Dear Weather Forecast

Dear Weather Forecast,

I know I only saw you a few minutes ago, but I thought I'd write some things that are on my mind. They probably aren't anything you haven't heard a million times before, but I still feel the need to put them to paper.

You drive me absolutely crazy. Although I have learned over the course of my life that you are almost NEVER reliable, I still check you obsessively - multiple times a day. Not only do I have a special WeatherMenu program that automatically shows the current temperature and forecasts at all times, but my home page on this computer is the AccuWeather website, with the 5-day predictions for Portland. And I STILL find the need to manually check other forecasts on the computer, as well as finding your section in the Oregonian (newspaper) every day at school.

And why? When was the last time I could really rely on you from ANY source? On the nice days recently, it has consistently gotten much warmer than you said it was going to - leaving me with too many layers. However, on the crappier days, you overshoot the temperature and amount of rain. I can't even always trust you to be correct for TOMORROW. According to my various sources, it should be cloudy and rainy tomorrow, reaching about 58 degrees at the highest. But what will really happen?

So why this obsession with the weather and checking you multiple times a day? It seldom brings me any pleasure. When you tell me that I should be expecting nice, sunny weather, I just grumble to myself that you're always wrong, and there's no way it's going to happen. But if it does, I'm not as excited as I should be because you predicted it, and if it's crappy, I'm MORE depressed because you said it would be nice. When you tell me it's going to be crappy weather for a while, I decide to more or less believe you and then get upset about THAT - getting depressed about the weather days in advance.

And I check these forecasts multiple times a day - as if you're going to suddenly and drastically change and become what I want you to be; keeping in mind, of course, that were this to really happen, I wouldn't believe you. It's absolutely insane. I don't know why I do it. And I don't think I used to do this. Is it the ease in which I can get you now? Before the internet, I would have to watch the news on tv or flip through a daily newspaper to find you. Now, I can get you in a number of different ways.

It might be the simple ease. But I've had the internet a long time, and I don't think I started being so obsessed with you until relatively recently. In fact, I downloaded my first "Weather Watcher" program onto my work computer when I was at the VA Hospital. Why was that? Probably because my boss always talked to me about the weather and when the rains would end, how nice the summer here was, etc. So perhaps it's this PLACE.

The weather affects me so strongly here, so I am naturally inclined to want to know what it will be like in advance, so I can work to limit its effects. If I know that it's going to be more crappy weather, I can plan accordingly and stock up on mindless movies or books to curl up with or snacks and sweets to munch on. If it's going to be nice, I can make sure my bike tires are inflated or there are some new-ish tennis balls around, so I can get the hell outside. Maybe that's it.

Although any of this preparation that I could take care of based on knowing the weather in advance is mitigated by your horrible inaccuracy and my mistrust of what you tell me. Since I don't believe a word you say, I'm much less inclined to actually DO any of those things I mentioned in the previous paragraph. When you said that we were going to get snow, I laughed in your face and completely disregarded you - not even taking a minute to ponder what I would do in case of a snow day. And, as usual, you failed to deliver, and my beliefs were reinforced yet again.

Which brings us back to the initial question. WHY am I so obsessed with you? It seems that there IS no logical answer. I am simply crazy and obsessive about this one particular thing, and nothing can explain it properly. No matter how hard I try, I cannot shake my need to "know" what tomorrow's weather will be - even if I don't trust that prediction when I see it (four different times today). And, I fear, I never will.

I know you're no good for me. I know that you're not to be trusted. I know that I shouldn't let you toy with my emotions as I do. But knowing something and being able to follow up on that knowledge are two totally different things. And so -

I'll see you soon.

All Twisted Up Inside,
CVT

Dear Spring Cleaning

Dear Spring Cleaning,

I sit down to write this as my roommate (Chris) finishes up a complete makeover of our backyard, and I enjoy the congestion from snuffing pounds of dust while cleaning my room. I hope this doesn't give me a sinus infection (since I was already a little stuffed-up before I began).

Anyway, I'm writing you to say that you really are a great idea. I didn't really want to spend the time on you (I actually ended up cleaning my room because I was avoiding helping Chris do the yard), but I ended up getting sucked in, and now I have this huge sense of satisfaction from a job well done. Everything is back in its rightful place - organized and beautiful - and my carpet is not only visible, but CLEAN. The dust that gathered all winter has been battled and vanquished, and my bed has been spun around and tucked into a new corner of my room, giving me a different perspective on life when I lie down. Sunlight can be my reading light, now. The wall will snuggle me as I rest.

I can't help but keep looking over my shoulder to see my handiwork (yup, the carpet is clean). Uh - huh, my bed is made and situated nicely. I opened up a nice space in the middle of my room for pacing or what-not. I wish I could share this beauty with another soul, but nobody but myself can really appreciate the many pleasurable hours this cleanness will bring me, anymore. It feels FRESH and NEW, and I'm actually looking forward to bedtime, so I can really appreciate the new set-up. It's the little things.

And then there's our backyard - it's hard to explain the change that Chris has wrought on that thing to somebody that hasn't lived here. It looks like a whole landscaping crew came in and spent the weekend doing all the back-breaking chores that no home-renter would ever do on their own. But he did it all - in one day. It has that same new, fresh feel to it. Suddenly, I look around that yard and think of all the possibilities. Imagining sunnny, warm days out in the backyard. Talking to my roommates about tearing up and then rebuilding the deck (and being serious about it). It gives that whole area a new lease on life. I look forward to next weekend, thinking about just being outside, in my backyard.

Up until now, nice days at home are hard to fully appreciate because there's nowhere around the house that I could go to bask in the warmness (without feeling disgusting for my surroundings). But now, that's all changed. Springtime - a season of renewal and rejuvenation. And here in Portland - that is true to the point of being an understatement.

It makes me want to go crazy and just clean everything that can be cleaned in my life. Go wash my car, clean out my classroom, my storage closet. Find all the secret, dirty nooks and crannies in the house and suck the dust out with a vacuum hose. Maybe that's part of my need for Fresh Fruits and Vegetables - I need to Spring-Clean my insides, too. And I have done that today with some veggie-tastic, home-cooked meals. If only I hadn't cut my hair last weekend, I would do it right now.

Cleaning seems like such an f-ing chore when you're on the other side of it - but AFTERWARDS? Well, it's a sweet, sweet blessing.

I finally get it. People always talk about you, Spring Cleaning, but I never really subscribed to that philosophy. I didn't want to put in that kind of heavy effort. But now I get it. Thank you for showing me the light. And thank you, Chris, for doing such a great job on the backyard (as well as making me feel guilty about not doing any cleaning, which led me to do my room).

Okay - I just hacked on some dust. I guess that will take a few more hours to settle. But I'm still excited.

Fresh,
CVT

Dear Fresh Fruits and Vegetables

Dear Fresh Fruits and Vegetables,

Wow. Sometimes, you are just so necessary. I may not have believed that as a small child, but I definitely understand that now. The CRAVING I get for you sometimes, and just how great it feels to have you after that - that's what it's all about.

This past week wasn't the best one for me, diet-wise. I had a lot of long days at work, and when that happens, I usually eat A LOT of whatever is in the staff fridge (leftovers from the kids' lunches). This week, what was in the fridge was a gigantic bowl full of burrito fillings: chicken, beans, cheese. Of course, there were no tortillas left over, so I just filled up smaller bowls of this stuff, threw in some sour cream, and ate it with a fork. Doing that one time is fine. Doing that multiple days in a row isn't the best thing for your gut.

But that wasn't all. Because, on two of those nights, I ended up meeting up with friends straight after work, and they wanted to get food both times. So one night I had sushi (which was actually quite wonderful* but wholly unnecessary on a full stomach) followed by gelatto, and the other I had Thai food (some spicy curry and Pad Kee Mao). Again - both on full stomachs (full of beans and meat). So let's just say that my stomach has been a-grumblin' a lot this week.

And so, to top it all off last night, I barbecued with Matt. A dinner of steak, chicken drummettes, red pepper absolutely WALLOWING in vinegar and oil, and asparagus. Yes - the asparagus falls into your category (and it made my pee smell funny), but it just wasn't enough. My colon has been absolutely DEPRESSED, and I think it was affecting my brain, as well.

So finally - tonight I loaded up on you. A big-ass salad with all sorts of ruffage-tastic foods mixed in. For a snack tonight (instead of the Pop Tarts I've been sprinkling in at night as my dessert) I got me some grapes. And I have to say - it feels REALLY good. I feel like a new man.

I'm seriously looking forward to tomorrow morning when I get to live the FULL benefits of your addition to my life.

So - again - thank you. You can most definitely be magical (and a life-saver).

On a quick side-note (speaking of asparagus got me thinking about this) - can you imagine how popular a food-item that changed the color of your pee would be with children (or 26 year-old males)? My boss from the VA Hospital told me that there was some medication that had a side-effect of turning your urine bright blue - how cool would THAT be? If you were trying to encourage people to drink more fluids, I think different-colored pee would be a definite incentive. And if you could change that up and have various other colors? Holy CRAP. If there's somebody out there that wants to get in on this with me, let's do it.

I also think a line of different-colored Two Thousand Flushes Blue (or green, or red, or whatever) tablets to go with it would be a perfect match. Encourage your children to aim better by telling them that their blue pee with the red toilet water should make purple if they're doing their job. Imagine all the possibilities: party themes, skills contests, you name it.

I think it's time I start experimenting with different chemicals and supplements . . .

Anyway - think about that, Fresh Fruits and Vegetables. But even if that particular dream can't come true, you know I'll always come back to you in the end (because my colon wouldn't allow anything else).

Relieved,
CVT

*For more details about the joys of eating sushi, see "Dear Raw Fish"

Dear PB & J

Dear PB & J,

It's funny how context changes everything, isn't it? The reason I'm asking you this is because of the phenomenon that you have become at my school.

