An Open Letter to Potential Real World Cast Members

To Whom It May Concern:

I understand your desire to be famous. American culture glamorizes fame in a way only the British can appreciate and our bootstrap mentality makes wealth and notoriety feel like a debt that’s owed. So I won’t cast judgment when you send MTV that video of you riding a unicycle naked through your small Midwestern town. I know you just want to be on TV.

You’re a dreamer and many times dreamers see only what they want to see. So I’m writing this letter to tell you what you can expect when you finally become one of those seven strangers.

Your liver will grow to twice its normal size.
At some point during the last 20 years, Real World producers stopped casting kids with unique personalities and decided instead to focus their attention on burgeoning alcoholics. I suspect this shift came during the Hawaii season when Ruthie drove drunk and was sent to rehab. It gave the producers the unique opportunity to simultaneously condemn and rescue a cast member and then claim they were sending an important social message.

So get ready potential cast member. The worst parts of your personality will be uncovered, exploited and condemned in the name of advertising revenue. Enjoy that tenth Long Island Iced Tea. Wait, aren’t you underage?

You will have your ass kicked by townies at least once.
If there’s one thing we Americans hate more than Arabs, it’s people who are famous for no good reason. So when you hit the local watering hole with 20 crew members in tow, don’t be surprised when some drunk local, who’s own audition tape got returned unopened, decides to take a run at you. But please tough guy, take your beating like a man. Americans hate watching men cry.

You will have endless, banal conversations about race and love.
You’re not Martin Luther King. Not even close. So spare us your views on race relations. You may think you’re tolerant. Hell, you may even be tolerant. But it will all be undone when you spew racial epithets at your roommate after a Bacardi-fueled warpath through the bar district. Just remember, they don’t allow cell phones in rehab.

Ditto your views on relationships. We get that you’re terrible at being faithful, and we believe you might want to settle down, someday. Just don’t agonize over it. You’re never going to find your soul mate between the legs of the stripper you brought back to the house. She may look good in the hot tub, but you’ll never get that glitter off your camouflage sheets (sadly, that is not a metaphor).

You will not become rich and famous after the show ends.
The Real World will not be your first step to stardom. In fact, you’ll most likely be forgotten the minute the reunion episode is over. Let’s face it; in the end you’re just another reality show wannabe. So please, potential cast member, don’t talk about the “projects” you’ve got lined up, or the “contacts” you’ve made, or pretend that the drinking you do is “networking." You’re being used and you have zero leverage. You’ll end up back in Indiana, sort of going to school, definitely not working, constantly thinking about how for a brief, handsome moment you felt what it was like to be known. The sooner you realize this, the better the rest of your life will be. Quick test: name all the cast members from the Boston series without using Google. Now name all of the “Friends." I rest my case.

You can expect to put your life on hold forever, waiting for the producers to call for another “challenge."
Here’s some useful advice: once your season has ended, don’t bother getting a real job or shouldering any responsibilities. You’ll want to be able to drop everything when you’re asked to appear on the Real World/Road Rules Challenge. Maybe, if you’re very lucky, you’ll “retire” from challenges with fanfare and adulation like Timmy (even though he’ll never be able to retire in the real real world). You’re more likely to be kicked off three consecutive shows for fighting and never asked back. Then every fall you’ll be forced to swallow your bile as you watch Brad from San Diego win another motorcycle that should’ve been yours. Make sure you don’t yell too loudly. Your dad has to get up early for work.

So heed my warning, potential Real World cast member. Fame is fickle, especially for basic cable reality show stars.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Harrison Ford's Earring

Just look at yourself. Take a good, long, honest look. What do you see? Do you see a sexy, rebellious accessory smack-dab in the middle of an A-List Hollywood superstar's awe-inspiring revitalization? Neither do I. I see a grotesque reminder of the Peter Pan Complex, protruding from the saggy earlobe of a 65-year-old man. You've had a good run but it's time to move on to greener pastures. It is a well-established fact that, along with sports cars and young women, you're the hallmark of the male midlife crisis. Well answer me this: how do you expect to signify anyone's midlife crisis when you're pinned to the ear of a man who stopped standing up to piss nearly a decade ago? Sixty-five! He's old enough to be John McCain's son, for God's sake! Don't you want more from your life?

