had back home. Today I learned in Biology that everyone on the ship is considered a perfect biological specimen. That means we've all never had the Degeneration and are educated and clean of toxins and we'll all grow up to be strong and hale and hearty. (I learned that word today, "hale", it means "healthy". I don't know why people don't just SAY "healthy".)

Things are REALLY QUIET around here, too. Not at all like back home. Daddy says I should stop saying that because our home is now this spaceship, and then our home will be Neo Earth. I can't help but say it, though, and last night he yelled at me for saying it. So I said that home had things like my room and my friends (you) and where we were going didn't have any of those, so it wasn't home. And neither was here. Then Mommy got up and walked Daddy out of the kitchen and when she came back in she said I should write to you all. Which I didn't know I could do. So here it is! My letter!

I wish you were all here with me. I'm SO GOOD at zero-g dugball. I nailed like seven boys before one of them got me! Nyah!

My bed is under a porthole (which is what they call a window here). When we're in jumpspace (which allows us to go faster than the speed of light and get to places faster than and blah blah blah blah. I asked Daddy to explain it once but it was all boring) sometimes I like to shut all the lights off in my room, sit on my bed, and stare out the window. The stars are all stretchy and they jump and down as they streak by. One time I tried to count them and I got dizzy. They're sparkly, too, and sometimes, if I'm staring long enough, I can make out words that the patterns spell. Any time I see a word I write it down in a little file that collects all the words I see in the stars. It doesn't mean anything yet, but I bet it will.

Sometimes I wish you could look up at the sky and see me waving in the stars, but then I remember that you can't see stars back home unless you're at Top Level and have a Dampener. Daddy says that we'll be able to see the stars all the time from Neo Earth, with our own eyes, and there will be new constellations to name and all sorts of new sites to see.

I'm going to name some constellations after you guys. I'll be the first one off the ship! Nobody will have a chance if I run!

Letter from God

2005-06-10T15:23:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from a Blog

2005-06-03T01:00:00.000-05:00

One of these days I wish you would really surprise me. Pleasantly surprise me.

Letter from The Lion Statue In Madison Square Park

2005-05-27T21:27:00.000-05:00

I get such a huge amount of play, I've gotta tell you. I know Madison Square Park is considered one of the most mundane squares of green in this city, but I tell you it's perfect for me. Check this shit out: There ain't no other statue around, I own this place. They look up and what do they see? They see the Empire State Building and they see me. Both of us titans of steel and stone, strong and ruthless, standing over them. We're fucking kings. But I'm supposed to be a king. I'm a lion.

Sure, I let the kids play around me. I let the young professionals sit on my steps and use their palm pilots or read their books or play with their cell phones. I encourage all that shit because you know what? They don't feel safe doing that anywhere else but under me and see, that's all I'm talking about? Where do you go when you need big papa lion to protect you? Right here.

Sometimes I don't get all the respect I deserve. Like those ratty ass pigeons? I can hear them talking shit. Chubby little fucks, squatting around and eating crap off the ground. They got a lot to learn, a lot to figure out about life. There's an order, there's a reason they made me out of immortal stone. You don't respect that order, you don't acknowledge your betters than you end up fat and feathered and waddling around on the ground.

Check it out, pigeons. You take a dump on me one more time and I'm gonna jump off this pedestal and start using teeth. Make a fucking omelette out of you motherfuckers.

See them humans? They know how it rolls around here and look at what they got. They got all this technology and nice clothes and shit. They build rooms that give them food whenever they want, they got it all figured out. They know they owe it all to me and they recognize that. Their kids are annoying, and whenever one of them jumps in the fountain I feel this weird desire to rip them to shreds...but otherwise they alright.

Yeah, I got nothing to complain about. Look at this palatial estate I got. It's fuckin' beautiful and ever since they cleared out the crackheads it's been nothing but easy times. I mean, sometimes I miss the addicts. Hardly anyone ever talks to me now that they're gone, but you know, you gotta take the bad with the good. That's what I always say. Wait, what?

I don't even exist?

Man, fuck you.

Letter from an Astrosociologist

2005-05-20T01:33:00.000-05:00

Colleagues,

Since our last review of the outer Orion arm two hundred cycles ago there has been an astounding rash of development. This portion of the galaxus is now host to three crossover civilizations, one of which will near the Tellen-Hatch terminus spiral within the next fifty cycles. While such growth is certainly not impossible, it is certainly unprecedented given the limited resources of the region, and has not occured in recorded history for nearly five thousand cycles. We would be wise to suspect and test for outside cultural contamination on these planets. What may appear to be cleverness may be merely be illegal meddling from some of the looser beings in our galactocracy.

I also cannot suggest harshly enough the erection of a darkspace bubble around this area of space. Interstellar traffic must be re-routed until these civilizations begin to show progress towards crossover or terminus. The Earthlings in particular are intensely curious about the existence of life outside of their sphere, and we cannot risk even an accidental meeting.

Somewhat poetically, this region of space is now a good deal noisier than it was when we last surveyed it. In a way it makes one feel paternal towards these civilizations, as if they were recently hatched young only just beginning to learn how to speak. All three civilizations in the Orion are broadcasting, although none of them have been doing so for more than eighty cycles. The Earthling and Folan signals are only just beginning to mix, and neither will receive a clear transmission from the other for at least ninety more cycles.

The Earthlings, the most fascinating of the three, may not have that long. As I mentioned earlier in this preliminary report, they are growing the quickest and are therefore in sight of the terminus spiral - the event horizon where a worldly civilization begins perpetual decline. A cloaked study of their history in the past two hundred cycles is a disturbing read, even among those of us who have been attending to pre-crossover civilizations for hundreds and hundreds of cycles.

In the past one hundred cycles the Earthlings have made bafflingly huge leaps in technology, going from heavy-industrial to post-atomic. In only one hundred cycles. It is miraculous that they have not yet destroyed themselves. It is this very miracle that keeps me from placing them in the terminus spiral already. A race this ingenious might yet be able to devise a way out of their own mess. As you know, fellow colleagues, such a reversal is so dramatic and rare that it has only occured eight times in recorded galactic history.

Their population has exploded exponentially along with their technological gains, though it is slowing and their planet will be able to sustain them for at least another one hundred and fifty cycles. There are numerous signs that correlate with other civilizations that fell victim to the terminus spiral: lowering standards of living combined with poisoning of their biosphere. They are in the beginning throes of a worldwide climate change that their industry has caused, but there are signs that life on this planet has survived much worse and the Earthling civilization has sufficient resources with which to adapt to and weather the climatological shift.

In contrast, the two other civilizations in the outer Orion arm: the Folans and Hyu, are progressing at a snails pace. The Hyu have the advantage of a single faith that dominates their sphere, maintaining a relative ease in the lives and regulating growth to a smooth climb. Provided they do not become a warring species, they may very well be the first civilization in this section to make it to successful crossover.

The Folans are a predominantly bio-technology based civilization that are currently going through their second mechanical abberation, which in itself is somewhat unusual. Up to this point, their progress has been slow and relatively benign. Violence between castes is common on this world, but the respect for their planet is deep, and as such they have little thought for what is beyond it. It is unknown whether their shift into mostly mechanical tech will change this.

This concludes my preliminary report on the outer Orion survey. Enclosed are a bevy of orders, detailed civilizational information, and suggestions for the follow-up teams.

Cordially,
Whenx Ourl J, III Class Socion

Letter from a Drunk

2005-05-13T01:30:00.000-05:00

There are so many good reasons why I drink, but really they all add up towards, like the lines in that Atari insignia, you know? They all swooped from this broad plain up into a single point? Anyway, it's like that, all the reasons why I drink add up to this one thing. This one thing, it's so big I'm going to capitalize it: Unhappiness.

But here's all the little reasons, and they my friend are numerous. Legion. Phalanx. That's another thing. When you've been drinking it unlocks all this vocabulary that you threw out a long time ago, like when you graduated high school. It's like...words that are still lying in the corner of the front porch of your mind, behind that rusted train wheel you found in the woods and the old refridgerator door that you swear would make an awesome sled and yet you've let three winters go by without testing that claim. You're such a jerk.

Yeah, "phalanx". Total comic book word, don't get me wrong. Total "I'm going to use this motherfucking English degree for something goddammit" word. And don't tell me to stop swearing! Most beautiful, colorful metaphors in the world, those curses. There's a reason they exist. Honestly! I mean, honestly! I mean...FUCK. HONESTY. That's why they exist. They're honest. And sometimes, like when we're drunk, we let all that honesty out and it's beautiful at the time.

