Thursday, December 21, 2006

Dear Jay-Z,

It's cool that your pordo, it's cool that your gordo; it's cool that you use a g4 like an auto-- You are free to be any and everything you want. The thing is, I know you're all BFF with LeBron James, and I just need to say it to you-- if you are trying to lull him into some state of willful reflection-- if you are trying to get him to leave Cleveland and play for the Nets, you are out of your mind.

You have some nice pull. Persistent celebrity, enough tenure with your money that you could certainly be of help in the financial planning arena, and of course a certain elan. I'm sure you really like each other and all that shiny stuff, but he must look like the most delicious piece of fruit on a sort-of weathered tree, and you just want to pluck him! LeBron seems like a very solid man. He is extremely self-possessed (maybe not the nail/cuticle-biting, but it's endearing! Isn't it?). Here's the thing. You are still Jay-Z. He probably looks up to you, but mutual admiration aside-- we need him. You will crush our careworn, wasted little hearts. You know how it goes. This shit is storybook. He is from here, and he stayed here. He played high school ball in an area most Clevelanders avoid. Most people avoid Cleveland, so imagine what it means to avoid its' southerly cities. I know New Jersey understands our pain!

He's not yours. He's not ours. But can't we keep him just a bit longer?

Not that you have no say in this, LeBron James. Just being proactive. Sorry.

Sincerely,
The D.L.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Dear Vladimir Putin,

I'm honestly not sure what to say to you, mostly because you scare the shit out of me. How about this-- will you please stop poisoning people? It's bad enough that here in the U.S. we have to deal with all the crap we've already got going on. Here's something to think about about: you don't have to kill people who disagree with you. Honestly! It's not that bad! I know that each of us would be more comfortable living in a world that limited itself to our goals and ideals, but you can't just poison every motherfucker that writes (or is writing) a book about your differing views and/or political/social/ethical positions. This is by no means an exculpatory moral effort on my part. I know we hurt people. I know we kill them. I just really don't want the added grief of another twenty years of some bullshit cold war (Yeah).

Haven't you realized that the fringes of your old empire are lost? Haven't you realized that you can't win these wars any more than we can win ours? I know the Chechens appear to be all Nokhchi-power to you, but haven't you realized that people move? They live everywhere-- it's a small world, after all-- and no amount of military haste is going to change that. The best we can all do is get our Jack Bauer on, and monitor the chatter. You feel me? There are too many friends folded into the cloaks of our enemies to relegate those enemies into a definitive target. We are in a new world. A globe-trotting, arms-buying, genocidal world. If you identify a real threat--if we do-- off we all go, but no amount of globally-perceived bullying is going to help you.

Step up to the plate, man. Get your perestroika on! Leave your boundaries where you said you would, in 1996, dude. Things change, but they also don't change, and if the sheep's cheese really starts to stink, you won't be all alone in your Kremlin.

Ugh!,
The D.L.

Dear Nancy Pelosi,

I guess you never received my letter. My optimism (a strong-willed remnant of my youthful projections) hoped that things would have started off on different, less arbitrary footing. Please don't squander the rest of your voter-bought time.

The D.L.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Dear Nancy Pelosi,

It is unlikely that this is the first solicitation of it's kind, but, Nancy Pelosi-- let me help you. We will disregard the sadly funny articles about where you get your hair done, or whom you are headed toward currently in all of your painted, virago-ed glory (See? I just turned a noun into a verb. What can't I do?). Let them abuse your gender while you exploit it. They suggest you're a vain, primping lady? I suggest you're a polished natural leader. They suggest intimations of a harpy were heard? I suggest a decisive voice serves it's charges best.

Let's start with your getups. We need only review the two days following the recent election to see what both of your future strategies regarding sartorial decisions should be, por ejemplo:

Day one. Impeccable! You looked radiant, sophisticated, and authoritative. Your pearls were gorgeous enough to cause a demand. You spoke articulately, and assumed authority with grace.

