Depart from evil, and do good; seek peace, and pursue it.
Psalms 34:14

 Lake Michigan didn’t smell like this, I thought, as we ventured closer. I remember the day I spent on the shore of the Lake, with the Chicago skyline behind me, traipsing between the water and the sand. I could see the sunset of that evening in my memory, the way my shadow looked, stretching along the sand in the last bits of sunlight. It was beautiful. But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t this…

From here, the world was an ocean. All I could see is water and coastline, and ahead, the Manhattan skyline. The bright, cool, clear day allowed a gorgeous view of the city. The array of buildings appeared almost natural, like distant, humongous metallic trees. They looked as though the earth thrust them skyward like other natural things: flowers, mountains, and vines. The Twin Towers glistened in the sunlight. Their equal stance so far away made them appear scalable, like rectangular mountains. The Verrazano Bridge’s suspension towers glowed their light blue that day, but the huge rivets that hold it together that I’ve seen so many times up close were too far away to be seen now. The Empire State building tapered into the sky, it’s distinct shape giving it away. I nearly cried.

The characteristic noise of the city was silenced here, making it look idealized, the way I had seen it on postcards. “Ideal Beach” is given new meaning. The expansive city looked small, quiet, like it was its own island kingdom; the bay and rivers its moat, keeping out kids who grew up like we did. Kids who will always look at the city and think they would be better for being there, and not here, on this side of the moat. I could feel drawn to it, watching it, hearing the waves crash against the solid place where I stand.

Here Is New York

Every once in a while I’ll check out possible replacements, but I just can’t do it. I just wanted to let you know.

What happened? Oh, nothing. It was raining. Raining. I was pissed. A friend texted me and asked what my plans were. By 7 pm I realized that the rain was certainly not snow and I should go out. The nagging suspicion that you had planted in my mind haunted me all night. On my way home the salt trucks were out and I thought – this is it. It is coming.

Sunday morning I woke up to some ice on my car, and again, I was pissed. On and off on Sunday I watched the news for the weather. Every single time, we got absolutely no information. None. Nothing of substance.

Here’s how every newscast happened:

Hairdo #1: Wow, the Bears won. Who knew? Roll that footage of drunk fans, just one more time!

[Fucking stupid tape of Bears fans celebrating in the parking lot of Solider Field]

Hairdo #2: Oh my, looks like fun! 

Hairdo #1: Cold fun!

Hairdo #2: (dead serious) And how cold will it get? Weatherman McBlowme will tell us how terrible the commute will be tomorrow – because there’s a good chance your commute will mean death.

I began to get frustrated.  But then I thought, you know what? I would love to be you. I would love to have a job where I could basically make up whatever story I wanted and broadcast it across a major metropolitan area.

Let me do a little run down of what you told me and the rest of Chicago what would happen tomorrow. Note the descrepancies:
NBC
Monday: Cloudy , snow showers early, falling temps, windy, 30 down to 25
ABC
Monday: High of 31, Low of 18, Snow gradually ends through the day.
CBS
Martin Luther King Jr Day – Light snow in the morning…then a chance of flurries in the afternoon. Snow accumulation up to 1 inch…total storm accumulation around 2 inches. Highs around 30. Northwest winds 10 to 20 mph. Chance of measurable precipitation 90 percent.
WGN
Martin Luther King Jr Day…Light snow in the morning…then a chance of flurries in the afternoon. Snow accumulation up to 1 inch…total storm accumulation around 2 inches. Highs around 30. Northwest winds 10 to 20 mph. Chance of measurable precipitation 90 percent.

I hope you’ll see that CBS and WGN were exactly the same. Which is concerning in it’s own right. I didn’t even bother with the local Fox affliate because blood started shooting out of my nose.

I guess I never realized science could be so relative. I have realized, however, that I am not the kind of person who should watch more than one newscast per day.