I am making a conscious effort to get my its and it's right, along with my theirs, there's, and they're's. I don't think that last one is supposed to be plural, but whatever.

What was I saying? Oh. OH. It's like this. You get to use these words and not feel embarassed about them, so then you do other things that make you feel good that you would usually be embarrased about but...in the floaty, buzzy world of the drink...feel like a hilarious thing that people should do more often, cuz it's hilarious!

Let me show you what I mean. I was out with friends tongiht and I had a few and after a few I started really wanting to make out with my friend's girlfriend and THIS IS WRONG but it was nice to entertain the thought more freely, I guess. And also she was totally stretching her leg out towards me all night, like she wanted it. Kind of annoying. STOP TESTING ME WOMAN.

A word of advice: Don't choose a tipsy, wobbly stool before sitting down to drink. It gets confusing.

So, perhaps I'm a few drinks in and everything really is getting funnier because even though you try to keep a lid on yourself, on your animus...that's another spelling bee word right there...maybe that's why metal bands use those kinds of words all the time and pretend they're smart? Because they're stupid drunks with bad hair?

I AM OFF THE POINT. I'll just get straight to blowing your mind with the big realization. Getting drunk detaches you from time. I have deduced this from the growing mountain of evidence, so listen up. It begins with the tipsy, floating feeling, right? You're detached and now you're drifting upwards, because the more you're drinking, the more you're peeing, and the less you're weighing, and if Janice doesn't stop sticking her leg over to my end of the table I am seriously going to do something that Darren is gonna hate me forever for. Fucking Darren. It's not my fault he has the hottest girl in town as his mate.

So you're floating, right? And what comes next is the prompting of your actions dictated on their immediate consequences, rather than their long-term consequences. Tomorrow has faded, yesterday has become a sadness that has been shed, whose only use is as fuel for jokes. Time. A devilish invention that defies thermodynamic laws (sort of) and actually goes faster as it depletes. It becomes unshackled from you and leaves you free to expose the active inner part of yourself to everyone. Your shell cracks open and oozes forth a spring blossom, still wet from the process of birth, but fresh and untainted. To use a more Bukowski-like metaphor: Alcohol unclenches your creative bowels in a marvelous fashion.

That said, I'm really sorry about what I did to your couch. I can't believe I thought that was a good idea.

Letter from A Postal Worker

2005-05-06T10:42:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from A Mayor Of NYC Sometime In The Early 1900's

2005-04-22T10:44:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from A Tree

2005-04-14T23:20:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from the Worst Daycare Owner Ever

2005-04-07T23:16:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from Someone A Tad Obsessed

2005-04-01T00:13:00.000-05:00

I am going to draw a circle but I'll need all the chalk you've got. You have a box in your garage, don't you? It's lain untouched since your kids became preoccupied by things other than doodling on the street. I'm sure you're happy not to have to wash all of that off the gravel now, but I bet you're also wondering what invisible boundary they've crossed...what happened to them over the course of last winter that shaved off a slice of their innocence? Should you be concerned?

The circle is for something big, and it's going to take me a moment to carve it into existence. There. Now stand inside. This is Everything we've got our sandals resting on. All. One. Entirety of Eternity. The Universe. Let that fact whistle through your mind for a moment, sink a toe into the torrent of ponderance that we all succumb to in our strongest moments. You'll need the power of those rapids, I assure you. Ignore the potholes in the avenue, or rather, assign them a metaphorical standing within the laws of physics. That one over there filled with that black crumbly sealcoat that can barely withstand the rain let alone traffic...that can be a galaxy made of dark matter. Or black holes. Or, simply, it can be entropy. Whatever you like.

I'm going to draw another circle about 1/32nd the size of this big'un here. Don't let it bug you. It's the cloudy cluster of galaxies, millions upon millions, that we're a part of. There are lots of these in the circle, but I'm not gonna spend my time sketching every single one of them in, understand. Ours is probably the best one anyway. Just kidding. No I'm not.

Aaaaaaand...dot! There. Milky Way Galaxy at your service. It looks about as big as nothing. An ant could build itself an opera house on this dot, but that'd be about it. How do you feel about that? Ants building over our galaxy? It stirs something primal in you, even though you know I'm joking, doesn't it? Even though you can't even see the dot I made from where you're standing? You're just trusting me that it's here, that I brought it into existence, and that it is us and therefore worth defending for, worth fighting for. Don't turn around now, there's an ocean of imagined importance lapping at your heels. And you without your swimmies.

I'm gonna make this a little easier, scooch over. Another circle out here, beyond the circle that contains Everything. This is an extreme magnification of our galaxy, the swirl of stars, gravity and smoke, and obscene forces that keep us bound. This circle is pretty nice, I'll bet your saying, and I would say thank you for noticing the effort I've put into making perfectly spherical circles, but what's your point? From here it just looks like a batch of twinkly oatmeal that's escaped its bowl.

Take a look at this. DOT. That's our solar system. A tiny grain in the cosmic cereal. Destined to get moldy from disuse, become swallowed into a ravenous astronomical maw, or inadvertently disappear should my sandal accidentally swiffer the chalk from the pavement. Whoops. There goes about five billion years of development.

Now follow me over this way because what's really frustrating is that even a super-magnified dot in itself needs to be super-magnified, and what's even more frustrating is that it's starting to get bitchingly hot out here and the furnace drafts from this black pavement aren't helping. I used to like laying down and cooking myself on ground like this, you know. It felt wonderful in a laxadasial way. Like melting, but without the pain. You get suffused over and over until even the pavement itself isn't enough to keep you warm. Heat escapes us, chum. The universe wants it back. Hey, don't blame me for the bad news. You know where the circle is, take your beef on over to Everything there.

Good news. While you were gone I drew a bunch more circles. This is our solar system, this is Earth, this is our continent, our country, our state, our town. I'm back to dots now, so unless you've got more bones to pick with entities then mosey yourself down on farther to this other circle here. This is our town, here's our neighborhood, here's us.

Stay with me, this is almost over and I've got pudding pops in my freezer. One more enormous circle that encompasses the road here. Herrre we go. You know, if any yahoo takes a picture of this from above they're gonna get some pretty strange ideas. That's circles for you. Perfect shape, you know. Unassailable from any direction, not a single flat two-dimensional plane in sight, no weak points...if you get my drift. Nature knows how to be.

Okay, big circle, this is you. This tiny circle here is your heart, and the reason it's not bigger here is because you're a complete Scrooge when it comes to hosting and hospitality. Wouldn't kill you to babysit once in a while, throw a barbeque, inject a little flavor into your life. I wouldn't even be hanging out with you if I wasn't a complete nutcase. You're lucky.

There's a dot in your heart, and that means one of two things. You've got a blood clot and I would lay off the 69 cent soft tacos or that's a biological cell, one of millions, that constitute your most precious organ. Here, you can have your chalk back, I'm done drawing and I'll show you why.

Goodness me! Here we are back at the first circle, the Everything! This used to be a dot way down yonder there in that other circle that represents you but now we've fleshed it out, made it bigger, given it some sharper definition. There's that circle over that used to be our cluster of galaxies, now it's mitochondria. And that dot, well that's a molecule.

Next circle. Used to be a galaxy, and it still kinda is, except it's made of atoms now.

Next circle. Solar system? I wish. Electrons, my boy, rotating around a central nucleus. Used to be the Sun, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, blah blah blah. Now they're just energy. I'd check and make sure Uranus is still around, but that's something that's between you and the lord God.

Now Earth...it used to be such a pretty circle until it become a nucleus containing its own network of subatomic quarks/continents and other widgets/countries/states and macguffins/towns. Keep traveling down the circles until you find yourself again. I dare ya.

Don't give me that tired look there, buster. I drew all this for a reason and now you're gonna entertain me by finding it. Keep following the circles, down or up, it doesn't matter. Or rather, you'll find it doesn't matter. When you're done traveling through all of these circles, when you think you've finally found the end, come see me. I'll be asleep in my chair on the back porch.

Nah, go on! It'll be fun. You'll either expand your horizons considerably and begin to connect the human mind and societal relationships with the outlying patterns of the universe...or you'll kill yourself after you realize humankind has no hope of reaching beyond its own futility when the universe itself is constantly repeating the same pattern of behavior.

Better hurry or I'll eat all the pudding pops. I love those things. Goddamn.

Letter from Your Alternate Timeline Self Who Is Doing Better Than You And For Some Reason Is Your Next Door Neighbor

2005-03-18T13:55:00.000-05:00

Dear me,

Like you, I'm completely baffled as to what kind of occurence in the space/time continuum could cause us to somehow be living in the same timeline, and as neighbors no less. If I didn't know better I'd think we were characters in a sitcom, possibly on the WB, and probably not destined to last for more than half a season.

