the Guy Who Waits Until the End of the Credits

Dear Guy Who Waits Until the End of the Credits,

We appreciate your independent spirit. We do.

It's the spirit of perseverance, the spirit of patience, the spirit of finding out who the assistant of the assistant's lighting, mixer specialist's cousin's right-hand man was in Daddy Day Camp. It's the spirit that keeps an audience seated while teenagers sweep up popcorn around their legs. It's the spirit that ignores the house lights hinting for them to leave. It's that spirit that says, "the theatre experience isn't over 'till I say it's over."

Few of us have learned what you already know: the movie doesn't really start until it's already ended. Did not Van Gogh leave his signature on his masterpieces? Did not Picasso? Did not Michelangelo? Others probably did too, but I don't know that much about art. And if they did, why shouldn't the masses behind Home Alone 3 do the same? And more importantly, why shouldn't you know who they are? It was a rhetorical question, but I know you know the answer. Your actions speak louder than any non-rhetorical answer ever could.

Guy who waits until the end of the credits, you don't hang around too long -- the rest of us don't hang around long enough. I'm just giving credit where credit is due; and credit is due for the guy who watches the credits. It's a credit to the credits.

Believe that.

Sincerely,

White type over black enthusiast

Chopsticks

Dear Chopsticks,

You are hard for me to use. My fingers aren't used to your ways. You are like the long, wooden, and joint-less limbs I never learned to operate.

Chopsticks, you came into my life last night. I didn't pick the restaurant, but you were there. The food was flavored for Americans, and you chopsticks, you were the marketing mechanism that added Eastern authenticity. You were also the default option. Could I have asked for a fork? Sure. But I didn't want to upset you. And why would I? Just because you're different doesn't mean you're inferior.

And it's true. I learned some tricks last night; I think we grew closer. If I ever drop a piece of food deep down in-between the couch cushions, and it's just out of reach, I'm going to use you, chopsticks. If I ever need to chop my food, I'm going for you, chopsticks. If I'm ever eating sticks, once again, I prefer the chopsticks. More sticks are better than less sticks, always.

Thank you chopsticks.

Sincerely,

Another Regular Consumer of Food

the Inventor of Marco Polo

Dear Inventor of Marco Polo,

Thank you. Thank you for immortalizing an ancient explorer through a game where children can swim blindly until, inevitably, someone smacks their face into a cement wall. A game where fish can be out of water -- as long as no one knows about it.

You have not only invented a staple of pool fun and shaped our views of history, you have changed the name Marco forever. It's because of you that Marcos everywhere will live a life where each time someone calls their name, a chorused echo of 'Polo' follows. Will it annoy them? Surely. But it's not your fault you invented a catchy game.

Indeed, inventor of Marco Polo man, in my book, you are a legend. You are a man whose only shortcoming is that you didn't labor further to extend the principles of Marco Polo to other athletic arenas. Who wouldn't want to play tennis shouting, "Andre...Agassi," or box blindly, "Mike...Tyson," or hunt deer amidst a refrain of, "Dick...Cheney"?

Thank you inventor of Marco Polo. You are a person of genius.

Will anyone ever yell at you, 'fish out of water!'? ....Only if the water is mediocrity.

Sincerely,

Swimmers Everywhere

My Friend Who Drives the Car Dumpster

Dear Friend Driving,

Oh, don’t worry about the trash my feet are in. I’m just a humble passenger, one without the expectations of clear floors or civil surroundings. The seat belt could be a little less sticky, but then again, I admit its glutinous nature would stabilize me during a potential collision, which is a real possibility considering the windshield’s current (lack of) visibility.

Oh, and please, I mean it -- you need not ever scramble to tidy up as I enter. Don’t rush to throw shoes and Wendy’s drive thru trash into the back seat. Seriously, those textbooks are fine where they are. I wouldn’t want you to clutter a section that has been so carefully stacked with the numerous necessities of life. It is, after all, apparent that for the past seven months you have been living out of your Accord, probably sleeping in the once-spacious back seat. If not, you are clearly preparing to live out of this sedan if your apartment blows up. And that isn’t something anyone is wishing for, but it is worth acknowledging that if it were to happen, we couldn’t help but celebrate the fact that a comparatively large percentage of your belongings would be safe because they are now stored in here.

I also would commend your ability to mask most of the auto’s scents through a robust use of the air conditioner or heater. The uncomfortable temperature certainly distracts me from the uncomfortable odors.

It’s OK you are messy. I am messy, too. I don’t drive my mess around, sure, but I have at times fallen victim to clutter as well. It’s actually quite refreshing to travel with a friend who says, ‘take me as I am,’ because at its heart it would seem contrived for you to, you know, live within the hygienic standards of most adults. That’s just not who you are. Don’t ever think you have to change for anyone. And don’t ever think about changing -- or cleaning -- your car.

Sincerely,

Your Passenger Drowning In Debris