Oh hey, guys, next time I’m going to find you. And when I do, I’m going to beat you with your little clickers until you bleed.

 Exactly how much dough to you rake in on this racket? Because that’s what it is. A complete racket. Like, a shake down. Everyday you’re asking consumers: You want to have teeth in your head? Look like normal people? Have breath that’s delicately minty and not a concealed weapon? Pay up, suckers.

How can you sleep on your Egyptian cotton sheets in your mansions at night knowing you just charged people $3.59 for a tube of toothpaste? $3.59! That’s only about a dollar away from a pack of cigarettes! And to boot, your product claims are almost never true. You feed the consumers so much bullshit about whitening and cavity prevention and magic and unicorns and Jesus-is-coming and we keep buying this shit – because to be socially acceptable (at least in most locales) we have to! In the grand hierachy of rip-offs you are definetly third; there’s the diet industry, the bridal industry and you, toothpaste companies.

I think you should give toothpaste away for free, as a public service. And not just at the dentist’s office, nice try asshole, we already get floss. You should be required toothpaste away the way they give away condoms for free at Student Health Centers. Because, really, without the toothpaste, who is going to need the condoms? It’s the chicken and the egg fellas, better wise up.

Naturally, at McDonalds, I felt it completely necessary – and furthermore, important – to wear one of the child-sized bibs. I wore it the whole way back to campus in the Ford Taurus. Our parking lot was at the football stadium, because so was our dorm. This meant we had to cross a major intersection to get back to our dorms. No Big Deal, we surmised, after all, we can run.

So when it was safe, we ran across six or so lanes of traffic, screaming. My bib flipped into my mouth as I ran and screamed. I suddenly couldn’t breathe. Despite my panic, I reached the other side of the road. When I stopped, of course the bib came out of my mouth and I took jagged gasps of air. My eyes were teary and I tried to tell my friends that the fucking bib was in my mouth. My friends looked at me in a combination of shock and pity. I ripped off the bib and threw it.

Later that evening we were recounting the incident I just described. One of my friends said, consolingly, “Oh, you’re like our Retarded Sister and we love you!”

And so, from that day forward I was known as Tard Sis. During my college years, this is what I was most often referred to. Some people only knew me as Tard Sis. Things around me ended up with a “Tard” prefix. Examples would be “Tard Slums” (crappy duplex I lived in one year), “Tard Mobile” (mode of transport), “Tard Majhal” (nice apartment I lived in for two years).

In fact, to this day I am referred to as “Tard Sis”. I can’t shake you. I thought that once I graduated it would be over. Luckily now, most people use “Sis” which is alright, although I do have a few friends who will greet me as Tard Sis. Most of the time, I’m ok with you, because I think nicknames are a term of endearment. But there are times where I wish I wasn’t Tard Sis.

Either way, I guess your mine, huh?

And it makes me fucking crazy. Not only do I seethe with jealousy because you’re soooo in love, but I am filled with rage to see the height differential. Again. Again!

I realize that you can’t just like, custom-order the perfect person. Alright, you sort of can with like a mail-order bride and shit, but still. Unless you’re taking Russian classes Saturday mornings at your local community college, how good of a match was it, really? Anyway, sometimes you can just fall in love, regardless of height considerations. I can understand that. But I am unable to do it. Height is my critical must-have requirement. Everything else is reasonably more negotiable.

I would ask though, to consider the tall girls before making your final decision. My beef isn’t with your girlfriend, it’s with you. You know, there are plenty of us to choose from. A lot of us are sick of wearing flats and kicking off our shoes to take pictures with our current boyfriends because we look silly to tower over them. Not all of us play for the WNBA, you know. I’m like 5’10″ barefoot, so how the fuck am I supposed to look like a lady next to a dude who is 5’7″?

What about being able to reach things, huh? Putting up curtains? You can actually get help from a tall girl. Hey, can your stupid 5’2″ girlfriend get to the cabinet over the fridge? I bet not. I bet she has to get a chair. And then she’s got to get you to get the cake pans, because she still can’t reach, right?