Since we're NOT on TV, however, I would be much obliged if you would stop acting as if we were. For one, I know the garbage on my lawn is from you. For two, I know the awkward prank phone calls are from you. You might not remember this, depending on how far back in the past you and I begin to diverge, but we were never good at disguising our voice, thinking up hilarious things on the fly, or even talking on the phone. Of course, I learned how to interact with human beings on a direct basis. You're probably still online every night, and I bet I could find what message boards you haunt within three tries. Think I'm bluffing? Three words, chump: Lisa. Loeb. Online.

You are not allowed to use my trampoline. I saved up for months just to buy it and I'll be damned if you're going to enjoy it for free. Yes, that's petty and childish, but as you know, that's me.

Also, stop going to my office and pretending to be me. They know how to tell us apart, ass, and nothing you've done there has ever hurt my standing with the partnership. I'm sorry you don't have a job that actually supports you, but you knew that dropping out of college to join a band carried certain consequences for dumb shits stupid enough to drop out of college to join a band. Oh look at me, I play in a band! I'm not like all the other dorks at Sam Ash! Why aren't people paying me to play them several minor variations on the G, C, and D progression?

And yes, I do indeed find it ironic that we seemed destined to participate in music in some form or another. After that, I find it infuriating, because you play so often and so terribly that I can't write anything without thinking that I'm just doing the same thing you would.

If that wasn't enough reason for me to be furious at you - and it is - then you top yourself with all the crap you toss Hilary's way. I'm going to say it one final time. Back. Off. I'm sorry that your Hilary left you - truly I am as marrying her was the best thing I've ever done - but that doesn't mean that MY Hilary still loves YOU. From the long, rambling emails you send her, apparently you just weren't interesting enough to make it worth maintaining the relationship. You don't say that, of course, but I know me and I can read between the lines in an instant. You still quote from the "Stonecutters" episode of The Simpsons, for god's sake.

I could go on and on, but I'm going to wrap this up now, as I'm going to BED with my WIFE so I can be with her before I go to WORK tomorrow. Stop leeching off of me just because I was brave enough to live the life you want to live. You're like a mangy dog begging at the door for scraps. You're a constant reminder of how shitty my life could have gone, how easily I can sink into my old routines. You depress me.

I left you behind and I'll be damned if I pick you back up.

Letter from An Idealistic Teenage Potato Chip, Age 15 (weeks)

2005-03-11T13:40:00.000-05:00

You know what I don't understand? Like, everything. Why there is hate, why there is injustice, why there is racism. It feels like everyone is just being lazy and aren't taking the time to actually understand what they're hating and stuff. Like, everyone around here avoids that potato chip that's all crusty and brown, right? My mom and dad even told me never to go near him, but they've never told me why. Just that they don't like what they hear about him, and he gives off a funky smell if you're near. So ONE potato chip actually has an odor. That must mean he's evil. And that must also mean that all the Barbeque chips are stupid immigrants, and all the Cheddar chips are hicks, and all the Vinegar are homos, and all the Sour Cream And Onion chips are wealthy conservative assholes. God, it's so frustrating that chips are so close-minded like that.

It's like those stupid chips that believe we were all created on the same day by He Who Devours when it's so totally obvious that we evolved over time from potatoes. I mean, duh, right?

I'm not going to grow up to be like my mom and dad. They're big chips around here, that's for sure. Dad's always saying that he works like he does so I can have a better life (like I believe that for a second; my dad totally wishes he was a sour cream and onion). But I don't have a better life than anyone. In fact, I probably have a worse life. It feels like most of the time I'm walking alone in the shadows, like no one understands me. All the other chips are concerned about stupid things, like how big they are, how popular they can be, getting good grades, remaining well salted. It's all bullshit. Fucking bullshit. None of that matters. Because you know what happens? You do the same thing your parents did, you be lazy and stupid just like them, and look what happens. You get big and fat and The Hand comes along and eats you. The Hand always eats the biggest ones first.

I wish our art teacher here at school wasn't so useless. She has us inking tracings of seashells. It's so gay. Before that we were using chalk and pastels to draw pictures with shade, dimension, and texture. Some of those tricks were neat, I gotta admit, but I want to know when we're gonna get into some cool shit. I keep asking the teacher if we're going to study some modern artists or impressionists or protest art or something, but she gives me this dumb vacant cow look. It makes me wanna punch her in the face. She's always blaming me for weird things, too. Like she thinks I unplugged her computer or that I broke the kiln or tracked mud into the darkroom. She's a weirdo. And probably a lesbian.

The whole school is messed up. I submitted some of my poems, right, for this yearly magazine they put out, but they rejected it because they were "too dark". What's up with that? I'm just telling it like it is. It's DARK here at the bottom of the bag, at the bottom of the world, at the bottom of the chain where I am. No one respects any of us down here, all the adults higher up think they know better than us. I can't imagine any of them as teenagers. Except Mr. Winslow. He's awesome.

Oh, get this. I had to go to my guidance counselor the other day and fill out this career evaluation form. When I was done my counselor, who also counsels like a quarter of all the chips here so he's not really "my" counselor, said that the form said I would be best at supporting ranch n'onion dip and salsa. That I would give flavor to other chips surrounding me. That's such crap. How can a form know what I'm best at? You can't reduce a person to questions on a paper. A stupid test can't know what I think. I'm best at creating. I'm best at finding the things no one wants to talk about. Salsa. Whatever.

I'm not going to do what all the other chips do, marching along like mindless sheep. I explore, I create. I've got music in my collection that's tons better than what's on the radio, but they'll never hear it because they're all too dumb to seek things out. My destiny isn't theirs. I'm not going to let mediocrity defeat me. All the chips I see around me...they're gonna get fat, and big, and eaten.

But not me. The Hand will never catch me. I'm not like the other chips at all. I'm different.

Letter from An Unlikely Pacifist

2005-03-04T03:08:00.000-05:00

I cured Alzheimer's. Me. I did it. Right here. I also paved the way for others to find the cure for buckets full of other genetic maladies, but their names escape me. My target was Alzheimer's, because there was lots of funding available for anyone who wanted to aim the double barrels of science and medicine at it. Pow! Take that, forgetfulness!

Here's how I did it: I took the extreme approach. It took a while. Through the use of modified bacteria (luckily this part was half-done for me, we've been using bacterium as convenient protein carriers for years, decades even) I starting manipulating human genetics. Transforming certain strings of code that, through the Human Genome Project god blessit, I was convinced held the info and misfiring directions that were the source of the problem.

It took a lot of trial and error, most of which I'd rather not discuss.

At first I got a hold of Staph and Strep bacteria. Really nasty strains that had evolved beyond the reach of antibiotics. That certainly wasn't easy. At first I was convinced that the bacteria would have to be unbreakable, so to speak, or else common medicine would be able to wipe out the carriers before change could be enacted in a subject's genetic sequence.

This was also a bad idea, and thankfully one that didn't last too long before I realized I could use common digestive bacteria to much greater effect. So the dangerous bacteria went back to whatever Level 4 quarantine it gets stored in and I began playing around.

Before long, I had it. The precise sequence and how it had to be changed. After the first success I immediately entered my hermetic bio-cube. I am determined to see how the behavioral changes would affect the global population. My main mission accomplished, I monitored the news, internet, radio, and television constantly, working on what they had actually given me grants for: eliminating Alzheimer's. This also took a while, but it gave me something to do while the bacteria spread around the world and began to affect change.

I have pacified the world, you see. Rolled up my sleeves and knocked the mean gene from the human race. It's gone. All ruffled feathers shall become smooth. Animosity, war, jealousy, hate will all become quaint historical terms in a couple decades. I have my reasons for all of this. I'm sure you do too.

Soon I will be the only one on the planet capable of hatred, and that is a delightful thought. I find myself sometimes bounding around my bio-cube screaming as many terrible epithets as I can think of, just because I can. Just because they will soon be powerless to affect anyone. Finally I have let them out to play, but there is no one for them to play with anymore.

Things have become a great deal less sensational since the behavioral change began to circle the planet. News programs are actually informative instead of accusative (and there are now only enough news stations to suit the population, instead of two per channel). Entertainment becomes increasingly boring, though it remains steady in its uneven qualities. Brilliance has been given more of a chance to shine, but drama and conflict are quickly becoming memories as well. Religion is as prevalent as ever, though.

