Letter #36

Dear China,

I’m packing today and feeling anxious about visiting you’re ancient cities. Surprised that I was able to obtain a visa for that region these days, but I’m happy you’re allowing me this opportunity. Just hope your towns have free internet and a clean bed to sleep in. I’ll return the favor by not being an obnoxious American tricking out your town on my skateboard. I only brought my roller blades this time.

Jiliang and Shangrila, here I come. You better have them yaks ready for me to ride. Beasts of burden rule!

Letter #35

Dear Vita,

Are you and the tobacco companies working together? There’s something in your drinks that make them so addictive. You’re simple lemon tea drink is more than just a well balanced blend of lemon and sweetened tea. There’s gotta be something else in it. This used to be my all time favorite here in Hong Kong on a hot sunny day. Simply run in to a 7-11, grab one of your drinks, swipe my Octopus card, slam in the straw, and then it’s refreshing juices does the rest. I can’t count the number of times I am left standing outside the store, motionless, sweating on the outside, but cooled and satisfied on the inside. A little giggle will show itself every so often on the left side of my face as people sped by my still body, in it’s state of nirvana. But things weren’t all good with your drink. One box became two, two became three. By the end of the summer I had about half a dozen of your paper box drinks a day. A habit that was very hard to kick when I came back to the states. My friends would randomly search my house and find cases and cases hidden around my house. I knew it was bad when the pulled the covers off my bed and all I could say was, “Well, I always wanted a water bed.” But they caught me, “Half of these are empty.” I just nodded in acceptance and proceeded with months of rehab.

Now I’m back in Hong Kong. And now, maybe rehab did something to me psychologically, but the taste of the lemon tea is now longer as pleasant as it once was. Maybe it’s because I’m here during the raining season. Refreshment when your soaking wet isn’t the same as refreshment when your burning hot. Maybe you’ve did wise up in your company practices and no longer put addictive substances in your drinks, like cocaine, crack, or even worse high-fructose corn syrup. Or maybe… maybe you’ve just moved the drug to another drink, like your new Mango & Orange!

Oh why is this stuff so addictive. You must of moved the drug into this new drink. Not a day goes by that I have to stop and stare through the glass windows of 7-11. Over to the wall where my nectar of life sits in a frozen world of beverages. Like a sacrificial lamb, they sit there, and await my return. The memories of my rehab do nothing to deter me. Medication, isolation, handcuffs, nipple clamps, and even motivational speeches are worth it, for just a taste, just one little sip.

Just to tell you how far I’ve gone, I’ll tell you of today. Walking along the concrete jungle of this town, through the forsaken back alleys of th city. I staggered from one side to another, grasping the walls for support as they also acted as support for my willpower. I was dizzy. Dizzy for trying to stay away from your new poison. It’s been 2 days since I last drank, drank anything for that matter. I stumbled onto a trash bin. Clumsily, I knocked the contents onto the street. Newspapers, lunch containers, bottles, half eaten food, it was all over the street.

And there. There it was. There it sat on the curb. Upright in a small puddle in the drizzling rain. An orange paper box with a white label “Mango & Orange” running up sideways. I fell to my knees. The noisy streets of Sheung Wan became nothing but a buzz in my ear. The only thing I heard was the box. It sang to me. It sang in a catchy commercial jungle to say “Hi!” I turned away but my dry parched lips betrayed me. My eyes slowly reopened and I slowly turned back to the box. My hands joined the mutiny and reached out to the box. Like a dream the straw puncturing the box raised to my lips. Eyes closed. Hands wavering. I took my sip. All I tasted was my bitter disappointed tears as the box crumpled onto itself as it emptied nothing but air into my mouth. I threw it down and cried up to the clouds “DIM GAI A!!” as the rain poured down.

For you folks there at Vita that don’t speak Cantonese, it means, “Why. Why do you make things I could never resist and place it in a small convenient and space efficient recyclable box.” And I know most of you there aren’t probably Chinese. Probably some ex-tobacco execs hired to make the products more addicting. In any case, I’m on to you. When I finish with my rehab, I’m going to uncover this matter.

Letter #34

Dear Urban Planners,

I was chasing squirrels around the park again today when a rain storm decided to come through. Luckily the buildings had some nice awnings to hide under. Nice move on allowing that, or maybe you even made that mandatory. I hope the latter, because it’s a great way to just draw people to buildings. Just like the homeless guy I was next to. We went on about the weather and how the rain would stop in like 10 minutes. Very uncharacteristic for this time of year. He started on “You know those aren’t squirrels your chasing around…” when the downpour subsided and I quickly ran out. I couldn’t quite hold my breath anymore. Waved bye to my new afternoon buddy and I was off skipping along the side walk wondering what he meant.

