Dear Mayara Tavares

You opened my eyes yesterday. And not in the way everyone, including myself, who got suckered into O-Bum-a-Gate would imply.

I don't know. I just empathize with your position. And want to apologize for being part of the knee-jerk media monolith (an eensy-weensy small part that sells Snotsicles in the back of the mailroom) reaction.

Because when the picture came out that seemingly captured our President Barack Obama taking a peek at your tush (perhaps elevating you to "ass that changed america" status), some clowns made jokes, some crazies exclaimed how this meant our president was a pedophile, some skeptics skepticized it as a plant by conservatives. Still others wondered why anyone cared either way because guys look at girls behinds all the time.

But no one really wondered about Miss Tavares. No one, so far as i saw, was like: Hello??? Everyone?? Please everybody just shut the f up and think about this young socially conscious and proactive teenager getting to go on what is likely a once in a lifetime trip of her dreams to meet the president -- the new and improved *special* president who represents the face of a new world order -- and how everything is absolutely ruined when your ass ends up circulated around the planet as, uh, the butt of headlines, and now people are slow-frame analyzing your walk, and feeling free to comment on the power rankings of your booty, and every possible reaction you could have except for the one that empathizes with the little girl who just wanted to look nice when she met the president.

so, i don't know... for what it's worth (very little), i was guilty too, but sorry about that.

(uh, and you too, #1 megan fox fan.)

Sincerely,

TAN

Dear Christina Applegate

"Christina Applegate, you gotta put me on..."

Who knew that legendary PM Dawn quotable about you would be so prescient?

Miss Bonita Applegate, you probably already know you have eternal TAN-cachet just off that ridiculously random hip hop reference, but I'm writing this letter to say I think you deserve dap of the highest order for being one of the few bombshells truly getting better with time.

As it turns out, your Kelly Bundy character was one of the more iconic ditzy-blonde-bimbo performances in the last 10-20+ years (wow, hard to believe it's been over 20 years since that show debuted). Kelly is/was possibly THE template for Trashy Teenage Trollop, and as The Sweetest Thing and Anchorman later showed, 'twas also the work of an actress with serious comedic skills:



But yesterday you raised the stakes by going on Good Morning America and letting folks know the results of your recent struggle with breast cancer. And since it's not too often you get to see a sex symbol, in her prime, talking about removing their first line of offense/defense via double mastectomy, I wanted to salute you. That move takes serious brass balls tacks, uh, labia-flaps.

Now you're 100% cancer-free and undergoing reconstructive surgery, so maybe we won't even know the difference next time we see you? But just in case things aren't the same -- and banking on your generous sense of humor -- I thought a couple clips capturing vintage usage of "the artists formerly known as your boobs" would be appropriate to celebrate. This is for the left:



and this tamer one is for the right:



Cameron Diaz & Christina Applegate - video powered by Metacafe

Good Luck,

TAN

An Open Letter To Victims of My Lateness (Lateees)

Dear Sir or Madam,

Look, I’m sorry I’m sending this letter a little late. Heaven knows I’ve been late to just about everything in my life, so it’s not for lack of opportunity. But I think the reason for this letter’s lateness is similar to the justification for other latenesses. That is to say, I have an excuse.

I know, I know. No excuses! But if you think about it, life is an excuse. That is to say, life is a reason. Or, everything has a reason. You know? Everything has an excuse. If life sucks, if anything sucks, there’s always a reason, or an excuse. It’s like life equals excuse divided by reason squared. L=E/r²

Hmmm ....

What I'm trying to say is: I’m late because I care. I'm late because I value every minute. Yours, mine, and everyone we know.

(unless I'm late to a movie, in which case I'm late because movies start so damn late now. Have you noticed this?? It’s like 20 friggin’ minutes of trailers now. And they all suck.)

Hmmmm ...

Maybe if I deconstruct my lateness that could help:

See, when I have to go somewhere I tell my brain, “I have to be at so and so place, at such and such time."

And my brain, a particularly inquisitive brain, then says, “Why so and so? And while we’re here chatting, why such and such?"

Hmmm ... actually scratch that thought.

If you suspected you could die any minute, how would you live your life? I submit you would be constantly late. Because wouldn't you rather soak in the moment than fuss over temporal technicalities?

I know, my dear lateee, that this can be annoying. But it does balance out, and can even work in your favor sometimes. Because once I am in the moment with you, now you are the recipient of my undivided "die anytime" attention. All your precious words and ideas will be pored over, churned in my brain until your every expression is like the product of something that does a lot of churning (butter, for example!). You may even feel like a god.

Hmmm ...

Well honestly I'd love to say more, but I gotta end this. I'm running late for a meeting, and have some deadlines I'm behind on.

But next time, it's me and you.

Tardily yours,
-TAN

Dear Avery Cardoza: Please Pay Me

Dear Avery,

Hello there, my name is TAN, you might know me better as [redacted]. We never met in person, but I wrote a few columns for your magazine, Avery Cardoza’s Player.

