(Sidenote #1: The idea of achievement by a certain year of existence is something that fascinates me, mostly because of the deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse at the tender age of 27. Nothing more to say, just that the collective accomplishments of those five alone by the time they were twenty seven constitutes 130+ years of experience within a 5 year window of achievement. Impressive.)
SO
This week, I have taken the time to go over the gargantuan pile of fan mail that has started to pile up since the inception of this blog. Carefully sorted by my associate (and provided in a rumpled burlap sack that may or may not be used to transport aging rock stars over the border to Tijuana) I have gathered here twenty or so of the dozens of decadent emails that I have received over the course of this blog. While it pains me to say this, I regret not being able to fully answer every email that I receive. There are only so many hours in the course of one day, and you're lucky enough that I trust my associate to simply take your mail and pass it along to me. You don't understand the risks involved in that, my friends.
Without further ado, here are this quarter's emails. (As always, names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
Mr. Cook,
Don't you feel that using a mailbag as an entry only three months into setting up your blog is not only a cop-out of having to write an actual blog entry for the week, but also a megalomaniacal egotistical form of acting out for extra attention? Seriously, how many emails have you actually gotten regarding your stupid blog?
Sincerely, Confused in Chicago
Well, Confused, somehow you violated the space time continuum after reading the previous paragraphs, so I can only assume you're a remnant of the hideous events of the Super Bowl Halftime show of over a week ago. With that in mind, BACK YOU DEVIL.
In all seriousness, this is just my way to get your thoughts turned around back at you in a heinously inexpensive mirror twist that violates no aspects of my weekly column being prescribed reading for some of you. You get your column, I get my words out in copy, and we're all entertained for another week. So what harm is there in using you for my own means? Hell, Gandhi did it, and I'm not even arguing for independence. I'm simply arguing for a controlled license-granting of all peccary owners in Chicago. Too much to ask?
JTC,
Why in the hell should I have to have a permit to own a peccary? And how are peccaries going to mount an invasion of the North Side? Wouldn't honey badgers be the proper way to go?
ABC, Wrigleyville
Because it's fucking unnatural to own a wild pig, especially this far north, and in an urban context.
And honey badgers? Seriously? I still don't get the point.
(My associate assures me that actual badgers are still something that should be feared more than the honey badger. In that video, you see the badger get bitten by a cobra. A real badger would never allow that to happen, given the badger race's recent development and mass production of searing laser vision that would kill anything that moves (like a cobra) within twenty-five feet, reducing it to ashes. Or so my associate assures me.)
COOOOOOOK,
When are you coming back to the Cleve? We miss you here! Who else will go to the Root Cafe and listen to poor Charlie Moppett with us?
Yours Truly,
That Fucking Unicorn Lady
TFUL,
My last expedition to Cleveland was indeed a success in that it brought about the birth of this whole enterprise. For that, I will always be indebted to the Root Cafe. (And their seed drinks, which are FANTASTIC, BTW.) However, my roaming days are strictly limited for the time being. Funds are being procured for a massive continental tour during the coming summer months, and while Cleveland may be a stop on the tour, I can make no promises at this point in time. In the meantime, my regards to Charlie Moppett, and to the Root Cafe. If you're ever in Cleveland, make sure to check it out. Best Hippie Haven in the Rust Belt!
Hey James,
Love your blog! I really enjoyed your coverage of the Madonna halftime show! Gotta love the 80's! Do you have any thoughts about the recent death of Whitney Houston?
Ever yours,
Just Wants to Dance with Somebody in Indianapolis
I sincerely doubt that you actually read my blog, given that by the time of the halftime show, I was reduced to a drooling puddle of bourbon hiding behind the Professor's couch, protected by a Boxer-Shaped Pillow. That being said, yes, one must love the 80's. If one is to survive this, the only way is through hair metal.
As for the death of Whitney, my main thought is that now she will never know.
You bastard,
Don't you think it's too soon for jokes about someone's death?
Pissed Off in Connecticut
How are you bastards getting through the Space Time Continuum?! What is this, Back to the Fucking Future? STOP IT NOW.
Dear James,
Can you please explain your reluctance to use actual names within the context of your blog? How are we supposed to truly understand these people beyond the vague caricatures represented here? Don't you think you should expand the broad stereotypes that you're using here? I mean, come on, the Ginger? Don't you think you could be a little more specific?
Sincerely,
Blondie in San Antonio
Ah, the nicknames. Well, here's the story, Blondie. Because of pending litigation, I am unauthorized by various state boards of parole from using the full identity of any of the people contained within these escapades. The dangers of using their actual names/residencies/professional titles is so potentially filled with catastrophe that sometimes it seems better to not mention anyone within here at all. Good heavens, the lord knows that my associate is a known felon and wanted in four states for abuses of the system itself. If he were to be named here, the Feds would be on him faster than Spiro Agnew in a blender.