Building after building, block after block I went pondering on what my new friend meant. You can feel the sun now carving through the clouds and once again making the humidity ever so obvious. Then it hit me. No, not what the meaning of that phrase. What hit me was a precisely timed laser guided droplet of urban rooftop mixture that hit me square on the lower back of my neck mid stride in between awnings. Which then instantly proceeded down my dry, warm, crisp, and clean dress shirt. This was just yuck! Totally ruined my day. I was gonna go home and call my friends about how I was just inches from catching my first squirrel with my bare hands. But now, I’m gonna go home and rip off my shirt and take a long shower. I don’t mind if these big droplets fall on my shoulder, on my ice cream, or even on my head. Why? Tell me. Why does it have to hit me on the worse spot? You don’t even have enough time to block the passage the droplet. The quicker you move, the quicker it squirms down your shirt. What a ruined day. Every step I took thereafter, I am reminded of my injury with a chilly tingle on my back as my shirt pulls away form my skin with every step.

This brings me to the point of the letter. I know you thought I wrote to you to tell you about my day, but this time it’s to make a request to the city. Please make it mandatory to place gutters on these awnings or else I’m personally coming to your office and pour ice cubes down the back of your shirts when you’re working. Take this as a warning or even a threat. However, if you’re gonna press charges for this letter, then this is a just a warning, really. Or not really?

Letter #33

Dear Grandma,

I called up dad today and as usual we exchanged uncomfortable small talk. Usually it’s the same old ones about my pathetic love life, my dead end career, or my odd obsessions. I don’t think they’re odd, or even obsessions, they’re just things I think about all the time. Over and over again, until I find a solution. that’s how great minds solve life’s mysteries, like why monkeys have hair everywhere except for their butts. That’s like so opposite of mine. I need to think on this more, I don’t believe it’s just a fad with monkeys. Cause fads change.

Anyways, this time, I didn’t want to bring him down, so I tried to talk about his subjects. He went into the same old topics. Like how the economy is going to implode and how we were losing jobs to the foreign markets or how the presidential debates were becoming more of a mudslinging event. I tried to join in on his topics. I think politicians should use the end all be all come back of the modern century. Any allegation or insult could quite easily be answered with a “You’re mom!” This would make the debates much more enjoyable to watch and cut the amount of indirect mudslinging to a minimum. He just scoffed. Maybe he felt it was an insult because it WAS father’s day. I could picture his face wincing as it usually does when I say something he’s not happy with. It’s amazing how we could be on the phone yet I can visualize us talking face to face. Every pause, every subtle sound, I know exactly what his expression or hand gesture is.

Things went even more disarray when we switched subjects on to global issues. “Son, there’s an opportunity in food crisis the world is seeing.” I agreed, I think farming will be the next wave of the future. I told him how I wanted to be a rancher. Own acres of land somewhere and spend my days herding stuffed animals. Again the silence. I was quite sure he didn’t understand, so I had to clarify. “I know what you’re thinking, most people would raise cattle or chicken, mine would be polar bears. They are endangered you know.” Food crisis is one thing, global warming is another. I’m just dealing with the latter, or mainly its side effects. This still didn’t prevent our argument, though. After hours of deliberation. I had to compromise and promise I’d grow tomatoes on my farm. Silly dad, polar bears don’t eat tomatoes. Then again, that might be wise, I’d be able to sell them or throw them at mimes I don’t like on Hollywood Blvd.

I have to tell you though, I didn’t use that come back I talked about earlier. Our argument wasn’t that heated and I would never use it on any family member, unless they were an in-law or someone I didn’t like.

Dad went on about Disney again and I just had to endure the onslaught of bickering. We eventually got onto a subject we agreed upon, which is our hatred of pugs. We can go on hours about them. This usually sets him off into other tiraids on all sorts of subjects. From faulty ballot counts to conspiracy theories on avian flu and mad cow. I just tune out. I think he’s off his rocker.

But, no matter how crazy he is, the fact remains the same, he’s dad.

