bliz: THE MYSTERY OF THE MASKED DUDE IN THE ELEVATOR WHO WAS DRESSED UP LIKE A WOMAN AND DECIDED TO VISIT MY APARTMENT
A few years back, at about 1 a.m. on a Saturday night, my girlfriend and I rode the elevator in my building with a tall Black woman in a slinky, low-cut red dress. She wore black stiletto heels, and held a miniature purse in one hand and a canvas bag in the other.
Aside from the fact that my girlfriend and I immediately pegged the elevator interloper as a dude, there was something uniquely creepy about her/him.
First off, s/he entered the elevator immediately after we did, watched as I hit the button for our floor, and thereafter made no attempt to press one of the buttons to select a different exit floor. Now, in most apartment building scenarios this wouldn't be an issue--as it is not uncommon for a building in the city to house 20 or more apartments per floor. But I live in a Chelsea loft building: where each floor is home to exactly one apartment, where the elevator opens directly into the respective apartments, and where one, for obvious reasons, needs a key in order to start the elevator on it's journey to one of the residences.
So, to sum up, by not pressing any of the buttons, the person on the elevator had made it clear that s/he was going to my apartment--despite the fact that s/he was not one of my roommates, and thus had no key to the elevator.
While I found this to be a bit odd, I remembered that one of my roommates had, earlier in the day, mentioned that he was having a few friends over for a get-together. I also recalled that my roommie did have at least one close friend who often dressed in women's clothing and was known for his smarmy-hot female alter-ego. After glancing again at our fellow upwards traveler, s/he didn't really strike me as one who would be pals with my roommate, but I wasn't ready to completely write off a potential friendship between the two.
"You never know," I told myself.
Then, as the elevator got to within one floor of our destination, the girl/guy reached into the canvas sack, pulled out one of those spooky, hand-held, Mardi-Gras-type masks that were all the rage in "Eyes Wide Shut," placed it over her face, and turned to look directly at my girlfriend and I. When the elevator bounced to a stop, she gave us one of those Charles Manson psycho-killer smile/laughs and motioned for us to exit ahead of her.
By this time, I was quite sure that s/he was not simply one of my roommate's friends, and this realization was buoyed by the fact that the five or so people I immediately noticed to be gathered in our living room were all dressed in jeans and T-shirts, appeared to be eating homemade pasta, and were not wearing any creepy sex masks.
Upon getting off the elevator, my girlfriend bolted for my room--"I was freaked completely freaked out," she would confide to me moments later--and after exchanging a passing greeting with the pasta eaters, I joined her.
Once I was in the room, she closed the door behind me and locked it with the determination of one who is trying to escape from zombies or something. "What the fuck was that about?" she asked, frantically. In response, all I could do was shrug my shoulders. "She wasn't here for his party, Matt," my girlfriend said. "And she took a left off the elevator. What if she's still here?"
Again, I replied with a shrug.
"Come on," she implored. "This is serious."
At that point, I offered to play the stereotypical male and "go make sure" that the girl/guy had left the apartment. "Are you crazy?" my girlfriend asked. "You're not going out there. It could be dangerous" In response, I noted that I could not help but take offense from the fact that my girlfriend didn't think I could take the masked marauder in a brawl--"Well, she could have a gun . . . or a knife" my girlfriend added, in attempt to backpedal from the unstated implication of inferiority that she'd let out of the bag moments earlier--and after five minutes or so I'd convinced her that I could indeed handle my own against the mysterious elevator woman. "OK," she said. "But be careful. If you have to, and if it comes down to it, kick him in the balls."
Of course, no ball kicking followed.
By the time that I explained the situation to my roommate and his guests--a few of whom were mutual friends of mine--and we searched the apartment, the confused crossdresser had disappeared.
"How random," one of the guests exclaimed. And, at the time, we all agreed.
But three years later, I've discovered that there was nothing at all random about what happened that night. You see, like many apartment buildings in Manhattan, the one I live in is attached to an adjacent building. That building is pretty much a mirror image of mine, in that each has the same number of floors and the respective entrances are almost identical in appearance. The only noticeable difference between the two is that the giant blue flag that drapes from a second-floor awning of my building contains one street number while the flag hanging from the next building is adorned with a number that is greater by two--that is, for instance, one says "368" while the other says "366." And due to the similarity of the two buildings, the fact that the two street numbers are close in appearance, and the general penchant for New Yorkers to screw up addresses, lots and lots of people buzz my apartment by mistake.
