Dear optimism,

You are a doozy. Oof.

Well, you can't win them all-- right?
Take it in stride, LBJ.

Subordinately,
The D.L.

Dear Justice Ministry of Saudi Arabia,

On behalf of women worldwide, whether or not I have their approval-- fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you. Using words you believe are holy to punish two victims of being assaulted and raped? For 'illegal mingling', because they were unrelated? F-u-c-k-y-o-u. We should do our best to respect the right to practice other forms of governance, but basic human rights supercede such philosophies. Regrettably, your judiciary feels that 200 lashes, six months in jail, your lawyer being thrown out of the courtroom, or-- as the man-- 90 lashes, and your licence being revoked are fair penalties for being attacked and raped by seven men. Totally fair, right? Seven men. Seven, people. Terrifying.

Hmmm, I definitely see this as a human rights issue. A women's rights issue. I know the unrelated man in question also received lashes (Lashes? Come on! Quit whipping people!), but the woman received an amended version-- um, a worse version. Sure, she would have had her licence revoked if she were ALLOWED TO DRIVE, SAY, TO SCHOOL FOR EXAMPLE, but that's one less worry for her. Like riding a bicycle on public roads, or leaving the country without her husband or male guardian's permission. What a relief it must be! So spiritually rewarding. I understand the value and reward of submission, but that is when it is by choice, with love, not accident of birth or governmental decree. Feel me?

Endless letters piling in your courtyards would never have sufficient numbers, nor their words enough weight to truly reveal what a devastation treating a person like chattel is, so that must find illumination in your own hearts and minds.

Gentleman, lay down your sabers and look for it--

Best of luck,
The D.L.

Dear LeBron James,

Serious world issues have been furrowing my brow, and the considerable lather such ills produce has left my weakened brain seeking light release in less serious matters. Like why LeBron James wore a Yankees cap to an Indians (home!) game.

Have you gone mad? Listen LeBron James-- I love you. Really. You represent the zeitgeist being awakened again in the soul of a city that has lost many battles. You represent winning the war. You are exceptionally talented, usually gracious, and as Dr. Von Drinkensnorten would say 'full of win.' It's not the success of your wealth, it's your success we elevate. I feel certain thousands of other Clevelanders feel the same. People here would kick someone's ass for you! You know it's true! These people are insane. Have you never noticed? How could you betray these people? The Indians are a part of this zeitgeist as well, of course, and breaking on the inside is how everything winds up breaking on the outside. Sigh. Totally! Do not break the inside, LeBron James! We trusted you! We believe in you! I know you've borne a great deal of responsibility, but there's more, and this is part of it, dude.

It's not like you can't like the Yankees--if that's your thing--, but you absolutely cannot wear their fucking hat to a playoff home game, or any kind of game involving the other great team from the city you play for! Come on! Nike contract, friends, childhood heroes-- all of these should pale as though drained of all blood when compared to your debt as a local hero and worldwide representative. That's the way the ball bounces, superstar. You have plenty of other time to wear the shit out of that cap, damned though you may be.

So, thanks for your time. You make basketball so much more fun to watch.

I have to go, for we are stomping the Red Sox, and surely on our way to the World Series!


With tender diplomacy,
The D.L.

Dear CVS pharmacy technician,

I swear to you that should you handle a future encounter with the same rude incompetency you displayed today I will leap into your pedestaled refuge in an unstoppable fury, and possibly harm you. At least my imagined fury will be more explicit.