See - although I NEVER eat you in any other context - every day at school I have you for lunch. Every single day. The reason behind this is because we only get really short (1/2 hour or less) lunches every day, and I'm actually still on for supervision during that time. Therefore, I get a very brief window of time to prepare my lunch. With that in mind, sometime towards the end of the year last year, I realized that the fastest (and cheapest) way to go was to get a ton of peanut butter (the chunky kind) and apricot jelly (it's generally two for $5 at Safeway - and apricot jelly makes the sandwich so very much better than your traditional jellies) and keep it in the school kitchen. When lunch comes, I slap some peanut butter on one slice of bread, apricot jelly on the other, and I'm good to go.

And you're a pretty wonderful quick-fix. Because you give me protein (which is good for brain energy, which I use a lot of during the second half of my day), carbohydrates (in the form of bread with nuts and oaty goodness), and straight sugar (in the jelly) which all combine to fill my belly, jump-start my brain, and give me enough energy to make it through the rest of the school day. You're also incredibly cheap (I probably spend about $10 a month - or less - on lunch at work).

So, over the course of this year, the kids have caught on to my little habit. As they love to be involved in every aspect of teacher life, they have turned my PB & J eating into a daily source of entertainment. They love to "predict" each day - "What are you having for lunch today - PB & J?" - and make jokes about how much I like you.

The newest line (which I pretty much encouraged) is that I'm in love with you and someday I'm going to marry you if you'll have me. But not yet.

Today, however, we took it to the next level. Another thing the kids like to talk about in regards to my eating of you is to ask me to make you for them to eat instead of whatever the school lunch is. I often pretend that I am opening a PB & J cart, and that I'll be selling you for extra cash on the side. Up to now, I haven't actually followed through. However, I DID make a promise to my students that if they were to promote to high school early (in our school, you earn "qualifiers" much like college credits, and can actually finish a grade early if you're doing really well), I would make them a you.

Well, today, that promise came through. For the first time, I made one of my students a you, and you would never believe the backlash. Not only was he so ridiculously excited (I watched him eat it, and he had absolute satisfaction written all over his face with every bite), but the rest of the kids began begging me for THEIR sandwich. I told one of them that he'd have to get HIS teacher to make him one, but he replied, "Nah - you're the one who knows how to make them" - as if I have mastered a difficult art to create you.

And so, suddenly, all sorts of kids are trying to make deals with me in order to earn a CVT-made PB & J at lunch. You have become the ultimate prize for certain middle school students at my school. And the student who earned you today became the object of jealousy because of his sandwich. Who would have ever thought that you could become a significant reward for graduating from middle school? Not a certificate, not money - an apricot jelly PB & J.

Such is the life of a middle school math teacher. Anything can become a coveted prize if it is difficult enough to obtain. I think that - as an experiment next year - I will attempt to turn a dirty sock into a sought-after reward. And I believe I could do it if I work the right angle (no pun intended).

And so, PB & J, I commend you. It is these kinds of little things that make my job so rewarding. I know a lot of teachers claim to do the work because they "want to make a difference in young people's lives." And there's nothing wrong with that, necessarily (although it's mostly misguided and a load of crap). But, for me, I do it because of the amazing opportunities for social psychology experiments and the absolute pleasure of seeing a kid beam with pride after receiving a PB & J as a prize for academic achievement.

You can't BUY that kind of joy.

Keep up the good work, and I'll see you next week.

Scheming,
CVT

Dear Smoothie

Dear Smoothie,

Today I made a version of you that was really quite delicious. Although, really, it was more like a milkshake. But you and milkshakes are related, so I kind of lump you together on this one. My reader can decide which one you were. I basically threw a bunch of milk and some vanilla ice cream in a bowl with a ton of strawberries, and then I just blended the crap out of all of it . . . Hmmm. You're right. That's not you, that's definitely a milkshake (hence the milk and ice cream).

Whatever. The important thing is that I thought of you while making this concoction, and I enjoyed it. It was a great salvage-job because I had bought four pounds of strawberries at the store and only eaten about half a pound before they started getting a little shady. Just before I threw them all out, though, my roommate Matt gave me the idea to make a you. However, I had no yogurt or bananas. But I DID have a bunch of old ice cream that was pretty freezer-burnt. Et voila - not you.

Anyway - none of this is the point. The point is that you haven't been popular all the time. I remember way back when the first Jamba Juice opened up around where I lived, and I was so appalled. A sort of cafe dedicated entirely to YOU? It seemed so new-age, yuppie, or LAME that it could never last. An obvious fad.

But it didn't turn out that way. That was well over ten years ago, and I think Jamba Juice still exists all over the place. Odwalla is popular. I don't know that I quite understand it.

But the thing is - you ARE pretty cool. There's something about the feeling of DRINKING a fruit that feels really satisfying. I would never EAT two pounds of strawberries in one sitting. I wouldn't even think of it. But, apparently, I AM willing to DRINK it. And that is the key. You make consuming mad amounts of fruit okay. How does that work? I should be totally sick to my stomach right now, but instead, I feel just fine. It's kind of an amazing thing.

So I guess it makes a little bit of sense. And because you're related to Milkshake, I suppose drinking you seems almost like a guilty pleasure - but you're actually healthy. That's f-ing HUGE in the female community. If you can convince a lady that she's "getting away" with something in the food department, then she's going to be a happy camper. I suppose I'll have to address the psychology behind all that in a separate letter someday.

As for the guys . . . I don't know if there's anything specific that would appeal to them about you. There's nothing manly about sipping a banana-mango-splash you through a straw. Although sipping anything from a straw automatically takes away any possible manliness from an activity, so that doesn't necessarily reflect on you.

I guess it's just the ladies that encourage the guys to drink yous.

Hmmm.

If you haven't noticed, I'm not particularly inspired to be writing about you right now. It's because you're really not that great, afterall. I was excited by my little milkshake today, but that wasn't a you. You are totally uninspiring to me. In fact, the more I write about you, the less I care for you. You're not so special at all. The only reason people like you is because they can say they're "drinking a fruit" when they have you, and that sounds so cutesie-pooh.

You DISGUST me, Smoothie. You're a blight on the world. Don't ever call me again.

Pfawww!!!
CVT

P.S. And what was up with that wheat-grass crap?!! Now THAT was some bullsh--.

Dear Time

Dear Time,

Man, there is never enough of you to do the things I want. For example, right now I'd like to do my part and write a post for my blog. On the other hand, I'm also ridiculously tired and need to get some sleep (and want to as soon as possible). So what should I do?

Lack of Motivation says, "Just go to bed, CVT."

But then Practice responds, "What about everything you said to me in that letter? Do your words mean nothing? How can you forget that so soon? You dirty, little . . ."

And I'm forced to bow down to my pride and try to push on by composing a new letter. And it's not like I don't have anything to say to you, Time. In fact, I have SO MUCH to say to you, it's pretty daunting. This might have to be a multi-part letter that is completed in separate installments.

I think this one will deal with your relativity. And when I talk about relativity, I'm not talking about Relativity, as in Einstein, but just how you seem to move faster and faster as I age. Come to think of it - that IS similar to the way Einstein meant it. But that doesn't matter. Moving along:

As I see it, every year seems a little bit shorter than the year before it (or faster, whatever you want to say about it). And I think that's pretty consistent, whether I'm "having fun" or not. So when I try to think about why, it seems that it would come down to relativity. The fact that, compared to my total amount of years lived at any one time, a year is shorter for every new year I live. Did I word that correctly?

In other words, as I finish off this year of my life, the year I just lived will be equivalent to 1/27th of my total life span. Thus, it will FEEL like 1/27th of my life. Now compare that to the year that had just passed when I turned SIX. THAT year was equivalent to 1/6th of my total life, and it FELT LIKE THAT. Because it was. So - each subsequent year lived is equivalent to less of your life, in relative terms.

And THAT is why time seems to go by faster as one ages - because every minute, every hour, every year is LESS TIME (in relative terms) than the one before it.

Now, I'm not really going to do all the math (although now I'm sorely tempted), but that works out to the fact that, in relative terms, I'm probably already past halfway through my life (assuming I get to die of old age). In YEARS, I may be only a third of the way through, but in FELT-TIME (relative time), it's been so much more. Because one year to a 4 year-old is so long. And one year to an 80 year-old just isn't. If we really want to break it down and say it all works in literal proportions, a year to an 80 year-old feels the same as 18 days to a 4 year-old.

If we want to compare my current life to that of my brother, this upcoming year I will live will be equivalent to 392 of HIS relative days. In relative terms, I get almost 30 extra days this year. One WHOLE MONTH. For my students, this year will feel like 704 of my days - almost TWO years for me. That means that I will watch two 8th grade classes move on to high school before I know what it feels like to spend the amount of time it takes ONE of those classes to get to the podium.

My last example: my students feel like my classes last FOREVER and are SO BORING because they last for the equivalent of almost two of my hours. I don't really know if I could sit still for two hours, either.

Is this making sense? Does this explain why people have so many issues with you, Time? It's not that young people are more impatient than older people, it's just that their time is lasting longer than older folks' time. A 40 year-old can wait for ten minutes for a bus without too much issue. And an 8 year-old can wait two minutes and feel the same. The amount of you they are waiting for the bus is equivalent, in relative terms. But make that 40 year-old wait 50 minutes for a bus, and we're going to have some problems. Same thing if you make that 8 year-old wait 10 minutes.

So, you see - different behaviors exhibited at different ages are actually much more attributable to the difference in FELT YOU than people might think. And maybe much less to maturity, and the like. A hungry 4 year-old is going to throw a fit if he doesn't get some food in the next 7 minutes, and I'm going to throw a similar fit if I wait 49 minutes.