Letter #32

Dear Running,

You know what I like the best about you, yeah you guest it, the part when I stop running. This is the part that my body makes me realize what I’ve been doing with fatigue, breathlessness, feeling all light headed, and even cramps in my legs. With all this pain, you’d imagine why the stopping part would be my favorite part. It’s just those things pale in comparison to the relief my other body parts thank me for. On different occasions, different parts of my body have a higher priority than the parts usually associated with running. For instance, my arms. They are so thankful that I can finally put down the TV I’ve been running around with. Thank goodness we’re into flat screens now, those tube TVs were a bitch to carry. Not to mention the difficulty in hiding behind a tree with one of them. Then there’s that other situation, where fifty percent of the time you bladder thanks you with a nice long stream, either in the urinal, alley way, or conveniently located shrub. I won’t talk about the other fifty percent of the time, because that my friend, is where you failed me. Then there’s my feet, who almost always thanks me for stopping. Apparently, those corporate propaganda machines, Nike, Reebok, Adidas, etc., were right about one thing. You really do need shoes to run. Especially through this city of unexpected terrain. Running barefoot isn’t ideal unless it’s through the grassy knolls of Colorado. but in a place like New York City, you don’t know what kinds of dangerous or disgusting stuff you’d step on, broken glass, bird crap, needles, pugs, or sharp rocks. You can never be too careful. So I’m not even going to buy commercial shoes, I’m going to the cutting edge and ordering a pair of boots from NASA. If they can survive the moon, I’m sure they’ll survive anything earth has. Just hope they have another color besides white, like fuschia. Can’t wait to see the neighborhood kids try to chase me in these kicks. They’ll be so jealous.

Letter #31

Dear Spies Like Us,

You may have heard of me by now, but in case you haven’t, I’m a writer. I’ve been writing for over 30 days now. So as an experienced writer I am obligated lend my thoughts. I saw your movie title and was perplexed that a professional work, though made for the theater, would have such a confusing title. It’s an odd literary choice where I can’t figure out if it’s a grammatical error or an ambiguity issue. Is it “spies like us”, where you are referring to yourself as spies or is it “spies like us” as in spies usually befriend you. I wasn’t too sure, but I had to sit and watch the whole movie just to find out what meaning you meant. By the end, I’m still not sure. I really like the girls in the bikini though. Not sure how that ties into my conversation, but I just wanted to compliment you on that part. It makes me want to be a spy or maybe it makes me like spies. I dunno, this is making my head hurt again.

Letter #30

Dear Dying,

There seems to be plenty of different ways people would like to die. Some have told me they want to die in a blaze of glory. Some gun battle directed by John Woo or some sword duel with a four arm deity named Zuul. Problem is, I don’t like losing, and in those situations, dying usually means you’ve lost. That’s not how I wanna go down, remembered as a bullet ridden bandit or a dismembered body on the arena floor. They argued that usually it’s also the only time you show courage and honor with unselfish last words like “Hurry, detonate the fusion reactor core” or something lame as “Forget about me, you must bring the ring to Muldor!” In these cases, I’ll probably just be screaming “OMG, is that my arm!? Someone call the ambulance! You mother fucker why would you do that? We’re so not cool.” Nope, dying like that is just not my cup of tea. Then there’s death by music. I don’t get it. How can that work? You’d just go deaf. Wait a sec, maybe that’s it, they misheard the word deaf for death? Silly people. Music can’t kill you, you can only kill music. Like when Ashley Simpson starts singing. Oh there’s also that saying death by chocolate. I’m not sure how much chocolate you’d have to eat, but I’m sure it’ll be followed by hours of bowel obstructions and painful bouts of constipation before you go. I don’t think that’ll be a pretty sight. I’ll pass. Then there’s the famous death while having sex approach. Now, sex is one of my favorite activities, but what can you possibly be doing wrong if you die while having sex. Maybe that’s not quite a gerbil you got there. Nope, I prefer my traditional sex with a full tube of KY and a stack of magazines WITHOUT the heaping side of death. So when it comes to dying, I’ll stick to the normal and dignified death in my sleep at a ripe old age in my bunny slippers.

And it better not be when I win that Mega Millions jackpot!

