An Open Letter to the Dude Sitting in Front of Me at the Cafe

Dude!  Wake up!!  Ahhh.  You're bombing so hard.  If this is a first date, you're on strike #7 (note: not the "bowling" kind).  I want to boo you.  She's gorgeous.  Stop talking so much about yourself.  Ask her about her!

Photo unrelated.

What does she like doing?  How was her day?  What is her family doing now?  How is Uncle Herbert, that crazy guy?  If she could quit her job right now and run off somewhere, where would she go and what would she do?  If she could be a breakfast cereal, what breakfast cereal would she be (and why)?  Ask her about her favorite train.  Comment on the people outside the window and ask her where she thinks they are headed in such a hurry.  Ask her about her "Welcome to New York" moment.  She's got Amanda Seyfried eyes and all you can talk about is your dopey friend's last semester?  Gah.

Ack!

If this were a LiveJournal, my song of the day would be "You're Gonna Lose That Girl" and my current mood would be "wicked frustrated".

An Open Letter to the Middle-Aged, Paunchy Dude Sitting Across from Me at the Library

Come on, man. Even
kids know this stuff.

 Thanks for your ongoing effort to cough all over the keyboard. Don't cover your mouth or anything. I think I'm literally nauseous.

Just know that if I didn't take Vitamin C every day, drink a ridiculous amount of orange juice, and have a public-school-tested immune system, I'd probably throw a can of Lysol at your head.  Bathe thyself, inconsiderate germ distributor, and begone with thee already.

  

An Open Letter to the Boston Red Sox

Dear Socks,

Thank you for beating the Yankees today.  However strong your desire to relish this victory may be, I must implore you to stay the course and remain focused.

I live in New York City now.  I have been called an "asshole" and a guy with "a lot of balls" on the sidewalk as recently as last week for daring to wear a Red Sox hat and stand quietly [Note: the difference between "big balls" and "a lot of balls" is substantial].  I even got made fun of by a Mets fan once--which is crap.  On the whole, the city's disdain for the Red Sox is best described as a smug apathy.  You like the Red Sox?  Good luck with that.  However, the antagonism is ratcheted up quite a bit when the Sox are in town to play the Yanks.

As a Sox fan for my entire life (I vaguely remember Dave Henderson in 1990 and I definitely saw Mo Vaughn play in Pawtucket), I beg you to make a good showing in the Bronx this weekend.  Tonight was a great start, but at a bare minimum, please don't lose the next three games.  You need to at least win one more.  It is very hard to be a transplant and face the public after your hometown archrivals dismantle your team (like they did this time last year).

Just saying "Yeah, well... 2004" doesn't cut it anymore.  The Yankees are the defending champions and I have to take the heat if you dudes can't split this series.  I'm six stops away from Yankee Stadium and I don't want to be cussed out in Spanish when I'm just running out for a donut.

Love always,
Me

An Open Letter To The Lady Sitting Behind Me

Get your arm off of the back of my chair or I will end you.

An Open Letter to Cash-Only Bodegas

Really?

Are you serious?  Look, the last time I had cash was probably by accident, and it certainly wasn't because I left my apartment that morning thinking, "Damn, I could really go for a bottle of juice or a quick snack--not now, but sometime around 4:15 this afternoon."  You might have that kind of foresight, but I certainly do not.  Then again, if you did, you'd have probably seen the year 2010 coming and you'd have gotten a charge card system.

As for you, "Seven-Dollar-Minimum-Purchase Bodegas on the Corner of Thompson and West 3rd", it's about time you knew your role.  If you don't want my money, fine.  There are other bodegas on the same block that will happily accept my business.  Stop acting like you're the only game in town.  I'm not spending $7 when all I want is a Clif Bar, so why you fronting?

I'd prefer to pick one bodega and be a loyal customer.  I like to support the little guy, and CVS and I have a beef at the moment.  Just embrace the fact that a good 30-45% of your sales are impulsive, and help us blow our hard-earned cash at your establishment even when we don't have hard-earned cash.

An Open Letter to the Diminutative Fellow Who Berated A Library Employee After Cutting Me In Line.