CVS outlines its role for PT's thusly:

The role of the Technician is focused on customer service and prescription order processing, as well as problem resolution and inventory management. The role of the Technician is important because he/she helps to ensure that the right customer receives the right prescription, every time. Alas. I know what seemed to be a lively conversation was interrupted by my penetrating stare, but it was really unnecessary to launch into ill-informed chatter about my refill and its dangers of abuse, over and over again, more shrilly each time, to anyone in a thirty foot radius. The woman behind me was certainly piqued. I briefly considered asking for thirty boxes of cough syrup to help her ease into a lively internal dialogue. Alas, I was too busy explaining to you-- a woman whom I sort of viewed in the kindly light of sisterhood as a result of your 'Hello! I am mentally ill!' behavior-- that of course I knew of its nefarious reputation, but that I was accustomed to taking such risks under the advice of many esteemed mental health professionals. Your next explosion of parrot noises included questions about how many I took each day, whether it was a ten-day prescription, and that if it was a ten-day they could only fill it as such. I placidly reasoned that it had been well over a month since said prescription was last filled, and therefore should not even remotely raise the flags of concern and vigilance you so frantically waved. Service! Problem-solving! Nice one, CVS! You never did settle back into a feeling of ease about it, did you? No, and then you said the second prescription did not exist. You would have to call the doctor, but were unable until tomorrow. I should wait five minutes for my first prescription, and you would call me to the counter. Twenty-five solid minutes into JANE magazine, and pretty much bored to tears quite literally, I sauntered my drug-addicted ass to the pick-up counter. There waited two filled prescriptions! I asked after the validity of the new script, and made clear to another PT what you said to me regarding its possible non-existence. Your co-worker seemed befuddled (and perhaps a bit too sad, as we MDD's like to say). Much explosive parroting ensued. As the cacophony softened to chirps of advice or contentment I was told that the call was made, the new prescription not remotely exotic, and the meds were uneventfully refilled. She said she had no idea why you did not call me back to explain, but I do, nutjob. I do. Balefully, The D.L.

Dear Alberto R. Gonzales,

Whew!

It is about time!

With cautious relief,
The D.L.

Dear Ricardo Eliecer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto,

I like to say your full name, out loud, dork-style.

Oh, Pablo Neruda, so many of your poems have influenced my process of romanticisation it's difficult to single any one out of such a gorgeous lineup.

If it were possible, I would stalk you.

Lately I've come to some difficulty as a result (albeit indirect) of Sonnet XI. This is what I want.

Please see: Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.



I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.



I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,



and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Damn you, Pablo Neruda.  Damn. You.

Can you help me out?



O ye romanticized, suck it.



Yours Faithfully,

The D.L.

Dear China,

What the fuck, China?

TIGER FARMS?

Is there no end to this barbarous world's attempts to snuff out the tiny lights that remain (pulsing weakly) in our souls?

For the love of all that is still good DO NOT lift that ban on domestic trade in tiger goods. And don't even start with the '... but it could help the wild population' bullshit. It is completely crazy that there are tigers in farms right now --and bear farms, alligators, etc.-- because we are so attached to our own cultural traditions that we (still!) just don't mind committing outrageous acts of cruel oppression to foster them. We are all guilty of that. Can't we just agree to keep the good stuff we trade-- the art, the food, beautiful customs, awesome dances, outfits, philosophies, terrible pop music-- and leave off the part where we kill each other for differences in personal beliefs and FARM TIGERS?!

It's like you want to ruin us at our very core, tiger farmers. You will not ruin every one. Not ever. We need what is wild in our world. What makes us feel the earth deep inside of us, and that everything moves to a common rythm. That is the real wildness, that which is the most unaffectedly common in the purity of it's tone. I'm going to continue in this pretentious vein and add that it is NO COINCIDENCE that Blake's famous poem is 'The Tyger', and not a more issue-laden creature.  Anyway, you make me cry.

Now go look at some pictures of tigers, and think about what you're doing.

Angrily,
The D.L.

Dear comments@whitehouse.gov,

You should seriously consider changing your automated response once in a while. Just for fun, you know?

Late!,
The D.L.

Dear Pottery Barn Kids,

I admit surprise upon finding your catalog with my mail delivery. Perhaps you found my address deep in the brackish waters of the Williams-Sonoma summer catalog mailing, dreams of clambakes and lobster rolls nestled among its many pages, but you should leave the unwilling alone.