I know, I know. We've had this discussion before. I remember it well. The question is, do you? Let me refresh your memory. Five years ago, I casually mentioned that you might consider reassessing your role in Ford's pathetic charade and find a new ear to cling to. My suggestion: Brad Pitt. You fumed, insisting that while Ford may well, at some point, be regarded as a has-been (even then, your delusion was severe, as old Harry had achieved has-been status some five years prior, with the release of Six Days, Seven Nights), Pitt would always be a never-was. I suppose the fact that Pitt was already the industry's most famous and bankable leading man had somehow eluded you, or maybe you and Harrison were too busy watching Matlock reruns and catching the Early Bird Special at Denny's to know much about who was who in Hollywood at the time.

Fast-forward five years:  Pitt has nearly achieved national treasure status while you and your beloved Indy are gallivanting around some ancient alien tomb in search of your lost relevance. Quick question for you: where would you rather be right now, nestled snugly amid Angelina Jolie's ample bosom or pressed firmly against one of Calista Flockhart's pallid, anorexic thighs? Exactly.

So, maybe this time around, you'll take my advice. I'm just going to throw a name out there for you to mull over: James McAvoy. Hear me out. He's 29, has just thrown his hat into the action hero ring with Wanted (co-starring none other than the lovely Ms. Jolie), and is slated to star as Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit, which will surely catapult him to mega-stardom. It's the perfect storm. You'll catch him on the upswing and be there to comfort him as he slowly comes to grips with the fact that he peaked well before his 35th birthday. After that sobering realization sets in, there's no limit to the amount of embarrassingly transparent tomfoolery you and McAvoy might perpetrate in an ill-fated attempt to recapture his fleeting youth and fame. Maybe you'll bed a newly-divorced Scarlett Johansson (sorry, Ryan Reynolds, you knew it was coming)! Or drive a convertible Rolls Royce into a man-made lake of fire! Or cook up a solution of yak's blood and baking soda and inject it directly into your eyeball! Hey, midlife crises aren't always fun. That's the risk you run, my friend. But it's a risk worth taking.

Heed my words, you stubborn sonofabitch, or before you know it, you and Harrison will be enjoying the "good life" on the set of the network comedy My Incontinent Dad.

You've been warned. Again. Now get out while you still can.

An Open Letter to California Wildfires

Dear Sir (or Madam?):

As I write, you’re busy sweeping across Northern California leaving 125 square miles of charred land in your wake. You’ve destroyed 48 homes and currently threaten the entire town of Big Sur. An impressive outing, California Wildfires.

But this isn’t the first time we’ve heard from you. The McNally Fire in 2002, the Cedar Fire in 2003, the Canyon and Corral fires in 2007, and that’s just a partial list. We get it California Wildfires. In the land of American Disasters, you reign supreme.

Don’t mistake these words for a rebuke. That’s not my goal. I appreciate excellence in all things, and California Wildfires, your work is breathtaking. No, I write this letter as an open-handed gesture, a caution against doing your work too well, or too often.

Once upon a time, a young man burned his way through California much the same way you have. It seemed he couldn’t be stopped. 1972: Deliverence, 1974: The Longest Yard, 1977: Smokey and the Bandit, 1981: The Cannonball Run. An impressive streak to be sure. But our fair nation grew tired of the young man’s all-American good looks and aw-shucks attitude and, before you could say Stroker Ace, he became the punch line to a joke no one tells anymore.

I don’t want the same thing to happen to you, California Wildfires. If you keep burning up the state you love so much, pretty soon you won’t have anyplace left to hang your hat. And then what will you do? Move to Oregon? I think everyone knows that’s not an option. To be frank, California Wildfires, you come off as being needy.

I suggest you take a cue from your cousin the California Earthquake. He knows he doesn’t need to show up every year begging for attention. One magnificent showing every decade is enough to command the utmost respect from all the beautiful people.

I hope you’ve taken the time to read this, California Wildfires. You’re a beautiful, terrifying act of God that risks becoming almost commonplace. Please take these words to heart and check yourself before you wriggity-wreck yourself.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Brett Favre

From ESPN.com: 

WTMJ-TV in Milwaukee reported Monday that Favre sent a text message to Packers GM Ted Thompson on Saturday -- and that Thompson's reply was that he was on vacation and the two men will have to talk later.