Do you see? I don't think I really need to go on (even though it's fun to work out these calculations). I think it's pretty clear now. You, my friend, are much less cut-and-dry than people like to think. If people would think more in terms of relative time when dealing with people of different ages, it might just close down that so-called "generation gap" a little bit and foster understanding.

Next you I write, I will try to find an explanation for why you become so much more precious when I am driving a car. But that's for another day.

Now, it's you for me to get some sleep. Which brings up the question of - if you are proportionally relative to age, how come older people need LESS hours of sleep as opposed to MORE to compensate for the difference in relative you?

Wow. That's deep. Faux deep.

On that note, goodnight.

CVT

Dear Soda in a Glass Bottle

Dear Soda in a Glass Bottle,

Sometimes, certain things just make something more special than it would be otherwise. Like popcorn at a movie theatre. Or hot dogs from a hot dog stand (or at a sporting event). Or milk with chocolate-based baked goods. Or (drum-roll, please) . . .

YOU!!!

And by "you," I mean YOU, Soda in a Glass Bottle. Today, after school, I went to King Burrito with a couple other of my fellow middle school employees. And I needed it. I had had a long weekend after taking off Friday, but the kids were crazy during my last period, so I needed to blow off some steam and eat me some f-ing fantastic, greasy, Mexican food. Now, normally I tend to just get a cup of water to go with my food - because it's cheaper and more hydrating. But, as I waited in line, chatting with my fellow middle school employees, I noticed a young gentleman drinking something. You want to know what he was drinking?

PEPSI IN A GLASS BOTTLE!!!!

And it looked so goddamn refreshing, I couldn't believe it. The shape, the perceived heft and weight of the container, the look of the dark liquid in the bottle . . . it was too much. They had Coke in a Glass Bottle, too, of course, but - for whatever reason - I needed to have me some Pepsi in a Glass Bottle. And so, after ordering my two carne asada tacos (I'm drooling right now as I think about them), I threw my friendly cashier (always the same guy - and I always get either a carnitas burrito with extra avocado or a handful of asada tacos with - every time - a cup of water) for a loop and asked for a . . .

SODA IN A GLASS BOTTLE!!!

He was shocked, and amazed, but pleased. He nodded, and I walked over to the cooler and wrapped my hand around that nice, cold bottle and pulled it out. It felt so good. Unlike a nimbly-pimbly can or - gasp - a PLASTIC bottle, you had SUBSTANCE. Real weight and mass with a feeling that I could smash a robot in the head with you, and that thick glass would never break. And then the topper - I grabbed the bottle opener and cracked the cap off. When I did that, I could have sworn I heard a perfect radio-ad "AAHHH!" and bottlecap-opening sound. It was all I could do not to piss myself with anticipation of this wonderful, perfect beverage.

And you know what? It was every bit as wonderful as I had hoped for. That doesn't really happen very often. But this particular time, You, Soda in a Glass Bottle, did me right. Not only did you quench my thirst, but you settled my nerves and put me in what I can only term as "Marlboro Country." Not to say that it felt like smoking a cigarette, but if "Marlboro Country" was a state of mind - which it's GOT to be, since it's a metaphor and not an actual country* - that was where I went with the help of a few gulps of . . .

PEPSI IN A GLASS BOTTLE!!!!

If you're not sure what I mean by "Marlboro Country," start thinking about how the world should always feel like. Cool, relaxed, and just RIGHT. Like a cool breeze on a summer day. Or sitting on a porch while the sun is turning the world that beautiful yellow-gold color right before it sets - at 9 o'clock. THAT'S "Marlboro Country." And the only thing that I know of that is guaranteed to take you there is . . .

NOT A CIGARETTE!!!!

I don't smoke, and I have never enjoyed smoking. And I don't imagine something as harsh and caustic as that can actually take you to "Marlboro Country." No, I was referring to you . . .

SODA IN A GLASS BOTTLE!!!!!

Right. And as I leaned back in my seat, sipping you, with that wonderful, weighty, thick bottle in my hand - all was right in the world. In spite of my ridiculous job, and everything else that has gone down in the past two weeks - it was ALL GOOD. So, I just wanted to make that known and appreciate you through a letter. Thank you, and after this wonderful meeting, I'm sure we'll see each other again real soon.

Serenely Chillin' . . .

CVT!!!

*Can you imagine if "Marlboro Country" was literally a country? I imagine it as something out of some crazy sci-fi movie set in the future, where capitalism has gone extreme and every country has its own corporate sponsor. It would kind of be like College Bowl Games gone amuck - "Hey honey, let's go on vacation. Maybe someplace sunny, like GalleryFurniture.Comia." Whoa - that would be crazy . . .

Dear Practice

Dear Practice,

I just got back from playing some football, and I have to say - I'm REALLY good at it. Now, I don't believe in bragging about things unless you can really back it up - but I can. I'm not saying that I'm as good as a professional - professionals are great to excellent to superior at football - but I'm REALLY good. That means you can take any amateur football player, and I'd say I'm better than the majority of them. That sounds pretty arrogant of me to say - and it is - but I think everybody needs to find that one thing that they can be above-average at (maybe even well above average) and then brag about it. Because it feels REALLY GOOD. And you know what occurred to me? Why am I competent at a bunch of things but not very good at anything but football?

It's YOU, Practice. It's you. The only thing that I've really spent a lot of organized time practicing in my life is football. I spent years and years on teams practicing and honing my skills. I played lots and lots of games. I coached. And so, years later, I'm better than most people - simply because I've practiced it a lot. Once, when I was in Tanzania, I practiced juggling a lot, and I got pretty damn good at it - but then I stopped, and that was that. I'm not great.

But I COULD be great at a lot of things if I just saw you more often, my friend. If only it was so simple as that. If only I wasn't also friends with Lack of Motivation*. As you well know, he likes to come hang out whenever I'm thinking of giving you a call, and since you guys don't get along at all, it's hard to get out of entertaining hiim, instead. If only you had a little more initiative - Lack of Motivation is so damn persistent and tenacious, he dominates my time. If YOU did that instead, I'd be so amazing.

But that's what everybody says, I'm sure. Everybody has some excuse to avoid you. Which is sad, because hanging out with you pays such dividends in the long-term. I guess there just aren't a lot of people who want to hang out with a boring, sometimes-painful friend all the time NOW just because it will make them better people. You seem pretty understanding of that fact. In fact, it's probably much better that way; because if EVERYBODY hung out with you all the time, NOBODY would be great, because they'd just be keeping pace with each other. So you do it on purpose, don't you? That's why you're so damn annoying and hard to like.

Does that mean that - when you're just chilling on your own you're actually really funny and fun to be around? Hmmm . . .

It's also pretty hard to spend time with you for a long time. I'd say that was due to our pal, Learning Curve, who never seems to leave your side. You can actually be pretty satisfying for a while, because the results are pretty visible in a relatively short period of time. On the other hand, once we get past the steep end of your friend, we need to spend so much more time with you to see more improvement.

And so there are so few people that are great at any one thing. And that's kind of nice. It's just too bad that so many people out there don't realize that all that keeps them from being great at something - and getting that thrill and feeling of ultimate satisfaction - is time spent without you. So many people think that it's all about natural talent, but I'd beg to differ. Sure, that comes into play sometimes (with a nod to an easier time with Learning Curve), but I really believe that anybody could be REALLY good at absolutely ANYTHING if they were willing to put the time in.

Of course, I really do believe that - I believe that I could be great at anything - and I still don't give you a call hardly ever. I suppose we spend time together every school day - and I definitely appreciate the results; but I wish I could find the energy to call you up to work on my art skills, or to play keyboard or guitar. I guess this blog is all about trying to get some time with you every day, so I thank you for being so flexible. But there could always be more.

So here's to you, Practice, and my hope that we keep spending time together (a lot of it) throughout my life. I know I don't appreciate you enough when we're together, but you should know that it's nothing personal, and, in retrospect, I always give you the credit.

So thanks for making me awesome at football. Because I kicked ass tonight.

Very Fast Runner,
CVT

*See "Dear Lack of Motivation" for more about our friend.

Dear Hot Fuzz

Dear Hot Fuzz,

Holy crap. Holy crap, holy crap!!!! Hot Fuzz, my heart is pounding as I write this because I am just so damn excited about you. I want to say so many things all at once that I can't even think of what to write or how to start . . . I guess I'll just start like this:

You may be the funniest movie I've ever seen. If not, you're damn near the top, and - either way - you are as close to perfect as a movie can be (for a guy, at least). This is the thing - not only did I laugh my ass off every minute of the film, but you also played the buddy-cop movie ploys to absolute perfection. I mean - shit. You rolled everything I could ever ask for in a movie-going experience into one beautiful package.

I want to write so much more, but I don't want to spoil the film for my loyal reader (who I really hope goes to see you). Not that it would really matter, I suppose - because I would go back to watch you RIGHT THIS SECOND and laugh my ass all over again. I swear it.

You were ridiculously funny without being stupid. You did all the little things. Every scene had thirty hilarious little jokes leading up to the grand punchline. Everything linked back to everything else. Everything was a set-up for a later joke, but it was all funny alone, as well. My face absolutely HURTS because I was laughing so hard. I thought Shaun of the Dead was a funny movie, but I never knew what funny could be until I saw you, Hot Fuzz.

I want to just rattle off a litany of hilarious scences and jokes as they pop into my head - I've been laughing out loud to myself as I think of stuff. I don't know what to say. I don't know if there IS anything else to say. You were the perfect movie experience, and I am ever-so-thankful for it.

As the weather returns to overcast and rainy and depressing (after one single beautiful day yesterday), there could be nothing I needed more than to spend two straight hours laughing harder than I have laughed in a LONG time. Every minute of watching you was funnier and more hilariously enjoyable than any single instant of my last month. And although you may take that to just demonstrate how pathetic and sad my life really is, I mean that as an homage to your wonderfulness. Because I have had some funny and enjoyable times in the last month. Seriously.