I hope you’re happy reaching for the cake pans, buddy. Me and the tall girls are going to put up some motherfucking curtains without you.

PS: This letter is almost THREE YEARS OLD. PLEASE KNOCK IT OFF – I don’t give a flying shit about your opinion on this matter. Suck it. Comments are CLOSED!

You know what’s even more infuriating? Watching your DSL commercial – which I know is a complete load of horse shit – while I’ve got my hand in some crevasse, fishing out a wire I’ve lost. All of this effort just so I can see all the people who haven’t emailed me.

This happened for two nights in a row, you know. Sunday and Monday night I found myself asking God if this was a test. Perhaps something about tenacity or burgeoning internet addiction.

I’m just saying, if happens again, you’ll know that hunk of burnt, steaming plastic in front of your offices is my modem – you sons of bitches.

Let me kick some knowledge about this song. It’s mostly the singer of the band talking about possibly the most depressing New Year’s Eve ever. That in and of itself is enough to get me to love a song. As you already may know, I have a history of some of the worst New Year’s in recorded history. When we meet the singer, he is drinking alone in his Boston apartment, waiting for the ball to drop. His is convinced that the ice in Boston is deceptive and relates that he slips on it every time. He strips naked in his kitchen and pours champagne all over himself then proceeds to take a phone call from his mother. Later, he is relating a story about meeting someone and makes the following claim – quite possibly my favorite lyric of all time:

So I guess the party line is I followed you up here.
Well, I don’t know about that.
Mainly because knowing about that would involve knowing some pathetic, ridiculous, and absolutely true things about myself that I’d rather not admit to right now.

If everything that I have mentioned so far makes you not-so-sad to have missed this band in concert, let me tell you this story:

I saw The Dismemberment Plan on their farewell tour in 2003 on what was possibly the hottest night of my entire life. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more uncomfortable. The night I listened to one of my friends have sex above my head was more comfortable. A few friends and I drove to St. Louis for the show. It was a very, very small venue – the size of an small dive bar. My roommate and I were shuttled into a holding pen (literally, it was fenced in) for people who were over 21. Our friends who were with us were not so 21 and ended up slammed near the front of the room. We were sweating so much that not only did we have sweaty armpits, but we appeared as though we were hosting our own wet t-shirt contest for really gross people. If this place had air conditioning, it was under-utilized. And the concert hadn’t even started yet. We left, briefly, during the opening act and had a beer in the bar next door, where 300 teenagers and 21 year olds weren’t crammed next to each other.

We returned to the show, which was fantastic, despite the sweating. During “Ice of Boston”, which even then was one of my favorite songs, they invited fans to come on stage. Of course, tonight all these fans were drenched in sweat. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen 50 slippery people go completely ape shit on a stage that was barely big enough for the band, but I got to that night. 

For you, because I consider you friends, I offer this small gift. An mp3 of a live rendition of “Ice of Boston”. May it make you want to wish you were one of the slippery people onstage that night.

PS: If that little thinger doesn’t work up there, you can stream all the Dismemberment Plan’s amazing albums here.

9/17/10 PPS: This letter is being re-run in honor of The Dismemberment Plan’s reunion tour, which unfortunately does not include the Midwest at this time. MY FINGERS ARE CROSSED, because that would be awesome.

I was always sort of ambivalent toward Green Day, even though my brother’s heart was set alight by the mere thought of them. I saw them once or twice in college and was happy I got to before they died or broke up or I don’t know, sold their souls to make you, the American Idiot musical.

Journalist I ain’t, but when I saw a medley of this travesty on America’s Got Talent (I don’t want to talk about why I was watching this show, I just want to know how two British people and the guy that made up “Bobby’s World” can tell America who’s talented), I had to research into exactly why I was assaulted so.