Let's put aside the absurdity of the fact that ESPN is now reporting on a text message exchange between Favre and Thompson that amounts to, "now's not a good time." We'll get to that later. For now...

Dear Brett,

Imagine our collective lack of surprise upon learning last week that you were maybe kinda thinkin' that you might sorta wanna decide that maybe, just maybe, you didn't want to retire after all. Forget the tearful farewell press conference. Forget the last half-decade of speculation that this year may just be Brett Farve's last, and if not this year, then definitey next year... probably.  Forget the theatrics, cliches, platitudes and overwrought on-field celebrations/farewells. That was all well and good but, hey, tossin' that pigskin around is pretty damn fun. There are still asses to be kicked, names to be taken, and ill-advised hail-mary's to be thrown, right big fella?

Well, guess what? Nobody gives a shit anymore.

Sorry, let us revise that:  nobody outside of Wisconsin gives a shit anymore.

If we're being honest here, you should have retired after your cameo in There's Something About Mary. Talk about going out on top. Three NFL MVP's, a Super Bowl Championship, five All-Pro selections, and a delightfully lovable turn in a bawdy, comedic romp. That would have been your resume' had you hung 'em up in 1998, when, by all reasonable accounts, your career trajectory had reached its apex. That was ten years ago, Brett! To borrow from Paul Spericki in Grosse Point Blank, "TEN YEARS, MAN!!!"

Thanks to your durability (read: manically stubborn insistence upon remaining in the spotlight), we've now had to endure an extra decade of your ego-driven passing attack (the technical term for which is, "Fuck the Game Plan, I'm Brett Fucking Favre!"), offseason speculation, and countless hours of superlative-laden handjobs from network broadcast teams. If it's alright by you, big guy, we're going to go ahead and hold you personally responsible for the misappropriation of the words "courageous" and "heroic." (A quick aside:  saving a child from a burning building is both heroic and courageous. Taking a vicious hit from a middle linebacker and somehow, miraculously summoning the strength to get back up - no matter how many times you do it - is not. Is that too difficult to grasp, Joe Buck? Or did they not cover that in Smarmy Sportscasting and Nepotism for Dummies?)

The point, Brett, is we've all seen this movie before; we know how it ends. It ends with you further tarnishing a legacy that, for all intents and purposes, should have cemented your status as one of the greatest quarterbacks to ever play the game. You had it all, man. Grit, gumption, charisma, talent, the requisite personal demons (which, of course, you conquered), tragedy, trauma, a square jaw, a five-o'clock shadow and perfectly rumpled hair. You were America. You were football. The key word there, Brett, is were. 

"Hey, wait a damn minute," you'll say. "I was Sports Illustrated's Sportsman of the Year last year! I had a damn good season!" We'll grant you both points. Sure, statistically speaking, you had a pretty good year. Hell, you nearly led the Pack Attack back to the Super Bowl before you got upended by Peyton Manning's charmingly retarded kid brother. Don't feel too bad about it, pal. Brady and Belichick didn't see it coming, either. Nobody did. Imagine, though, what could have been, Brett. Imagine the pomp and circumstance you would have been enveloped in had you been able to lead the Packers past the Giants, past the Patriots, and to the Promised Land once again.

But you didn't.

Instead, you played like, well, like Brett Favre has been playing for a decade now. You said, "to hell with it," and tossed up one reckless pass after another. Wouldn't ya know it, the Giants eventually capitalized. 

It seemed, as winter turned to spring and you made your soap-operatic retirement announcement, that you had finally seen the light at the end of the tunnel; that you had finally let go of the past, embraced the present, and turned your attention to the future. Residents of Green Bay were predictably grief-stricken, some despondent Packer fans consuming as many as six pounds of cheese that day, in addition to their usual allotment of eight. The rest of the country muttered, "'bout fuckin' time," and went back about our lives. At last, the Brett Favre story had an end. It wasn't especially fitting, but it was an end. 