Dear Short Stack,

Although we only spent about two minutes in each others' presence today, I wanted to drop you a line and let you know how much you suck.

An Open Letter to the Cockroach I Saw in the Laundry Room

Dear Tiny Manifestation of Evil,

So, we finally meet.  You: the first naturally occuring cockroach I have ever seen.  Me: mild-mannered student teacher by day, part-time super hero by night.  There was a definite moment as I entered the laundry room and you paused in your scurry across the floor that our eyes locked.

We stared at one another, sizing each other up for a good few seconds.  Then, as we nonchalantly went our seperate ways, we continuously turned around to monitor each other's paths.  No doubt, you were considering the brute strength that must lie within each of my disproportionately toned arms (Hey, I'm working on the shoulders, alright?  Lay off.  LOOK AT YOUR LEGS, SHRIMP!).

Listen, let me lay this out for you in a language that you can understand.  I have no quarrel.  I do not bite my thumb at you, sir.  You pose no threat to me as you scamper across the floor, looking for God knows what (as it was past midnight, I'm forced to assume you were out looking for a lady friend).  I live on a much higher floor, whereas you live in the basement, or you were just visiting.  So long as you remain below ground level, in the land of dryer lint and the occasional pipe leak, we have no beef.

But I swear to Eric Clapton, if you so much as stick one little antennae into our hallway, I will sick the baby panther on you and she will rip you into a dozen nuclear-radiation-resistant pieces.  Sure, you might have the upper hand when it comes to longevity, but who is more likely to survive the swift justice of the bottom of my sneaker?  Me, that's who.  Don't ask questions.

Listen, bug, I've wasted enough of my time writing this patient, heartfelt letter that you can't read cause yous straight ignant.  You've probably already been smashed by someone since I started this tome, so I will wrap it up and wish you a good night far below my apartment, stuck to the squeaky wheel of a laundry cart.

An Open Letter to the Nigerian Email Scam Artist Posing as a Reputable NYC Landlord Who Woke Up This Morning To Find His Inbox Swamped with Dozens of Hilariously Annoying Email Subscriptions and Text Message Alerts, All Addressed to a Certain "Dr. Fake McScammypants"

You're welcome.
Love, Dan

An Open Letter to the Guy In Front of Me in the Metal Detector Line at my Student Teaching Site

Editor's note:  I have decided that this entry served its purpose--anonymously belittling a self-important loser--and I will be deleting it.  It's too negative to sit here at what is currently the top of my blog.  For a better example of how to make a small person feel smaller, please consult my Salute to the Bar Room Tough Guy.

I'll write more here soon.  In the meantime, you'll just wait and you'll like it, capiche?

A Moderate Reaction to My Little State's Very Big Election

I never discuss politics here, but I feel like I have to get my take out there just this one time. Then I'll shut up. This entry will probably not make me popular with any of my friends, but I stand by what I write as thought-out and careful. Skip it if you'd like.

An Open Post-It Note To My Classmate Wearing a Brand-New Engagement Ring

Open Notes to my Fellow Students in the 2nd Floor Student Lounge

Preface: Being a new grad student, I moved in a week early and have been enjoying the Welcome Week activities. Of the many odd scenarios I had anticipated, one that caught me by surprise was the simultaneous arrival of the freshman undergrads. I am now placed in the odd position of socializing with people who are either around my age (early- to mid-twenties) or definitely 18. I haven't faced this exact scenario since... well, our summer camp staff banquet two weeks ago.

Since I lack the fortitude to simply walk up to strangers and give it to them straight (hey oh!), I will now address the fine scholars sitting near me via my blog, which they undoubtedly love and read daily.

To the fellow asleep on the couch: Sir, you are occupying some prime real estate and you're not even conscious of it. Or conscious of anything. I think you're taking the "Lounge" a bit too literally. Go sleep on the floor and leave the furniture to those who have work to do. Like bloggers and stuff.

To the vocal fellow leading the org meeting to my right: You, sir, are loud. Hot damn. While it appears that the gaggle of girls around you are hanging on your every word, they're probably just laughing at your jokes to be polite. I'm sure each and every one of them is a bright and articulate club member, but they've all demurred to your boisterous anecdotes and one-liners. None of these ladies will sleep with you tonight, but--much like you--I digress. Please continue holding court.

