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Posts tagged as “Letter”

A Letter to Big Freedia on the Amazing Show(s) You Put on Last Night in Brooklyn

Dearest Big Free,

I first encountered you at the East River Park waterfront show some weeks ago and you blew my mind. Never before had I seen so much ass being shaken on stage and, I thought, I never would again. Even though I was far away on the beer side of audience area (I’m sorry, it was very hot and I was very thirsty), your energy was commanding. As was the unbelievable amount of ass being shaken. The performance sent me ranting and raving to all my idiot friends who decided not to attend the show. Indeed, a did a fair amount of that ranting and raving right here on this very website. Just type in “Big Freedia” in the search box at the bottom and you’ll find yourself.

I don’t mean that in some metaphysical sort of way, just that you’ll be able to read the posts I’ve written about you.

Big Free
You identifying proper technique.

Earlier this week, my friend Charles or Michael or both of them sent me a link to tickets for your CMJ show last night at Southpaw. Before they could ask me if I wanted to go, I’d purchased a ticket knowing full well that I would not be disappointed. Charles eventually backed out, but Michael went and we were able to rally Sue. She was very excited to get in on this Bounce action. And who wouldn’t be? I love to dance and I love intense shit and I love watching girls shake their asses. Though by upbringing a metalhead, it was brought to my attention this summer through the wise observation of two lovely lady friends of mine that everything I like is really intense. And that’s totally true. This Bounce shit is INTENSE, and, accordingly, perfect for me.

I’ve been preparing myself all week for the show listening to a variety of bounce, ghettotech, Detroit house, and dubstep. You might say I was warming up for the main event on Friday night.

And, boy, was I not disappointed. Dominique Young Unique brought it super hard. I was sort of nonplussed with her at the East River show, but I think her style just doesn’t carry across vast empty spaces. In a small club it was wildly different and much, much better. I enjoyed her set quite a lot. Javelin I could have done without. Big old meh from me on those guys. They’re not terrible, but they were doing nothing at all for me.

Then you came out into the crowd, even going so far as to let people know you were walking through the crowd, and the whole night exploded into ass and sweat and dancing and awesome. I’m actually having a hard time coming up with an accurate way to describe just how much fun the show was to our other readers without just saying, “HOLY FUCK IT WAS SO AWESOME OH MY GOD YOU SHOULD HAVE COME WHAT THE FUCK IT WAS AMAZING!” I think the video below accurately sums up my experience of the show last night.

Some highlights? When you filled the stage with people shaking their asses. Your performance of “Gin in My System”. Michael commenting that there were a lot of gay guys in the ticket line and me shooting him a solid “DUH” look. Giant plastic cups of whiskey at Southpaw. That the show was only 12 bucks. Dancing with Sue and Michael.

But it would have been boring if the night ended there, wouldn’t it? Of course it would have.

Sue, ever the producer extraordinaire, approached Rusty Lazer about where the after party would be. Sure enough, her bluff worked out and he told her that it would be at 285 Kent, a random doorway right next to Glasslands. Michael and his ladyfriend foolishly decided they were too tired to come to the next spot so we left them behind us. At about 1:45, 2 o’clock we arrived and entered the room to find a seething mass of sweaty people under purple light grinding. There was no fighting the sweat in there. For such a high ceilinged room, it was remarkably hot and stuffy, but what do you expect from a room full of dancing people?

After a 5 dollar Modelo Especial (ridiculous, right?), you came on and slew that place too. Sue and I danced ourselves delirious and dripping. We stayed for the entire second set. Happily too. I can’t remember seeing a show twice in the same night before, but yours was one I’d have gladly seen thrice. It’s just that good. I am impressed. We walked out of there at 3:30 in the morning satisfied.

So, thank you, Big Freedia, for bringing some joy to my life. I will gladly see you perform again and will recommend you whole heartedly to my friends, relatives, coworkers, compatriots, wellwishers, and various others. Also, I really love my t-shirt.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

A Letter to Men Who Wear Their Pinky Fingernails Long.

Dear you guys,

It’s gross! Stop it!

Really though, what’s the point? To you, guy, on the train this morning wearing your stupid American Eagle shirt holding an umbrella, what are you trying to prove? Are you trying to say to the world, “I live a life of leisure. I am a man who does not have to work. I am rich and have servants to tend to my needs,” while you are clearly on your way to work? Who the fuck do you think you’re fooling? You’re riding a train out of Queens. Drop the bullshit already. The pinky fingernail is gross.

And to the Chinese guys in Chinatown working on Kenmare hauling fish, I am likewise not convinced by your long pinky fingernail that you are wealthy and intelligent and well bred. Maybe it’s the crap under your other fingernails or the fact that you’re teeth are stained by smoking too much or that you are covered head to toe in fucking fish entrails. I don’t know, call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure most extraordinarily wealthy people don’t spend their early mornings on the streets of Chinatown covered in aquatic gore. Just a thought. Call me crazy.

Is anyone else as grossed out by this as I am? I’m pretty durable generally, and quite accepting of most of people’s idiosyncrasies, but the fingernail thing just skeeves me out. It makes me want to carry around fingernail clippers and cut their fingernails. Also, it’s fucking gross when people cut their nails on the subway. What the fuck, people. Get it together.

And don’t even get my started on those silly girls at the grocery store who wear such long fake fingernails that they cannot press the buttons on the register except with the balls of their fingers.

