An Open Letter to My Future

Dear My Future,

We’ve never met, so allow me to tell you a bit about myself. Before I was a concerned citizen, I was a wide-eyed citizen. Unconcerned with (possibly ignorant of) the inherent hazards of this existence, my eyes blurred as I gazed into the bright light of my own potential. I was certain the world would open herself to me with all the modesty of a drunken sorority sister. I would do no less than change the world. But as I’ve aged my perspective has evolved and frankly, I’m concerned.

As evidence, please consider the preceding decade. The rise of Islamic terrorism, the fall of American hegemony, the warming of the planet, the destruction of American cities, the catastrophic near-fall of our financial system, calamitous wars of choice, and the nagging suspicion that our government would like to tag and track us all like we’re a herd of migrating buffalo lead me to the conclusion that things might not turn out my way. I’d appreciate a heads-up on your part, just so I can plan the rest of my life.

If I’m being paranoid and things turn out well, give me a sign. It should be something I can’t miss like a pair of diamond loafers mysteriously appearing in my mailbox or hundred-dollar bills falling from the sky. That way I can start shopping for top hats and canes and developing a taste for caviar. But if instead you see me wandering the vast wastelands of America battling zombies and scouring the debris of wrecked cities for scraps of food and the remaining drops of gasoline, do nothing. I’ve read The Road, I’ll figure things out.

You’re a cagey bastard. Many claim to understand you, but I suspect few truly do. That kind of special sight is reserved for gods and greater men, I am neither. But I implore you to consider my request in due course. I’m sure we’ll meet eventually. Until then I remain yours…

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to the Jonas Brothers

I'll be honest with you, Jonas Brothers. Up until about two weeks ago, I had no idea who you were. You see, I stay very busy with my model trains and disappointingly-not-to-scale replicas of Ewok Village. Some quick research tells me you're a group (gang?) of charming, young virgins who got their start at the Disney Channel. Man, that sounds awfully familar. Where have I heard that before? Oh, that's right! That insane, drug-addled former pop music icon whose most recent brush with notoriety was predicated upon her inability to exit a motor vehicle without wagging her cavernous cooch at passers by. She looks pretty vestal flailing around on the ground after her umpteenth Grey Goose binge, right fellas?

So let's cut the shit, Jonas Brothers. Nobody's buying your act (many, many people are buying your act). We understand you got your start on Christian radio. We understand the majority of your audience is comprised of pre-teen girls and their sexually unfulfilled mothers. We know that, unless you're Jim Morrison, it is considered unacceptable to take the stage and announce, "I just did eight lines of pure, uncut cocaine off of the baby-soft stomach of a fourteen-year-old girl!" We get it. But seriously guys, promise rings?! What are you, twelve-year-old Mormon girls? (Wait, are you twelve-year-old Mormon girls? I honestly can not tell.) Just tell us that Nick had one too many (read: one) Miller Chills and accidentally finger-fucked a groupie, who he has given his heart to and now intends to make an honest woman of. Then, three weeks later, feel free to feed us some bullshit line about how the groupie decided she was better off cleaning the Cheez Whiz stains of the carpet of her mother's doublewide and Nick, though heartbroken, is going to do his damnedest to move on. That's all we're asking. You don't even have to be honest. Just be less dishonest.

Secondly, and more importantly, enjoy this while you can. Do you remember the Hansons, of "MMMBop" fame? Well, they've recently embarked on another ill-fated tour. Would you like to know what kind of venues they're playing, Jonases? Would you?! They're playing the children's play area of every McDonald's across the nation! Alright, that's not true at all. They're playing (and selling out) 1,000-seat theatres in every major city in America. But trust me when I tell you this will not be your fate. If you're lucky, you'll find yourselves busking in front of the Safeway in Sherwood, Oregon while some dead-eyed meth addict blows you for bus fare. That's the reality, gents. Be ready to face it.

For now, however, you should revel in the glory of your recent four-star review from Rolling Stone (an accolade which, at one point, was reserved for a landmark musical achievement but now seems to merely signify the fact that you are an artist who has succeeded in releasing and promoting an album with the help of a major and/or well-funded independent label). Live it up, guys. You're the biggest kids on the block right now, you might as well make the most of it. What would I suggest, you ask? Well, spend a week on the road with Motorhead, for starters. If Lemmy won't have you, I suggest a three-way ticklefight on top of a sweaty pile of money. Now, I know you're wondering, who on Glorious God's green earth would Nick involve in a three-way ticklefight? How about a couple of lovely ladies named "Joe" and "Kevin?" Sound familiar? Like maybe, somewhere in the depths of your homeschooled, repressed psyches, something you've been craving for years? I thought so. Confront it, young lads. Confront your incestual, homosexual urges. And then ask yourself one question: Where's your God now, Jonas Brothers?!

An Open Letter to Jose Saramago

Mr. Saramago:

Against my better judgment, I purchased your Nobel Prize-winning novel Blindness over the long holiday weekend. I expected to find the riveting story of a city facing an epidemic of contagious blindness. Instead I’m faced with page after page of unreadable blocks of text separated by nothing more than commas and periods. Where are the semicolons? The hyphens? The paragraphs, for God’s sake? Who do you think you are, James Joyce?

May I remind you, sir, this is 2008. Hour upon hour of “The Hills” reruns has left my brain so atrophied and frail it’s barely able to pass the electrical signals that allow my heart to continue beating. Mr. Saragmago, I demand a rewrite.