To the org group as a whole: Thank you for using all the chairs. No, it's fine, I'll just sit 10 feet away from an electrical outlet in these armchairs that are oddly facing each other. These armchairs would be ideal for like a meeting or something.

To Girl #2 in aforementioned org group: I love you. Marry me. Unless you're 18, in which case, please have an older sister.

To Poindexter across the way: From one new kid to another, you're a dork. Hang out with me so I can look cooler.

To the indie looking chick in the trendy jeans by the window: I have no idea if you can sing, but I want you in my band which I just thought of and named The Intrepid Magnolias. You can front it and be in all the photographs and do most of the talking when we get interviewed by Paste. That iPod that you occasionally look up from is probably loaded with hip bands that haven't been signed yet. Also, did that tattoo hurt? It looks like it hurt.

To the unseen music programmer for the student lounge: Thank you. The chorus of Pat Benatar's "Black Velvet" will be stuck in my head for the rest of the week. Just awesome. That won't get annoying.

To the girl that just walked by way too quickly: Okay, forget Girl #2. Come back. Please. I love you. Or at least walk by slower next time.

To Girl #2: I'm sorry, there's someone else.

To the girl eating Pad Thai in the adjacent commuter lounge: Wanna commute over this way and share? Sharing is caring.

To the dude walking around with his clearly stuffed wallet in his hands: Are you serious? Have you ever been in a city before? Or even in public?? You're definitely 18. Save some time and just hand off that wad of cash to me. You're going to lose it anyway. Actually, keep $20 and get a haircut. You look like you grew up in a barn.

To the indie chick still by the window: Is that a Nintendo Gameboy? I can't decide if that makes you impossibly cool or seriously uncool. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt cause we're in the same band (which I have now re-named The Denim Hobo Collective), but I suppose it would depend on what game you are playing. "Retro" is a very big gray area to me.

To the pack of new bestest friends that just arrived and took over the lounge: Okay I get it. I'm moving on. You all stink. Secretly I'm jealous of the awesome four years that you still have ahead of you, but on the surface I will now make my über-cool and bored grad student face and head back to my apartment.

An Open Letter to the Old Fart Liquor Store Cashier

Sup.

Listen, we need to have a talk. You got off way too easy tonight. I should've handed you your ass on a plate, but instead I looked at you quizzically, dropped off my returnables, and left to buy beer up the street.

So here goes. Comb the hair in your ears out of the way and get your ear horn out, I'm only gonna say this once.

I'm so, so sorry that I returned empty bottles at 9:27pm. I was under the understanding that being open til 10 implied that you were working til 10. You certainly managed to express your displeasure (with a side of condescending disappointment!) at our interruption. Pulling away from your newspaper and forced to miss a moment of the Sox game, you made the cardinal sin of expressing out loud one of your "inside thoughts" and told me that now you had to do something with those bottles.

Don't say that out loud, you stupid ass. You think that stuff, sure, but you don't say it. Especially not to a customer.

Yes, you do in fact have to do something with those bottles. Novel concept, I know. Which brings me to the crux of my open letter. I'm a customer, dipshit. You should be holding the fucking door when I bless your sorry ass with your old, empty bottles. I mean, let's consider who your clientele are. I'm buying booze at 9:27 on a Tuesday, so I'm clearly already on shaky emotional ground. I'm probably trying to blow off some steam from a busy day of having stuff demanded of me, mostly from young children. This employment requires that I work hard (look it up) and prevents me from returning my bottles during daylight hours, numbnuts. Don't tell me what time it is. I know what fucking time it is.

And so, you stupid, crusty old bastard, you just effed with the wrong mothereffer. You lost my business, which heretofore probably generated a paltry $50 a month. But that's $50 that I'm not giving you. It's not much, but that's probably enough to bring you the Sox games on cable so your "working" hours can pass quickly. You know, when you're not sorting bottles.

