Dear Max, Happy Crapday

Sometimes I write letters to a six year old named Max.  Here's some. And another.  Sometimes he writes letters back.  We hate each other. Don't worry. It's healthy.

~~

Oh hello Max,

Isn't life full of coincidences?  We both live in New York now.  We both went to your grandparents for Thanksgiving.  We both know you're having a birthday tomorrow.  And only one of us is going.

So EVERYBODY got invitations but ME?  I like Chuck E. Cheese.  I like celebrations of life.  Just because I'm a grown up man, I don't have feelings? I mean I'll be cool if I don't go. I won't like eat a mountain of french toast because it tastes like self loathing.  I won't cry in the shower until the hot water runs out. I'm just saying that this is low, Max. Even for you, you heartless little monster.

Do you know what I'm going to do tomorrow while everyone goes to your birthday party? I'm going to find a simultaneous party going on at the same Chuck E. Cheese.  And I'm going to make it louder and more fun than your party.  Too bad you're not going to get all the free tokens I'll be giving to the OTHER BIRTHDAY BOY. Too bad you won't be learning MY SECRET COOL HIGH FIVES.  Too bad you won't be receiving an ACTUAL AK-47 with PRE-LOADED BANANA CLIP.

Nope. Because your party is going to suck. I'll make sure of it.  I'll slip the high school student playing Chuck E. Cheese a twenty to ignore you.  Or maybe even shake his head at you.  Or give you the shame fingers.  A very disturbing image of scraping one index finger across another.  It will haunt you.

Do you want to be traumatized?  Do you want to have a pitcher of Dr Pepper spilled on you, by a waiter I also bribed, in front of all your friends? Do you want to see a confused child at the party next to you be reunited with his estranged Uncle Robert who has brought him his very own donkey and illegal automatic machine gun that could have been yours?  Because I'm telling you, I have a very convincing story concocted about this Uncle Robert character and how he was switched at birth in the hospital.

Fine. Do whatever you want.  Have your party.  Get older without me.  Even your arch enemy can have feelings, okay? You'll understand someday.  When you're not so stupid from being young.

Tomorrow, if you look to your left I'll be the guy at the other party wearing a mock turtleneck and blond goatee, trying to calm a donkey.  If you look really hard, I'll be mouthing Happy Birthday as everyone sings it to you.  I'll be the one with a tear in my eye.  And a tear in my heart.

Love and Hate,

James Best

I'm Not Afraid of a Six Year Old

About three years ago, my friends Ben and Annie Howington moved from beautiful, industrial Brooklyn to beautiful, metropolitan Raleigh, North Carolina.  With them, they took Lila Howington and my best friend, Jack Howington.  Jack was three and I was almost 30 but we found our maturity level was about the same. That's me and Jack this summer.

Me and Jack's best friendship came to a grinding halt once he moved next to Max, his same age cousin.  Suddenly, Jack stopped writing letters. ( And by letters, I mean alphabet letters.  He would just send me a crayon drawn "B" or "K". ) Jack stopped calling me on his fake cell phone.  He stopped giving me recaps of Dora and as a result my Spanish suffered.

Because of Max. Stupid little Max and his stupid cute smile and his stupid friendly disposition.  I wrote some letters to him trying to convince him to defriend Jack.  You can see evidence of them here.  But it didn't work. They remained best friends.  And I had to hang out with adults. Until I found another child, Pete, to share my interest in trains, destruction, and general naughtiness.

Well, now Max has moved away from Jack. To LONG ISLAND.  We have started our correspondence again.  Here is the message I received on Facebook.

Annie Howington said she was coming to NEW YORK to visit her "FAVORITES".  Max wrote:

James. 


"Favorites" will always equal Colliers in the Howington eyes. I'm pretty sure I won this argument 3 years ago but whateves. Just want you to know there will be no bad blood between us this weekend. I'm mature now.


 Heart, Max






Well, here's my response to that, Gluteus Maximus.




Dear Max,


Everyone from New York knows that when people talk about visiting New York they never mean Long Island. That's just the vestigial tail of New York.  Oh, what's up? You don't know the word "Vestigial"? Why? Because you go to some kind of dumb kids school? Some sort of dummies' schoo....


I've just been informed that you're in Kindergarten.  Because you're only six.  I take it back.  I bet you're head of the class in naps and dinosaur recognition.  I would never impugn the name of Kindergarten.