So, for instance, I hear stuff like, "Sushi!"; "We're here for Glen"; "Package for IGL Corporation"; and "We're down here waiting, are you ready yet?" . . . even when I haven't ordered sushi, despite the fact that I don't know anyone named Glen, even though IGL is two floors down, and regardless of whether I'm supposed to be going anywhere with anyone that would necessitate my "getting ready."
In short, people are always mistaking my apartment for something that it is not.
And, as it turns out, this is what happened on that fateful night when I shared an elevator with the equivalent of Chris Rock in a dress.
I realized this, for certain, the other day, when I came across a cool new website that provides an interactive map of Manhattan along with a "walking tour" feature that gives visitors to the site a full rundown of the famous people, places, and events that have ties to each and every block in New York City.
For example, re 23rd Street between 7th and 8th Avenues, the site informs us that, among other things, the block is home to:
"at 271: Trialer Park; ironic restaurant/bar"
"at 265: Krispy Kreme doughnuts; good if you stop at two"
"at 228 Manhattan Comics & Card"
"at 235: Communist Party USA national HQ; Unity is the official CP bookstore. Was site of Kalem silent film studios."
"at 226: El Quijote: the Chelsea's bar and restraunt since 1930. A Janis Joplin hangout."
"at 222: The Chelsea Hotel: Built in 1883, it was New York's tallest building until 1902. A hotel noted for writers, artists, musicians. Mark Twain, O. Henry, Edgar Lee Masters, Sarah Bernhardt, Lillian Russell, Dylan Thomas, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, William Burroughs, Claes Oldenburg, Willem de Kooning, Jackson Pollock, Virgil Thomson, Patti Smith, Jim Carroll, Sid Vicious etc. Art from many tenants hangs on walls. Thomas Wolfe wrote Look Homeward Angel here; William Burroughs wrote Naked Lunch here; Arthur C. Clarke wrote 2001 here; Bob Dylan wrote "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands" here; Leonard Cohen wrote "Chelsea Hotel No. 2" here. Andy Warhol filmed Chelsea Girls here. Some of Nine 1/2 Weeks was shot here.
"at 215: Oldest Y in NYC (from 1869); moved to this location 1904, supplanting the French Branch, a Y for the local French-speaking population. Moved in 2002 to 14th Street. Named for Robert Ross McBurney, an early leader of the Y movement. Merrill met Lynch in the swimming pool in 1913; other members have included Edward Albee, Andy Warhol and Al Pacino. William Saroyan stayed here when he came to NY in 1928, as did Keith Haring 50 years later. This Y inspired the Village People's "YMCA." The steamroom scene in The Godfather was shot here."
"at 202 (corner): Chelsea Savoy hotel; notably ugly."
Now, I'll be the first to admit that I may be a bit of a nerd when it comes to New York City history, but I find the site's content to be absolutely fascinating. And, of course, one of the first things that I did after discovering the website was find my apartment building on the map so as to be able to read all about the area's history.
Unfortunately, the entries dealing with my block are almost exclusively about flowers.
The very first thing the site notes about the block is that it's known as Manhattan's "Flower District" and that, "This area has been home to New York's plant and floral wholesalers since the 1870s." As such, a lot of the entries for my block look like this:
"at 151: Green (orchids); Mutual Cut Flowers"
"at 131-133: Associated Cut Flower Co."
"at 127: The Plant House"
"at 117 PNK Silk Flowers Corp."
In fact, there are only two entries for my block that could even remotely be considered interesting.
The first is at number 147, where "three African-Americans were victims of the Draft Riots of 1863: William Henry Nichols, who was killed with a crowbar while defending his mother from the mob; Joseph Reed, a seven-year-old boy clubbed to death with the butt of a pistol; and a three-day-old baby, name unknown, who was thrown to his or her death from an upper window."
The entry's not pretty, that's for sure. But at least it's historically significant and has nothing to do with chrysanthemums.
The other "interesting" entry for my block is the following:
"at [number of building directly adjacent to mine excluded]: Bear Cave/Vault: underground gay sex club shut down by the city in 2001.
As soon as I read the entry, my mind immediately shot back to that night when my girlfriend feared for our safety after an elevator ride with a masked-out sex harlot.
