Neighbor with Unprotected Wireless Internet

Dear Neighbor with Unprotected Wireless Internet,

Things were good for so long. No password and no problem. I don't think you have ever had any idea that I was using your wireless Internet, and how could you -- you didn't even manage to set up a password. And then everything changed.

You didn't set up a password, but someone moved the router, I can tell. I remember the day, it was the day I couldn't check my email. The bars went down and so did my access.

Please, I don't know who you are or where you live, but can you please move your router back to its previous position? Perhaps you rotated it a little and have unknowingly created another obstruction. Perhaps you moved the computer. Perhaps you have added walls to the house. I don't know what it is, but it's a problem.

You don't need that router all to yourself. Read this letter, and let us go back to the way things were in our glory days.

Sincerely,

Your Neighbor

Abandoned Blogs

Dear Abandoned Blog,

You're alone. Yet, you aren't. There are so many of you; each with its own domain name -- its own space and place. But abandoned nonetheless.

You began with optimism and hope. We all thought you'd go the distance, blog. We never thought your contributors would forget or get lazy or realize they didn't want so much of their personal lives out in the public... or maybe they finally noticed no one was reading you and it caused them to pause. That's probably what happened. And therefore, few, if any, care that you were abandoned.... but every once in a while, a reader does come to your space on the Internets, only to notice your last update was in 2005. Your current events are archives.

It's not unique to be abandoned; but unlike an abandoned toy or pet, your memory is digital, and thus, forever. An abandoned tortoise dies. An abandoned blog haunts. There's an old Chinese proverb that says something like that I believe.

Abandoned blog, you suck.

Sincerely,

The Internets

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

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