But you're still only six.  You can't vote.  You can't buy dynamite.  You couldn't be President even if you passed the Presidential Candidate test.  Which is hard. And mostly consists of questions like: 1) Should a President always be rich?  2) Is Vermont technically a state? 


Here's a hint.  Number 2 is no.  It's a suburb of New Hampshire.


See? I'm off topic. Because you drive me crazy!  I'm soooo glad that you're still best friends with Jack. It doesn't bother me at all.  Oh wait. That's sarcasm.  You don't get it because that's a higher brain function.  You need to eat something more complicated than mac n cheese to grow those kind of synapses.  You need to cut up some hot dogs in there, bro!


Let's review things you can do for Jack.  Buy him a matchbox car.  Well, isn't that special?  Because I can buy him a real car.  And I'll let him drive it, too.  Because I'm an ADULT.  And I'm IRRESPONSIBLE. And I will totally LIE TO HIS PARENTS ABOUT WHY WE WE'RE GOING TO THE ABANDONED STATE FAIR PARKING LOT.


It's so he can drive.  Did you put that together?  No? Is it because it's called Deductive Reasoning, Max? Can you say that?  Hold on. I've just been informed that six year olds can actually talk and say complex words fairly easily.


Fine, Max.  You're not going to win.  I'm an adult.  I'm superior.  I can run for mayor of your town and pass laws that all kids named Max have to change their names to even dumber names.  Like Snakebutt. And Barnaclepants.  I will do that, Max.  I will move to your town and start an aggressive campaign to be mayor.  Just to pass silly laws that hurt you.


Stay way from Jack.  Write him a letter post-haste explaining how you hate him now.  Tell him you're best friends with a girl now.  That'll show him.  And I'll scoop in with the used Nissan Sentra I bought him. Red. With battle damage.  From a really cool accident.


Suck it, Max.  I hope you cry.  Like a six year old baby.  And I've just been informed that six year olds have tear glands so you physically are able.




I'm happiest when you're sad,


James Best

Letter to My Pen Pal, Jack #1

I've decided to use my new alias Rod Wolfbike for good. I'm going to post letters to my buddy Jack Howington complete with awesome pictures I steal off the internet. This letter will be a bit of a repeat of the other one I did but it'll make sense. And it's mostly for Jack anyway. So back off.

Jack,

My name is Rod Wolfbike. I'm in this program called Big Brother where I will become your surrogate Big Brother.

Why? Because I got in trouble with someone named Johnny Law. Because the world doesn't see my drunken vigilantism as a godsend to their corrupt backwater pigtown. Because I was assigned to your family because your dad Ben is too busy living it up with his rock band while your poor sweet mother is home getting stoned on Chick-Fil-A sandwiches. Its those pickles. The vinegar is made with crank.

So you trust me, I've included a sweet picture of me. Oh, I'm sorry, yes, I AM a

samurai. Wait, maybe you don't know what that is. Because you're six. And Dora doesn't explore Samurai culture. Only crappy hispanic culture. Which has no warriors to speak of. Besides Luchadors. Which I have fought. To the death.

Samurai were an ancient Japanese sect of warriors. They carried two swords. Because ninjas only carry one sword. And it was a good way to tell us apart. Here's an actual picture of one. From Clan Belushi.

We follow something called Bushido. Which stopped us from murdering ladies and house cats. Unlike ninjas. Who are jerkholes and will just kill your cat without even blinking. Even when you invite them over for dinner. They do not care about feelings. Here's a ninja.

They all look like boy band rejects. Anyway, I'll be stopping by pretty soon. I'll bring you some throwing stars. You can play catch with them. Teach your sisters. And maybe we'll go out and fight some bad guys. Gang members or census takers. See you soon, Little Brother. I'll be the cool guy pulling up on a bullet bike. You'll know me by the leather jacket embroidered with Japanese symbols.

Stay Bushido Jack.

Your Big Brother/Protector,

Rod Wolfbike

Last surviving member of the Kagekatsu/Wolfbike Clan

Why I Can't Be in the Big Brother Program #1

When I'm supposed to be working on one writing project my mind wanders to the next project. And when all those projects are too big and mind-consuming for an early morning wait at the airport, I tend to write something silly. This is why I can never have a pen pal or be in the Big Brother program. My propensity to fabricate when there are no immediate consequences. Here's what I think my Big Brother letters would look like.