Wow. My heart rate has settled down a little bit, and my face is starting to stiffen, but I will never forget you, Hot Fuzz. I will carry you always in my heart and soul. And then lose my shit when I think of something from you.

And to my Loyal Reader - go see this film. As soon as you can. Because every minute you spend having not seen this film is another minute in which your life is not as good as it could be.

Still Giggling,
CVT

Dear Honey Mustard

Dear Honey Mustard,

Hey. It was really good to see you tonight. So good, in fact, that it made me want to write you this letter.

I'm sorry that I've let things slide to the point where I don't even think about calling you, anymore. I don't know why or how I let that happen - I guess life just got in the way, you know? You get into your routine so deep that you forget that there are alternatives. Until something pops up to remind you, of course.

So I had you with mayo on my Subway sandwich for dinner tonight, and I forgot how tasty you could be. You were able to take something so simple as a mildly-gross fast-food sandwich and make it enjoyable. I really shouldn't be acting surprised, of course, because you've always been capable of that, but sometimes you just lose track of things and forget about the talents of those who you used to be close to.

But I don't want to do it again. I want to bring you back into my life. I want to go to the store and buy a big bottle of Jack Daniel's you and keep it in the fridge for all sorts of amazing snacks. Fancy you on cheese is absolutely delicious. If I need more than a snack, I just put that cheese between two chunks of French bread and slather you on. Mmmm. Or if I'm hosting a party of some sort, I can put you in a little bowl and dip little smokies in you. Oh, crap, that's good.

I used to see you all the time - what happened? I can't even recall when we started drifting apart. I used to be all about the ham sandwiches with you on them, and then one day I just stopped. It must have been around the time I started eating cereal again. No - I know when it was. It was when I realized that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were just so much cheaper and easier to make for my school lunch every morning. Sure, I still had you around for special sandwiches, but then it was all over when it occurred to me to just keep my bread, peanut butter, and apricot jelly at school, so I could never forget my lunch. After that, we just parted ways, and I never looked back. Did you look back, Honey Mustard?

That was wrong for me to do to you, Honey Mustard. I never even really talked to you about it. The reason that you're more expensive is because you are more special and fancier - I understand that. But those were some stressful times for me, and every little thing that made it easier was a blessing. I know it's not an excuse, but I need you to understand where I'm coming from.

And yet, after all that time, you still hold no grudge. I come strutting back into your life, putting you on a Subway sandwich with not so much as an "I'm sorry", and you still do right by me. You still delicious-up the sandwich and enhance my eating pleasure. I don't know what to say, really. I can't think of anybody else in my life that is as much the "bigger person" as you. You're an inspiration.

While actors are held up as heros and role models for their portrayals of violent gunmen in movies, you go unacknowledged by the world at large. Nobody cares if YOU are trying to stop world hunger. But they should. Growing children everywhere could use somebody like you in their lives to show them what being mature and doing the right thing is all about. Even Jesus couldn't teach you about turning the other cheek, Honey Mustard.

So I must thank you - and beg of you that you forgive me for abandoning you. I will bring you back into my life and home and make up for the cold shoulder for all this time. Thank you so much for giving me that chance and not turning your back on me. Second chances are few and far between, and I won't let this one slip by.

Thankfully,
CVT

Dear Day Off

Dear Day Off,

Let's be realistic, I just can't keep up writing in this thing every single day. I'm amazed that I've kept it up as long as I have (in spite of my weekend break last weekend). So I'm just going to reserve the right to take a day off each week, with a brief "Dear Day Off" letter to let y'all know. I'm not having the greatest time these days, and I'm really tired, so I'm going to tap out tonight.

I'll write tomorrow.

CVT

Dear Media

Dear Media,

I think this is another letter that should begin with "are you f-ing kidding?!"

I can't avoid it, so I saw today all the articles online, some radio references, the newspaper articles - all about the mass killings at V-Tech, and I have to ask you, Media - are you serious?

Because - can you really have a doubt about why these things keep happening? Why "troubled youths" since the Columbine shooters keep doing f-ed up things like this? Part 1 is that they have issues - of course. Part 2 is the world is f-ed up. Part 3 - you want to know what Part 3 is? It's you, Media. It's you.

What does every angsty young person every fantasize about? Being "famous," being important and having a big impact, having people worry/think about them, and death. What does the media give to every school shooter? All of them but the last (which they give themselves to achieve the first three). Do you think these kids would do these things if they didn't think that, in doing so, they would "get their message out," or "be remembered"? Hell, no. Who fantasizes about being forgotten or never known?

On the other hand, let's imagine you give a teenager (or, in the current case, a young man) the following options:

A) Be lonely, insecure, and horribly frustrated about the injustices of the world without having the ability to say or do a thing about it. Make few friends, have people laugh at you or ignore you, and carry on in the world with little chance of becoming a lasting memory or a success. Piddle through life "trying to make it" while the better-looking, more-connected, more-whatever people seemingly do it all with ease.
OR
B) Kill a slew of those people who you projected your frustrations onto and die as a "martyr" and hero to all the other people like you out there. Get your name plastered all over the tv, news, and internet. Have your picture be recognized by almost everyone for months. Have your deluded, poorly-written "manifestos" printed word-for-word by every major media outlet and read by millions of people.

What the hell do you think they're going to choose? Considering all the glorification that this latest fucker has gotten, I'm surprised this doesn't happen more often. Media - do you have ANY knowledge of basic psychology or economics? You ever hear of rewards and consequences? Cost and benefit? Can you honestly tell yourself when you look at yourself in the mirror in the morning that you didn't know what you were doing when you made all of this asshole's dreams come true? You reinforced the common knowledge that the only sure-fire way to get your name known and your writings read in this world is to shoot a bunch of people in a school.

And then there's the fact that there are people out there who would object to my referring to this most recent guy as a "fucker" and "asshole." Because of your work, Media, there are people (and maybe a lot of them) who are thinking - what a poor guy. So lonely and misguided, it's just so sad that it came to this. How can we prevent other people like him from ending in this sad way? I know - shower them with f-ing attention!!! Talk about "cries for help."

Have you ever thought of not reinforcing the f-ing behavior?! What if - the media DID NOT print all this stuff. What if we just said some unknown shooter killed some people for unknown reasons? Do you think further angsty youths would think that that was the way to get known? Not too f-ing likely.

And yeah, yeah - the American people WANT TO KNOW. They may even DESERVE TO KNOW. But look into your cold little heart, Media, and ask yourself - do these shooters DESERVE TO BE FAMOUS? Do the victims DESERVE TO BE NUMBERS so that their killer can become a hero?

I read one article that referred to "the previous record for mass killings in a shooting was . . ." The RECORD!?? Like it's an f-ing VIDEO GAME!? Thanks, Media. Thanks a lot.

Let's make a prediction here in cold, hard print with a date and time stamp on it: in the next year, let's watch the rate of similar shootings go up. Probably in the next 6 months, even. Now that it's all fresh in our minds and huge and headline news again. Let's watch that happen. And then, Media, we'll watch you slowly push all these shootings to the back page because it's too common and people have reached their saturation point. And then they'll finally go down again.

Until something nice and big that you jump on and make "important."

Most people of my generation know all about Jeffrey Dahmer. How many people are familiar with Vernon Dahmer? That's what I thought. And what part did YOU play in that, Media?

That's what I thought.

I'm going to go throw up now, and then wither away in obscurity with my art, beliefs, and writings hidden away from the world because I'm not f-ed up enough to go kill dozens of innocent people.

Sadly,
CVT

Dear Rain

Dear Rain,

Are you f-ing kidding me!? I mean, seriously - is this some kind of sick joke? I know that I more or less signed up for this when I made the decision to move to Portland, but this has gone on long enough. It's a game of endurance, and you have worn me down. I don't know if I can take it, anymore.

And yeah, yeah - I know that there are many positive things that come with you. The beautiful greenness of the landscape through the summer months, all the farms, no drought (and thus no water rationing), bla bla bla. I appreciate those things, I really do. But I think we could still have most of those things WITHOUT having to see you every day this week (in the middle of April). Right, right "April Showers."

Well - April Showers can BLEEP my BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP!!!!

Three years ago, I came to this town, and everybody kept asking me about the weather (and you, specifically). Want to know my response? "The weather here is overrated - yeah, it rains a lot, but it's not like it's freezing and snowing like so many other places in this country. It's really just not that bad." And I honestly believed that. Considering the beauty of the summers and the relatively moderate TEMPERATURES in the winter, it didn't seem like such a big deal. But I didn't take into account that horrible demon known as the snowball effect.

You see - one winter here in Portland is no big deal. It's easy to keep perspective and compare it to stormy Michigan winters (or East Coast winters, or wherever) and to feel blessed that you don't need to purchase a ton of Gore-tex or moon boots. And the summers are so damn glorious it seems to make up for any of the negatives of the winter. I mean, summers here may be more perfect than anywhere else on Earth.

But then the summer ends and winter TWO begins. And you notice how short the summer seemed in comparison to the winter. You try to look back and think about it - did we even have a Fall? Or a Spring? Is it just winter and summer here? And you know for sure the beautiful summer months couldn't have lasted more than three months at the max, so does that mean winter is going to last for 8-9 months? And as you wake up in darkness to trudge to work each day, you think about how far away the end is. And how crappy it is that even when you get out of work early it's dark again. Not that it isn't dark all day, anyway - what with all that gloominess. But you can still remember that summer, and you know it's coming . . . And it does, and it is absolutely glorious once again, and you feel SO GOOD.