Dear Mr. Cool,
You seem to alternate between traveling around on the Red Line and the 147 Bus. Do you have any recommendations as to which mode of transportation you prefer to utilize? Or is there really no difference in whichever way you try to get around town?
Sincerely,
Stranded in Laketown
You know, it's funny. I just made my ultimate preference choice the other day after hearing the following story. So my friend (Let us call her the Mystery Lady for now, though I guarantee that this will change) was walking along the street, minding her own business, when all of a sudden, Battle:LA starts happening right in front of her. For those who don't know, that's that one unique movie where Aliens invade the world, and decide to do so by attacking Los Angelas, the one city that everyone in America would be secretly glad if it were utterly destroyed by alien invaders. Anyways, it actually starts happening right in front of her, and somehow Kurt Russell shows up. Only its not his character from Battle: LA, which actually doesn't exist in the first place, but Kurt Russell from "Big Trouble in Little China", which is a damn fine movie. He's talking to her, telling her to run down the street because those bastards are about to blow everything to kingdom come, when Sherman's army shows up. This may sound extreme, you say. Well, you'd be way fucking right, because she's runnind down the street from Union Army Alien invasion forces when the streets below her feet start convulsing through seismic activity stirred up in combination by the alien's antigravity engines that drive their spaceships and the combined Richter effect of so many 1860's-era sideburns and mutton chops showing up in one location all at once. This activity causes the prevalent natural gas beneath the streets of L.A. to spontaneously ignite, sending fireballs throughout the city sewers. These fireballs seek the only way out, which is every manhole cover along the streets of LA, and send the covers flying sky high into the air. One of these is located right under a bus, but rather than be stalled by the bus, it flies right through it like a knife through hot Barbara Streisand. It flies through the bus, causing an even bigger explosion that somehow thwarts the alien invasion, turns back Sherman, decapitates BTILC-era Kurt Russell, and knocks the Mystery Lady flat unconscious.
Later, she was asked in the hospital if she needed anything. Given the improbable scenario that she had managed to live through, all she could stammer out was a weak and desperate cry for "life-fulfilling sex". The nurse laughed, replied "you're funny", and left. Without even trying to fulfill her patient's request.
The moral of the story is that this is why health care reform is necessary.
James,
Can you shed a little light on your associate please? He's a horribly vague character, and while he seems to be charming and resourceful enough, you don't really go into much detail. What's he like? What is his story? What could he have possibly done to warrant such non-disclosure of his actions and locations? If you could contact our hotline at our website, we'd very much appreciate the chance to discuss him further with you.
Sincerely,
Not the CIA
Dear Not the CIA,
 |
| This. |
 |
| Plus this surly bastard. |
 |
| This, somehow. |
 |
| About five of these. |
Dear Mr Cook,
When will you get around to actually writing something well thought out, of consequence, and of great importance?
Larry King, CNN
Mr. King.
I missed the annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, otherwise I'd have written about that. I'm sure salukis are relevant.
Sir,
What are your predictions for Tim Tebow's upcoming NFL season? Will he or won't he be a difference maker? I find myself desperately in need of your opinion.
Yours truly,
John Elway, Denver, CO
PS. Gingers are stoopid.
Dear #7,
Personally, I don't trust Tim Tebow any farther than I can throw him. Anyone with as big of daddy issues as he has got should be dressed in a mini-skirt and twirling around the bars on Clark and Division like a madwoman. Do not, I repeat and stress DO NOT PLACE YOUR OFFENSE IN HIS HANDS. This will only end in pain, tears, and the coming apocalypse of the NFL as we know it.
PS. I concur. Gingers ARE stoopid. Especially when tall and lanky.
James Tiberias Cook
When do I get my royalty payments? I loaned you that name for purely academical reasons. You said it would be your stage name, and I assumed you would never work in this town again. What gives? Who said you could make a living off of my name? Don't you know who the hell I am? I'm JAMES TIBERIAS KIRK YOU INGRATEFUL ASSHOLE! PAY UP SUCKA!
Love and affection,
William Shatner, LA
Dear William,
Ah, Slick Willie, Big Willie Style, Bill. If you think I'm getting paid for this, you're really more out of your tiny little mind than I already gave you credit for. If that's the case, I demand my money back from you, you arrogant bastard!
Mr Cook,
Our records indicate that your last payment was declined. Because of this, a $25.00 late fee will be credited to your account. Your balance due will include the missed payment of $25.00, plus the given late fee, plus your next monthly balance. Pay up, sucka.