Dear Conner,

I got your letter. You sound really cool. Sorry about your dad. Your mom sounds like a real nice lady. I loved 5th grade, too. My teacher, Mrs. Abernathy, was great. She was British and drank a lot of tea. She got me addicted to the stuff. Don't get hooked on tea.

What can I tell you about myself? Well, I'm a samurai. Do you know what that is? Well, a samurai is a Japanese warrior who follows a strict code of ethics called bushido. If you can't pronounce it, don't worry. I couldn't pronounce your last name. Samurai wear armor and carry two swords. Which is much more boss than carrying one sword like those sissy ninjas.

Already, I'm sure you have questions. How can I wear swords in public? Easy. Trenchcoats. People stay away from trenchcoat folk. Because they're usually flashers. Which means they are opportunistically naked. Or I just keep my swords strapped to my motorcycle. Which sort of hampers my street justice radius, but I just try to park my motorcycle near danger.

What else? Oh, armor. Do I wear the old timey samurai plate armor? No, I'm more of the Seven Samurai, hang out in cotton kimono type of samurai. Have you seen Seven Samurai? If not, tell your Mom it's cool. Your Big Brother says so. Tell her I would commit seppuku if it wasn't.

What's your home life like? Is your dad an evil warlord/doesn't pay child support? Because I'm always looking for a cause. In exchange for some egg rolls. I'm really into egg rolls. Are there any bullies in your class? I could totally scare them with my wakazashi. (That's one of my two swords.) What's your single mom like? Does she need me to get feudal on the kingdom that holds her mortgage? Does she like motorcycles? What about debt?

Stay bushido, Conner. Big Brother out.

Love,

James Wolfbike

Last surviving member of the Kagekatsu/Wolfbike clan

Day 21 - Internet Cafes and Letters to the Future

I'm back at the internet cafe. My time is running out. A bagel bought me two hours. And this poem needed a lot of editing. It's the third in the Letter to Me series. It may or may not need informing from the others. Not sure. Hard to separate sometimes.

A buck just walked down the sidewalk near the cafe. Crazy. This place is wild. I'm going to ride my pet bear home now. I'll put up some pictures tomorrow. The internet is just so slow I can't tell whether or not it can handle it. Lates.

Letter #3: Change

To an Older Me,

Even as I write this, I can feel the future you
pulling away, deciding to be.
There’s a smile in me I’m trying out,
a world be damned sort of grin.
I see it in the mirror some mornings,
sneaking out, giving me an almost handsome tilt.
Don’t laugh.

By now, you have sold my skin.
Your fingers look like strangers.
My face on you is stretched into something new,
even carefree. I feel it coming.

Two days ago, I biked down Milham Road
and ran into one of three Jessicas from class.
And she waylaid me, joked with me, frightened me
into hours of pointless forgetfulness.
I never got one broody word written.

I said don’t laugh.
If my pen cannot be a spear, what is it?
If I am not me in the future, who are you?

This is only vision I’ve had of us:
propped near some lake, clear as dreams,
mountains around, loons and deer,
a waterfall fogs a white noise through the air.
In our hands, a journal and pen.
Beauty surrounding, we’re still looking at paper.
Your face is young and uncreased by living ,
your eyes are still grey but steel now,
absent of heat, more like a door shut.
I am not gone. Just locked away.

I get why we became you.
Forgiveness is not easy, it’s just lighter.

Still,
You

Day 8 - And Now For Something Completely Darker

This is a follow up to a series of poems I started writing. In fact, I don't know what happened to the rest, but I wrote another #2. It's in the darker variety of things. I wrote these poems from a fake me to another fake me. I tried writing from a place of anger for a while. Not real anger per se, but an idea of angry narrators. I don't believe in this emotionless being writing. This channeler of pure observation. Alright, I'm not going to get into poetry theory. Here's a happy Sunday poem!


Letter to James #2: Coal

To an Older Me,

Remember:
Christmas ’92. Post-divorce.
Your family is reimagining themselves.
There is less, of course.
And more. And it looks right.
The wrapping paper clings to ankles.
The Z sound of electric toys.
Nama is asleep, glasses precarious.
You don’t have a dog yet, don’t conjure him here.
And stop picturing easy smiles.
This is a skinless holiday.
A toothsucking day of ceremony.