Naturally, my next move was to run a Google search including the words "Bear Cave" and the address of the building next to mine. And, sure enough, the search engine quickly spat out a link to a "Gay City News" article that appeared in that publication in 2002 under the headline, "City Warns Five Sex Clubs."
The article first noted that:
"Between March 29 and June 6, the health department sent warning letters to J's Hangout, at 675 Hudson, the Manhole and the Hellfire Club, both at 28 Ninth Avenue, the Jewel Theater, at 100 Third Avenue, and Ann Street Entertainment, at 21 Ann Street. The clubs and shops were told that inspectors had observed violations of a state health code that bans oral, anal, and vaginal sex in businesses."
A little further down, in an attempt to detail the history of enforcement under the health code regulation, the piece stated the following:
"In 2001, the city warned the Christopher Street Book Shop, at 500 Hudson, and closed the Gay Cable Network, at 133 W. 25th Street, and the Bear Cave/Vault at [address of the building adjacent to my apartment removed]. While the Gay Cable Network had produced a weekly cable news for 19 years the premises also doubled as a sex club. The Bear Cave/Vault apparently opened after a renter at [address of the building adjacent to my apartment removed] sublet his apartment and the sub-tenant converted it into a sex club."
And that, my friends, brings us to the conclusion of "The Mystery of the Masked Dude in the Elevator Who was Dressed Up like a Chick and Decided to Visit My Apartment"
The mystery, like the masked marauder's beloved Bear Cave, is no more.
A lime-green-jockey-suited Andre 3000 recently informed the world that "nothin' is forever." And it says here that Mr. 3000's assessment is right-on re the "how long things are for" issue.
Nothing is forever.
That much, at least, is certain. Stuff ends . . . that's just the way it goes.
But while it's pretty much a given that everything under the sun will eventually run its course and reach an endpoint, what's much less clear is whether it's best for something to end abruptly and without warning, or gradually.
Put another way . . . let's say that you're a 42-year-old woman who works in the field of marine biology. Your passion is something called the long-finned pilot whale. You are inspired foremost by that whale's elaborate system of communication and the music of the alt-rock band Radiohead. You drive one of those old-school VW Beetles, which you love with an intensity of emotion that most people reserve for family pets, best friends, and things of that sort. You write hand-scripted calligraphy, and this pastime serves as your sole creative outlet, aside from all that whale research. Your favorite television program is "Law and Order," your secret vice is KFC, and, while you're not all that crazy about where your body's gone since finishing up grad school, you simply adore your thick, flowing mane of blonde hair--which people compliment on a near-daily basis.
Now let's say that a bunch of really, really bad stuff is going to happen to you. In fact, to be more precise, every worst-case scenario is about to befall you. Here are the relevant questions:
-Is it better that your beloved long-finned pilot whales will be extinct within a year, or is it better that they all die off suddenly--like over the span of 24 hours?
-Is your preference that Radiohead break up abruptly, unexpectedly, and unbeknownst to anyone outside of the band, or is it better that the band members slowly go their separate ways after myriad break up rumors, some intra-band scuffling, and a slack-assed farewell tour?
-Would you be better suited if the engine in your VW bug bit the dust one afternoon when you least expected it, or would you prefer the unfortunate event to occur within a few months of your mechanic informing you that, "this thing is not going to last more than a few more months"?
-Are you better off losing your calligraphy hobby via a wicked confluence of arthritis and carpal tunnel that gradually saps you of your ability to grasp a pen, or would it be preferable to lose both hands in a boating accident?
-Would you prefer NBC to ax "Law and Order" out of nowhere, or would you like one of those last-season-run-up-to-the-final-episode dealies that television has become known for?
-Is it better that KFC files for bankruptcy on Tuesday morning and shuts down all operations, for good, by noon of the same day, or would you rather they declare that the company will be going under at the end of next month?
-And, finally, should your hair fall out gradually--say 20 strands each day--over a three year period, or would you rather it be lost in one fell swoop, like in some sort of irreversible chemo scenario?
I think you get the picture. But just in case you don't, the overarching questions are fairly easy to summarize:
Is it better to know that the end of something is coming at some point down the line, or to just have it come without warning? In essence, does that time in between notification that the end of whatever is near, and the actual end make the loss easier to handle, or more difficult?
Now, in some situations, the answer is clear and easy--for instance, you'd surely take another year with the whales because that period would allow for additional and final study of the animals in their live form. But it's my sense that in most cases legitimate arguments could be made for both the quick/painless and gradual/forewarned manners of reaching an endpoint--depending on how sad or unhappy one will be in the knowledge that something they enjoy, respect, or love is about to come to an end.