Furious at your gall (What if I couldn't have children? What if they antagonized me?), I called your 800 number, and the most delightful woman answered. I lost my fight. I was being bratty. She made right what you made wrong.  She sympathized like an oma who adores you.

Also, does Abby really need that giant bathroom? I guess she does. Do Erica and Logan need that cabana? With lockers? It freaks me out, PBK. It makes me feel gross and indulgent, which I guess I am by many standards. I have bathrooms! I have no time for extra existential crises, PBK! I will fight you back, crises! Como Mac Dre, I switch hit, and play with both mitts (Rest in thizz, Furl). Do not start!

We're square. I have to eat something.

H.A.L.T.,
The D.L.

Dear Robert Mugabe,

Some time ago my friend Chris and I considered who stayed in the suites at the Hay-Adams with a direct view of the White House. It was one of the '...things you would do if you are the louche head-of-state to a collapsing nation.' It was of you I was thinking.

Not only you, of course, but your situation is extremely serious, Mr. Mugabe. However, pretty much the thing that appeals to me least is leading a nation, so I try to comprehend the enormous responsibility and concomitant misrepresentation such a position would naturally involve. The thing is, I can never get past the blind-in-one-eye part of louche, metaphorically speaking. Are you turning a blind eye? Is it that you are no longer able to attach yourself to your own actions? It's something we all struggle with, though usually minus the dramatic scale and devastating repercussions. Ours is a slow death. You should, if your crazy ass is capable, think about what has happened in your Zimbabwe.

Forced property seizures. Food shortages. Fuel shortages. Rampant political repression. Hundreds of thousands of people emigrating. Political assassinations. Economic collapse. I'm pretty sure what is the world's highest inflation rate. It was one thousand or so percent, now it's four thousand, and expected to hit one million percent in less than a year. You are completely insane. Destroyed slums. Mostly state-run news and broadcasts. Torture. Intolerance. Shopping sprees.

You were jailed a decade for 'subversive speech' (Though you managed to arrange for that coup on Sithole). Ugh! How could you be that which you fought against? Like our own John McCain-- forgetting his own words, his own life, and sanctioning torture-- fuck the Geneva Conventions! Practice makes perfect, everyone! Act as if! You can do it.

Dude, let it go. Sally. Grace? Come on! You've had long enough. I'm not sure if I could do anything daily for thirty years, and there are some things you shouldn't even try. Alas.

You've already alienated most of the acting-as-if world, and yet you've managed to also alienate the Commonwealth of Nations, intending to come to your aid. I can literally only imagine what it must be to band as nations because of shared colonialist periods, but it is harder to imagine giving up my own fight, or becoming the willful oppressor. Honestly, I don't know how you do it-- it's bad enough indirectly! Congratulations on becoming the new colonizer. Noble!

Resign Immediately,
The D.L.

Dear two older dudes who regularly dine at Petie's,

Hi. What are your stories? I would love to know.

When my Oma chooses Petie's, I know I am going to see you two, sitting together, wearing your crazy hats. I love those hats! One of you is a little more heavy on top, and you wear a beaten black motorcycle jacket and-- seriously-- a beret. You rock that beret! You carry that thing off like nothing I've ever seen. Honestly. It's a tough hat to sport without looking like a total jackass. You usually have a newspaper quartered in your left hand, and your eyes follow it like a pet.

Your friend is just as amazing. He wears a beaten brown leather/canvas thing. A plaid shirt with metal-rimmed aviators folded into the V. A groomed, salted, peppered beard, and an Indiana Jones fedora. I am not kidding. And you rock it like it is your damn skin! You are often leaned against the wall, wedged into your booth, sleeping. SLEEPING! I love you. Last week I was thinking about talking to Petie about egg scrambling, but you guys were talking about Vietnam, and then hard candy, so I was barely able to focus on eggs, or Oma. I am terrible.