Unapologetically yours,

The Black Laser

A Letter to My Beard Inquiring On The Steadily Increasing Number of Gray Hairs Each Time It Comes Back In.

Dear My Beard,

How’s it going, buddy? It’s been a while, huh? It’s real nice to see you again on my face and I bet you’re pretty glad that I’m not cutting you every few days. Must be some relief, right? I can’t imagine the horror it would be to have my head cut off every few days! Jeez, color me insensitive! I promise I don’t mean to be cruel.

Anyhoo, we both know that it has been a few months since you last graced the landscape of my face, and I have to say I am glad to have you back. You’re an old friend and good to me.

I must admit, beard, that your return wasn’t arbitrary. I didn’t just up and decide, “You know what? It’s time to grow my beard back.” I mean, it’s still August and summer and beards just don’t mix. (Sorry!) I grew you back because I’ve noticed that there are a lot more gray hairs in you than ever before and I was curious to see what it would look like grown out.

Now, don’t misinterpret this as me pining for my fading youth or fearing the passage of time and the realization of my inevitable death. No, actually, I kind of like the gray hair. It goes nicely with my otherwise very dark hair as evidenced by the white spot I’ve carried on my temple my entire life. What surprised me is, now that you’re grown in a little, how many more gray hairs there are than I have previously suspected based on evidence gathered from days’ worth of stubble. Given weeks’ worth of beard, the story is a little different.

Not bad, just different.

So, just writing to say what’s up, stay cool, and whatever.

Keep it real,

The Black Laser.

A letter to the coffee industry.

Dear coffee industry,

See this?

This is a small cup of coffee. Do you notice anything about that last sentence? You don’t? I’ll clue you in: it’s entirely in English. I didn’t have to use a single fakey-Italian or fakey-French word to describe it. And wasn’t it wonderful? I know, it really was.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind using foreign language words to order in two specific cases. The first is when it’s the actual name of what I want. When I want to order and espresso, calling it a “quick coffee” would be just as stupid as calling a small a “grande”. The words espresso or americano or cappuccino all refer to something specific and are not used as some bullshit affectation to make the coffee look smarter.

The second situation is when I am in a place where they do not speak English. It makes so much sense, right? If I’m in a bodega in the Bronx, I’m going to ask for a coffee. (Note: guys, no, I don’t want 8 sugars in my coffee. None please. I know you think that’s the strangest thing you’ve ever heard, but the correct amount of sugars is ZERO.) If I’m in Mexico City, I’m going to ask for un cafe. It’s just reasonable. I don’t want to have to go pick up some Starbucks and be forced to utter the words “venti half-caf non-whip chai mochaccino latte.” I just made that up. But I bet they’d actually try and make that for you.

I guess, coffee industry, you’re playing into my loathing of being forced to use silly fucking names to order from a place. I don’t want to order the cleverly named smoothie from wherever. I don’t want to order the alliterative sandwich from some other place. And I sure as hell don’t want to use fake as shit, affected foreign languages to tell you I want a fucking small coffee. And, no, I don’t care if if takes 8 hours to make a single cup of drip coffee on your ridiculous Japanese contraptions that drip 12 drips an hour. What a waste of time.

And so to my humble French press, I say, I love you. Thanks for taking the bullshit out of coffee drinking. I don’t even need electricity to make you work, just boiling water and 4 minutes.

Get your shit straight coffee industry.

Curmudgeonly yours,

The Black Laser.

PS – If you see my orange and gray messenger bag around, will you let me know? Thanks.

PPS – You’re still a dick.

PPPS – Unless you return my bag. Then I promise a whole year of ordering stupidly named coffee drinks.

A Letter Regarding the Atmosphere of an Altogether Too Sticky and Hot Nature In My Apartment.

Dear mugginess,

You can suck my dick. I mean that. No, that’s wrong because it sounds like I want you to suck my dick. I don’t. Let’s start over, shall we?

Mugginess, you can suck on the boil-covered, blood-stained cock of a slaughtered horse. Better?

There’s nothing I like less than waking up multiple times a night sticky and sweating. It completely fucks up my sleep and then I get real dumb and real pissed. Regular old heat is fine, but this heavy air, moisture everywhere crap drives me god damned bonkers. Bonkers!

Last night I won out, though, mugginess. I have been avoiding turning on the air conditioner because it’s still May and I’ve never been fond of heavy electrical bills. But you know what’s more important than the difference between a 35 dollar and 60 dollar electrical bill? Being able to sleep. Cost/Benefit. ConEd can have the stupid 25 dollars if it means I am telling you to sit on one and spin. I managed my first good night of sleep in nearly a week since Nature decided it was time to crank the thermostat. Oh how I long for the days of Winter and easy sleeping!

So, you vile son of a bitch, I will endure the next months of your torture. You will not win. And then when Autumn rolls around again and I can safely say that you are behind me, I will laugh and dance and sing and you will be history. History! No more will I sweat as soon as I get out of the shower! No more will I have to wash my face when I arrive at the office! No more will my breathing be labored and heavy as you irritate my asthma!

And though I long for days spent relaxing in the park, enjoying the sunshine and its myriad benefits, all this heinous humidity can go straight to hell. Or the South. Whichever. Just stay the hell away from me.

Sincerely and with tremendous enmity,

The Black Laser.