You might not care (chances are, you don't) but I know quite a few people in town. Many of them read this. People who work hard for their money and don't like being treated as an inconvinience by folks who read the paper while on the clock. Those people now know that the old guy behind the counter at Pop's Fine Wines and Liquors is a curmudgeony old mouthbreather who doesn't like to do work at work, yet has no problem collecting his check.

Well, suck my longneck, sir. I hope you contract strep throat from my beer bottles.

An Open Letter to Mother Nature

This entry is rated PG-13 for language, suggestive dialogue, and brief dudity. Viewer discretion is unfortunate.

All right Mother Nature, I've had it up to here.

Another winter storm? Really? Another one? You just don't know when to quit. You've passed out more snow than George Jung. You leave me no choice; I'm abouts to tell it like it is, yo.

You're a filthy, smelly whore. No one likes you. You get around more than a fruitcake at an office party Yankee Swap. Your legs close less often than a 24-hour Walmart. You're easier than a two-letter word scramble. Your bedroom has a drive-thru dollar menu. You suck more than a vaccuum cleaner stuck to the front of an exhaust fan. You're uglier than most protesters at a pro-life rally. Your face looks like you had a threeway with Captain Hook and Edward Scissorhands. You sound worse than Billy Mays eating a chainsaw.

I will not recycle my coffee cup tomorrow. I'll probably leave a light on somewhere. I wish I knew the proper feminine equivilant of douchebag so I could call you one. I don't, so I'm forced to guess.

Up yours, douchebaguette.

An Open Letter to EMI/Capitol Records

Dear Sirs, Madams, and Others,

As the record company holding the recording rights of many of my favorite artists (The Beatles, Radiohead, McCartney, Harrison, Lennon, Starr, Nat King Cole, etc), I would like to point out how much of my money you have gotten from me for your products. I have everything the Beatles have released in the CD era, along with most of Radiohead's proper albums, two b-side compilations, and every extra b-side they've released for The Bends and OK Computer. As for Nat King Cole, you've released too many half-hearted compilations for me to keep track of them all. I have enough to compile my own definitive best-of, which you folks seem incapable of.

My usual beef, that Apple Records is taking way too f*cking long remastering the Beatles albums, is not necessarily your fault. Though you aren't helping by jumping in on every "new" Beatles release that comes out around Christmas each year that really just consists of rehashed stuff, usually from the less interesting Get Back sessions. I do enjoy these, especially the latest one, but I'd enjoy them more if the Rubber Soul CD didn't sound like someone copied it off of a cassette. They're only the most chronicled and best selling band in history, I think you could make the investment. Let's go already.

But back to matters that concern you and only you. After a 12 month process of going from "interested in Radiohead" to "oh my God, I need help. I listen to too much Radiohead!", I spent a considerable amount of time (and my brother's PepsiStuff points) to amass all of those b-sides. Finding the My Iron Lung EP at Newbury Comics (which was never released in the US) was a challenge, as was sorting through the many singles with one or two b-sides each. The quality of the songs was my reward, though, and it was a labor of love. You see, I'm not only a completist, I'm a bit of a record collector from the old school (and oh, the ladies are impressed). It was fun and the music was excellent.

Then, you kick me in the balls again. Since Radiohead famously went with the pay-what-you-want model in 2007 and realized they don't need you, you've been milking the cash cow of their back catalogue to the point of overkill. Last week, I find out that after all of my hard work, you're re-releasing the albums I just bought with all of the b-sides I so painstakingly tracked down.

I hate you, EMI. I really do. Especially because you and I both know that the moment you release the remastered Beatles albums (assuming you ever do), I will be among the first to replace all thirteen of them with big shiny new ones. And you'll probably be skimpy on the liner notes and bonus tracks. And I won't complain because I'll be too busy listening and potentially weeping tears of joy, like I'm hearing Revolver for the first time.

I'm glad that, while The Beatles aren't around to dick you over for milking schmucks like me for my every last dime, Radiohead left you and now streams all of their back catalogue for free for the next two years. You don't understand how much it hit me in the wallet to shell out $33 for the White Album in high school. Radiohead gets it, you don't. And oddly enough, even schmucks like me who will continue to buy every Christmas rehash you issue won't save you from being phased out of the music industry like the other major recording labels.