I could really get into a hard candy discussion.

Then Oma and I went grocery shopping, stopped to get hearing aid batteries, et al., and a bit after I dropped her off I pulled up next to you two on my left. Naturally, I waved excitedly to you. We rolled our mutual windows down exclaiming about recently seeing each other at Petie's, and Fedora Man told me of how the little dog in the back was really excited, and Beret Man looked vaguely stirred. Fedora Man: Her name is Badger. Me: Maggie? F.M.: No, Badger! Me: Ah! Then light was green, and it was over.

It made me really happy, thanks.

Gentlemen, to you!,

The D.L.

Dear Weather,

You're delightful. A long spell of bitter coldness broke up endless days of snow, which has blossomed into a wet greyness of such uniformity it becomes breathtaking. Honestly, it's like being pinned by various invisible tethers whose positions change, but not much. Well, Cleveland-- you're the boss.

Sleepily,
The D.L.

Dear Lloyd Dobler,

Remember how you were all "one more time would be nice," and whatnot when Diane said she loved you, that she needed you? You said "Do you need someone or do you need me? It doesn't matter anyway", and gave yourself back to her like the champion of all delusionally-expectationed romantics that you are? Thanks to you (and Cameron Crowe would probably like a mention), I and my kind have purchased countless tickets for a ride on the real thing, as you would have us believe it, and waited to hear our song uncurling on some warm, magical night, finding our ears like we always knew it would, filling the empty spaces in us, around us, until we are humming with goodness.

You know, I can't even do it, Lloyd Dobler. I cannot allow bitterness and inaction on my part to be used against you in some half-assed, overly sarcastic ghost of a diatribe. Fictional though you are, Say Anything remains unassailable. Lloyd Dobler.

Moonbeams and kittens,
The D.L.

Dear unnamed Jordanian man who shot his daughter four times in the head,

There really is no place to start without beginning a perilous journey toward never-ending accusation. We'll have to settle on this: You pretty much exemplify something which cripples humanity. You use the shelter of morally weak, deeply flawed dogmatic structures to commit terrible acts. How can such an act be just? How can such an act pretend to know the will of something like your idea of god?

How could you?
There is wretchedness a-plenty in this world. Way to stoke the fire! It helps us become even more accustomed to impotently watching each other bear such horrors.

Jordan, I'm going to have to call you out on this one. You wish for an earnest reform to seem in place (now that you don't get only SIX FREAKING MONTHS for killing women), yet you allow conservatives to push for sentence leniency for 'honor [sic] killings' while they disregard proposed harsher terms? You need to check the whole "if the penalty isn't too harsh, it will lead to greater promiscuity" faction right the fuck now. With the quickness, as we might say if this were 1987. SERIOUSLY. Are you not sick of people being killed, raped, tortured, abused, or a combination of these and more because of some hypocritical nutjob's overweening vanity? Come on, Jordan-- help make this a world where YOUR FUCKING INSANE FATHER (from whom you've had to run repeatedly) MAY NOT MURDER YOU BECAUSE HE DOESN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE A VIRGIN. Come ON! There is NO defense! No religious or cultural more provides the right to override another's right to not be shot by their morally preening sissy crackpot of a father. I wonder how King Abdullah II and Queen Rania explain the killings each year. What do you say at a cocktail party? A diplomatic event? "Man, we are trying! These people are hillbillies!" For real. Rough stuff.

Also, if I see one more variation of 'an autopsy shows the girl was a virgin'-- dun-DUHN!--I may have to throw in the towel, because it means you are ALL fucking troglodytic wax figures if you think the fucking irony is lost on anyone, or if you don't realize that using such information as a journalistic device entails the galling act of reducing the grievous reasoning therein to a damn 'but she wasn't even lying'-- which is one reason all this is possible! Fuck!

I do apologize for all the fuckings, Jordan. I feel so angry.

Stop killing women.

You are crushing me,
The D.L.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.