But then winter THREE rolls around, and it seems like it kicked in before summer even got a chance to slip into your bones. Were you really wearing shorts around town? Didn't I used to be tan? I kind of considered myself a person of color - but where is the color? This time around, your body is ready for the winter even if your mind is not, and it starts to put you into hibernation mode. It knows that you're in for another long haul without the energizing effects of the sun, and so your metabolism slows, and so does your mind. Social engagements get put off. You spend more time in bed (although it never seems like enough), and you forget about summer for the time being because you know it's only going to make you feel worse. And when you are reaching your last gasp and think it's time to explode, you come to April and suddenly - A FULL WEEK of sun. SWEET, SWEET SUN.

The whole town wakes up and everybody is smiling and just plain happy. You can't help but feel giddy and giggle while you contemplate leaving your jacket at home. Maybe you'll even take off your socks. You have more energy - you want to catch up with people and go out (because it's staying light until almost 8pm now), and you congratulate yourself for having survived another winter.

And then it STOPS. And you, Rain, roll back into place for another full week. And it's enough to break a man. Another situation when the tease of seeing what it COULD BE LIKE causes absolute hopelessness and despair to seep in. Do you see what you do to people, Rain? In some areas on this planet, people pray for you. But here - I would love to prey ON you. Because YOU weigh on my soul.

I find myself slipping back into hibernation mode. The energy falls away as quickly as it came. I crave chocolate and mindless time watching tv or a movie.

And I dedicate a letter just to bitch about it. My one fully negative letter out of this entire series (which is pretty amazing for me). And it's all your fault. I demand satisfaction, Rain.

And I know your response - we'll see how I feel when I end up in a situation where you're not around anymore. Nothing like omnipresence to foster contempt and absence to create fond nostalgia. It's true, of course. But right now, I'm a man on the edge, my friend, and I need this madness to stop. I've been patient, and kind, and understanding. But I've hibernated enough, I've burned through all my reserves, and now I'm hungry for some light. Please, why don't you just go on a vacation for a while, and I promise I'll be nothing but appreciative when you get back. Please?

Go Away,
CVT

Dear Pho

Dear Pho,

This is a perfect letter to be writing after waking up from a nap. I'm all groggy and cloudy-headed, and the words "Dear Pho" kind of just fall out of my mouth like cotton balls after I was anesthetized by the dentist (for those of you who don't know, "pho" is pronounced like "fuh"). But I guess this probably isn't the first time somebody has been amused at the pronunciation of your name at your expense. Sorry about that.

Anyway, I'm sitting here at the computer with a steaming bowl of you right in front of me. It's leftover from dinner a few nights ago, but it still seems to be perfect for the moment: I look out the window directly in front of me to see one more overcast, rainy, cold Portland day, and my body is just trying to shake off a nap, making my slowed metabolism cause me to feel a little colder than normal. The steam from you is dancing right in front of my eyes as I write, and it seems very reassuring.

It's funny that I'm happy to have you in front of me right now because I used to talk so much ish about you, back in the day. When I first moved to Portland, I noticed all sorts of places that specialized in you around town, and it piqued my curiosity. So I did a little research to find out that you were basically just beef broth with noodles and some other crap thrown in. That's it. So when random Portlanders kept telling me about how a specific restaurant "had good pho," I couldn't help but scoff: stupid Portlanders.

It seemed so perfect for this town full of hippies and cultural appropriators (everyone being so proud in their proper pronunciation of your name) to talk about "good pho." I mean, how could there be anything but one version of you? Beef broth. With noodles. That was like saying that Safeway sold some "good Cup o' Noodles." As if one cup tasted different than another cup. Couldn't I just cut the top of a Swanson's beef broth container, throw some veggies and crap in it and call it "good pho?"

But in spite of my best contempt, people continued to talk about you and order you for dinner and talk about good places to get you. And so - about a year ago (and two years into my time in Portland) - I found myself on a crappy, overcast day at another Pan-Asian restaurant (that's another thing Portland specializes in, so-called "Chinese" or "Vietnamese" restaurants that actually serve dishes from all over the Continent, furthering white people's beliefs that we're "all the same"). I was hungry and feeling dark because of the weather, but I wasn't REAL hungry, and I was craving veggies. And - suddenly - you became the perfect option (this, of course, coming about a year after I finally relented and decided that soup was - indeed - food). And so I ordered you.

And when you were served to me, all steamy and hot in your bowl, I actually salivated. Diving in with my chopsticks first, I scooped large clump after large clump of soft noodles into my mouth to kill my initial hunger. Then, less desperate to fill my belly, I chose out some veggies to eat - and they still crunched. The basil gave you a nice, fresh taste and mouth-feel, and the chunks of meat gave you substance. Finally, I lifted the giant bowl to my lips and drank down your salty, oily broth, which coated my stomach like a warm, satisfying blanket. My body comfortably warm and my hunger and cravings thus satisfied, I declared, "That was some GOOD pho." And I haven't looked back. I get it now - you're not popular here because of Portland culture, but because of the crappy weather. Your warmth and perceived freshness in the midst of the Season of Seasonal Affective Disorder are a ray of hope in a sky of gray.

Now, I still sniff with a bit of contempt when somebody recommends a "good pho" place, but then I take note and try it the next time I have you for dinner. Because you really do hit a very specific spot a lot of the time. Not to mention that a lot of places that have you also serve avocado shakes or home-made lime-ade. That fact alone kind of makes you cool.

And so I acknowledge your special goodness. I thank you for the times we've had and how you opened my eyes, and I will definitely share you with any outsiders who come to visit me. But now, you're getting cold, and I need to eat you.

Be careful on the way down,
CVT

Dear Weekend

Dear Weekend,

I've had a long week, and as I'm working camp stuff this you, I'm going to take a little break from writing my blog. I hope that's cool.

One man gang - thanks for the suggestion, I'll check it out.

CVT

Dear Microwave,

Dear Microwave,

Hey Microwave - how have you been? I don't really see you as often as one would expect, so I thought my best chance of getting a hold of you and getting my message across was to send you a letter.

I'm writing today to tell you some blunt truths, so I hope you're ready for this. In none of this do I mean any disrespect, but this has been on my mind for a while, and I feel like I owe you an explanation or two. I just wanted to let you know why I have no need for you, and why - actually - I think my life has improved ever since you haven't been around.

It's been nearly two years now since Brookes moved out and took his fancy you with him, and I've only missed you about two times since then. I mean, the only things I ever used you for were frozen burritos and popcorn, and I really don't eat that much popcorn. As for frozen burritos - they are quite wonderful, but I have a feeling my stomach is appreciative of the fact that they aren't a regular part of my life, anymore. And the fact of the matter is that I can still purchase frozen burritos and prepare them by just steaming them, instead. You'd be amazed at how much better it actually turns out when you steam it. Because when I use you to heat up a frozen burrito, it always ends up all dry and crusty at the corners - really tough - rubbery a little further in, and almost-cold in the middle. The less cold I get it in the middle means the drier it gets on the edges. When I steam it, there's no dryness no matter how long it takes to get the middle to warm up. And it really just doesn't take that long (maybe ten minutes to your three or four).

And you NEVER really produce a satisfying product. Whenever I use you at school to heat up leftovers, it ends up taking quite a few minutes to get all of the food hot - and it's never consistent through all of the food. It's the same problem with the burritos - some of the food gets dry and/or rubbery, and some is not hot enough; I'm just as likely to burn my tongue on one bite and chomp a cold bit of food the next.

And how long does it really take to heat up leftovers in a pan? Fifteen minutes TOPS if you have something really big, but generally just five to ten (which, is just about as long as it takes for a microwave). And it tastes so much better from a pan - if it's anything with a sauce, it can even taste a little better than the day before because the sauce sort of self-marinates while waiting in the fridge.

And then there's the lost art of steaming. If you have a steamer of any worth (and mine isn't even that great), you can take any frozen food and bring it to moist, warm life in about ten minutes. There's no dryness problem, and with a steamer, it is nearly impossible to burn anything. It's kind of sad, really, that the vast majority of American society thinks that they need you for preparing foods from the frozen food section when, in fact, you are only giving them a more unsatisfying end-product - one which a simple steamer could improve upon. And for those of you who are unfamiliar with a steamer - it's basically a pot with a sieved top section where you can rest your food. You boil water in the bottom, and steam the food in the covered top section. If you're really smart, you can even make soup or broth on the bottom while steaming ingredients or even a complimenting food on the top.

So really, Microwave, it's not that I don't need you at all (although I don't). It's more that having you is WORSE for the rest of the world than not having you at all. You've taught the American people to think that it's okay to eat semi-burnt, weirdly-dry, rubbery, cold-in-the-middle foods. Even tv dinners, which are supposed to be designed for use with you, end up with burnt or overly dry parts every time. It's sad. How you have held on for so long is beyond me. I mean, we refer to using you as "nuking it," for Pete's sake! When was the last time that "nuking" something (ESPECIALLY food) was supposed to be a good thing!?

You've just got this divine mix of clever marketing on one end and extreme laziness on the other. And, at this point, you're so damn ubiquitous that very few people even have an opportunity to realize how worthless you actually are. Imagine if refrigerators didn't actually preserve or cool your food properly while a garbage bin inside a larger bin lined with wet sand actually did - and everybody continued to pay for the "privilege" of owning electric refrigerators. That's basically what's going on with you. But my analogy obviously falls short on a few levels because steaming is so much better than garbage cans lined with wet sand.*

And you know what? I bet there's a contingent of people out there - people who actually appreciate real food and know a little something about it - that still go ahead and buy you simply for making popcorn. Oh, they might not admit it outright, but that's the main reason. And I admit - you do pop some mean corn - but have you ever had Jiffy Pop? It's more fun and just as good. I mean - how cool is that inflating aluminum cover? If people think YOU'RE "space-age," how about that Jiffy Pop? Nothing like cheap, shiny metallic surfaces to say "I was designed around the same time that 'astronaut ice cream' was."