Day two. Meeting with the President. What should I wear...hmm...I know! My grandmother's Sunday dinner blouse! It's the right combination of matronly, old world, and mildly subservient. It just might work. I feel you, Nancy Pelosi, but you went a little far in your effort to hypnotize the enemy with collars of innocence. It's a smart move if you don't overdo it, but that lady? The one with the huge white collar? The one who was respectably assertive though somewhat lukewarm? That is not you. You are the fire, Nancy Pelosi. Bring it! Use that natural warmth! Mean it!

You're a good speaker, but now you have to be extra careful with how and when you make your speeches. Don't be easily baited. Don't attack without confidence and calm. Regard caricaturizing attacks with reserve. Voice your opinions and agendas with sincerity.

As far as counter attacking is concerned, you really couldn't be working from richer material. Let them call your San Francisco sodom, and then get into some of that D.C. gomorrah, baby!

Think about it, Nancy Pelosi. Think about it.

Best wishes,
The D.L.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Dear Richmond Mall,

We don't get to see each other often, and that doesn't necessarily have a negative impact on our lives. Maybe it's best if we remain occasional friends.

The other day I took my Oma to lenscrafters. The one located deep inside you, on what would be the inner wall of the large intestine if you were a body. This was ordinary enough (excepting the surprisingly poor grammar of the salesperson), and we knew an hour would pass before freedom could be ours. I rallied heavily for the indian restaurant across the street. This involved vivid descriptions of past feasts, colorful histories, and calm reassurances that mildly spiced food could indeed be had. My Oma has an easy way with differing opinions. She ignores you--and brilliantly, kindly-- she just didn't hear you, after all. We were having lunch with you, for it had been so long.

Believe me, Richmond Mall, I would rather get down on some subway in your food court than run the risk of experiencing a gastronmic cynicism so intense that each meal for days to come becomes a hollow reclamation. Oma faked a pass across the food court, feigning interest here and there, being solicitous ('Is there anything for you here?'), then taking a crazy cross-court shot directly aimed at ruby tuesday. Tuesdays? I'm not sure, and I don't care to ever know the answer.

Let me remind you, Americans, fellow livers of life! Let me remind you of the pain of this place, the punishment you should accept because your asshole habits built it, this experience to only be endured, with no redeeming feeling, because your body will not forgive you for this onslaught, not even for the sake of kindness. The primary, most deadly aspect of the assault led by R.T. is biological--specifically, olfactory. The first ten minutes were felt slowly, gagging for a small amount of air that didn't smell like cooking oil-coated walls, drenched rugs, and midwestern sadness. It never went away! It happens other places, too, but it's such a feeling of home-loneliness, a really soft self-hatred that it feels midwestern. Complete staleness. Stagnation without the humidity. Then the bad old coffee. The slow hour, the slow service, the food hatefully chewed, then left. Some part of me was clamouring to get out of there. I was getting stabby.

Then I felt cleansed anew, walking along your wide avenues housed by jewelry stands of all manner. So, we're cool there. Also, the sit-down two-player Ms. Pacman in the food court? Badasss, baby. I wanted to lose myself in her yellow arms but duty called.

Truce?,
The D.L.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Dear smokinggundotcom,

You people are fucking hilarious. To wit: http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/1031062reno1.html

A very serious removal from reality. Yes? Yes. If I get all craaazy drunk tomorrow, is it cool if I have my six-year-old niece drive for me? She's smart. Crazy smart! Smart enough to be my new driver.

This guy set precedent by using his seven-year-old boy as a designated driver. Child endangerment? My ass! That child is learning valuable lessons. Like how to drive his drunk father-- or any fucking person you could relate to this sense of abandonment of the self-- around. This boy probably did a better job! Did he have the proper training? Children should learn to drive cars-- tie ties, pour martinis, and discuss anything. Seriously! If only we could achieve this minimal goal without the repurcussions of ill-doing (or ill-seeming, in any event). Alas. It is not to be. Here's to you, good son.