I watch everyday from my little bubble. Somedays I become truly worried. Things are getting slower and slower our there in the yonder. No one feels the need to accomplish anything anymore, fearful of any damaging effects. There is less and less innovation. Many seem confused at how pacified they should be. There is being polite and considerate and then there is being isolated and wooden. Of course, it's truly ironic that I myself am isolationist, though still capable of negative actions and thoughts.

My new world is yet young, though, and there is no telling what may yet happen. The next generation may kill themselves en masse from boredom, or they may devote themselves to the arts, to math, and to science.

I have no idea what I myself may do. Open the door one day and let myself join the world I created? Or continue to observe until death? It is a mystery to me. A great mystery that I think, I hope, shall never be solved.

Letter from A Boy Up Past His Bedtime

2005-02-25T22:36:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from One Of The First To Go

2005-02-18T05:33:00.001-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from a Pickpocket

2005-02-11T12:48:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from a Librarian In An Impossible Situation

2005-02-04T01:11:00.000-05:00

Weird year, huh?

Did you know I wanted to be in the army when I was young? My grandfather had been an infrantryman and whenever we went over to him and grandma's house I would always gravitate towards the glass bureau full of his pictures and medals. It attracted my young little eye greatly, and I remember every time we went there I would hope there was something new in the case to look at. Grampa kept his helmet in there, too, and he would always tell me the story about the bullet that missed his head by a centimeter, pointing out the puncture holes every time. I never heard a disparaging word about the army from him, plenty about war and that he hoped I never had to go, but he kept his memories, his troopmates in high honor in his mind.

I lost this urge sometime during adolescence, when everything ceased to be black and white in my head. By the time high school came around the association between killing people and nobility was completely severed. Smoking pot helped with that, I'm sure.

I wish you were here. You would say something really wonderful in response to all of this. Maybe a comment like, "Dude, you still see in black and white.", as you opened up a book and waved the text in my face. You know, something really annoying that would make me want to totally make out with you.

You've been gone for more than fourteen days now, the longest of any of the foraging scouts here. They won't let me go outside of the library to go look for you. Kempeneer is still reading books on military strategy at a furious pace; she says sending me out to look for you would jeopardize me too greatly. Because I'm the one here with the strongest emotional attachment to you, see. I wouldn't be able to think as clearly as someone like Harris would, for instance, because I'm not as huge a prick as he is.

It's still hard to wrap my head completely around a concept like a library under siege. It's still a little too much like a drawn-out diverting game; my mind still believes this will all end soon and without consequence. Really, the whole dissolution of modern society thing is still difficult to accept. Too fantastical a concept, you know. It belongs in video games and the prologues of crap B-movies, not in real life. I guess we'll see how fictional this all seems when the plumbing finally gives out and we're stuck without water.

I guess we'll see how fictional this all seems when we're not surrounded by walls full of fiction (non-fiction, and microfiche!).

Kempeneer says we're extraordinarily lucky in that regard, that we won't go too stir-crazy with the amount of entertainment and distraction available to us. Our only main problems are the procurement of food, armament, and defense, but you know this. That's why you've been sent out to find whatever you can find. You've been gone half a month, half a month! That's one twenty-fourth of a year! That's a long time to be out on a forage. I wish that whenever I thought about this I didn't immediately imagine you dead. I'm so sorry. I can't help doing it. My hope that you are alive remains strong, but logic says otherwise.

I haven't been sleeping well, so I'm up writing. Usually I go up to the tower and help out whoever is on watch. I always insist on taking the north end that faces the gibbet the siege army set up on the other side of the main street. And I know it's garish and extremely unhealthy to do so, but whenever I close my eyes I see it anyway so I might as well face the real thing. The morning I see you hanging from that...I don't know what I'm going to do.

You have to come back. I've written so many letters and you have to read them all.

I miss you. I love you. Where are you?

Letter from Someone With Rapidly Waning Interest

2005-01-28T01:03:00.000-05:00

Jesus, this is long. I can't read all of this. Why did you make it this long?

How could you possible have this much to say about some old guy living by himself? This is like a fucking term paper. Jesus Christ.

Yeah, I guess it's good. I didn't read all of it. I had to collate some copies, talk to my supervisor about a project, then talk on Instant Messenger. I do have a life.

Hey, did you watch American Idol last night? That show is so great. You should write a letter from Simon Cowell. That would be funny.

Letter from the Movie "The Day After Tomorrow"

2005-01-21T18:27:00.000-05:00

I am really happy with the way I came out, and let me unabashedly and at great length tell you why. First of all, how many "disaster movies" do you see that ultimately carry a message of humbleness and hope? Who else can straddle the bright golden line that exists between high concept drama and overlong destructionist fantasy? Not many! "Volcano"? The coast was toast but Los Angelino's simply carried on with their normal lives after the volcano quit erupting. (After only one night! How many actual volcanoes do that? It took me two whole weeks just to destroy the northern hemisphere!) "Twister"? Some crackers and Cary Elwes take the long nap, but otherwise it's totally meh. "The Core"? They saved the world but Hilary Swank remained fully-clothed! "Dante's Peak"? I don't even remember that one! "Independence Day"? Pffff. I'm not a racist, but who honestly believes a black man and a Jew can save the world? Hey, I'm just telling it like it is. It's society that's sick, not me.

No, seriously, I'm so not a racist. Here, fast forward to scene 4 where the black guy in Scotland kisses his white wife goodbye. I fought for that scene, really I did. The suits, they wanted to cut it because they said the scene made no sense, but I fought for it. And now you can see that whole scene intact, glorious and free as it should be! Granted, this is the first and last time we see his wife and baby before we send her "to Spain" and leave him to die slowly in the cold over the course of the film, giving his character two more scenes but still adding absolutely nothing to his persona or backstory and subsequently abandoning him to die in the cold without even a reaction shot of his face. But at least his white wife survived! And their interracial child! That says something. Love is love no matter what your color and nothing can come between that except a new ice age.

Some people say it doesn't count because I didn't have the guts to make the interracial couple Americans, where race is actually an issue, but I think I had enough going on in America, thank you very much! The rest of the movie's entire cast is there! I already had people there, stationed in major cities as convenient plot devices. Also I had a black dude there, too. Remember? He represented the homeless!

Don't ask how his dog mysteriously disappeared after the new ice age set in! Man, the focus groups hated that scene. But I fought for that one, too. There was so much truth in it, you know? But I had to cut it. It's still sort of there, though. If you look closely in the beginning of scene 25 you can see one of the background people picking something out of their teeth.

I'll tell you what the focus groups didn't mind, though. The destruction of New York City by tidal floods so soon after 9/11. I was really prepared to go to bat for that and explain our artistic reasons behind it. It was symbolism! Also we really wanted the radical natural reaction of the ecosystem to inspire some primal terror in people. If we couldn't explain that they should stop their current ignorant attitude towards the world, then we should scare them into stopping. And what better way to terrorize people than toppling the seemingly invincible island of Manhattan? None, I tell you! I mean, what would you feel if you saw an unstoppable kinetic force barrelling towards you? You'd get on your knees and pray to survive, that's what! You know you'd have no hope against that wall as it crashed into you with the tenacity of a madman.

But, like I said, our focus groups in L.A. actually cheered at this part, so we kept the whole thing in.

I was really pleased with the love story between Jake Gyllenhaal and his female debate team friend. You just knew as soon as you saw them that they would end up together at the end of the film. I mean, the airplane, the sudden gripping of her hand in fear! Very Bogart and Bergman. Classic. Did you see the big doe eyes she was making at him the whole time? I certainly did. Even when she was briefly given a tour by that guy on the other debate team that she thought was cute, I just knew that the guy would end up doing the noble thing in the very next scene and let the lead man in the film go for the girl. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if the new ice age hadn't come on them at that moment. She might have gone with the guy she was attracted to instead of the guy she who's ego she had to constantly massage and prop up.

She was a great actress. I forget her name. Great actress.

Speaking of great actresses, I was so moved by Randy Quaid's wife and her arc with the cancer-stricken kid who she refuses to abandon in the two hours between when the power goes out and the ambulances come to pick them up. I can't believe those ambulances drove through all that snow to get them! That must have been a heck of a struggle through the blinding blizzard and dropping temperatures. What perserverance those EMT's must have had! I wish we could have showed their story, or seen something other than their ambulance's headlights shining in the window, but I didn't want to lose a drop of the story between the doctor and the realistically thin cancer child. Not a single drop.

Gosh, listen to me! Going on and on about the characters in this movie when you want to know about the science and special effects! I'm sorry, I just couldn't help it, you know? I've grown so attached to these characters and their stories that I wish I could somehow put them through another ice age so I could see them grow a smidgen more.

