Let me first start off by telling you that I find your work/writing to be quite entertaining and well put-together. I have yet to read anything that you’ve done that I didn’t enjoy on some basic and pleasing level. Most of my friends enjoy your work as well, and we’ve had many a conversation about the points/ideas/riffs you put into your collected volume of work.
That being said, I’d also like to bring to your attention that you, Sir, are a thieving magpie.
I know that we have never crossed paths, even though we live in the same Megatropolis. I’ve even spent time in the same taverns that you supposedly haunt, but I’ve never seen hide nor hair of you (I am certainly not stalking you*, as you’re not my type at all – I’m quite heterosexual). The likelihood of you and I being in the same place at the same time is quite ludicrous, seeing as how you are a well-paid and published author, whereas I am a lowly blogger who works a regular job to support my Marlboro Menthol Lights habit.
There are entire passages in your collected works that seem eerily lifted from my own brain, Sir.
I understand that me even writing this “letter” makes me seem as though I suffer from acute Apophenia (Google it, smartypants), but I assure you – I am quite sure that you must be some kind of alien life form that is sucking my thoughts from deep within the gooey grey matter that is my brain.
Mind you, that entire “33” chapter in Sex, Drugs And Cocoa Puffs was certainly NOT lifted from my thoughts, as I have never been a fan of Larry Bird, The City of Boston nor any professional sports franchise that makes said city their home, Republicans, and/or anyone who they themselves happen to be a fan of these things. I could care less about French Lick’s finest or any of his Celtic brethren (though I did, for a brief time, have a soft-spot for The Chief, as I too was an avid user of THC for a great number of years – but that is neither here nor there).
But the Led Zeppelin thing?
You done did rip that shit straight the fuck on out of my head, Sir.
As I read that chapter (you know – the one where you’re rocketing through the barren wastelands of Montana, “Whole Lotta Love” blaring as you contemplate dinosaurs roaming the earth), I felt my personae disappearing from my being. I started to hyperventilate (and my being a hypochondriac Jew has nothing to do with this), because the passages of words you had smashed together read as if I, MYSELF, HAD SPOKEN THEM.
YOU, SIR, ARE AN EVIL MAN, AND I WOULD APPRECIATE IT IF YOU STAYED OUT OF MY HEAD.
It’s not just the stuff about Led Zeppelin, either – the piece about being within close proximity to a serial killer hit close to home, as I once lived in the same apartment complex as “The Phoenix Serial Shooter” (I can neither confirm nor deny that I had anything to do with his general distaste for human life – I just know he was fucking weird, liked boxing, and that he ran like a girl). I also felt as though your ESPN piece about Ali being “the first rapper” was lifted from a conversation I had with my late father, wherein I was trying to explain to him the origins of Hip Hop, and about how he’d actually been exposed to it for far longer than he thought.
All silliness aside – as I stated earlier – I quite enjoy your work. I was recently re-reading parts of Klosterman IV, and found myself actually LOLing a wee bit (and The Wife asked me why I was laughing at you if I hate you so much – so I had to explain to her that using the word “hate” in regards to you is actually my way of saying that I am envious of your abilities, to which she casually replied “That’s so mature of you, honey”).
85% of me would like to challenge you, Sir, to an Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton-type duel.
But the other 15% of me knows better. Knowing that my middle name IS Hamilton is pretty much the only mitigating factor that continually dissuades me from doing such a thing (I’m not as think as you dumb I am, you rapscallion!).
In closing, I hope this open letter finds you in good health, and that your prosperity and popularity continue to swell. Everybody loves you, Sir –
Sean H. Doyle, (NotCurrentlyAWriterFor)Esquire
*Although… I do recall having a whiskey-fueled conversation with my Canukistani comrade-in-non-publishing that loosely ran along the lines of –
Me: “Fucking Klosterman, man. He seems like the kind of motherfucker, that if he were my roommate, I’d cut him up into little tiny pieces and stuff him into a footlocker”.
Him: “Easy there, Francis. Have another whiskey”.
Me: “Fine. I’m just saying – that motherfucker is somehow stealing my thoughts, and he should pay for them, goddammit”.
Him: “Look! A fresh glass of whiskey. You should drink it.”
Him: “So…about those Leafs…”.
At that point, all I remember is waking up on the steps of a church on Avenue A, wearing a bloodied Darcy Tucker jersey and little else. Fucking sneaky Canukistanis – always trying to stop premeditated murders.