And the other day I ate myself some bag-popcorn bought at the chip section of Safeway, and it was pretty damn good; and every kernel was popped (not to mention the option of cheese-flavorings sprinkled on top).

But, in spite of all of this, Microwave, I do admire you. You've somehow taken over the American kitchen (I often see you even in the kitchens of vegetarian hippies) to the point where your presence is assumed. You no longer have to justify yourself, even though you kind of suck, and that's worthy of respect, if not exactly admirable. I think that the majority of the American people strive for just that (isn't that what we mean by "be yourself?").

Maybe that should be on our money instead of "E Pluribus Unum": "America, where you don't have to justify yourself, even though you suck." Wow - that has a great ring to it. I should probably patent that now before somebody makes a bumper sticker . . . Bumper stickers - now there's another letter I need to write.

But enough for now. Microwave, I am destined to see you around, and we shall chat then. Maybe we can discuss the self-help book I'm trying to write; I think you probably have some good tips for improving one's public image and sense of self-worth.

Until then,
CVT

* (by the way, if the cans were a thick metal, that would actually work for your refrigeration needs)

Dear Misspent Time

Dear Misspent Time,

I was talking to my parents tonight (who have NOT been reading this blog, I might add), and my dad suggested that I write you. It seems appropriate, I suppose, since most of my life outside of work is with you (and, perhaps, a lot of time AT work). It's funny how we never really take the time to just sit down and write a real letter to the people that we spend a lot of time with. As if personal face-to-face time doesn't necessitate any sort of hard copy, permanent-record type of communications.

Actually, though, you're probably the major cause of that, aren't you? I mean, the reason we "don't have time" to send some meaningful communications to our friends (write real letters, even e-mail something more than a three-sentence summary of our last month of life) is because we're with you. At least, that's normally my excuse. But I suppose it just depends on people's definitions as to what is your kind of time and what is in the domain of your brother, Wellspent.

I generally classify watching tv as spending time with you, although, there's a lot to be said about coming home from work and letting my mind and body just let go for about twenty minutes while mindlessly watching the tube. It's when I spend more time than that that it seems like a waste. Yet I, personally, don't count movie-watching as being with you, and that's more or less the same idea. I guess the theory is that a good movie should spark some real emotion or thought in me, and thought-provocation is a productive pursuit.

Which brings me to the bigger question: is this blog nothing more than a daily ode to you? Somehow, I find myself committing a portion of time to writing this crap (which, apparently, is read by THREE people), but I don't have time to call people I haven't talked to in months (or write them). What do you think, Gannoni? Is writing this instead of finally catching up with you a decent excuse? Probably not.

Misspent, is there anybody out there who you DON'T see regularly? Is there a soul who is always (or almost always) using their time wisely? And is that even healthy? I know that I would never be able to survive for more than a couple days straight without seeing you, but maybe there are people that don't need you. People that aren't ridiculously fickle, impulsive, lazy, unmotivated procrastinators like myself. And who also have non-office jobs. Because, I bet anybody with internet access at their job absolutely sees you daily.

I know this is totally unrelated and doesn't fit into the theme or flow of this letter, but I just wanted to make a quick comment: I watched "Man on Fire" last night, and I have to say that's one of the most underappreciated movies ever made. It's advertised as an "action-adventure," but it's anything but. It's dark, and gripping, and harsh and beautiful all at the same time. I mean, how many movies can make claim to scenes involving cutting off fingers and a rectal bomb, as well as an emotional back-story that can get a viewer all choked up? Not too many. And who can't love Christopher Walken delivering the line "Creesy's art is death, and he's about to paint his masterpiece" in a movie that co-stars the ever-so-adorable Dakota Fanning? Brilliant.

Hmmm . . . I suppose it's random musings like that that make us get along so well, Misspent. I mean, if it wasn't for my penchant for spacing out or daydreaming, we'd spend half as much time together. And wouldn't that just be a damn shame?

Anyway, write me back when you get a chance, and if I'm slow to respond, it's okay - I'm probably working on my blog.

Hesitating Beauty,
CVT

Dear Sorry Excuse

Dear Sorry Excuse,

Hey - what's going on, man? I'm doing alright.

Well, I'm writing you to find out if you're okay with me writing a you for a blog tonight. I've got other things I want to do, instead, and I don't want to spend my precious pre-sleeping time writing something stupid. Every minute I spend on this is one more minute taken away from my next relaxing activity (or from my sleep-time; both of which are very important to me).

Although, when it really comes down to it, I don't know if the amount of sleep I get really makes a whole lot of difference on my day. 8 hours of sleep or 7 and a half hours or 7 hours. I don't know if there's a drastic change from one to the next (outside of my own mind). Because, for me, it usually just depends on my quality of sleep, and I usually sleep shitty no matter what. I often wake up in the middle night, I have vivid dreams, I move around . . . So 8 hours of crappy sleep probably is worse than 7 good hours.

So I really need to just get over this whole sleep-stress I like to give myself at night. Maybe that's why I don't sleep well in the first place. Because I'm worried about the quality of my sleep. When, in the end, I forget how tired I am the minute my kids step into my classroom, and I generally take a nap in the afternoon, anyway . . .

So maybe I don't need you tonight, afterall. Although now I've gone and gotten your attention and made you read this letter, so maybe I should just take advantage of having you around. Does that work for you?

Yeah - cool. I appreciate it. While you're at it, would you mind telling the King (the only person who reads this blog, I think) that I'm sorry this blog was so half-assed? Thanks.

Peace out.
CVT

Dear Reality

Dear Reality,

The King commented today, saying that I love everything. Which, of course, is a totally ridiculous thing to say if you know me at all, but I am flattered to think that I have been creating such a positive, love-filled blog. Perhaps that joy could spread throughout the rest of the world and make it happier.

That makes me think of the other day when Gate and I bought a gigantic teddy bear (it was very nearly as big as me) as a baby shower gift, and I was carrying it down the street to get it to my car. Gate wasn't sure that it was appropriate for a newborn, but just as we got in line to buy it, two little children ran up and began petting it and hugging it. Then as we walked the five or six blocks to my car, every single person we passed stared at the gigantic bear and smiled. Every group of people commented on it. And every child we saw lit up and was drawn to the bear like iron filings to an electromagnet. It honestly spread tangible joy everywhere it went.

It made me seriously consider just keeping it and finding a different gift for the baby.

What if it was always so easy?

Because, you see, Reality, I don't love YOU. I don't really hate you or anything, but I certainly don't love you. Sometimes, I even dislike you a little bit. You're generally not very fun, and you often hurt people when you decide to set in. You're also not very fair, and I've noticed a definite tendency to pick on the less fortunate. That's f-ed up.

Now, you've been fairly good to me over the course of my short life, so it may seem pretty unfair and whiny to be criticizing you like this; and that may be even true. But I don't care. Too few people seem to ever stand up to you, so I figured I would use the power of my readerless blog to condemn you.

And I'd say that you have ruined my day often enough to warrant some distaste. Remember the first time (and only time, really) that I tried to get a girl's number? Yeah - that was pretty bad for the self-esteem. My boyhood dreams of growing a mustache as cool as my uncle? Yeah - you took care of that one, too, with the nasty dirt that is the extent of my facial-hair growing abilities. I really would have grown a civil war mustache, too (sideburns-to-stache with no chin hair).

And there are some bigger things that I don't particularly feel like going into right now. Needless to say, even a mustache wouldn't have balanced those out.

And then what about what you do to the way the world works? All this injustice and shit. Why do you love assholes so much? It just doesn't make any sense.

But it's not so simple as that, is it? When I think about it - nobody treats you very well, either. It's that whole vicious cycle thing, isn't it? Even the people to whom you've given practically every advantage in the book bitch about you whenever some little thing goes wrong.

Rich white men driving BMWs curse you when there's traffic. The president complains about you when "the people" are complaining about him (even though the rules they play by put him in office). And then he uses you as an excuse when he doesn't listen to them. Parents welcome their children to "your" world when they teach them about the unfairness of life. Hell - they use your name as the definition of that unfairness (i.e. "harsh realities").

It's not like God, who gets some thank-yous when things go right. Nope. We learn to detest you from adolescence and that doesn't end until we're dead (and even then we curse you when we learn that you're the reason we get no afterlife).

And even I, who you have treated quite well, bitch about you on my blog.

Wow - I've never really looked at it this way before. You DO get the short end of the stick. If I was in your shoes, I'd probably be much meaner than you already are. In fact, you're pretty damn nice, considering. You have almost no incentive to make the good things happen, yet you do it, nonetheless. I mean, by definition, you're all the good things, too. And there are a lot of good things. Hmmm . . . who decided that you should be associated with only the negative?

That's not fair. I'm going to do something about this. Something BIG that will really change the way people think about you. Hey - I know! I'll write about it on my blog, and that way the word will spread like wildfire!

I'm sorry for the things I've said, Reality. I've been too selfish and self-absorbed to see all those great things you're responsible for, and I will do what I can to make up for it. I hope you can forgive me . . .

Sincerely,
CVT

P.S. I would still really love some decent facial hair.

Dear Raw Fish

Dear Raw Fish,

I know it's inappopriate for me to write you like this - considering our disparate circumstances - but I can't resist. I can't hold it back any longer: I love you.

That's right, I'm in love with you. Not only are you delicious and so wonderfully soft, but you look so damn good on the plate. I don't know if there is anything more beautiful than a few choice cuts of sashimi leaning against shredded radish. The marbling of the fat with your perfectly-textured flesh, the shiny lustre of the light shining back at me . . . It's enough to make a man insane.

And that texture . . . Oh, how I wish I could describe it accurately in words. That combination of soft, and giving, and fleshy, and . . . I don't know. What's the word for a mix between that perfect semi-crunch of an apple mixed with the give of a peach? There is no word to adequately explain it. And only those others who share my love for you can know what I am talking about. I wish I spoke Japanese, because I imagine that only they could have the right words to express how it feels to take a bite out of you.