To wit: Put me in Whale Girl's shoes, and I'm all over the board.
I'd want the Radiohead break up to be random and seemingly out of nowhere, and I'd want my Beetle's demise to be similarly surprising. But I'd prefer to enjoy my head of hair, "Law and Order," and that fried chicken for as long as I possibly could before they went vamoose.
The calligraphy one, for me anyway, is the toughest call. I cannot help but personalize that hypothetical and equate it with my own desired form of expression--which, for the record, is writing--and imagine some sort of Alzheimersesque scenario wherein I gradually lose the capacity to produce coherent pieces. My hunch is to say that in such a situation I'd likely prefer an abrupt loss of the ability to write rather than have to endure an obvious and sad downward spiral eventually leading to the production of absolute jibberish.
But, again, I'm not positive. Surely there would be at least a few spurts of original, creative work that would result during the early stages of a gradual maddening. And it may indeed be the case that those few works alone would justify a preference for the slow and deliberate route to the end in question.
Simply put, it's just not an easy call.
In an effort to discern some sort of underlying principle that I may be able to apply generally to this quandary, I engaged in a bit of thinking. And as is the case with many things that I think about, the best I can come up with is a baseball-related analogy. I'd say the closest I've come to reaching the endpoint of something I'm passionate about engaging in occurred in 1995, the year that I stopped playing a sport that I'd joyously participated in since not long after I could stand upright and walk on my own.
While it is true that the mjxm baseball timeline is teeming with fits and starts, my love for the game always remained constant. Whether I was turning unassisted triple plays in T-ball, overmatched during a bizarre two-year period in middle school when the quality of my play decreased greatly, or hitting .589 in my final season of American Legion ball, I always loved baseball to a remarkably consistent extent.
My last go-round with the sport came a few years after that .589 season--which, notably, was cut short when I decided to forsake the final 10 or so games of the year out of loyalty to the team's coach, a family friend who'd been unjustly relieved of his duties by the squad's know-nothing financier--and took place during the summer following my junior year in college. At the time, I was playing for a team in the Pittsburgh semi-pro Federation League, and I was little more than a shell of the player that I once was. Because I didn't play any college ball, my skills had deteriorated to the point where I couldn't even hit a mediocre fastball thrown right down the middle--much less a tight slider on the outside corner.
I was fine during my first season in the Federation League. I'd only been away from the sport for one school year, and hadn't lost all that much yet. I hit somewhere around .300, played an above average outfield, and was by all accounts a fairly valuable part of my team. But following another year of no baseball during the spring season, I regressed pretty badly and seldom cracked the starting lineup. One year later, I was almost useless.
Yet, even during that final season, I never really thought about the fact that it would likely be my last foray into the sport of baseball. Instead, I just played whenever I got the chance, struck out a lot, and joked around with the other guys who were stuck on the bench.
It was not until a year later--when I decided to stay in Syracuse for the summer between undergrad and law school, rather than go home and play ball--that I even thought about the possibility of not playing baseball anymore. And, by that time, it really wasn't such a big deal.
The end, you see, had already come and gone. And I was none the wiser when it happened.
To me, this was clearly for the best.
I never had a chance to be sad about my final at bat, my last fielding putout, or my definitive voyage across home plate. All those things happened without me realizing that they held any special significance beyond helping determine whether my team won or lost the game at hand.
Thankfully, and perhaps surprisingly, I can still remember the final hit of my baseball career. I couldn't have been hitting more than .200 at the time, and likely didn't have more than 30 at-bats for the entire season due to the diminished quality of my play, but you wouldn't have known it from the way that I handled the 2-2 curveball after it left the hands of some Mt. Lebanon pitcher who spent his springs hurling for Penn State. I stuck with that breaking ball and hit it hard right back up the middle, just like I'd been taught to do and just like I'd done countless times before.
When I returned to first base after rounding the bag, the coach at first--who, by absolutely no coincidence, happened to be the same man that I gave up a .589 season for a few years back--looked at me said, "You're good, you know that?"
We both surely realized that by this time I really wasn't all that good. But it was a nice hit, and he'd been telling me things along those lines for a long time as a coach. There was no reason to switch any of the dialogue up at that point.
"Yeah," I said. "I know."
