An Open Letter to the Man Playing the Peruvian Wind Flute in Faneuil Hall

Dear Sir,

I want to first say that I commend you for pursuing your passion of playing the Peruvian Wind Flute, and that I admire your determination, confidence and unwavering commitment to filling the Faneuil Hall area with the sounds of the Peruvian Wind Flute from approximately 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Monday through Friday. Also, I am in awe of your lung capacity. Because you have been playing the same fucking four songs over and over and over and over and over and over and over again for the last twelve days in a row. So I respect you, Mr. Peruvian Wind Flute Player, there's no denying that. But, that said, I need you to stop. Seriously. Stop playing the Peruvian Wind Flute. Because you are driving me fucking mad.

I realize it's not your fault that the entire back of my office is a giant glass wall over looking Faneuil Hall, Quincy Market, and the general congestion of Congress Street. And I realize you have no way of knowing that, after two years in this office, I have an incredibly low threshold for annoying, repetitive noises, especially the sort which emanate from street performers. And since you didn't like, create the Earth and its atmosphere, you are in no way liable for the acoustics of this spatial arrangement, nor for the way the sounds emitted from your Peruvian Wind Flute carry particularly loudly, strongly, and clearly from your patch of brick to my cubicle bound ears. But I am telling you now. It's been going on long enough. You have to stop before something bad happens.

.

Every morning, from 9:15 to just past 10:00, I think to myself 'Yes. Today is the day that the Peruvian Wind Flutist and his evil henchmen have found a new area of the city in which to publically perform. I wish them well, but I am so, so delighted that I will not have to listen to a random scattering of the same four notes for the next seven hour-ah! ah! SHIT HE'S BACK.' Because you are always back. Apparently, no one has told you that there are like 9000 OTHER PLACES IN BOSTON WHERE YOU COULD SET UP YOUR SHITTY LITTLE TABLE AND DISPLAY YOUR CRAPPY CD - WAIT , YOU HAVE A CD? WHAT THE HELL COULD BE ON YOUR CD? YOU HAVE FOUR SONGS. FOUR. SONGS. I mean it, man. You have to go.

.

I know it seems like I'm getting irrationally worked up over nothing. Believe me, I feel guilty for hating you as much as I do. I support the arts, dammit. I hand over portions of my meager paycheck to street performers on the regular. Are you playing water glasses in the Public Garden? Bam, take a dollar. Playing your damn violin in the Common? There's a buck for you, too, kid from Berkeley who totally doesn't need my fucking dollar more than I do. I support your mission that much. And you, guy with the giant boombox and the T-Pain voice modulator thing in the subway? Bam. Two dollars, in your bucket, right now. You made my whole night.

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But Mr. Peruvian Wind Flutist...enough is enough. You had your chance to charm me, and you failed. From the looks of your stand, you're really not charming many other passersby, either. It doesn't look like you've moved a single CD since last Wednesday (yes, I've been checking. On my lunch break, everyday. During which I fantasize about releasing a termite colony into your Flute cases, and laughing with great mirth. Then I feel really, really bad. For about thirty-five minutes. Until, you know, exactly the moment I walk back into my office and hear the strains of 'ba..babababa...babababadflutemusic...ba..babababa...').

.

Listen - I can't get away from you. I have to sit here. You? You're mobile. You can just pack up your table, and your CDs and roll out. Why are you posted up in Fanueil Hall all the time anyway? These shitty tourists came here to eat overpriced clam chowder and drink a beer at the fake Cheers. They're on their way to bother everyone who works at the Aquarium and on the whale watch boats. What do these assholes know about traditional Peruvian Flute Music? Nothing, most likely. And the office workers surrounding your make-shift amphitheatre? Probably even less. We're World Music philistines. Barbarians, the lot of us. I swear.