And then, last week, the reports started surfacing. Brett Favre hadn't run out of courage and heroism just yet. Brett Favre had a little more gas in the ol' tank. Today's asinine ESPN headline solidified our worst fears. You were going to attempt a comeback before even having experienced retirement. Across the country, eyes rolled in apathy and disdain. In Wisconsin, men and women stopped drinking just long enough to jubilantly shout, "told ya so!" Joe Buck masturbated seventeen times before noon, disrupting his neighbors with repeated shouts of, "and I mean, nobody - NOBODY - does it better than Favre!" Somehow, some way, the world kept right on turning. 

Look, we know you're not the first. We've got Jordan, Clemens and Rocky Balboa to blame for this. And they'll get what's coming to them. We don't know why we thought you might, for once in your career, make the smart play. In retrospect, it was naive' and foolish, like that desperate shred of hope we cling to that one day, we'll wake up and Stephen Tyler will have simply vanished from everyone's collective consciousness without a trace. It's silly, but we can dream, right? Hell, we could have even brought ourselves to forgive you for that extra decade of egomaniacal incompetence if you'd just hung it up when you said you were done. But now, on top of every thing else that's going wrong in this godforsaken world, we've got Brett Favre to reckon with again. Thanks a lot, Brett. Thanks a whole fuckin' lot.

As for the aforementioned absurdity of ESPN's reportage, let's take a look at this situation from a different angle. Let's say Brett Favre wasn't a superfamous stud quarterback. Let's say he was just your douchebag buddy who'd broken up with his girlfriend in February. And here we are in July, and Brett's ex is dating this young, insecure guy, we'll call him Aaron. Now, you're just sitting down for coffee one day, minding your own business, when your gossipy bitch friend, who never quite manages to get her story 100% straight, sits down next to you with a terribly satisfied grin slapped across her face. The following exchange ensues:

ESPN:  So...

You:  So.

ESPN:  Heard a rumor about Brett and Green Bay yesterday.

You:  I thought they split up.

ESPN:  They did. BUT. I guess Brett's been hanging around her place lately. 

You:  Isn't she dating Aaron?

ESPN:  Yeah. BUT! I guess Brett sent her a text message today.

You:  Oh. 

ESPN:  MmmHmmmm. He was all like, "hey, we should talk," and she was all, "I can't talk now but maybe later."

You:  And? 

ESPN:  And what?! They, like, talked about maybe talking!

And then, just as you're about to engage in a semantic argument with ESPN about exactly what it may or may not mean that Brett and Green Bay might start talking again, you realize YOU DON'T GIVE A RUSTY FUCK. Are they back together yet? No! Are they talking about getting back together? No! So Brett's single and Green Bay might not want to marry Aaron just yet. Who. Fucking. Cares?! A long time ago, ESPN seemed to lose sight of the fact that their job is to report the news, not create it. Blame the twenty-four-hour news cycle, or the long and distinguished history of news organizations creating stories where they don't exist, the fact remains, it is idiotic - at best - to spend time hypothesizing about the exact importance and meaning of Brett Favre's text messages. Is there any chances we can cut this shit out? Any at all? (And while we're at it, ESPN, can you just shitcan Bill Simmons and get it over with? Talk about guys who've long since worn out their welcome. Did you know he's friends with Jimmy Kimmel! I know, right? So cool. Simmons is such a humble guy, he doesn't mention it often, so we thought we'd toot his horn for him. What a magnificent, flaming jerkoff that guy is. But that's another letter.)

The bottom line is this, Brett:  come back, don't come back. Nobody cares. You used to be a shining example of perseverance and the competitive spirit. Now you're just another washed-up punchline standing in the way of somebody else's dream. Thanks for the memories, asshole.

An Open Letter to Our Readers

Welcome. We would hope that this site needs little in the way of introduction or explanation. The title and content should be pretty self-explanatory. The first two installments of Open Letters - to California Wildfires and Brett Favre - will be posted sometime within the next few days, and subsequent letters will be posted at minimum of one per week. The comments section will be the our only mode of communication here. We exist on a plane that transcends email communication. That and we can't remember the password to our account. If anyone has a line on dirt-cheap erectile dysfunction remedies, magical weight loss formulas, or the whereabouts of a displaced Rwandan prince longing to share his $75,000,000 fortune, let us know. Without access to email, we have no way of capitalizing on these once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.

Thank you for your time.

Two Concerned Citizens