I apologize for how forward I am being in this letter. I know that you are shy and protective of your honor, but there can be no holding it in any longer.

And tonight I got to try new versions of you. Hirame (flounder) was interesting, but not too tasteful, but the escolar was absolutely wonderful. Of course, nothing will ever be able to top the hamachi toro, but I would never pretend otherwise.

Oh, my oh my. I don't understand why you aren't more common. Why are you only available at sushi restaurants (and don't try to tell me that "seared ahi" is in even the same league as what I'm talking about)? Perhaps it would be too expensive, but I would have absolutely no qualms about diving into a 12-ounce raw yellowtail steak on a plate. Or maybe some beautifully marbled raw salmon. Why has nobody ever thought of that? This is America - the land of excessive quantities and cultural appropriation - so how has this never happened? It's appalling, really.

So my new plan is to find a fish market or store in the nearby area that sells sushi-grade fish, and I am going to buy a bunch of gorgeous slabs of you. And then one night for dinner I'm going to just throw you on a plate, cut you into slices, and eat every last bit of you. And I may very well cry while I do this because it will be such a joyous occasion.

And then you and I can open a little restaurant together and serve you-steaks with side salads . . .

Siigh . . . I know this illicit love affair will never likely be - but a man can dream, can't he? Take care of yourself, and don't ever change a thing, for you are as close to perfection as will ever be attained in this world.

Fondly,
CVT

Dear Bedtime

Dear Bedtime,

Hey - it's me again. I'm writing this in the dark as you lay under my covers waiting for me. You are calling to me, telling me to get off the stupid computer and just join you already. Trust me, there's nothing I'd like more right now than to snuggle down with you and fall asleep, but I have to write this.

Sometimes life comes in between two people, even when they want to be together, and right now is one of those times, my sweet Bedtime. I've got this blog, for one thing. I also have this annoying alertness that keeps me from joining you. It's not really insomnia, but it's a sort of dazed awakeness that tells me that, even if I try to be with you, sleep is not going to come.

When I was a kid, this would be a good time for my mom to fix me up a nice mug-ful of hot milk. A little bit of sugar, some nutmeg, and warm comfort would ease into my blood like a sore athlete easing into a hot tub. My whole body would buzz with security and something I can only describe as complete contentment, and I would climb back into bed. Closing my eyes, I would just doze and relish that heavenly feeling until sleep overtook me.

And it's not like I couldn't fix myself a mug of hot milk right now - but a lot of the magic is gone, now. I blame part of it on my time living in Tanzania when I was spoiled with real fresh milk. Real milk straight from the cow (and boiled, of course) beats the hell out of our commercialized, pasteurized imitation, and I can't help but think about that every time I try to drink hot milk back here in the States. The other half of the lost magic is the simple fact of lost childhood. Too much awareness of the fucked-up-ness of the world we live in tends to erode life's magic. No to say that there's none left, but it's certainly less now.

So what shall I do? Write a bit. Listen to mildly dark music and ponder the realities of life that keep me from being with you right now. I'll come to you eventually, but it won't be the same. Not like those wonderful times when I lie in bed with my feet covered and my blanket tucked under my chin, revelling in the sheer joy of being with you and knowing that I get to sleep for a chunk of time.

Sometimes I like to think that that's what Paul Simon was referring to when he sang of "darkness (his) old friend." Wouldn't it be a lot sweeter if he was talking about the comforting darkness of you, Bedtime?

I thought you would appreciate that thought.

I hope you are sleeping well, and I will join you shortly.

Sweet Dreams,
CVT

Dear Live Music

Dear Live Music,

So, my friend, you have brought some joy into my life once again. I just got back from the John Vanderslice show, and boy did it make me happy.

You see, John Vanderslice has got to be the nicest rock star that ever lived. He's goofy, and smiley, and just seems to ENJOY playing music and being there. If the world of indie rock was a romantic comedy, John Vanderslice would be the sweet, nerdy friend that cheers the girl up when she gets her heart broken, but never is shown to have a girl himself - but he's still happy. He's the "Nice Guy" that normally finishes last. But he's made it. Sort of.

Anyway, what he did tonight was absolutely genius, and you should take notice, Live Music. In this modern-day era of reality television and American Idol, it's kind of astounding that I've never seen (or heard) of this happening before. This is what happened:

Vanderslice played through his normal set (just him and his drummer - who happens to be fucking amazing, as he played MOOG/keyboard while drumming), and then he got to what he announced should be the "encore time." But he didn't bother leaving and coming back and all that. Instead, he reminded the audience of the "open casting call" he had put out before the show. He had posted a message on his website and sent an e-mail to his fan-list that told anybody that wanted to sing or play bass with him to check in with him before the show, and he'd try to get them onstage. I, of course, thought it was just a joke, but how wrong I was.

Next thing I know, he's calling up some random guy from the audience who he had met right before the show. Apparently, the guy had come to Vanderslice with a specific song to sing, but had to change it at the last minute, so he went up with the lyrics written down. A few seconds later, the band was playing, and this random guy was singing (very well, I must say) a John Vanderslice song - not back up, but the lead (without even John for back-up). Intriguing, a bit funny, and just brilliant entertainment.

Then, two songs later, he had a random guy come up to play bass with them for a song. The song after that, he ended up with about 10 audience members onstage with him to sing the chorus for the finale. Absolutely brilliant. It felt like the feel-good ending to some movie (kind of reminded me of the end and credit-sequence from "Scrooged"). I wasn't in the best mood when I got there, but there was no possible way I could have NOT felt good after watching a John Vanderslice sing-along.

So, you see, Live Music - you need to learn from this experience. Why shouldn't EVERY live show have a song or two reserved for fans? Combining great live music with that kind of intrigue and feel-good-ness couldn't ever go wrong. You must make this happen right away.

PLEASE.

Feeling Good,
CVT

P.S. He was also selling pillowcases with the rest of his merchandise.

Dear Lack of Motivation

Dear Lack of Motivation,

I know I see you nearly every day (and multiple times within those days), but I just felt like I should send you a letter. I mean, EVERYBODY appreciates getting a real piece of mail from time to time - even Lack of Motivation.

Actually, writing this letter right now feels a little awkward, since you're right here with me as I write. I know it's rude to ignore company like that, but I hope you understand that I've set a goal to do this blog thing every day, and I'm trying to see it through, whether you're here or not. And I know for sure that there's going to be some day in the (probably near) future when you convince me to just skip it for a day, but I just started this thing, and I have about one or two loyal readers that I don't want to disappoint yet (although they should be getting bored of this sometime soon).

But don't worry, I am pretty sure that within the week Nobody will be reading this at all (at which point I should write a letter to her), and then I'm going to be much more likely to hang out with you. And it's not like this blog is the only thing that makes me think of you. We've still got painting, writing stories, making my graphic novel, exercising, biking, going out, socializing, cooking, getting out of bed, running errands, paying my bills, washing my car, taking a walk, staying in touch with long-lost friends, planning for my classes, writing/recording music, performing, committing to future events/activities/jobs, earning real money, growing up, writing letters, trying something new, meeting people, shaving, brushing my teeth, flossing, buying new clothes, asking for help, actively DOING something instead of just complaining, and washing my clothes to spend time together.

And there's probably more.

The truth is this, Lack of Motivation: I'm a lazy LAZY man at heart. I know it sometimes seems like I'm doing things and being productive from the outside, but it's all a farce. I have to set myself up long in advance (being aware of my naturally lazy state), so that I have no choice but to be a little bit productive. For example, I pay money to join a football league. That makes me committed to exercising at least once a week. I enroll in a graphic novel class (although that was really only because Anya got me in for free), so that I'm committed to doing the homework assignments. I used to not have a car, so that biking was my fastest way to get to school and around town (but now I have a car, so we'll see).

There are plenty of other ways that I trick myself into appearing less lazy, but don't think for an instant that that's reality. If I allowed myself to revert to my natural state for the rest of my years, I would be a fat hermit who only ate salami sandwiches and cereal. I would never get out of bed, and I would make full use of the fact that you can get absolutely EVERYTHING you need via the internet. I would only text people (another reason I have no cell phone), so I wouldn't have to commit to a full conversation. I would probably die from some sort of self-neglect within the year.

So that's why we see each other so often, my friend. And that's why I sometimes so rudely ignore you when you come to visit. It's not that I don't enjoy your company (in fact, I often secretly relish your presence in a darkness-is-cool sort of way) - I just want to live longer than a year. Not because I have things I want to do, necessarily, but because I seriously doubt I'd be allowed to be so stagnant in the afterlife.

Does this make things a little clearer? Do you understand now? I hope so, because we're going to continue to see a lot of each other, and I don't want things to be awkward. Let me know what you think tomorrow morning when my alarm wakes me up.

BFF,
CVT

Dear Tostitos Scoops

Dear Tostitos Scoops,

So I had you for the first time today, and I have to admit, I was kind of blown away. I had always avoided you under the assumption that you were just a cheap gimmick to sell inferior chips, but - holy crap - I was wrong.

I walked into my staff meeting today and sat down, looking at the empty table in front of me and wondering if there was going to be any good food to eat. I have this problem where, every day immediately after the kids are gone, my body realizes how much energy I have expended, and I get EXTREMELY hungry. Now, I'm a pissy low-blood-sugar type of guy, so it's very important that I take care of my hunger when I get to that point because there is no f-ing way I'm going to participate in a meeting when I'm in that state.

Luckily, I was soon appeased by a procession of lovely snacks: grapes, jalapeno-cheese tortilla chips, oranges, bean dip (with tomato, onion, and sour cream), and you. I immediately went for the grapes, a bowl of dip, and the OTHER chips, because - you know - they were better.