Terrific,
The D.L.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Dear alleged Case student,

What were you really doing at the airport? I guess it's possible that you were visiting family in Missouri (though you originally said you were from Eureka), but your eyes had the flash of a liar, or a story-changer at the very least. You were speeding along crazily on something--smoking cigarette after cigarette, deflecting questions from the people outside wondering what you were still doing there-- just careening from topic to topic. Drunk RTA drivers toe a straighter line. I wanted to tell the concerned looking older couple that you were just tripping your fucking ass off (with some methamphetamines to boot), but they seemed a bit delicate.

Here are a few of the more interesting topics and assessments lit upon during our brief, yet dense, conversation(?) :

-You finally reconciled with your parents (alright!)
-You are in your third year at CWRU, but must leave, soon, to go to North Carolina. It is calling you.
-You believe in god, not necessarily as we (sic) understand god, but you lean toward a monotheistic belief system
-You are quick to revise your opinions when faced with logic and/or other opinions (see above)
-You are quick to revise your opinions when faced with the brute force of a chemical rush
-You wanted a ride to Case, and though you were told it was not going to happen, you kept asking. Perseverance! A fine quality
-You left home at fifteen. Wait-- at seventeen. Um, no--wait-- at fifteen
-You love root vegetables
-You have an idea that will help people compartmentalize and move their information around more easily. You will also assist in the procuring of more information!
-You just want to talk to people

Look here, crazy pants-- I like talking to people too. Even mentally affected people. I just think you need to relax. You're young. Back off of the hard stuff. You are asking for a world of pain. I know, you probably think you're running from it, but there is always more to come, dude. You gotta be careful.

Good Luck,
The D.L.

Monday, October 16, 2006

Dear Daily Letter,

What is going on with you? Have you no motivation? Do you neglect to bring your laptop with you when you travel? Does depression carve a hollow in your stomach that you have no idea how to fill so you just sit there waiting for something to come along and fill it? You really should get some sort of system working. A program. A goal. Never mind that goals are just a longer, more dorky way to stave off the hollow-- do it, person!

The esteemed Dr. Von Drinkensnorten rightly assesses you as somewhat fictional through the use of quotation marks surrounding the word 'daily'. I don't expect you to actually write every single day, but let's make an effort, shall we? You are probably totally mad that i just said 'we.' It's context-appropriate! When I say 'we' I really mean 'you', which really means 'we.' It's a limited time offer!

I feel you, dude. It's fun to sit around relishing your unmitigated gall, but isn't it time to shine on, you crazy diamond? It really is. I'm fucking bored.

Lustily,
The D.L.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Dear James Lipton,

Listen, man-- I know you're the standard-bearer of pretention in the world of artifice and truth that is the dramatic arts, but will you please, for the love of Brando or something-- stop saying 'The Bard.' Every time you pull it out in an interview it's like you suddenly took off all of your clothes and started reciting french poetry.

Have you ever read any Roz Chast comics? You are the man who was liked for his lack-of-lack-of-pretention. Don't get me wrong, James Lipton, I loves me some pretention. I can be downright apalling when talking some shit, or ordering some wine, but it's too much. Honestly. Most of yours is awesome. Completely refreshing in a world where many people seem loath to celebrate even minor cerebral activity, but 'The Bard?' The pain, James Lipton, the pain.

It's just that 'Shakespeare' sounds so much better, and doesn't infer that you had an intimate relationship at some point. I once had a dream wherein Shakespeare and I flew, superman-style, around the world and hung out with various historical figures, and he never once referred to himself as The Bard, nor did any of his contemporaries in death and the arts. Sure, my dreams are not reliable reference material, but still.