An Open Letter to the German Chap with the Same Stage Name as My Collegiate A Cappella Group

Lieber Herr,

Guten tag, amigo. I could not help but notice today that when I went to listen to the sweet, sweet sounds of my a cappella group's forthcoming album, our last.fm page came up a bit different than it usually does. Apparently, you have decided to call your latest musical enterprise by the same moniker that my group has been using since 1997. I would find this humorous had you not changed our profile picture from a hilariously awkward performance photo to your all grey, boring as all hell "live programm 2009" flyer.

I surf on over to your conviniently linked user profile to judge you on your musical taste. Surprisingly, our musical compatibility is rated as "very high". This could be because we are both spending a lot of time listening to an artist with a name that my friends and I were using first. I see that you joined the community a full three days ago (clearly making you among the old guard) but already have your myspace link pimped so millions of our a cappella fans can be mislead--thereby becoming unwitting traffic to your page.

Listen up, douchebag. My grandfather did not kick the Nazis out of your country for you to be stepping on my turf online 55 years later. For you to just jump on in like you own the place, changing the clearly maintained artist page so as to fit you and not the existing, established artist with a listening history that goes back years, is quite frankly irritating. I'd publicly humiliate you but I neither speak German nor have the means to get to Germany. That said, I still think you're a butt nugget and if you ever come to America I will introduce you to the flying elbow.

P.S. - I listened to your music, on the off chance that you had more talent than we do. You don't. Your song is brilliantly mediocre and I've already forgotten it. I enjoy Krautrock, but yours is more like Krautblah. Your guitar player should learn the difference between playing and just letting the sustain make the noise for him. Your lyrics are dodgy, but I note your brave attempt at singing in English. Way to pander to the bigger market there. It's probably all for naught though; your song is completely indistinguishable from 95% of the other dreck that has flooded the online music community. If you are sincere in your feelings for the girl you are singing for, you'd do better to not play your song for her. Just saying.

An Open Letter to the Parent Who Made Me Wait at Work Twelve Minutes after I Had Punched Out

Ahem. Dear ma'am,

The first several times your son returned my directions with his vacant stare and a maddeningly quiet subversive dismissal of every rule I tried to enforce, I was willing to let it slide. My one regret, really, was that I couldn't let him have his way and leave him outside, because I'd probably hear about it from the higher-ups, given that gross negligence is illegal.

The idea of children not listening to educators is hardly new; I myself made it a subtly amusing art form in fourth grade. Yet, knowing that your dear Rumplestiltskinn* had already been told he could not return to three previous after-school centers inclined me to give him an extra chance.

I spelled his name wrong once in front of you, which was completely unacceptable. Shame on me for assuming that you spelled your son's name the conventional way, and not with two n's** as I so clearly should have known already. I would have forgotten this quaint little vignette that we shared at the front desk, but fortunately you remembered it well enough to make snide comments about it on more than one occasion to make sure that I remembered (which I did, thankfully). It's a good thing that you are so forgiving, because I would otherwise think it dreadfully bold to spell your son's name so peculiarly when misspellings seem to be your pet peeve. But 'tis no matter.

Today, while finding something else for one of our younger kids to do so Rumplestiltskinn would stop provoking him, I received your call informing me of your impending late arrival, and asking me to pass along that message to your son. Although that message was clearly addressed to your son and not to me, I actually assumed it was okay that I too knew that you'd be later than usual for pickup. I hope this is okay.

What you declined to mention was that you would arrive at 6:29 for pickup, a minute before our official 6:30 close, and remain in plain view in the parking lot for the next thirteen minutes. I can only assume that the phone call you were receiving was clearly important, as you made many exaggerated hand gestures, though oddly none that resembled such actions as 'picking up a child'. Fortunately, your brilliant acting performance and my wonderment at your audacity allowed me to stand, riveted, and not even notice that my coworkers and I stood there until well after we were supposed to have gone home, jackets on and everything. We do not get paid for overtime, but that is okay, because at the end of the day, the smile on the face of...