And they were pretty damn good. But the thing is this: for a desperately hungry man like myself presented with such a spread, there's only one sure-fire way to satiate my mighty hunger, and that's large quantities of dip. But it's not so easy to scoop up a lot of dip with your normal run-of-the-mill tortilla chip (especially since they inevitably get crushed into tiny pieces, which causes you to grab a pile of scraps to dip as if they were a whole); and soon I got desperate.

I was confronted with two options: be the disgusting eater that I truly am at heart and just start using a spoon on the dip, OR try the Tostitos Scoops. After pondering the former, I went with the latter.

And I guess you know the ending to this story - it was ever-so-happy. I mean, honestly, what can be better than an edible, crunchy spoonful of dip? Nothing. And that's what you amount to, my dear Tostitos Scoops. Not nothing (forgive my poor syntax), but an edible, crunchy spoon.

I was able to get huge mouthfuls of dip without use of utensil or getting my fingers dirty - it was fantastic. I don't work for Tostitos, and I don't mean to, but I highly recommend you, my new friend.

To the future,
CVT

P.S. Speaking of jobs, here's a quick follow-up to a previous letter:

So, taking into account the comment from the King that I received to my "Dear Nap" letter, I mentioned to my student the job of chicken asshole remover, trying to really describe all the disgusting aspects of said job. Without missing a beat, or showing any surprise, he told me he would DEFINITELY take that job over teaching middle school. "In fact," he told me, "I would EAT chicken assholes and figure out what the chicken had had for lunch before teaching middle school."

So now you know the kind of teacher I am, and how lowly my job is.

Dear Gas Prices

Dear Gas Prices,

No, no, this is not going to be a political rant. You should know me better than that. In fact, this is going to have to be a relatively short letter because I am pretty tired (didn't get my nap today). I'll make sure to give you a call later, so we can talk about this letter.

Anyway, what the f- is up, yo? What's going on? You used to be so economical, and now you're anything but. I went to the gas station today (in my fuel-efficient, economical foreign car) and got $30 of regular, and it didn't even fill the car up. I remember the days of a $20 fill-up, and they weren't so long ago.

Now, I'm a young man. I have my whole life ahead of me; and yet I've seen you go up nearly 300% in my lifetime. In fact, you've probably gone up more than that since I've been alive - the 300% is just since I've been conscious of you in my world. That's right - in my own driving days (making that a 10-year span) - I've seen 99 cent gas. 99 cents! Granted, that was the cheap-o gas that was probably worse than sugar for the gas tank, but still.

When I was a senior in high school, I recall complaining because you had shot up to $1.29 a gallon. You've more than doubled since then, and you're never going down again.

So what I want to know is - why? Why would you do such a thing? We used to have a relationship. Are you mad at me? That's what it is, isn't it? It's because I went so long without owning a car. Seven long years with almost no driving at all, so you felt neglected. But this is the thing - in spite of my lack of car, I still noticed you. I really did. Hell - I even used you as an excuse to put off buying a car for an extra year or so.

You see? It's a vicious cycle we're a part of here, and I want to call a truce. I have a car now. I notice you. A LOT. So how 'bout we just cut the crap and hang out like in the old days, when $20 would fill up the tank?

Hmmm . . . I guess that's not really realistic, though. I know - it's been too long, and things can never go back to the way they've been. We can't just pretend those 7 years never happened . . .

Well, I'm still glad I wrote you. It's just been too long. Now I need to work up the nerve to write Safeway Select vending machines and pay phones . . .

Back in your life,
CVT

Dear Nap

Dear Nap,

Hey Nap, how's it going? It's been a long time since I've written you (communicated with you at all, really), so I felt like it was time to send you a letter. I hope all is going well for you.

Anyway, I just wanted to write to let you know how much I appreciate you, and how I wish that more people would make use of you as they grew into their adult years. As a guy with an exhausting job (teaching middle school math) that necessitates an early wake-up time, I don't know what I would ever do without you.

Because there's no way I'm going to feel good and well-rested when I have to get up at 6:30 in the morning. Even if I get myself 10 hours of sleep, it's going to be hard to get out of bed in the morning, and that sense of fatigue will ALWAYS catch up to me once my day is over.

The thing with teaching is that - when the kids are actually around - there's no time to feel tired. I have to be totally "on" at all moments, or something is going to go terribly wrong. Because middle school students live for that second when your back is turned or that day when you're a little foggy. When your ears are plugged from a cold, they're going to yell, swear, and insult each other more. If you're standing at a particular angle, they will find the one spot in the room where your peripheral vision doesn't reach.

Hell - even if your head is on a swivel, and you're catching everything, they're still going to do some ridiculous things. That's what middle school is all about. Throwing things, poking/pinching/kicking each other, cutting each other down under their breath, and pretty much worrying about absolutely everything that's going on except for the things they're doing themselves. All that, and then the one or two more responsible students wanting to scream in frustration because they can't handle what everybody else is doing.

Today, one of my kids asked me if I was going to teach "forever." I told him that I could pretty much guarantee that I'd be teaching for one more year, but I wasn't sure about anything else. His response? I'm crazy. He said that teaching middle school must be the worst job ever, and he would do anything else. ANYTHING.

To test this theory, I listed off a bunch of other miserable jobs, and he accepted all of them over middle school. He even hypothetically chose to "put on goggles and swim through sewage" every day instead of teaching middle school. Talk about a self-confidence boost.

Anyway, my point is that I'm constantly "on," standing (I really don't sit for even a minute until the kids leave), and talking loudly for six straight hours every weekday. And that doesn't include parent phone calls, meetings, and planning after the students are gone (that can be another letter all by itself). So what keeps me going? How do I survive (and even ENJOY) this job without going crazy and finding myself swimming through liquid feces?

It's you, Nap. Most every day, I take you when I get home from school. Sometimes just 20 minutes, sometimes nearly 2 hours, but no matter how long, you always get me back on track. You help me have a life outside of work (something I didn't have so much last year), and I really appreciate it. There's something so satisfying about coming home, setting down my bag, and lying down in bed; I close my eyes and feel them - and my consciousness - roll to the back of my head and then, almost instantly, my mind detaches and strange dream-like thoughts and visions start to float through my skull.

A while later, I wake up, a little bit groggy, check the clock, stumble out of bed and wander upstairs for a big glass of water (for some reason, Nap, you always dry me out). After a long piss, I'm rejuvenated and ready to interact with other human beings, eat some dinner and LIVE a little.

And it's really not until a few hours later (say, 9pm or so) that I REALLY appreciate you. When my brain is still working and I'm awake past dark. It just makes me feel so ALIVE.

So - thank you, Nap. Thank you so much for everything you've done for me. If I ever become successful and/or rich enough to buy my own waterfall, I won't forget you. No amount of fame or fortune will ever minimize how much you mean to me. And that's the truth.

As for other folks, I really wish they would take you more often. I've noticed that other people don't realize how much fatigue plays a role in their moods, and I think there would be a lot less assholes in this world if everybody took naps. Give me a place that honors adult naps (aka "siestas"), and I'll show you a place with a higher quality of life than this cranky country. Which leads to so many other life-quality raisers like more vacation time, glasses of milk, and Corn Nuts . . . I guess I have a lot of letters to write.

So with that in mind, I guess I'll wrap this up for now, Nap. Thanks again, and please don't ever change.

Yours always,
CVT

Dear Coconut Cream Pie

So my girlfriend, Anya, gave me a little critique on this crappy blog, and she had a great idea. She told me that it might be a little more interesting ("a little," mind you, she's smart enough not to make big promises for this blog) if I wrote my posts as letters to various people/things. I thought that was a pretty good idea, so I've thrown out the "Theme of the Week" idea (which, if you've been reading, I actually threw out the day after I started it), and I'm going to go with letters.

Today's letter: Dear Coconut Cream Pie,

I ate a lot of you today. Anya's dad gave her a big piece of you yesterday, and she decided that I should have it (not knowing that you are my favourite dessert in the world). I ate the whole chunk in one sitting as I watched the beginning of "the Scorpion King" on tv. Unfortunately, it turns out that "the Scorpion King" is one of the worst movies ever made (it reminded me of the Conan the Barbarian movies, but much worse for having been made in the modern era), and the piece of you I was eating wasn't so terrific, either.

You see, I'm spoiled. My mom happens to make a really kick-ass coconut cream pie, and I've never met another's pie that has ever come close. It all started with the crust: today's piece of you had an awful crust. I'm not sure if it was burnt, or if it was supposed to be that way, but it was dry and had a definite charcoal taste to it. Nothing like mom makes it.

Now, don't get me wrong - I enjoyed you today. I really did. It's just hard not to get my hopes up when somebody gives me a bakery-box with you in it. Something about that pink box makes me think of my youth when only exciting treats came in those cleverly-folded containers: cupcakes, birthday cake, donuts . . . All generally signifying some fun event (usually a birthday).

So when a pink bakery box is combined with coconut cream pie, I'm expecting something really special. Something that is going to make me forget all about how horribly bad "the Scorpion King" is. Something that will throw me straight into the land of Eating Bliss no matter what else is going on. But when I opened up that magical box and began eating you today . . . well, I was thinking about how bad that movie was.

I know this is pretty hurtful to you, Coconut Cream Pie. That's why I wanted to address it clearly and immediately. We've had some amazing times together. All those birthdays when my mom makes you for me, and I eat you (nice and cold out of the fridge - the best way to enjoy you) for breakfast . . . The moments of hesitation when Gannon asks for a slice of you, and I have to be polite and say okay. Today's little incident will never erase those memories or make them less special for me. I just figured that - if I was thinking it - I should say it.

So here it is: I think I would have preferred a big chocolate chip cookie this afternoon.

I'm so sorry.

Sincerely,
CVT