Hopefully next time you will be in my dream. We can all hang out in some sweltering exotic locale wearing tunics like we should, and brouter la salade. We will talk some shit! Until then, I beg you-- no more, James Lipton. No more.

Fondly,
The D.L.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Dear Hugo Chavez,

Look, I know he's not the most likable guy in the world, but the devil? Seriously, say it ain't so, Hugo. The devil? Did you really smell sulfur, or was that just dramatic effect taking a bow? The Daily Letter does not ally herself with President Bush, but she is aware of the dangers--oh! the mistakes-- of charging someone with possession. President Chavez, you may disagree with him, yet he is not the devil. I can get down with some Hannah Arendt on the banality of evil.

Speaking of devilry, perhaps a review of Venezuelan social policies and poverty statistics would be helpful to you at this time. Unemployment is really high! Terrible health care! Vast gulf between affluent and masses! Hmm... seems familiar. Venezuela is pretty much 97-98% catholic, so an abortion is out of the question. No same-sex marriages, or homosexual military service. Heavily influenced media. Your poverty level is 47%. 47%! Wow, that is alot. In almost every social policy, the policies of the U.S. are far superior than Venezuelan law of the same issue. Not so liberal, says I. Doesn't it bother you to besmirch one man in one administration? Just in a self-interested way, at least. What about the repucussions? The finger pointing at you? Although I do enjoy a good argument. I'm not offended that you criticize Mr. Bush. Rather, it is essential to my idea of my how the U.S. should work. Just, a good argument, please.

I cannot wait for the day when no current world leader evokes a political association with god, or God, or the related affirmations of such an alliance. Is there no longer a problem with hubris? I feel we should be past rewarding a person's claiming to know the will of god, or enforcing acts of god.

It's just that now-- any credibilty you had-- any sense you made has been decimated by your recent behaviour and allegiances. You seriously think it's cool for Hizbollah to be celebrating victory? Isn't joy at the defeat of another something a catholic works to vanquish?

Please, for the love of, um, pete, try to calm down.

Bereft of your gods,
The D.L.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Dear Margaret Atwood,

Thank you for this poem:

Habitation

Marriage is not
a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

the edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn

the edge of the receding glacier

where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far

we are learning to make fire


It puts the hurt to you! Are you friends with Alice Munro? You are, aren't you? She's cool, too, and also from Canada. I love Canadians. Call me if you get a chance, and want to eat some dinner, or mourn.

Love,
The D.L.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Dear ESPN Classics,

Dudes. Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuudes. Remember what you had on this evening? Oh yes, baby-- you showed me a good time. September 16th, 1981. Sugar Ray Leonard vs. Thomas "Hitman" Hearns. What an unbelievable fight. They are both so focused, so fast-- it is a testament to human athleticism. ESPN Classics, you went all the way, showed each round like another story that formed the relationship between the fighters.

Hearns seemed to take most of the rounds on the cards, but Leonard took the punches. And took them. He also threw in a few damaging rallies, and near the fight's end, Hearns was fighting organically, the fight as much a part of him as his stomach, or femur. Amazing. In the last three rounds, each man is performing at his most essential, almost to the degree of caricature, too pure for posturing.

You remind me that Leonard won by a technical knock-out in the fourteenth round. The decision has left itself detractors and resentments, but it is widely unchallenged. ESPN Classics, you are welcome over any time. Ahem.

Later,
The D.L.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Dear Simone,

You are the prince of Florence. You are way too cool to be a king-- you'd be like "Dad, the people need more food. Dad, this building is going to negatively impact the countryside."

Thank you for hauling us around your fair country, for being Dad to our Mom. Hopefully we'll be able to terrorize you again.

Don't be too sad, either. You'll see her again.

I hope you're not laying on the floor, empty grappa bottle in your hand, Oscar and Sasha licking honey and fig syrup off of your unconcious body. Seriously.