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So please, please - do everyone involved a favor and move your operation somewhere else. The Common might be perfect. Much more comfortable surroundings, and possibly even some hippie parents bringing their kids to the Frog Pond. May I suggest the Green Street T station in JP? There are never are musicians there, and the location is ideal. Somewhere on the Red Line, perhaps? I think you're missing your entire target demographic. Just, please go. Now. I'll even buy a few of your shitty albums if I have to. I could use more coasters. Because, Mr. Peruvian Wind Flutist, consider this your final warning: If I have to listen to you scaling the fucking notes of your goddamn flute while trapped in a staff meeting one more time, I honestly believe that I am going to snap. I will send you a Trojan Alpaca full of termites, Dutch Elm Disease, pandas, I don't know, whatever fucking eats wood and will decimate your flute collection. I hate you that much.

.

Thank you, and best of luck,

kk

.

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p.s. - This letter, and the passive aggressive pleas contained therein, IN NO WAY APPLY to you, adolescent boy who bangs on the plastic bucket. I love you. I love you even when you gather up half a dozen of your unkempt teenage friends, and you all bang on your buckets in a cacophony of earsplitting, nonsensical hammerings. This also does not apply to you 'Black Guys Dancing', because you are everything joyous and pure that street performers should be. When you randomly invade a car on the T, it's like fucking Christmas. I live for that shit. Thank you.

A Short List of Human Bones Which Serve No Purpose, Yet, When Injured, Hurt More Than Would a Combination of Many Other Similarly Injured Parts

1. The Funny Bone

Yesterday, I whacked my funny bone on the bathroom door so hard I almost blacked out. This wasn't the 'owee it tingles' funny bone pain: I saw floating neon watercolors and got nauseous for a good 30 seconds. I think it was the closest I've ever come to understanding what guys describe when they talk about getting kicked in the balls. (I could listen to guys talk about getting kicked in the nuts all day. It fucking fascinates me - just knowing that I'll never get to experience it makes it terribly intriguing.)

And I recognize that the funny bone is like, part of your arm or whatever, but what the hell does it do? I've got at least three other bones in my elbow area that I can see, there are probably like, 8 more under the surface, so what element of my existence would be so dreadfully impaired if my funny bone would cease to function? Other than the four times a week I bang it into something and have to spend a minute holding it and rocking myself back to semi-consciousness? I'll take the funny-bonectomy, please.

2. The Tail Bone

Oh my God, I hate the human tailbone. First of all, the fact that we all have a vestigial tail between our ass cheeks is just totally gross. If we still had actual tails ... well, I think it goes without saying that would just be the most baller shit ever. But no. Instead we have this gnarly little cropping of bone that you can't see, and that does nothing...except hurt like a fucking demon when you injure it.

A few months ago I was exiting Good Time Emporium (fuck you, IKEA!!!) in the rain, and I happened to be wearing the same pair of flats I'd sported during the City Hall Plaza Tumble of 2007 that resulted in my broken right foot. Apparently, the stairs at Good Time and the stairs in the plaza have a similar texture/spacing/lack of traction/I'm an asshole, and I went down. Right down the stairs and into the parking lot, scoring a direct hit on my coccyx in the process. That shit hurt for WEEKS. No exaggeration, if I lean back on it too quickly, I still need to take a minute to recover. In the weeks following the injury I even had to buy myself the furniture-equivalent of a hemorrhoid donut (yes, shit, I know I bought that at Ikea, but it actually helped). And what part of my daily routine was seriously impacted by this irritating fester of an injury? Exactly nothing - except for the part where I had to explain to everyone that no, I couldn't accept a seat on that nice wooden stool they were offering, because I'm a moron and my fucking ass hurts too much to sit down on a regular surface like a normal human being. The tailbone is the worst. Get this bone outta my ass!

3. Eh, that's sort of it, really.

I told you it would be a short list. As I was making it, I realized there are lots of bones that hurt when slammed against a surface like concrete or wood, or when trapped between a door and the body of an automobile - but all of those bones serve various purposes, so they didn't quite fit the criteria for the list. And the appendix fits all the requirements except for the whole 'it's not a bone' thing. If some one's taking suggestions, though, I could probably work up a whole presentation on parts of the body that are utterly annoying and, in my opinion, supererogatory. I'd start by proposing we eliminate those really sensitive little hairs at the nape of your neck. My barrette just got stuck on some, and I almost started crying at my desk.