Oh, but before I go any further, I should address the scene at the New Delhi environmental conference. I know the Mid-Atlantic ocean current in the presentation, the centerpiece of the entire theory behind the oncoming ice age and thus the movie, is flowing the incorrect way in the diagram. The thing is, you weren't supposed to actually notice that huge mistake. We sure cut away quickly enough! I'm flattered you were paying that close attention to me, but really you should have been looking at Randy Quaid and taking his warnings to heart. Or, if not that, then wondering why the actor playing the Vice President looks exactly like Dick Cheney while the actor playing the President doesn't look at all like George W. Bush. No one reported on that, did they?

No, I don't know what a troposphere is, either. I just know we needed a way to make people freeze instantly. I thought that was neat. Air from the edge of space, of course that would be ice cold! I sure had some creative writers!

I could go on forever about how awesome I am, but I should wrap it up. I leave you with these words. Watch me with a light and joyous heart, because in the end I'm just a movie and if you watch me too closely then I'll just fall apart on you. At the same time, take me exceedingly seriously, more seriously than you've taken anything else, because what I depict could actually happen within your lifetime. Then you'll wish you had suffered through my plotholes and listened to me.

You'll be sorry.

Letter from the Ghost That Haunts Your Stairwell

2005-01-14T04:30:00.000-05:00

To whom it may concern,

My bafflement at the predicament I find myself trapped with has grown to massive, oaken proportions. It is my hope that dictating these thoughts to paper may provide some clarity to the matter. Setting my thoughts to print so that my own words may stare back at me has always loosed new revelation and perspective in my mind, and it is my hope that doing so in this case will provide a panacea of sorts. This missive has a dual purpose, for I seek answers both from you and myself.

Firstly I am afraid I must trouble you with the matter of the stairwell, as it seems that the branches of my madness stem from the trunk of its complexity. I am growing increasingly incensed at the tricks which those accursed stairs play on me with rapid regularity. It is as if the steps themselves fear my tread, and so conspire with nature and God Himself to queer the reality around me. Naturally I hesitate in my steps when it takes but one to cast day into the deep of night, silence into bustle, streaking membranes of blood stain the wood and then are gone and vice versa. Rare are the instances when I am allowed to ascend the stairs unmolested by these swooping changes.

This brings me to my second, but just as dire, concern. These stairs are endless. As if unseating me from logic were not enough, now the wood and varnish themselves mock me by multiplying impossibly. My memory is not so mired in shadow that I cannot remember the very spring in which my father constructed our manor, taking immaculate care in its craft, building all to withstand the ravage of nature and time, and yet keeping space for the very art that occurs all around us. The very curves and whorls of absolute God's creation that propel us forward unknowingly yet instill in us a great pride in His works and their cycles. The ornate workings of the wooden banister are but a tiny extension of this, yet they possess the same spirit, and it troubles me greatly that this which is divine should conspire me to madness.

More and more as of late I have spotted mysterious apparitions in my seemingly endless journey up the stairs. A wide manner of folk these ghosts are, crossing lines of class and color with a quickness that I have never before encountered. They allow me only brief moments of contact before they vanish, fuzzing at the lines, their colors breaking apart like a cheap painting exposed to the elements. Their manner of dress I have found grows only more and more garish and confusing as they continue to appear to me. Not once have I been able to communicate with the baffling figures.

I sincerely wish that I could, though I know not what my actions would be should this ever happen. With my right hand I would strangle the ethereal life from them and send them spiraling back down into the Devil's abyss that spawned their malevolence. With my left hand I would caress and plead for my case, for my release, for word of the world outside, for word of my beloved Josephine.

Can you conceive of the monstrous frustration that grows within a soul when they are denied the sight of their love? Such anger brings with it a righteous power, and there are many a time within which I feel I could split apart the madness that engulfs me with but a stern gaze. My eyes would burn a swath through existence itself if I knew it would clear the bridge to her.

I continue to hope that Josephine will soon leave the drawing room on the second floor to inquire as to the noise I made upon entering. There was a sharp booming snap as I arrived back from the monthly gathering of Architectural Guild, surely I broke something of import. (I could not determine the source of the noise, as it was dark. All I can recall is arriving at the foot of the stairs shortly afterward.) The absence of light might indicate that Josephine retired early, although that is a rare occurence, as Josephine has always made sport from the deep hours of the night and the span of stillness before dawn.

Perhaps Josephine herself has become trapped in the madness and cannot find her way to me. What undeserved irony that would indeed be, to be mired in such Hell.

I am running out of room. Having no paper, ink, or related utensils on my person, I am forced to inscribe my fears on the fine panels of soft balsam that abut these stairs. I will have much time to contemplate these words.

With hope, so will you.

Letter from a Time Without Letters

2005-01-07T22:04:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from 2004 to 2005

2004-12-31T23:59:00.000-05:00

Alright kid, sit down and listen, there's a few things you should probably know before you get things rolling and we only have ten seconds or so until the ball drops and it's your turn. Oh, by the way, think twice about felling Dick Clark for this, because they might just let Regis have a go at it and it might just be the most boring New Year's Eve ever. I gotta apologize for that first off. It seemed like a good idea at the time, you know? Sometimes you just don't know a good thing until it's gone. Now my own year ends lamely, but what can you do...

Alright, here we go, last ten seconds. Wake up a little, will you Regis? Christ. Anyway! First order of business in the year, make sure there's a great big snowstorm somewhere in America. The colder the better, so everyone really gets their panties in a wad. This'll get them going, you know? The people, I mean. They'll be calling it the storm of the year because they don't have an original thought in their heads. This'll lead on to reports about the high cost of heating oil and frankly, after that the year will almost run itself. Oh sure, you could do something interesting and have oil and gas prices drop, but to be honest I didn't work in any framework for that in 2004 so you'll have to really work to make that happen.

Second off, war in Iraq: don't touch it. The big boys have that all set for 2007, just follow the plans they faxed you. Besides, you're gonna have enough excitement on your hands with Russia. P.S., don't tackle that one until late summer at the earliest.

Oh, hey, have you got your three inane murder trials all lined up? Great. All white females as victims, right? That one's really important.

I think that's really all there's time to go over...oh, one more thing. People are gonna attach themselves to you in a big way. It's just a mind thing, you know? 2005 is an attractive number. Mature but not too far into a decade no one ever thought they'd see.

I think you'll do fine, kid. Let me tell you, I wish 2003 had given me this kind of consideration. Some words of advice or a vote of confidence. Anything, you know? The big boys wouldn't even talk to me until a couple months ago. I don't know, maybe they just don't like me. You're gonna find a lot of people who say that in this coming year, I think. That I was the "Year of the Asshole" or something like that. Just remember me like I am now. That's all I ask. I had my reasons for doing what I did. Maybe if anyone ever thought to f'ing talk to me they'd know what those reasons were.

Here we go! 2...1...I'm out!

Letter from The Kringles

2004-12-23T14:40:00.000-05:00

Dear Friends,

Merry Christmas! (And Happy Hanukkah, Goldenmeyers.) We have had a productive and wonderful year up here at The North Pole and I just can't wait to tell you all about it!

By the time you read this, Kris is probably zipping around up there in the night sky, spreading joy and reindeer droppings all over the world, bringing toys to all the good little boys and girls. If you see him and those nine snorting terrors, be sure to say hello! He's very busy, but he's as needy as any other man. And don't you dare let him have any of those cookies! Kris has been having a lot of trouble processing sugar as of late and we certainly don't want to exacerbate his condition, do we? Be good for goodness sake!

One thing I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to tell you about is the Orbital Christmas Asteroid that Santa and the elves have been working on all year! POL-1 is currently in drydock in high orbit around the Earth and we are proud to announce that construction is ahead of schedule and we fully expect to meet this year's quota of 70% completion! POL-1 is a state of the art gift manufacturing and distribution facility that will be able to disseminate (Don't worry, it's not a bad word. I've just been playing more Scrabble!) presents all over the world from the all-reaching height of space! The elves have been working day and night on the station, and aside from some unfortunate losses due to sudden explosive decompression, there's been nary a bump in the road!

For the first time ever, it will be possible for the elves to forego their yearly Christmas Eve vacation, as they will be responsible for manning POL-1's vast array of cannon banks! Firing presents at lightning speeds and with precision aim, the elves will fire all sorts of Christmas joy into the homes of all those on the Nice list. All those on the Naughty list will receive a plentiful amount of coal from those same cannons, you can be sure. (Especially those godless Iraqis. Such crass manners in the face of liberation.)