Grazie,
The D.L.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Dear Tim Russert,

I know we don't always agree, but I like your work. Meet The Press makes me feel many different things, most of them good. Your interview program and news work are usually satisfying, so I'm not sure why you take it so hard from various critics of news programming. You can't do everything, can you? These people are vultures! Forget a few questions-- and shazam!-- You're a Bush-administration-loving burner of the constitution.

Settle down, people. Did you see MTP this past Sunday? Even I felt like a very reasonable, albeit vampiric, V.P. Cheney was somehow making sense of their political and international blunders. You did really well! Dick Cheney is terrifying! He was totally trying to hypnotize you, but you survived! It's a good thing, too, because your wife would be sad to discover your bloodless body in an alley behind the D.C. Morton's.

The coup de grace was at the interview's end, when a tired joke about hunting transformed the studio atmosphere from mildly tense into bare-toothed glee at your mutual animosity.

It's true, after all-- you're not in season.

Helluva job,
The D.L.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Dear Siena,

Remember how your Museo Della Tortura made me cry? Though i have something of an obsession with the middle ages, you showed me things I was blissfully unaware of. Like the pear. What the fuck was going on back then? Disgusting! If you tried to put a pear-shaped iron torture instrument into any of my orifices, I would come away with at least an eyeball. For reals. I'd push my fingers in as far as they could go...

Listen, Siena-- I know you didn't corner the market on torture or anything. We have new ways to confound a person's nervous system these days, but the old methods are still the best, right? Earlier today I voluntarily endured laser hair removal from my nether regions. The thing is, I'm lazy, and my skin is really sensitive (thus waxing sucks), so I figure-- fuck it-- the pain can't be that bad, right? Wrong. Now that it's over, I feel like it's worth it. However, while it's happening, it is just about the most pain I can handle. Particularly regarding my most delicate of flowers. There is an area near the... forget it. Let's just say it was a lesson in vanity and consumption. Maybe you could add an area for modern self-torture!

Also, It is sort of unfair that there is no "interrogation techniques" chamber, a "we'd like your junk, and here's how we're going to get it" amphitheatre, or a "your religion bites compared to mine" great hall. Think about it.

All things considered, though-- good times! You are lovely, and that lime sorbetto was awesome.

Warm Regards,
The D.L.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Dear pink-haired woman at the last chance diner,

It wasn't your hair, highlighted pink, completely unruly, decorated with fake roses. You are just amazing. The open-faced turkey sandwich (with gravy), and your highlighted, flowered head were in competition for attention, but neither matched your incomparable joie de vivre. Your wrists were circled by pink quartz. Your shirt featured pink flowers on a white background. Your shoes were white, and pink. I still don't know your age. Forties? Late forties? That's how you looked-- that's how you seemed-- reading the paper while my Oma and I had our meal.

I encourage you to continue not giving a fuck. Dye that shit pink. Crochet, or whatever crafty thing it is you do to make yourself feel arty. You are way ahead of us.

Keep going.

Very truly,
The D.L.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Dear Notorious B.I.G.,

In the off chance that we meet on some metaphysical plane, you will love it when I call you big poppa-- the show stopper-- the rhyme dropper.

Thank you VH1: Behind the Music: Notorious B.I.G. for showcasing such an unbelievable story. Puffy would be nothing without you, Tupac is a jackass, and most of us mourn you still.

Also-- Fugees? No one, at any time, is bumping too much Biggie Smalls.

Brava!,
The D.L.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Dear Japan, Norway, Iceland, Russia, and the U.S.,

Stop whaling. Seriously. I understand that some (rare) indigenous communities rely on whaling, but that doesn't make it right. Ivory is illegal now, right? It's not cool to buy tiger skins, or to kill gorillas for bushmeat, right? Sure people still do it anyway, but isn't that because they have no economic recourse? I'm going to go ahead and say that ye addressed nations do indeed have economic recourse. People could be directed to slay a less endangered species of whale, couldn't they? Times change, and it sucks, but that is not the fault of the whale.