I have a lot of love for you, Avery, after all you gave me my entry into glossy magazines, with an actual “column” no less. It was called The Devil’s Publicist, maybe you've read it? It's an amazing premise, I know, I thought of it myself. Surely if we had a wee bit better distribution we would have reversed the earth's rotation with the mind-altering notion of THE DEVIL having a PUBLICIST writing for a MAGAZINE.

HOLY SHIT!! A TORNADO JUST SPONTANEOUSLY FORMED IN MY ROOM JUST BY VIRTUE OF WRITING THAT. COULD IT BE THE DEVIL'S WORK??? IT'S HOVERING RIGHT OVER THE CAPS LOCK KEY FOR SOME REASON. IT'S AN INCRDIBLE SIGHT TO BEHOLD...

Ok, it’s gone now.

And now I feel I must confess. See, I’m probably putting a little extra effort into this letter, so that maybe, just maybe, you can use it as content. It'd be cool to occasionally run a letter from one of your writers every now and then, don't you think? Did I mention how being able to call myself a "columnist" helped me with the ladies? I think I might have doubled, or even tripled the time it takes for girls to reject me. It's been friggin' awesome getting to bask in the glow of romantic possibility for upwards of ten-to-fifteen minutes. Though I can't say the job title has helped with my landlord nearly as much. Anywavery, yeah, I was trying to add a little spice here and there, so that maybe this would become print worthy. Lord knows anything can be published on the internet these days.

My hope is that you using this as content would make you feel extra satisfied that you got every last penny's worth of effort from me, I wouldn't want you to feel like I cheated you as a writer. Like I just took your money and ran.

Of course, a prescient individual such as yourself no doubt already knows, it'd be impossible for me to take the money and run because, well, BECAUSE I HAVEN'T BEEN PAID YET (there goes that caps lock tornado again), and ultimately that is the reason why I'm writing you today.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't mean to suggest you've NEVER-EVER paid me, and my heavens those first checks I received from you were wonderful. They afforded me the ability to eat and use electricity at the same time for, I don't know, almost a month maybe. But then I kept writing, and the checks stopped. And then I contacted Beth, and she told me at one point the check was "in the mail." And I was so excited, because surely you and your magazine wouldn't fall victim to using a cliche like "the check is in the mail" without actually meaning it. But lo and behold my mailbox has continued to receive the usual bills and death threats, but alas, no check from Avery.

Now I've heard this is common in "the game," some might say, "hey, just be glad you got a check at some point, and that you don't work for Radar." And it might be a stretch to say my words are worth as much as the glossy paper it's printed on, let alone more. But don’t you think it’s time someone took a stand for integrity? What does a magazine have to go on without its reputation, and the relationships with its writers?

Here’s the thing, and to be honest, I really didn’t want to get this personal, but you were my glossy-break, and kind of like a mentor to me, so if I can't seek out your counsel, then who? Gawker??? God no.

The thing is, I really need the $1500 for my sick grandmother. She's dying, and the doctor said he could save her for $1500. Which, just so happens to be the same amount you owe me. How lucky for all of us ... if, you know, you can pay me sometime soon. Preferably in time to save her life. She basically raised me when my mother abandoned me, and sent me off in a cab by myself, and it would mean a lot if I could repay her. But I'm a a lowly freelancer, (hence your snubbing of me I presume, if I was Snoop Dogg you'd probably pay me right? I understand, I'd pay Snoop also) and I get paid pennies for 100-hour work weeks. I mean I have the blog, and um, well you know, the blog can get pretty intense, you may have noticed I've been actually responding to comments in the past few weeks. Comments take time Mr. President, of Player Magazine.

About a month ago, after another ineffective bout of privately asking for payment, I contacted Al Sharpton, who I keep on speed dial for when I feel the walls of injustice closing in around me. I asked him if he thought there might be racism involved, he said, "Oh yes, most definitely," but he also said he couldn't help me until I acquired a little more fame and notoriety and/or I was lynched or otherwise murdered in egregiously racist fashion. So maybe if the charming and conciliatory elements of this letter don't persuade you to send money, perhaps the smug sarcastic side will inspire you to come kill me instead?

But this isn't about race. It's about a new year, and a fresh start. A fresh start for the conscience of Avery Cardoza's Player Magazine, a fresh start for me, a fresh start for my poor grandma. It's a chance to kick off 2007 and make a statement that says "we're no longer going to tread upon the dreams of the little guy, and black people, we here at Player Magazine believe everyone should be paid for their hard work, even if it's in an incredibly untimely fashion, months and months and months later. Let auld acqaintances be forgotten, or something like that. And to commemorate this, I will hereby send TAN, the check we owe him maybe even with a little extra for his trouble, and his grandma.

Don't you want to make that statement with me Mr. Cardoza? Let's do it together.

I have the same mailing and e-mail address. Feel free to be in touch. I sent you a Christmas card, I don't know if you received it. It had me and my grandma in my apartment with empty plates and no electricity on it. We were just about to kill the cat so we could eat something for Xmas. Nevertheless, we were happy. We are happy. Cause we know there's justice in this world, and we know you and Player Magazine believe in that justice, and thus I will be receiving my monies soon.