You are wedged deep in the overstuffing.
These days, you are always writing,
the escape begun.
Uncle John asks why the hell you writing Santa?
Christmas is done, buddy.
And you don’t joke about getting better presents,
because you’ve started holding back,
deciding to never add any weight to the ice
of sorrow we’re all skating on.
That’s the way I (you) write then.
We say things like ice of sorrow.

But it’s not Santa I’m writing.
It’s you and I don’t believe in you either.
That you’ve become what I need.
Remember: in the midst of it,
while all worked to restructure,
you had a killing feeling all Christmas.
A Something you’d never felt
but it was like sand in your bones,
like glass for teeth.
A feeling too big for me,
too complicated, too unaccomplishable
for then. So I boxed it up
and sent it ahead 15 years.
My only Christmas wish. If you exist.

Love,
You

Max: Innocent 3 Year Old or More? Or Even Less?

I've been writing some letters to Max and it seems by his response he has not taken seriously my gentle requests. I have been nothing but forthright and understanding in his burgeoning friendship with Jack Howington and yet here, along with his picture, is his saucy retort:


Dear James,
For the record, I had not yet seen said "letters" until tonight when my mommy woke me up from tasty slumber, pushed aside my blankie, shoved her laptop onto my tiny (but muscular) lap and put me to work fixing this PR poopie hole you've stuck me in. What's the deal? I have a reputation to protect, primary kids to smack around. Those sunbeam suckers can't rule themselves, ya know? So stop scarin away the ladies. And just so you know, I have no intention of giving Jack up. He’s my wing man. Do you have a wing man of Jack’s caliber? One that can simultaneously pick his nose and give you that “come hither” look? Oh yeah, Uncle Ben. A close second. So check it: You're like, 50, dude. Shave off the creepy mustache and find a friend your own decade. Unless you’re the James that says choo choo and has a 5 on his side, you don’t stand a chance.
Hugs, Max


The work of an innocent? I daresay no. When I received this letter, something didn't set right with me. I just happened to be doing some freelance reporting on a hippie's commune when one of their blacklights strobed got tipped toward my computer. What I found was this:

Could the Howington family have been bamboozled? Has some devil replaced their darling child with a Hellspawn? Obviously, those horns look way real and those blue things must be his devil wings behind him. Not to mention the flames. The flames! So I took my suspicions to a top authority, E. T. Elliot. Using a complex mathematical formula stolen from the pages of the Necromicon, we were able to decode the secret message beneath the letter. Demon words are translated into Bold.


Dear James (WORM),
For the record, I(DEMONBOY) had not yet seen said "letters"(LETTERS) until tonight when my mommy(UNWITTING SERVANT) woke me up from tasty slumber(NIGHTLY TRIP TO THE NETHERWORLD), pushed aside my blankie (MADE OF KITTENS), shoved her laptop onto my tiny (but muscular) lap (EVIL MUSCLE LAP) and put me to work fixing this PR poopie hole (EXACTLY AS IT READS) you've stuck me in. What's the deal(YO!?)? I have a reputation (AMONG THE DEMON LADIES) to protect, primary kids to smack around(WHAT WHAT!). Those sunbeam suckers (DROOLFACED MINIONS) can't rule themselves, ya know(SLANG!)? So stop scarin away the ladies(THE HORNED HONEYS I MENTIONED EARLIER). And just so you know, I have no intention(I'll EAT YOUR EYEBALLS FIRST) of giving Jack (A SWEET ANGEL OF A BOY) up. He’s my wing man(NEXT VICTIM FOR SOUL THIEVERY). Do you (MAN WHOSE NAME MAKES HELL TO QUAKE) have a wing man of Jack’s caliber(BULLET SIZE)? One that can simultaneously(AT THE SAME TIME) pick his nose (BOOGER STORAGE) and give you that “come hither” look? Oh yeah, Uncle Ben (HE WHO MAKES RICE) . A close second. So check it: You're like, 50, dude. Shave off the creepy mustache (OUR RESEARCH IS INCONCLUSIVE ABOUT THE CURRENT STATE OF YOUR FACIAL HAIR) and find a friend your own decade. Unless you’re the James that says choo choo and has a 5 on his side, you don’t stand a chance(A SNOWBALL IN HELL, GET IT? GET IT?).