"Way to stick with that breaking ball . . . right back up the middle," he replied. "That's the way to do it."
Seriously, had I known that single was going to be the last hit I'd ever register in the sport that I'd played and excelled at for the previous 15 years, I probably would've shed a tear right there on the basepaths and been as sad as can be.
That whole season, in fact, would've likely been a pretty gloomy and depressing endeavor.
But since I had no idea at the time that my career was coming to an end, I have nothing but incredibly fond memories of that last single and the season that it was a part of.
In short, my participation in the game ended without me even realizing it. And, as such, I've never really been sad at all about the whole thing.
The abrupt and painless approach to the ending at hand, while not necessarily selected, was, in my mind, the better of the two options in this scenario. And I am grateful that things went down the way that they did.
But others placed in the exact same scenario would surely prefer to have known they were in the midst of their last hurrah on the diamond.
Plus, after all, this is only one scenario; one example. Under a different set of facts, everything changes. And therein lies my fascination with the subject of how it is most appropriate for things to end. It seems to me that the issue of whether it's best for something to end quickly or slowly is one that in a vast majority of cases could potentially go either way.
The right answer in each case, like nearly everything else in this world that is capable of being judged, is simply a matter of opinion.
Hmm . . . is that Beyonce I see being hurried out of an apartment building on 28th Street in Manhattan? And, more importantly, why is she wearing mjxm's crazy, oversized straw hat? And is that his robe?
Does Jay-Z know about this? Or, worse yet, Evelyn?
I swear, Jigga and Ev, nothing happened.
Or did it?
OK, fine . . . enough. Beyonce didn't come over today for some sort of incredibly improbable tryst. But she and Steve Martin did just happen to be filming their remake of "The Pink Panther" right across the street from my apartment this afternoon.
I walked out of the building and . . . bam . . . there was Beyonce. Don't say anything to Jay, but when I snapped this picture I'm pretty sure she winked at me. Apparently they're going to be shooting here for at least the next day or so, because both my street and the next one down are littered with giant trucks and souped-up, moviestar trailers.
Finally, after four years of residing on this block, 28th Street represents on the celebrity front.
Meto-North train conductors like to conclude their stop announcements with the words, "Make sure you're right." For instance, while aboard a train passing through the Bronx on the Harlem Line, you're bound to hear something closely mirroring the following pronouncement once the doors close after the stop at Fordham: "This is a local Harlem Line train to White Plains . . . next stop . . . Botanical Gardens. Make sure you're right." That last add-on sentence is resorted to, as you would imagine, in order to ensure that folks don't get on the wrong train--or, if they do, in the hopes that they'll have enough sense and time to realize and rectify the error in their ways after hearing the muffled announcement. I've always enjoyed the whole "make sure you're right thing"--it's direct and efficient, but not unreasonably nasty--and have now come to realize that its utility is not limited to the realm of railroads. In fact, it applies quite nicely to the mjxm.com experience. Hear me out, here. I recently checked around the web and found that if you're looking to visit mjxm.com and you strike the wrong key, you do so at your own peril--as the sites that are within a simple mis-struck key of mine are indeed a homely lot. For instance, mix an "m" with an "n" and you'll happen upon njxm.com, a colorful and admittedly well designed site maintained by the Nanjing Xiangma Jingxi Chemical Co., Ltd. It features spinning atomic particles, photos of half-filled beakers, a creepy unicorn logo, and lots of Chinese characters that I cannot read. Not quite the lively banter and bull that you'll find on my site, I can guarantee that much. But it doesn't stop there. Take, for instance, njxn.com (Hey . . . if one mistake is possible, then so is two, right?), the site for another Chinese coporation. On the plus side--and unlike njxm.com--njxn.com includes an option that grants viewers the ability to access an English language version of the site. On the minus side, the website is equally as boring in English as it is in Chinese. To wit: I now know that njxn.com is the internet home of SAC, which is also referred to as the Guodian Nanjing Automation Co., Ltd. The company is apparently "the oldest manufacturer for protection relays and associated automation systems." To clarify, SAC is "an industry leader in the business of monitoring, controlling, and protecting capital equipment." So, in essence, I have no damn idea what they do . . . but check them out on the web today at www.njxn.com! Compared to those two duds, the site that results when you simply forget the first "m" in "mjxm.com" is a pleasure. Over at jxm.com you'll find an all white page with two words, "Hello Jun," in a normal typeface at the upper left-hand corner of the screen. That's it. That's the site. Moving right along . . . accidentally hit the "j" key instead of the first "m," and you can be the proud owner of movies like this one, which, you will note, received five stars. Over at mjxx.com you'll be privy to all sorts of flashing words ("cool," "hot," new!"), ringing bells, and mug-shot-type photos of what appear to be elementary school students from a school somewhere in China (Can I impose on one of the two readers of mjxm.com who I know for a fact understand the Chinese written language to post a comment as to what the hell is going on at this site?). And what would a list of tangentially related websites be without at least one having something to do with porn? That's right, mess up and replace the "j" with an "x" and you'll find yourself at the internet home of Maxxum Entertainment, which is described as a site full of "Free searchable swingers ads for swingers, couples and singles interested in the swinging lifestyle." Maxxum is, as they put it, looking "to become the biggest provider of premiere entertainment," and they "are always looking for new talent!" So, if you're interested in a career change all you have to do is screw up when you type in my website address and you'll be well on your way. Anyway, you get the picture. There is only one mjxm.com. Make sure you're right, people. Make sure you're right.