Much obliged. So a very Happy New year to you and yours Mr. C, and all good wishes for the magazine in '07, and again, feel free to run this letter in the magazine, free of charge (like my last column, HA!), I bet your readers would enjoy the little look behind the scenes. And play on, Player.

Cheers,

TAN & His Loving Grandma.

Send Email Reminder About Justice and Integrity to Player Magazine

UPDATE: took down the email link, possible resolution pending. will update later.

An Open Letter From A Black Guy To His Average-Sized Penis

Dear average-sized penis,

Ugh. I don’t really know how to say this. We’ve been in and around so much together. And I really do appreciate the effort you’ve put in thus far. But I’m sure you have sensed my growing disappointment over the years. I guess the bottom line is I expected you to be a lot more at this point. I keep waiting for you to grow up, but you never do.

Remember when we were both little and I used to check you for signs of growth like every day. Then I started growing, but for some reason you stayed pretty much the same. I checked to make sure you were connected to my body properly, receiving all the blood and vitamins, and I even asked the doctor if there was a problem. He sort of coughed and stifled a chuckle and said, “sometimes penises just stay a certain size.”

Oh the tears that were shed that day. I cried and cried and cried. I cursed you, and banged you against the door. It was meant to be a punishment, but you went and got excited. When you’re excited you’re much more presentable. I begged you to stay that size forever, just without the horizontal/vertical lift. But we were never able to get that kind of synergy going. Even if we could keep you at the size you are right before you’re excited, and right after, that would be cool too. I don’t know if I’ve told you that before, so I’m telling you now.

What’s that? Look, I don’t want to hear it. Yeah, maybe if you were on a white guy, or an asian guy, or a girl, your reputation would be a lot better at this point. You might be a little more "remarkable." But the fact of the matter is you’re on a black guy, and you are underachieving.

I guess I could do my part and cut down on the whole alpha-male shit-talking. Telling girls your nickname is “The Pulverizer” is probably setting you up for failure. But what should I say your nickname is, “average joe johnson,” or “okey-dokey pokey,” those kinds of names end the game before it even begins.

What would help is if you learned some tricks or something. Like if you learned to talk* (French would be pretty sexy), or if you winked that one eye you have, or even did some sort of weird dance, like “the snake” or something like that. I’m sure that would distract from your so-so physique and give the girls something to talk about.

Cause truth be told, I personally could care less about your size and such. If it were just me, smaller might be better, that way you wouldn’t get in my way when I’m trying to scratch my balls. But ultimately, it’s all about impressing the ladies. You know they’re going to talk, and we want to give them something to talk about. When Dolly Parton Bonnie Raitt sings that song, you’ll notice there is no mention of a black guy with an average-sized penis. That’s not something to talk about.

So I don’t know. Please take this to heart (or to scrotum, whatever translates for you). It looks like you and I are in this together for the long haul, and it’s about time we started communicating. I know you hate the disappointed slump of the shoulders when you come out as much as I do. So let’s work on it. Let’s figure something out.

The ball(s) is(are) in your court. Maybe we can discuss it during kegels tomorrow.

You know where to reach me.

Respectfully submitted,

A black guy (not necessarily named TAN)


* I know it seemed like you talked earlier in this piece, but you didn't, that was just me acting like you were talking.


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Letter To The Guy On The Train Who Was Looking At Me While Licking His Lips

Dear Guy On The Train Looking At Me While Licking His Lips,

Why did you do that??!!?

I can’t believe you looked at me while licking your lips. You weren’t licking them in a casual my-lips-are-dry way. You licked them with a fully open mouth and an incredibly unnerving twinkle in your eye.

I immediately averted my eyes, but slowly, so as not to draw attention. Just, you know, checking out this banner on how English as a second language will give me the career I’ve always wanted. And now I see Dr. Zizmor can help my skin look radiant. And now some subway "poetry in motion" that I have no idea the meaning of…

But I took a peek back at you, and you were still looking at me. I couldn’t believe it. I had to avert my eyes again, this time quickly, because obviously my cover was blown and escape was the only thing on my mind. Thank god I was at the other end of the train.

Yet and still, I looked back at you again, fearful of what I might find, like you were some horrible car accident with only babies involved. Luckily your eyes had moved on to indubitably greener pastures. I figure you must be one of those homosexuals that are all the rage these days. I heard you guys do shite like that. Lick your lips on the train while making eye contact with guys. Fcuking crazy. But I am a little flattered too. I mean girls don’t really ever do it. I mean, I know, like, blogger chicks might do it ironically. But no one does it for real for real. Not for me. So that’s kind of cool. I guess on that day I was looking kind of hot. My blue hooded sweatshirt fits pretty well. And my blue New Balance sneakers are the perfect complement ... for attracting compliments. heheh. I was also nominated for Hottie Urban Blogger of the Year award. And Jack called me an Unfriendly Black Hottie on blogebrity. Even though I'm probably more friendly than hottie. Well, except with you. Anyways, the point is that I guess I kind of understand.

But just so you know, I don't have a problem with gay people. Just please, don't make eye contact with me while you're licking your lips in such an aggressive sexual manner. It freaks me out.

Thanks,

TAN