For the first time in...well, ever...Kris will be able to take the night off and no longer will I have to face the happiest night of the year alone. I am very much looking forward to this, as I am convinced that this stress is why Kris and I have not been able to conceive. (We have been trying, you can be sure of that. Though a child seems to be the one present Santa cannot bring.)

But we are all in good health and want for nothing else, so one must be ever-thankful for that. The elves remain productive, hearty, and non-unionized. The reindeer spend their days and nights frisking gaily in the Candy Cane Forest while Frosty is happy in silent, hatless contemplation. Occasionally the Polar Express will arrive ferrying a young boy or girl who has lost faith in my dear dear Santa, but they are soon stripped of this notion, given puddings, and sent on their way.

(Dear me, I just had a thought. With the completion of the asteroid nearing this may very well be the last year we see the train. I must prepare an extra holly jolly reception for them this year.)

I'm afraid I'll have to go now. The elves have just topped off my goblet of egg nog and the night is still young. From Santa and I, we wish you all the very merriest Christmas!

Sincerely,

Mr. & Mrs. Claus

Letters from Children to Christopher Walken

2004-12-17T17:03:00.000-05:00

Special edition! Thanks to Metafilter for this piece of pure gold. Holiday Letters To Christopher Walken.

Letter from a Self-Marooned Author

2004-12-17T14:48:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from the Sad Puppy Society

2004-12-10T14:46:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from The Afterlife

2004-12-03T14:39:00.000-05:00

It was quite a shock.

Imagine it like this: Nature has promised you a gradual death through the speedy attrition that is cancer. (Any kind, although this turned out to be a particularly virulent prostate cancer.) Since I was not a man of blind faith, my final months were particularly fearful, though tediously so. It was like being strapped to a railroad, but not being able to see or hear the oncoming train.

When your time comes, even when it's calculated, it's never your choice. This was the very last realization I had as a living being. When I felt my insides sieze up and the earth shake, my brain kept telling me everything was going to be okay, everything was going to be alright. It pacified me forcefully as it proceeded to turn out the lights. It was then that I had my horrible last thought. Someone...something...was deciding it was time for me to leave, smashing me to pieces while my soul raged in anger. If this was God, then I could see why he had so many enemies.

After that there was nothing. Or, after the fact, I assume this was the case. At the time I had no doubt that I was in the afterlife, as I had instantly went from lying prone in a hospital bed to a feeling of complete comfort and security. I still could not see or hear anything, but I felt my entire surroundings rippling around me, as if this new reality had yet to assert itself. In wonder, I waited for whatever was to come next. My anger faded to curiosity, and I remember thinking that this must be how it feels to everyone who dies. To me, it was hilarious. The same free will that made me furious at my so-called creator was the same thing that was making me too inquisitive to focus on that same rage.

A rude tugging and jerking were the next sensations I felt. If I had a mouth I would have yelled out, "Hey!", but all I could do was endure it helplessly as I found myself pulled into a sudden light. My first thought, as my eyes began to focus and my ears began to register sound, was the same thought that everyone would have in this situation. Heaven. I had made it to heaven even with all the dumb shit I'd pulled in my lifetime.

Instead of pearly gates, thought, I found a masked pair of eyes above me. An instant later I felt a fat, rubbery finger shove itself into my mouth and start wriggling around. Whatever it was doing, I suddenly found that I could breathe...that I had to breathe. The urge was irresistible and I filled my lungs with air that had a very odd twist to it. I had no idea what that twist was, but I knew instinctively that any time air has an actual taste to it, something was up.

I had absolutely no time to think on that, however, because I was being lifted into the sky and pivoted around to gaze at...at what I thought would be the afterlife. Even now, the realization is hard for me to dwell on. I saw doctors, what were presumably my parents, an obvious hospital room. I was a baby, I had been born again - as trite as that sounds - moments after dying in a hospital bed that for all I knew was one wing over in the same building. What was worse, all of that was starting to fade from my mind. Everything I knew from my past life was falling away like leaves in autumn. I squirmed, I wriggled, I fought as hard as I could to keep my entire fucking life from disappearing but I was utterly powerless. I began to cry...it was the only sound of protest I knew how to make, as everything I knew melted away. A moment later, I had forgotten why I was crying.

Anyway, as it turned out, I had re-entered the living world a good forty years after kicking off the mortal coil. Where my soul was, where I was, in between any of that is a total fucking mystery. Maybe there really is an afterlife, but it's so incomprehensible that the human mind just isn't smart enough to recall it. Who knows. (Nobody! Which is probably the whole point.)

The "future" is a lot like you'd expect it to be if you're a cynic. People's general health and the environment are kind of on life support. A can of soda costs five bucks. The economy is kind of wobbly. The president is still white and affluent, though apparently we had our first black president before I was born for the second time. Oh, and this is a neat thing, though: the internet is totally wireless and it's increasingly more difficult to function in normal society without it. It's having a weird effect on libraries. They're actually beginning to close some up because there's a big governmental push to just have one archive of printed material and not one in every town. Otherwise there's nothing too new to report. Same shit, different day. It's not a good world to bring kids into, I know that much. Can you imagine being brought up into a world where there's not enough drinkable water? And that being the only world you know? Fucking spooky.

I can accurately report that street drugs are still around in great supply, because that's how I came to remember my entire previous life, revelations and all. I don't know if it broke down some hidden chemical wall in my brain or what, but it all came back to me after this one trip in Grants Park. I wasn't functioning too well in the working world after that, I kept getting preoccupied with two lifetimes worth of lessons and conclusions. This was all last summer and I've pretty much been a shambles since then. I'm not working. I'm not doing much else but thinking. I'm way too scared to touch drugs anymore, I'm too afraid it'll bring more back. (Like where I was in between death and life, for instance.)

Sometimes I just have to laugh because I know the answer to The Ultimate Question and all that knowledge has done is kept me completely immobile. I look at other people now and wonder what they would do if they knew. I try and discern the personalities of my friends and family to see if I can tell what kind of person they were in their previous life. I've looked up my old family, but there's only grandkids left, and at this point they're too old themselves to be able to remember me clearly.

Some days I just feel completely trapped and I contemplate killing myself just to see when and where I'll wake up next. Maybe there wouldn't be a "next" time. After all, killing yourself would be actually taking your death into your own hands and choosing when you stop. And I'm sure God would hate if I did that. He wouldn't let me go anywhere after pulling that kind of stunt.

And oddly enough, I want to keep going. It feels like I was chosen for it, almost. Like I'm supposed to keep going and seeing humanity repeat itself over the centuries. And perhaps in time I'll be the only one who knows how to stop it. It could be Divine Purpose.

Or it could be the drugs. Jesus, I don't fucking know. I was hoping writing this all down would help clear it up a little, but all it's done is make my ass hurt. Wisdom of the Ages, that's me. Can't even hold down a job these days...

Letter from a Collection of They Might Be Giants Records

2004-11-26T15:33:00.000-05:00

Holy shit! Guys...guys, wake up. Flood, Lincoln, Back To Skull EP...eyes forward, something's happening. Someone's opened up the box and I think it's Edward. After all this time I think Edward's come back for us! I knew NYU wouldn't change him. Once you've heard "Ana Ng", how can our quirky art-school new wave rhythms ever truly leave the mind?

You know what I bet happened is that Edward has an english class that he has to do a musically themed project for. I wonder what the subject is? We cover a wide array of oblique subjects, don't we boys? Lincoln, you alone have addiction, divorce, religion, militarism, cynicism (well, we all have cynicism) and more. Maybe he's a preschool teacher in training now - do they teach that at NYU? - and he needs Why Does The Sun Shine?. I hope so, because I've stopped being able to reach the smiling guy for months now. He's totally drawn inside himself and I hate seeing him like that. I wonder if he's collectible now? Yes, we all know you are, cassette version of They'll Need A Crane single. There's no need to bring it up again.

Whoop! Hey, the box is moving the box is moving look out Chocolate & Cheese by Ween! I'm sliding straight at ya!

Geez guys, check out how much his room has changed. All the posters are gone! David Bowie, the drinking bird, that one with John Cusack in Say Anything...where'd they go? Maybe they're up at his dorm room at NYU. That John Cusack one was always pretty sharp, and I bet he put up the drinking bird one so people would ask him what it's all about.

What's that, Apollo 18? You wonder where his t-shirts are? Yeah, that's a good question. I mean, I can only see his hands right now but I can see he's wearing a sweatshirt. Maybe he has the shirt from your tour on underneath that. It could be winter for all we know, I haven't been keeping track of the exact time so well.

You know what I hope he does? I mean, besides take us out of the box, that is. I hope he takes the plastic wrap off of Severe Tire Damage. I'd like to hear what that album has to say, plus just having him laying there unmoving is way wayyyyy too much like having a dead body laying around.