Hugs,
Max
(BELIAL, DEMON CHILD MOSTLY IN CHARGE OF RUG BURNS AND MAKING PEOPLE LATE FOR THINGS)


Lori and Dave, I'm sorry you had to find out this way. But it's for the best. Have you seen the movie Poltergeist? We can totally get him back. I'm sure he's just in a rumpus room in Hell. No way did I make all this up to trash the name of your innocent son who's never hurt a person in the world.

Oh, and Max, I can say choo choo whenever I want. And I get a 5 tattooed on my body any day. Because I can make good on my impulses. That's what adults excel at. So there!

Letters to Max, My Arch-Nemesis

I have recently received some disturbing news that my buddy Jack Howington, (three year old son of Ben and Annie Howington) has now a new best friend by the name of Max. I guess it's his cousin. To turn this tide, I have started sending some letters to Max explaining my displeasure. So far he has not responded. Here I present these letters to you so you may see how I handled this in a very judicious and grown up way.

5/27/08

Dear Max,

I hear you've been spending a lot of your time with Jack. He's a good kid but don't get any ideas. I taught him how to feed seagulls, smack vehicles with snowballs, and throw mud at the ocean. Toy sharing does not a best friend make. Just thought I should let you know. Don't get too close.

A Warning,
James

5/29/08

Dear Max,

I hear you ignored my letter and just wiped your hands on it after a mac 'n' cheese lunch. Hmm. Well, I feel a little slighted but I'm the adult and I will not respond to this effrontery. I'm bigger than that. (And bigger than you, you midget, so watch it!)
Jack says he's having a good time with you. But he's fickle, Max, fickle! Sometimes we'd be right in the middle of tossing a ball and the Backyardigans would come on and Bam! It was like I wasn't even there! It may seem like you're buddies now but you better keep him away from Nick Kids or you'll lose him. Just like your parents might lose you accidentally at a rest stop. I mean, I hope that doesn't happen. Boo hoo. That would be bad.

Get Ready,
James

6/1/08

Max,

You refuse to respond so listen, Max, I'm bigger than you. Have you ever seen a kitten? Because you're like the size of a kitten and I'm a pine tree. An angry pine tree that hates kittens. Is that analogy clear? Can you even read these letters? Here's a few other things I can do that you can't.

1. I can open doors.
2. I could eat McDonald's until it killed me.
3. No one wipes my butt. I mean, I wipe it just not other people.
4. I understand the remote.
5. I don't grow out of my favorite clothes. At least not vertically.

Oh, and I'm like 10 times your age which means I'm like 10 times as smart as you. So suck it! Try to compute that, Glutius Maximus. It'll blow that grape you call your thinker.
Here's the deal. You tell Jack you're not best friends anymore. Don't give him a reason, just start taking away toys and slap him or hit him with a Tonka truck. My own best friend pulled down his pants and lobbed his own poop at me. That ended things real quick. But save that for last resort.
You better do this, Max! I don't want any letter from you explaining your feelings. Yeah, I can just picture that:

Dear James, It's me Max blah blah blah I can't write words.

Give Jack up! I mean it!

I really do,
James

6/5/08

Dear Max,

Listen, dumdum. Your best friendship with Jack is doomed. Do you even know what that word means? Probably not. Because you're three.

I may live like 800 miles away but I can drive. A car! Not a Matchbox. A REAL car. And I don't have to sit in a baby seat either. Because I'm not a baby. Like you.

Sure, you and Jack are the same age and have similar interests like wooden trains and Dora and spinning in circles but I have access to money. Do you know what that is, buttmouth? It's what your parents have that keeps you from starving! Do you know what else is great about having money? I can buy candy and toys whenever I want. Boom!

Can you get money? No. A little thing we Americans like to call Child Labor Laws. So don't think about trying to work, Maxie Pad. Because the government won't let you! Think about that while I shove my face full of Milk Duds. Mmmm. Money tastes good.

What's a matter, Max? Are you crying? I don't cry, Max. Because I have a little something called communication. And shame. Have you ever tried negotiation instead of crying? No. Of course not. Because you suck at language. What about the word ire? No? Because you deserve mine!

Cry yourself to sleep, little man. I'm going to play X-Box and eat Otter Pops until I'm sick. Because I'm an adult. Sucker!

Awesometown: Population Me,
James