Remember the time that an evil, crooked man attempted--several times, mind you--to kill me today? I called you up on telephone, using that "911" number I received from you at the ball all those weeks ago, and told you all my horrifying experience biking along Massachusetts Avenue when the evil, crooked man in question tried repeatedly to drive his dark green Toyota Camry (Massachusetts license plate #67Z G73) into my bicycle like some kind moving target. We had a lovely conversation--your silky smooth alto was so full of empathy, and really helped to calm me down after this horrifying attempt on my life. Although I was fine, you offered to call an ambulance or other such service for me. I gave you the direction that the driver was heading, as well as a physical description of the man. You even asked me for my phone number, so that someone from the BPD could call me and gather information for an official report.
But alas, more than six hours passed, and I did not receive any such phone call. And what's more, when I called the Police Headquarters and inquired as to the status of the incident report, I was informed that no such report existed! My outgoing call log insists that I made a 3 minute 911 call at 11:43 this morning, there was no proof of this communication. Why, there were no hit-and-runs reported at all today!
Sweet Lady Justice, how would you do this to me? In my most vulnerable moment, where my life flashed before me only seconds earlier, you manipulated me and made me believe that I could trust you. Just like a woman! I should like to see you hanged in the square for such treachery, but I'm told that this is an antiquated practice, apparently much like THE FUCKING BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT DOING THEIR GODDAMN JOB FOR ONCE INSTEAD OF FEIGNING INTEREST AND ALLOWING MY WOULD-BE MURDERER TO ESCAPE WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A SLAP ON THE FUCKING WRIST.
I do hope you would show me such kindness the next time that you confront me for being drunk in public
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Dear Tom DeLonge,
First let me begin by saying that I have always defended you whenever some self-righteous hipster asshole knocks on Blink182; truth be told, if you're between the ages of 18 and 25 and you DON'T own a copy of either "Enema of the State," or "Take Off Your Pants and Jacket," then you probably never, ever had friends growing up. Yes, I realize that now it's uncool, and most self-respecting 18-to-25-year-olds have outgrown it, but still: it was a significant part of most of our adolescent lives.
I had the misfortune of seeing your new band, Angels and Airwaves, this past week and feel like the few happy memories I have of adolescence have been brutally raped and slaughtered. No longer will I be able to look back on those days spent in Andrew's attic bedroom, rocking out to "Dammit" and playing Dreamcast after school. No, Tom DeLonge, your latest attempt at "Blin182-does-'Disintegration'" is an abomination. Did you really need all of the ridiculous strobe lights trained on the audience, flashing wildly to cover up your mistakes? And why the fuck were you prancing around the stage twirling glow sticks during one of the few moments of darkness when my eyes finally had a break? I'm all about performance art when done with a purpose, but extending your arms and hanging them in crucifixion position, or mounting green laser light goggles for 8 bars and looking frantically around the auditorium for the lone sorry sap that actually gives a shit about what you're doing, is hardly art; it's masturbation.
To be honest, I kind of miss the days when you were all about masturbation, and were damn proud of it. Now I suffer from horrible visuals of your beer-bellied, pushing-40, black-nail-painted self running around naked like in the video for "What's My Age Again?" in my head, and every time I think about it I throw up in my mouth. At least you accepted the fact that you can't even play guitar, but to make up for it you spent most of the set frolicking across the stage and posing like that creepy old guy that goes to the same karaoke bar every goddamn week and sings shitty 80s ballads way too over-dramatically, hoping desperately that someone will "discover" him (or like me when I'm singing Meat Loaf...which is intentionally meant to be ironic...really...)
When Blink182 broke up 4 years ago (why do I remember that?), it was as if they had died for the collective sins of everyone who had been a teenager in the early '00s. Do us all a favor and lose the fucking martyr complex; I'd like to salvage at least one happy memory of ignorant, innocent, adolescent bliss.
"Dude Ranch" was better
PS Robert Smith called. He wants his shtick back.
PPS My pupils still aren't dilating properly and I'm sending you the optometry bill, asshole.