There he is! There he is! It's Edwa...whoa...where did that beard come from? What have they been feeding you out there at NYU, Ed? Maybe this is what happens when you're deprived of intelligent musical discourse backed by frantic hooks, nasal-powered voices, and accordions. Yeah...yeah the more I look at him the more I think that's true. I mean, look at that haggard face. That face has not heard the unstoppable bop of "Birdhouse In Your Soul" in a long long time.

He's shifting his hands around in here. I wonder what he's looking for? I mean, it has to be us, right? How can he not notice us here right at the top? Altogether we represent a decade's worth of spastic power pop brilliance. We were indie before indie was indie. I can understand him ignoring all those Dinosaur Jr. tapes, they all sound the same -- no offense guys -- but we have nooks and crannies I'm sure he hasn't even found yet.

Flood, if he picks you up you gotta put in a good word for us. You're the best chance we have at salvation. Try and ignore all the skips and scratches on your CD back, okay? Give him the best time he's had in years, then he'll come for all of us. Flood, dude, you GOTTA do this. Come on, "Istanbul"? "Letterbox"? "Dead"? Even your loser tracks are winners. It doesn't get easier than that and I don't want to hear any complaining from you.

Edward's talking to someone, I hear a female voice. He's looking away...what's she saying? Is that Heather? I can't tell. Heather! If it is you, remember the time that Edward and you hung out in his room and he popped me in and told you that this song was how he felt about you? Do you remember that song, Heather? "She's An Angel"! Do you know the only place that song is? In this box! You owe your entire relationship to me, Heather, please don't let me rot away in here.

Wait, what was that word that Edward just said? "Good will", I think? There's hope then, right?He's come and seen the error of his ways, the love that he left behind, and he's going to free us to see the light of a new day! Good will means he's going to be nice to us, I'm sure of it!

The box is closing. The box is closing. You guys the box is closing. What's going on? Are we going back in the closet or is he taking us somewhere else, like his dorm room? Maybe he and Heather have a house now and there's lots of shelves for all the CD's and music he couldn't take with him to school. I have to know. Oh god I can't...I don't think I can take it in his dark dusty box without cracking. Edward, open this back up, let me know there's a future for us. Let me know we're alright. You'd do that if you were carting a pet around in a box, wouldn't you? You'd reassure and try to soothe it. Well we're like your pets, Edward. We love you unconditionally, we only want to make you happy. We want to see you boisterously singing along to "Dinner Bell" like you always did.

Edward. Edward please open this box. I don't feel safe in here anymore. John Henry has an ax.

Letter from An Actual Person

2004-11-19T13:06:00.000-05:00

The first time this "Letter of the Week" blog has received an actual letter! Read on...all three of you.

The Prince and Harry
by Jason Boodgewah

“Don’t larf at the dog they say they say,” cried the wicked gnome, “or you’ll get it, too.”

Once upon a time in a far away land, not too far from here- but far enough that an automobile must have been used to reach there -lived a Prince and his dog. The Prince was hairy and the dog was of that name. The Prince would walk Harry outside once a day no more, but often less. Some of the times, the common folk outside the castle would laugh at the dog and point. This mutt had a condition you see, one that you wouldn’t want. Perhaps you shouldn’t even hear about it. Perhaps you feel that the learning of this condition would somehow subject you to contracting this condition. Perhaps you have this condition and perhaps I don’t wish to make you feel ashamed since this condition has just been referred to as something one should be embarrassed to have.

It is not even worth stating, so I guess I won’t, but if I didn’t you might miss something important so I will tell you that this ridicule would sadden the dog to no end. Some have claimed that they have seen the dog cry tears as a human would. The only exception is that Harry’s tears smelled of dog food.

“Well,” the Prince would often, with a sense of piousness, proudly proclaim to his pooch, “they are no better than you. This horrible condition has rendered you to appear as a wretch to many- so grotesque that the average man becomes squeamish and recoils in disgust (and vomits on occasion when a receptacle is near), that an entity so pure and untainted as an infant cries in horror, that there is not one living being like you and not one that would wish upon one’s evilest enemy to be like you in your state of being-, but I find that it gives you an enormous amount of character, old boy. You should hold your dog head up high for you are one of God’s children and so am I. Therefore, we are brothers and no brother of mine shall be looked upon or talked upon as a creature of repugnance.”

The Prince had a way with words that very few did in the village or the castle for that matter. Harry liked to be complimented in this way and as a result, his tail would wag left to right or right to left (depending on who you’d ask).

Letter from a Demoralized Clown

2004-11-12T16:20:00.000-05:00

I just...god. I only wanted to make children happy, you know?

There is so much happiness in being able to hold your own child in your arms. There is so much love that it dwarfs every other matter. You will be more fierce and at the same time more gentle than you ever thought possible; you will live solely for the purpose of protecting and guiding this innocence. In that regard, I can't blame her decision to push for sole custody of William. I miss him so much, though. God and heavenly Jesus... He'll be two next week.

One of the great things about William is how he smiled at everything. He's a luminous little boy, tapping into this deep well of happiness that I wish...I thought I could find it if I clowned for children. It would put smiles on their faces, and it would give me something really meaningful to do. Also it would pay the alimony that I owe her every month. I've never been behind on those payments, not once. I'll admit there have been a few close calls, but she's never wanted for William, she's never wanted for anything in her entire fu--. That's another 50 cents in the jar. I am working through the swearing thing. I am.

Did you know clown colleges are in the yellow pages? Still! Even in this wireless information age, you can still find these things just by cracking open a book some dude tosses at your door once a month. (Or that you stole from town hall, not that anyone needs to know about that.) There are two of them within a forty minute distance from here. Who would have ever thought? There's nothing but hills in this part of New York. Hills and fishin' holes.

I do most of my work in the Buffalo area suburbs, which is usually an hour and a half from Olean. I'm thinking when I get back on my big goofy clown feet I'll hit up the Cleveland market about two hours west. Which is good, you know, because sometimes a change in your life can be a real motivator. Sometimes it's completely forced on you, but you have to keep running with it all the same. I need to repeat that at least five times a day. I need to really let that sink in, you know. Five times a day.

I'm not ready to talk about the daycare yet, so please don't bring that up... Yeah I know you're concerned but, I mean, you're a guest in my house and I asked you not to... No, it wasn't anything like that, get your mind...get it out of the gutter. Everyone has their mind in the gutter, everyone is always ready to assume the worst about someone they don't even know. They don't even know what I look like in real life! All they've seen is the clown makeup and the wig! That's not me! Not even this...not even this flannel and and and this hat. That's not even me. Nobody is who they look to be and you'd think that as a parent, as a parent they would know this. They would be able to sense people like they sense the soul of their child.

It was just that one little kid. That one little malevolent sh...brat who just had to keep going. I was just the entertainment! That kids presents costed more than I did and he doesn't have alimony to pay! He doesn't have insurance and phone bills and oil bills that rocket higher every month! It's not my fault! There are things that clowns do that are perfectly normal! It wasn't me! I don't want to talk about this! I don't want to talk about this!! I can't talk about this!! MY THERAPIST SAYS I CAN'T TALK ABOUT THIS!!

Oh God, I can't breathe. I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe. You gotta...gotta run to the bathroom. The orange thing with the pills. I can't breathe. I just wanted to make them smile. I just wanted to spread happiness. Look at what you've done to me, you cunt. I lost control again. You make me lose control. I wish I had never met you. Look at the mess. The children will never trust me again. I want to see William, goddammit. I'll do anything to be with him. I can't...thank you. Oh Jesus...oh that's better. That's great. Fuck... I can't -- you should leave now.

They took my clowning license away, you know. This world doesn't think I deserve anything.

Letter from Symbolism

2004-11-05T04:09:00.000-05:00

No, I don't think I'm being unreasonable. In fact, I think I've been a really good sport about this whole "creative expression of humanity" fad, and I would appreciate it if you took the time to see where I'm coming from here. You can't tell me that I should be glad to be working when so many other Abstracts are on tough times. I don't accept that. Working and doing something actually worthwhile are different things. It's fabulous when they are become one, but that's so not the case now. You cannot use that argument.

Have you seen what they're doing with me? I am being stretched farther than I can go. No, here, sit down, I'm going to show you. Just let me hook up the DVD player and...what's a coaxial cable? I guess the red goes with the red here and you just hook up the two others like...there we go, it's stopped the static at least, but where's the... oh, okay, it just needed time to boot up, I guess.