Sincerely,
Retail Credit Authority
(I turned to my associate, hand feeding me live paper straight from the fax machine. "You asshole! I said EMAILS! Not bills!"
He looked at me, confused. "That was an email. You signed up for paperless statements!"
"No, you cretin! NOT BILLS. I don't care if it's an email, I just don't want any bills!"
He handed me a sheet of medicine that looked like Pez. "Here, take this. I advise you to write at full tilt for the next hour. You'll be lucky if you don't end up as a raving madman by the end of this post." Without hesitation, I ingested the substance, taking another pull from the Bloody Mary sitting besides my desk. My associate turned his attentions back to monitoring the fax machine, occasionally brandishing a large hunting knife in its general vicinity to keep it honest. Cowed, the machine humbly resorted to blinking its error lights while still spewing four pages a minute.)
Mr Cook,
Your second post dealt with the lack of social communication within Starbucks. You have also commented upon the inability of streetgoers to even acknowledge the homeless people begging for money. How do you feel this reflects upon our ever decreasing social capacity as humans, given the influx of more introverted technology to the world?
Arlen in Stanford.
Dear Arlen,
Poorly.
Love, James
Dear James,
Why do you never mention the great state of Montana in all of its glory? We loved having you, and we miss you something fierce. Why don't you tell of your exploits there?
Love,
Lodge.
Dear Lodge,
I thought I left you behind for a reason. If you were not aware of what I was doing, let me be clear and frank: we abandoned your ass in Missoula for a reason. Leave us the fuck alone.
Love,
James
Dear T-Pain,
When will your new single come out?
Sincerely,
A Fan in Memphis
(I looked carefully at my associate, knifing through the fax machine.
"This gibberish is meant for someone else! Where the hell are you getting this from?" I asked.
"It just comes out," he replied. "This is an arbitrary process. I have no control over what the machine is doing. If it wanted to send you Boris Yeltsin in a bikini, all we can do is simply ask if it wants a wax job or not. There's nothing else to be done."
"Fine," I said. "Just give me another hit of whatever it is you've got there. I need more for the records."
"You sad fuck," he groaned. "If I give you anymore, you're liable to blow through the god-damn roof! Stay away from that shit, it's twice as potent as Toradol!"
"The hell with your Toradol!" I bellowed, grabbing the container from him and cramming its contents down my gullet. A telltale gurgle warned me of the displeasures to come, but it was too late. I'd already committed to the mission, and it was my obligations as a detailed blogger to see it through to the bitter end. My associate, shaking his head, tickled the fax machine with the knife, dragging out another email and impaling it onto the desk next to me.)
Dear JTC esq.
We are delighted to see that you will be attending "Aida" on March the 6th at 7:30 pm. We look forward to having you there. If you have any questions, please visit our website, or give our box office a call at 312.332.2244 ext. 5600.
Regards,
Lyric Opera of Chicago.
Ooooohhhhhhhhh, this is bad news. I will be sending my associate to this one. I have a bad feeling about this, bad vibrations all around. He'll know what to do far better than I.
Dear JTC,
What will your next blog entries detail?
A reader in Bowling Green, OH
I'm glad you asked. t this point, given the nature of the way that I operate, how I'm given a typical work schedule, and the times that make themselves available to me without being consumed by the truly weird, I am SHIFTING MY BLOG PUBLICATION DAYS TO WEDNESDAYS.
Trust me, it's a better idea to do that than ask for half-baked conceptions of nothing on days that I can't even bring my mind to half-cocked conceptions of reality.
UPCOMING ENTRIES:
1. My First Gainful Employment Post-College Career
2. Either an Oscar Recap or Something About "The Descendants"
3. A Review of the Lyric Opera's Production of "Aida" by my Associate (His auspicious debut.)
4. The Tragic End of My First Gainful Employment Post-College.
How's that?
(My associate shakes his head sadly. "You poor bastard. Wait til those damn elephants start trekking their way through the writing desk.")
Dear JTC,
What would you say is your greatest source of influence in writing this blog?
An Aspiring Blog Writer in North Carolina
Pure luck and true grit. And three hours to kill in a given day.
(At this point, the world started getting weird once more. The shapes and modes of life began to fade and swirl in a vortex of pain and obsequious dinner plates asparagus jdhfeuy9hddjhdjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj -
"Too much! Too Much!")
My apologies.
Having shattered any sense I had remaining of which was was up and down, as well as the given hour of the day, I feel that it is in my best interest, and yours good reader, to prematurely draw this post to a close. However, I'd like to thank you all for writing in, and for those of you with more questions, feel free to email me at james.t.cook07@gmail.com. Until next time, I must away. My associate beckons me, and it looks like he has Pez.
And we can't let that just go unobserved, now can we?
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