Oh wait, your little snot isn't smiling. He's sitting there, refusing to walk out to your car so we can get on with our lives. Actually, come to think of it, you're a horrible, horrible person. Your son is too. I've met your husband; fortunately I would classify him as too wishy-washy to fairly compare him to sitting on a tack.

Your son used to ruin my day. Now the mere sight of you allows me to get all the ruining of my day over with in one quick moment. Thank you. Thank you so much.

*not his real name, in case you needed clarification.
**again, not the letter n. stop being so thick.

An Open Letter to 2008

Dear 2008,

Well, I guess this is it. Where has the time gone? It seems like just nine years ago, I was sitting in 7th grade Spanish, counting years in my head and trying to figure out when I would graduate from college and thus be rid of schoolwork forever. Siempre. Por todos mis dias. As we all know, after four years of undergrad you have learned everything; no further schooling is necessary unless you wanted to do something extreme like earn a living wage. Had I only known then what I know now: I should’ve been studying Spanish while I was still young enough to learn.

But that is water under the bridge, Year Two Thousand and Eight A.D., and soon you will be, too. Many will be sad to see you go, and fondly recall all the pleasant memories that the past year has accorded. For my own part, though, I have a slightly different take.

Fuck you, 2008. You sucked hard. I can’t believe how crappy you were straight across the board. I began this year as a 21-year-old college student living the high life, and end it a 22-year-old grad and child care worker who is expected to act like an adult now. And those major life changes (birthday, graduation, back to work) happened in just one weekend!! Yet, I would say that those 48 hours (very accurately) reflect only 1/52nd of the circus of suckitude you unleashed on poor, undeserving me.

Some might say that time is only a simple construct employed by humanity to help distinguish certain moments from others, and to help reference events past and future. Wrong. Time is a selfish, greedy whore who incessantly takes what she wants and then leaves you nothing more than older and possibly itchier. You keep track of her every minute, hour, and day, and she requires you to undertake the same monotonous routine every twenty four hours so that you don’t die. Or oversleep.

Still, not every passing year was as merciless as you were, 2008. Past years brought me the joy of a driver’s license. The joy of alcohol. The joy of alcohol, legally. This year found me kicked out of college for the contradictory reasoning that I did well in all of my classes and proved that I deserved to be there. How does that make sense? This year found me back at home where I went to high school, making every day some sort of bizarro purgatorial Vietnam flashback where I now once again dream of missing the school bus. This year found me failing in the romantic department on a scale that was nothing short of epic. Holy shit.

Perhaps worst of all, you despicable 12 months, was that you took that which I had so precious little and demanded all of it. More than all of it. Of course I am talking about money. Not content to leave me several dozen grand in the hole, these loan bills that you deliver twice monthly show that you want that money back. And you want it now. It’s not okay that I barely make enough money to drink off my depression over not having any money. I want to be a teacher, how dare you ask me for money? I've got an idea, analyze the subject-predicate relationship in "I’m never ever ever going to have any money!" And thanks to your fantastic bubble burst, 2008, our economy in is the crapper. Awesome. Now there is even less money to go around! And less jobs to make less of the money that is harder to come by anyway. How does that work? Where did everything go? Why did the economy burst about five seconds after I needed to get a real job? Thank God I’m going to grad school soon, where I can rack up more debt, drink heavily (but by myself this time), and once again succeed in classes until I get kicked out for it.

But diplomas are pretty snazzy, I’ll give you that. Mine looks super and I appreciate you spelling my name right. My own family doesn’t do that.

But lest we get too comfortable, 2008, you’re currently drawing your last breaths and I couldn’t be happier to watch you expire. You took away my glory days at college and didn’t replace it with a full-time job, a girlfriend, or even a $5 footlong. You leave me living at home, applying to schools that don’t want me, taking standardized tests, driving my little brothers around, sneaking more booze at night and occasionally having to make small talk with old high school classmates I hoped I'd never see again. Didn’t I pay these dues already? Asshole.

You sucked, you know it, and you owe me big time. Life would have been so much better if you had just been 2007 or something. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, 2008. You disgust me.