I assumed that Green Day must have signed some unfortuate contract many, many years ago when the rent was hard to come by and their tour van had broken down. I had to believe that. There must be a major-label contract out there that said, Oh yeah, in about 15 years or so, we’re going to pervert some of your material into a mess of dance numbers and prolonged solos and then show it on America’s Got Talent, well, because by then there will only about 15 people who don’t believe you sold out and that will take care of them.

That’s when I discovered you were actually their idea. You were their idea. You were their idea. No, really, you were their idea.

I was aghast. And not because I held Green Day in some regard as a cultural touch point. But because you were so, wrong. I could fathom that there has ever been a person in the history of history, musical theater enthusiast or not, who would have believed this was a great idea. I have made poops better than the shit I heard coming out of the television set.

I could just end this letter by saying, “Who is the real American Idiot? Us or you?” Bu you know what, I don’t care to know the answer.

I was thinking about my door recently after picking up my father from the airport. I neglected to inform him the passenger side door handle has been in a state of broke for some time. Obviously, he was inquisitive.

I let him know that you are the fire engine bringing up the rear of the asshole parade of guys I have dated. Except there is no Santa on your fire engine. No good tidings of a Merry Christmas. Just the burning shame of bad decision making.

I went out with you twice. Once we went to a local downtown area and walked around, had coffee and chatted. We drove separately to our second date, dinner and a movie. After dinner, during which you explained to me you had quit your job as a special ed teacher without having another job to replace it, we drove to the movie theater.

It was windy, late May or so and quite nice out. I didn’t particularly care to see Don’t Mess with the Zohan, but I’m not above it, either. I got out of my car and heard your car door SLAM. BANG. Right into the side of mine.

This goddamned idiot just dented my car, I thought and came around to the side.

You were sheepish and apologetic and I say, “Don’t worry, it’s alright.”

I touch the door to inspect the dent, which was minimal.

PING. AND A PIECE OF MY EVER-LOVING CAR FALLS OFF. A PIECE OF THE EFFING DOOR HANDLE.

I am mad. I should have just left. I should have just walked away and cut my losses.

I joked, “Is this how you impress all your dates?” It was a joke, because I don’t really think you impressed many dates.

Instead of walking away at this point, I went into the movie anyway. I don’t know why. I just don’t. Was this the desperation I had heard about. I wasn’t that desperate? Could you smell it on me that I was desperate? Oh God. I was desperate.

In the theater, you proceeded to touch me. My stiffened posture, I guess, was more alluring than I believed it would me. You know when they describe The Grinch? And how cuddly he is? That was what I was going for.

Nevertheless, your enthusiasm was startling. I’ve been on plenty of dates in my life and I had never met anyone like you. Not in a good way.

When you wanted to hold my hand, you wove it into you chubby, sweaty hand and took hold of it. I tried to get out of it, because I just wanted to go home. I was truly in awe and part of me wanted to find out if anyone could think that making a piece of my door handle ping off could make another person feel romantical.

I found my answer moments later when my hand was placed squarely on your junk. Perhaps you didn’t mean it, perhaps you did. I didn’t know what to do so I just sat there trying to get my hand back. This is part where my friends say, “How is it possible that you did not simply grab, twist and pull?” Or “I don’t even know you. You would never let someone get away with that.”

All my struggle was futile. An eternity later, you let go. My hand flew back into my side like a sling shot. You didn’t try it again.

Nor would you ever get the chance. I never called you again, did I? You know what, that felt good. I remember you trying to get in touch with me until you finally got the message. I DO NOT LIKE MEN WHO BREAK MY DOOR HANDLE AND THEN ATTEMPT TO HAVE ME MASSAGE THEIR BITS IN A PUBLIC PLACE. You’d think that was an unspoken, societal code. Not for you.

The best part is, you unfriended me on Facebook because you got married. That’s ok, because I got to tell my side of the story. I hope that you and your wife are happy, because I’m totally cuter.