Now I don’t want to make this request of you without offering some assistance. That would be uncharitable. So in the collegial spirit of a fellow writer, I offer a selection from the original version of Blindness (New York: Harcourt, 1997) and my own suggestion for revision.

From the original:
“As he moved in the direction of the sitting room, despite the caution with which he advanced, running a hesitant hand along the wall and not anticipating any obstacles, he sent a vase of flowers crashing to the floor. He had forgotten about any such vase, or perhaps his wife had put it there when she left for work with the intention of later finding a more suitable place (Saramago, 6).”

I offer instead:
“He walked down the hall, carefully running his had along the wall. Suddenly he knocked over a vase. 'Funny,' he thought, 'I don’t remember that being there. Maybe my wife put it there before work.' "

You’ll notice that I said exactly the same thing as you in half the number of words. Drill down, Mr. Saramago. Drill down. You may also notice I stated exactly what the character was thinking instead of merely implying. It’s a subtle change that I think your audience will appreciate.

Now that I think about it, instead of going to the trouble of rewriting an entire book just so it’s accessible to the masses, why doesn’t someone make Blindness into a big-budget Hollywood movie starring Mark Ruffalo and Julianne Moore? That way I could watch the movie without having to concern myself with a challenging format or pesky subtext. Shoot, I could watch the movie and then tell all my friends I read the book and preferred it to the film. Nobody will ever know! Wait… What? Oh, excuse me. Blindness, a film by Fernando Meirelles, in theaters September 26th? I apologize, Mr Saramago. Please disregard the previous 250 words. Loved the book, by the way.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen

An Open Letter to Barack Obama

Here at Hey Idiots!, we were greatly saddened by the passing of Walter "Killer" Kowalski. Saddened, first and foremost, because the world had lost the man who many credit with revolutionizing the "sport" of professional wrestling, but saddened also because we were reminded that, at one point in time, professional wrestling was, well, slightly less a farce than it is today.

We know that we'll never be able to trust the WWF (we'll be damned if we're ever going to refer to it as the WWE) to return professional wrestling to its glory days, but the Democratic National Convention filled us with hope - the hope that there is another alternative for those of us who still crave the thinly veiled epithets and pulsing veins that were the hallmarks of those halcyon days of wrestling yore. That hope lies in the face, the voice, and the candidacy of Barack Obama.

Senator Obama, in the speech you delivered at the DNC, you cut back ever-so-slightly on the platitudes and rhetoric and came out with a double-barreled blast of hypocrisy and tough-talk, two hallmarks of a possibly-not-catastrophic political campaign. We're not sure what our favorite implausible Obama Promise (to be referred to heretofore as an Obamise) was: that you will redirect funding and withdraw troops while strengthening the military (contradictory!), that, under your command, the United States will have eliminated its dependance on foreign oil within ten years (at maximum, your presidential term will be eight!), that you will implement a bevy of social programs while simultaneously lowering taxes (please elaborate!), or that you will be tough on terror while John McCain "wouldn't even follow Osama Bin Laden to the cave where he lives." (What. The. FUCK are you talking about, dude?!) Unfortunately, the man you're running against is a bloodthirsty, racist, warmongering lunatic. (Who, as you pointed out, is owed a debt of gratitude by each and every one of us due to his brave service at our country's defense.) You don't want to get into a badass contest with Johnny Mac, man. He will stomp a mudhole in you and walk it dry. He'll make you look like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

So here's what you've gotta do: you've gotta take it up a notch. No, you've got to take it up two hundred notches. You've got to take us back to those pre-match promos the WWF superstars used to cut with Mean Gene Okerlund, and the subsequent beatings we would gleefully witness moments later. You can start by losing the suit and tie. That's sissy bitch garb. And you, sir, are no sissy bitch. At your next event, we'd better see you in blue tights with "oBAMa" in big red letters on the ass. If you want to maybe wear some weird-ass ribbons like the Ultimate Warrior did, that's cool too, but don't overdo it. We can't have you looking like Steven Tyler's mic stand out there.

Next, punctuate each implausible vow by saying, "and THAT'S an Obamise!" and smashing your fist into the podium. (It might be beneficial to hire somebody to replace each wooden podium with one made of styrofoam or cardboard. The last thing you need is to try and hammer home a promise to provide each American family with their own magical moneytree by breaking your dainty hand on that hard oak.)

Also, we're not sure you really want to enter into a policy debate with Senator McPain because he does have an actual, y'know, platform, however misguided (read: fucking insane) it may be. Instead, show up unannounced at his next event and challenge him to an arm-wrestling contest. You'll be able to assert your own strength while simultaneously calling attention to the fact that McCain is, in fact, crippled and weak. It can't miss!

Finally, you've got to get yourself one of those sexy "managers." J-Mac already made a savvy play in this department by snatching up the foxy Sarah Palin to be the Elizabeth to his Macho Man so, clearly, Joseph Biden isn't going to cut it. Our suggestion: Eleanor Mondale.



Look at that! Sure, she's only vaguely, peripherally involved in politics but she makes Sarah Palin look like Janet Reno! Plus, she's probably a damn tiger in the sack, but that's just speculation on our behalf. (President Clinton, feel free to chime in on this one.)

Now, if you can manage all of that, plus raise the volume and intensity of your speaking voice by one thousand percent, you'll have this election in the bag and we'll have been treated to some good, old-fashioned entertainment.

(A quick word of warning: should you choose this approach, prepare yourself for the day you're blindsided by a steel chair while Jim Ross shouts, "MY GOD!! THAT'S HILLARY CLINTON! NO! NO! NO!")