To: Senator John F. Kerry From: Matthew J.X. Malady Date: 5/5/04 Re: Selection of a VP and other assorted stuff
1) OK, on the vice president front, first off . . . seriously . . . John . . . hurry up, man. You're taking a beating right now from Rove et al., and whatever momentum you'd captured by locking up the nomination has completely eroded. I understand your wanting to build up some suspense and the desire to enshrine a running mate a few months down the line so as to have the event serve as a media appetizer for the convention. But, frankly, you just don't have the luxury of waiting any longer. Your campaign needs an infusion of energy, and, just as importantly, you need a second in command to fend off some of the attacks coming from the Bush camp. So, giddy-up big guy. Let's have a decision in the next week or two. Cool?
2) As for the substantive aspect of your decision on a Veep, I sincerely hope that your two-step--search and vet--process has been inclusive of women. This notion that only men need apply for the highest two offices in our nation's executive branch is way beyond outdated and needs to be done away with immediately. I mean, am I the only one in this country who finds it absolutely nonsensical and borderline idiotic that there's never been a female president or vice president? How, I ask you, is this not an issue that deserves to be taken up in a serious, comprehensive fashion by the American media?
Some quick math for you, Johnny boy:
In our nation's history 89 individuals have held one of the two highest positions in the executive (that is, there have been 43 presidents and 46 vice presidents). Of those 89 individuals, exactly 0% have been female and, correspondingly, 100% have been male. Meanwhile, current census figures indicate that women constitute 51% of the overall population in this country.
Now I'm not a math guy, but it seems like that whole 0-for-89 thing is a bit jacked up, and off by . . . say . . . 51%. It makes absolutely no sense, is impossible to justify on any level, and needs to be addressed immediately so that our country can stop looking like a gaggle of boneheads on the issue.
Point blank, there's nothing innate in "manhood" that makes one a better leader, governor, or thinker. And the fact that I even have to state such an obvious fact is sad.
Anyway, efforts at reversing this stupid and wholly one-sided trend should start now. There are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of women in this country who are more than capable of holding down Cheney's soon-to-be former position. Plus, do you really think people are going to be able to get excited about the prospects of . . . drum roll please . . . Dick Gephardt as your running mate? And the same can be said about the bulk of those other duds you're currently vetting--the governor of Iowa, a senator from Indiana, Bob Kerry . . . come on, are you trying to lose, or what? Even Edwards--with all his resonating "two Americas" stump speech stuff--seems to be a bit of an uninspiring character.
So, to make a long story short, I implore you, do the right thing and go with the most qualified and competent woman out there who's willing to be your running mate. Not because it would be visionary, avant-garde, or brave, but rather because it would be a sensible and utterly reasonable thing to do.
3) Moving along, if you let G.W. win in my home state of Pennsylvania--where close to 160,000 manufacturing workers have lost their jobs under Bush's watch--then I am not sure that we can be homies anymore. The Keystone state should be a cakewalk for you, Mr. Kerry. I beg you not to fuck it up.
4) Finally, please consider a focused effort to stop falling off of things--snowboards, bicycles, etc. It just don't look good, you know?
Matthew J.X. Malady
P.S.--Re #2 above: Just for the record, Hillary's not the only woman in politics. I have a solid list of names if you need it.