Letter #29

Dear Days of Future’s Past,

You know how we look back at our past and think how, as a society, we were so naive and ignorant. Just look at the events that transpired at Salem with all the witch hunts. How paranoid and hysterical an enclosed society can get. Or even a whole country like China, who’s psychiatric society in 2001 believed being gay is no longer a disease. They skipped over that whole being gay is cool phase, very unfortunate. How about in the eighteenth century when all of the western world was thinking the earth is flat when now, we all know it’s just the moon. And even in modern times like the 80’s where everyone, and I mean everyone, thought Boy George was a girl. We were so foolish. Can’t dwell on it though, cause if you were there in those times or in those places you’d think the same thing. It’s that sort of thing that makes civilization progress, being able to realize we were so wrong. Don’t regret, just move on, and take down the posters from your walls, ceilings, and start fantasizing about real women like Grace Jones.

History will repeat itself once again and we’ll realize how inhumane we are. It won’t be about global warming, our dependencies on oil, or even our strange addictions to the internet. No, those issues are already coming to light. What I’m talking about is our treatment of zombies. That’s right, the living dead. Not only do we run and cower from these beings, we actually try to shoot them in the head. Why such a dreadful fate for a being that can only walk like a fifth of your speed. Yes, they bite and carry something worse than rabies. But come on, they can barely walk or even comprehend what they are doing. Yet, we get nonchalantly lob off their heads with a shovel. Why not lasso up ol infected uncle Tom. I don’t think he really is hungry, cause I doubt his digestive tract still works, I mean he IS the undead. So why can’t we all round up these zombies and just wait till we find a cure or find something for them that will amuse us. Zombie Park, like Jurassic Park? I dunno, just a random thought in my head. That seems more like segregation though and that would just set back our society back a century. We just have to make them into vegetarians. Show them what a nice healthy diet can do to their deteriorating skin. No meat whatsoever, cause that just equates to brains. See, we’re an understanding society. It’s no longer “brain-eating zombies” and more like “bean curd eating hipster zombies”. The hipster part will make them feel better about themselves, cause they’re probably sad they have no friends, cause they ate them all. However, if they’re the zombies from 28 days later, I say shoot ‘em. Shoot’em all! Them suckers run and are a little too obnoxious for my blood.

So future, hurry up and do something about your past. I can’t wait to move ahead!

Letter #28

Dear Undeniables,

Yesterday I failed to write a letter due to total debauchery on my part. I don’t know if you punish people for not following the Undeniable creed of “…one a day, everyday, for three months.” But I believe you must do something because there seems to be “missing” members, such as Rima Anosa who’s site mysteriously vanished from http://purloined.wordpress.com/. This worries me because I hope there’s no hazing ritual for rule breakers.

Just thinking about how Edren would haze me brings chills down my spine. Imagine being locked in a cage and him chasing you around with his so-called Gavel of Unearthed Secrets screaming “For the Alliance!” It’s going to be a long four hours of merciless bludgeoning. I’d imagine it’ll take four hours because after about two hours I’d probably say something under my stupor like “Why… why are you even using that that gavel, it’s resto spec, you’re feral!” Oh how that would piss him off even more, refueling his diminishing rage “It was my only epic drop in six months! Now die you filthy orc!” Such unadulterated hatred from such a usually calm guy. My only salvation would be if his nephew comes looking for his missing inflatable squeaking hammer. I have many scenarios on what may transpire with him, but this one seems the most realistic.

Then there’s Erik, I never met the guy, at least I don’t think I did, but I think he’s that guy you don’t want to meet. Like if you met him, that was it, you knew you were done. Kinda like getting that horse’s head in bed next to you. I never really got that. Were they all in the room brainstorming on this. Timmy Two Times says “Hey, let’s write him a death note, yeah death note.” Then Big Tom retorts “No way, he really fucked up this time, let’s just put a bomb in his car.” But then all of a sudden, Disturbed Dan speaks out for once in his life “No.” Everyone pauses and turns in disbelief, “A horses head.” Silence. “…in his bed.” Confused stares. “…while he’s still sleeping in it.” Turning to each other, they’d all stutter in reluctant approval, “Uh… yeah, sure… not a bad idea. Thanks Danny.” What the hell? What ever happened to “Let’s sneak into his room and put shaving cream on his hand.” Oh yeah, I’m talking about Erik here. I don’t think he’d be Disturbed Dan, no mention of a horse’s head or even horses on his Facebook profile. Though a run down of his interests, he may not be too far. I can totally see the level of punishment in store. It’s going to be in a room without any windows but the roof will be gone revealing the clear midnight sky. I’d be tied to a chair in the middle of the room begging. He’d listen to some of my requests but cackle at the others. It’s kinda like a scene from the Reservoir Dogs, but he’s dressed like a circus clown parading around the room with his kendo stick. Every 15 minutes or so, he’ll scream out a mathematical equation, breaking the soothing Pink Floyd mix playing in the background, and striking me for every incorrect answer. Alot of times there wouldn’t even be an answer and I’d ask “What? Is that even a problem? It kinda sounds like a theory!” But all I’d get is a mouthful of bamboo. “Wrong, that was the Pythagorean theory!” He’d say cleaning his shinai. The only times I wouldn’t get hit during his circling sessions would be times when he runs up to me and flips out Escher postcards and with wild eyes he’d say “You see, the stairs, they just keep going, I mean look, it just goes up and up, no end. No end at all. It doesn’t make sense does it?” Then he’d stoop down, gazing into my eyes, he’d whisper, “I heart it!” With a sudden burst he’d run around the room laughing and pointing at the stars only to stop to watch animal planet on TV. I believe it would be a few minutes of this long awaited serenity before I would start crying. At that point, he’ll take his coffee break and do what he lives to do, breath and analyze. For he likes to people watch, and I think I qualify as people. Shortly he’d slowly start circling again and decide when to start the next round. How does one get free? Maybe if a thunderstorm came close by. I dunno, but I’m scared, really scared.