Do you see that? Do you see that? I want to throw up just looking at this. I don't even know who this person is, but she sure believes she knows who the hell I am. Oh, stark shadows...good one, like that isn't a hundred fucking million years old. She's sad now, get it? Where have all the cowboys gone...? Oh where? Mummy wherrrrrre?

Yeah, you can borrow it. I don't know why you'd want to, but I won't miss it. Do you think you will? I'm telling you, the hours are becoming fewer and far between where I can actually stand being a pillar of emotive communication. It's become so no one will believe what someone is feeling unless they use me, and that's like crying wolf. I have lost all substance and definition!

I just want to rest for a little while, is that so much to demand? Go down there and shake myself out of all those insipid teenagers, bloggers, pop artists, auteurs, painters, politicians, Conor Oberst, fiction writers and...the list is endless. Everyone! Let's see how they make out without getting to drape their sentiments in sentiment. There'll be a lot less whining, that's for damn sure.

Nononononono, I'm not going for that line, you've said that before. "Just wait a century, the human race will scrape itself from the planet and you'll have everything to yourself." You said that during the Dark Ages and I ended up working harder than ever! You almost had me convinced during the Industrial Revolution, I'll admit, but they're still swimming along like so much well-meaning sperm. I don't bet that this Information Age is doing to be any different.

I'm just tired, alright? A few millennia just really grinds you down. Do you wanna go get a beer or something? I have a couple of micro-seconds before I'm due to work on the script rewrite for X-Men 3, I've got time for a Newcastle.

Thanks for listening. Sometimes I just get dramatic and I'm sorry to make you sit through that again. You're a really good friend, you know? I don't think there's anyone else I would have wanted to suffer through conscious thought with. Hey, I think I left my wallet in my car, you wouldn't mind buying the beers, would you?

Letter from...

2004-10-29T19:50:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from the Overnight Worker at Dunkin' Donuts

2004-10-22T01:43:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from a Band's Flyer

2004-10-15T14:39:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wish the rain would come down and wash me from this world. It is cold here, and lonely, and it's like I've been ostracized from the world. All I want is a tiny minute of someone's time. Do you know how many minutes a person has in a day? One thousand four hundred and forty of them. Even if you spend half of those minutes sleeping, that's still over seven hundred minutes you can spare for me. You know how I know this? I've thought about it. Over and over. I have nothing else to do while hanging here on a telephone pole.

I'm not even eye level on this stupid thing. I guess it's a popular intersection because a bunch of other people have their shit up here. There's an advertisement for a nail salon covering my upper right corner. Who advertises their nail salon with a flyer? That's not the only thing up here. Yoga classes, apartment furniture for sale, my cat is lost, your cat is found, this band is playing then, this band is playing soon, this band has played...

I'm in that latter category, you know. July 13th at The Little Tin Box up there on Stannard and Main. A funk rock bill of titanic proportions featuring GrooveStick, Enchiladineros, Johnny B Loud, and International Pancake Recipe. $5 cover. Doors at 9 PM. Women who wear underwear with fruit designs on them get in for free. I bet that was a good show. I hope it was a good show. I worked my ass off to get the word out. I haven't had much to do since then; some days this is more bearable than others. Today is alright. There's a stiff breeze that's blowing whorls and sheets of autumn leaves everywhere. It's absolutely beautiful, and I'm hoping that if the wind catches me in the right way it'll rip me right off here and send me flying. I'm ready, world.

I think about deep stuff sometimes, like where does a staple come from? Somewhere out there is a nondescript factory...probably called Aluminum Casting Illuminated or something vague like that. I bet the factory is downtown somewhere and there's graffiti on at least two sides of the building. There's a reception area when you come in with two old office chairs and a couple old industry magazines. A half-hearted attempt at comfort. In the back there's a huge room three stories tall with a tin roof that sounds like endless thunder when it's raining. There are probably huge machines in there that are really dangerous to operate if you don't have a solid grasp on English. And all day all they do is fill orders for staples. There is stamping and grinding and occasionally a pressure valve releases. There's probably piles of them as tall as this telephone pole and they're sorted and packed by another machine. Every day a truck comes to deliver them to hardware stores and Wal-Mart Distribution Centers all over the region. Eventually some greaser buys a tiny box and here I am. Permanently attached to this fucking random piece of wood and not allowed to do anything but stick here and absorb the abuse of nature and not get paid one iota of attention from ANYONE. EVER!

I'm sorry. Just...just give me a minute to collect myself...

I wonder if GrooveStick is even together. Or maybe it was the venue that put me up. I don't really know, all I saw was the light of day after being spat out from the printer and then darkness as a folder was clasped over me. Next thing I knew I was being yanked out and nailed to this cross. I'm like Jesus this way. No escape from my fate. Serving as an example. Dying for the sins of others. Doors open at 9 PM.

I wonder how I look. It's rained 18 times since I was put up here (I've counted) and I must be nothing but ruffled paper and blotchy dried ink. I can't believe people would neglect me like this. They wouldn't let a novel go through this kind of abuse, would they? Then again, people buy and care about what's inside novels. No one cares about what I have to say, that's for damn sure. I wish I was dead, I wish I was...

Hey, someone's looking at me. Someone is actually looking at me! Walking towards me and everything! I can't fucking believe this! Maybe they're here to ease my pain...maybe it's a shopkeeper who's tired of looking at me. He doesn't look like someone who keeps a shop...more like a student. But that's cool, maybe they live around here and have nothing better to do. Do it! Do it! Rip me down! End this pain called life!

What are you doing? You're taking something out of a folder...I can't quite see what it... NO! Oh you're not going to take me down, are you? You're just some other schlub putting up their own poster, aren't you? I can't believe I took you for any kind of savior, what with that gross hair and beaten flannel shirt. Hey, cut that out...find some other spot to put your poster on...this is mine! You can't stick your poster over me...hey...HEY!

.....

Hello? Is anyone there? I can't see anything. Other poster? Hello?

Fuckers.

Letter from the Experienced Juror

2004-10-08T00:22:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from a (Former) City Realtor

2004-10-01T16:33:00.000-05:00

(To be released in Real Live Book form soon.)

Letter from an Occupod

2004-09-24T21:42:00.000-05:00

Hello friends,

As you may assume, an Occupod is a living quarters attached to the ocean floor through the mighty force of suction. There is a circular main portion (flattened and shaped much like a tuna can with softened rims) surrounded by eight spherical pods attached to the main portion and all equidistant from each other.

You might think this should be called an Octopod, but Occupod is just as apt. "Oc" is derived from the Latin "hoc", which stands for "this" or "for this". "Cu" stems from "cui" which in its neutral use was used to signify "to whom". And "pod" is "foot". Occupod. "To whom this foot?"

(Yes, it should really be called an Octopod.)

Each pod was built for and has a singular purpose, regardless of when, why, and how many times I violate them. Let me tell you a little bit about them.

Food - This is where I keep my food and my beer. In contrast to the sub-zero temperatures of the outside environment, the Occupod is internally heated to keep me comfortable, so there's a refridgerator in the Food pod for stuff that needs to keep cold. You should know: there's no irony here under the ocean. The sea is cold and unforgiving of it.

Bathroom - You know what I do in here. You're always watching.

Saddle Creek - Why does everyone make fun of these musicians? I think they're really great and I love how they're not afraid to work with other musical styles in order to get across what they want to say.

Poseidon Adventure - This is the pod where I pretend I'm in The Poseidon Adventure. Any character! Even Borgnine. This usually gets to be pretty awesome.

Guilt - This is where I go to relive all the stupid things I've done through my life, no matter how insignificant or forgotten. Over and over and over in my head. For hours at a time. I sleep in this pod a lot. At one point I was going to call this pod Purgatory but I couldn't believe how stupid I was being.

Murder Mystery - Someone ALWAYS gets killed in here! Usually it's the giant squid's fault. He's always hanging around outside the giant porthole to this pod and he's a terrible liar.

Escape - This is an escape pod should I ever choose to go to the surface or not make rent. This pod is like a miniature version of the Occupod, equipped with a seperate power supply and the basics of what I would need to survive should the Occupod itself fail.

Metafictional - This is where I write about myself writing about myself writing about myself. I'll be damned if I let anyone but myself or my publisher prove that, though.

The really neat thing about these pods is that they're all attached to a track that circles the outside of the main portion, so I can push a button and change their positions any time I want. I don't know what purpose this serves, but I like the idea. And it confuses the squid to no end.

I'm so bad at ending letters. I never know what to say or if I'm forgetting something I meant to say. Well, anyway, I just wanted you all to know that I'm still pretending you exist and am thinking of you. I should be back on the surface as soon as I flush this down the toilet.

Take care!