At least most of you pretend to care, or vaguely monitor your whaling situations. You try to stay on the down low, so that the people of your fine nations don't become too riled about the dwindling number of larger whales. Because Minke whales have a more stable population, Japan and Norway have argued for a total removal of the international bans placed on whaling. Come on, dudes-- you don't eat enough fish? You gotta fuck with whales? Mmmm, blubber. What is wrong with you people?

I guess that's another letter altogether.

Bitterly,
The D.L.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Dear man who bore an uncanny likeness to Dick Cheney,

I am so sorry. Sir, I know that blanching, and then grabbing the nearest piece of wood and fashioning it into a stake I could drive through you heart is inexcusably rude. You were so surprised. Only trying to finish your grocery shopping. In the future I will try to avoid going out that early in the morning.

Again, I apologize.

Sincerely,
The D.L.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Dear Ryan McPherson,

You are an asshole. It hurts me to use a word like "dear" in this address, but I appreciate a sort of formality you are likely unacquainted with.

When you were in high school, and had the first glimmer in your beer-bonged little brain regarding your "Bumfights" series, was it a general misanthropy that lead to this idea? Too many video games? Rock music? I love the rock music, but it has never lead me to pay a homeless person five or ten bucks to do horrible things to themselves. When you sold the rights (for 1.5 million dollars) did you find the person whom you encouraged to pull out a tooth (with pliers), and reward them handsomely for your entertainment?

The New York Times Magazine (8/6/06) wrote that, according to the producers, it became the "fastest-selling independent video series." Was it your idea to encourage viewers to "submit 'ruckus' footage of their own?" Did you imagine those Australian boys would kill someone? Being consumed by a fire some kids set to your tent can't be all bad, right? Or the Canadian assault, or the four young men in Cleveland who snuck up on homeless people and shot them with stun guns-- the Times says you are "unapologetic." That you described your schlock as "fresh and new."

It should be said that there is nothing either "fresh" or "new" about what you have started. I think the word you were looking for is "schadenfreude", and sadly, it is neither fresh, nor new.

At the article's printing, only one formerly homeless man has settled a lawsuit with you.

I suppose you can't be blamed for it's popularity, and you can't be blamed for the money jackasses around the world have poured into perpetuating such an elemental indignity. You can be blamed for your coldness, for your part in this ongoing business of hatred and violence. So if you, or the "Bum Hunter" wish to release your current addresses, perhaps we can have a little fight of our own.

En garde,
The D.L.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Dear Italy,

How i miss you. Your burning sun, your colors, your easy way around modernity. Remember our delicious afternoons? You would feed me: wine, olives, taleggio with honey. In your arms I could lay awake in tears, and still enjoy the following day. We agree that work is for chumps. We agree that Florentines loves them some linen suits. Who isn't a fan of your elaborate aesthetics?

Oh, Italy. We didn't have enough time together, but the time we shared was magical. The laughter, the hijinks. The discovery that it is in your southern regions that your boundaries are as poor as mine. Poor, poor Tuscany. Mi bimbo. Mi amore.

Remember when we tried to get gas on the way back to Florence, and you were all "Nah. We need naps. However, we will get you tanked. Glass of wine with your diesel?" You totally rule. That tiny fox in the marine park. The beach lousy with driftwood yurts. Signore cock and balls. I missed him, but you showed him to my friends, and they were delighted. The smells of the countryside, windows open. Horseback riding through your vineyards, dogs at our heels, magnificent Giorgio with his noblemans (long-haired, but not too long) persona as our lead. Forgiving Noni and Liliana, protecting us from our own idiocy and witchy Austrians. Chris' spectacular dinner presentation. I should stop. It is enough. We will see each other again, si? As far as the madness goes, non importa, mi e indifferente. No worries.

Love,
The D.L.

P.S. Seriously? One word-- infrastructure. It can help on so many levels. Finish that highway.