So this letter is to the members of the The Undeniables who have been hazed. I implore you to please come out and save me. I can’t endure what you must have endured. As for any reciprocation you demand for your pain and hardship, please be considerate and do it on your own time. I really hate whiners.

p.s. – if you’re Edren or Erik, Elaine made me write this. I think The Undeniables are a great and peaceful group and we should have outfits like The Incredibles.

Letter #27

Dear United States Armed Forces,

If I ever get drafted into the military, I’d like to be a combat weapon specialist. Unlike the common sniper, I believe my weapon specialties would be more effective both tactically and psychologically. I know the sniper already can lock down whole platoons and completely demoralize the unit. But you know, eventually if the platoon just waits a few days, the sniper would just get bored and start shooting at ducks, and then that’s when you get’em. So it got me thinking how I would best utilize my current skills to maximize my efficiency in your armed forces.

I was thinking maybe I shouldn’t be armed with the regulation supplies and arms. Maybe I’d work best armed with just a scythe. Imagine if you were asleep in your camp and I came in swinging a huge scythe around dressed in a long dark hooded cloak. You’d freak out right? You wouldn’t even reach for your gun because you’ll be like “Oh fuck, it’s Death, my gun would be useless.” Not exactly in those words, cause you may speak a different language, but it’s to that extent. Anyways, running wouldn’t be an option because at that point I’d slice off your feet and I’d bet that’d really hurt, even for a military guy. The whole camp would be in disarray. Once I finish the camp, I’d look for their tank, hop in, and drive their tank to their HQ. All the soldiers there would surround the tank because they’d get no response form the radio. But once I jump out with my scythe, everyone there would freak out just the same and it’ll just be a bloodbath. I’m sure the higher ranking officers would be confused too because no where in their training would be on how to deal with Death. Being smart and all, they may stay calm and think they’re safe as long as their name isn’t on Death’s list, but what they don’t know is that I’m not really Death and I have no list. I’d probably have a bit of fun and ignore them and then come back. I’d think we’d both get a little laugh out of it, before I attack with my scythe. Of course, the only flaws in this plan is that I have to attack at night and would need a ride to the enemy camp, cause I’m only good for a five mile hike.

Maybe I can just be a super ninja the U.S. Armed Forces can call upon at time of need and you’d call me Snake Eyes. Not exactly like the G.I. Joe cartoon, cause I wouldn’t dress in all black and wear that visor thing. More or less, my outfit would be in all white with a red cobra on my chest. Yeah, kinda like Storm Shadow, but Storm Shadow is a commie, and we don’t like commies. So I’d just look like him yet you’d call me Snake Eyes. Unless you REALLY do want to call me Storm Shadow, at that point, I wouldn’t mind. Just make sure I have alot of shuriken, or what I’d like to call ninja stars of death, because nothing strikes fear into the enemy like a shuriken to the head, or two. Endless pleas would go on and on, “Oh bloody hell, not another shuriken! Please for the love of God!” Swarms of enemy forces would turn themselves in and you’d know they’re the enemy when you a shuriken lodged into their forehead. I believe I’d live up to the ‘Shock and Awe’ doctrine.

Until I hear back form you, I’ll continue my training in the Bo Staff and sharpening my body into a lethal tool of destruction.