Straight Flush

You know who are totally best friends? The fat bastards who eat lamb curry on the T, use the elevator to travel one floor, and the asswads that chatter on their cellphones in the fucking bathroom stall. Not just in the bathroom, mind you, everyone has had to do that from time to time. And not just sequestered in one far stall while occupants do their business far far far down the other end of the row. I'm talking about the freakish specimens that find it perfectly acceptable to sit in the stall next to you in the tiniest bathroom in the building, and carry on to whatever poor slob has deigned to associate with them. Fucking unreal.

I mean, in what universe does this constitute a proper way to behave? Never mind that you are totally obnoxious to your own conversant, Toilet Talker, you are making me SERIOUSLY UNCOMFORTABLE. I don't like public bathrooms generally, due to the gross lack of privacy. Now you are totally knocking down all fathomable boundaries by broadcasting the sound of my urination to a THIRD FUCKING PARTY? I don't want them to hear it, they probably have no interest in listening, and what the fuck is so important that you can't call them back? Seriously, hang up the phone. My bladder is about to pop, and this performance anxiety is the last straw, lady.

Alas, there is hope in this situation. Whereas you're mostly limited to disgusted glares and angry looks in the 'stop spilling garlic mayo on my lap...really, garlic? On the subway?' and the 'you just waited 2 minutes for an elevator to go up to the next floor when the stairs are right there???' situations, in the phone invasion scenario, you can actually give it right back to them. Oh yes. I figured this one out all by myself. Why should just I suffer? When I can very easily fuck your shit up with a...flush. And another. And another. And another. Really. This happened like, 15 minutes ago, I tried it...and just flushed that trollop right out of the bathroom. She was on the phone in the hallway when I left, and tried to shoot me a death glare...but I declined the negativity. Sure, for a moment I did wonder if my retaliatory flushing was a bigger dick move than their invasion of my privacy, but ultimately declared myself the moral victor. I mean, I would never have flushed the toilet 8 times in a row if they hadn't first made it impossible for me to pee in peace. And why couldn't she have just taken her phone call in the hallway to begin with?

I am a little worried about how triumphant I feel, though. Next thing you know I'll be sneezing all over your meatball sub on the Green Line. Just kidding. Really though - meatballs? Marinara sauce? This train is bumpy as hell. You're just going to dribble all over the seat, then? No napkin or anything. Huh. Oh, hang on...ah...ah.ahhhhhchoooo.

My bad.

Puck This

So I have a little bone to pick with celebrity endorsed products. Not with their existence, generally - we're a consumer culture, blahblahblah, and if you buy one brand of energy drink above all others solely because your favorite BMX rider is paid to say they like it, then you're a moron, and you shouldn't really share your opinion (and please, can we stop with the energy drinks already? What the fuck do you do all day that you need so much freaking instant energy?).

Sorry, tangents. Anyway - I don't fault anyone for endorsing products. Hell, I don't even fault them for hawking products they don't even like. Who cares? What bothers me is when someone devotes some portion of their face-time to a really, really completely unbelievable product endorsement. Not unbelievable as in outrageous (more of those, please, actually) but as in 'No, man. I don't buy it. An Oscar worthy performance would not convince me that you use this product. Stop.' It's just maddening. Initially, for how stupid advertising execs think the public is, and secondly, because it is through this type of effective advertising that I am forced to admit how stupid the general public actually is. How do you believe this shit?

For example: If you're famous for something really specific... say, how Wolfgang Puck is really famous for his abilities in the kitchen - and you're widely recognized for the quality of your product above all else (like, say...Wolfgang Puck. For his good cooking.) then I just think that the product you're shoving at us should demonstrate some moderate compatibility with your purpose as a celebrity.

There was a certain strange era during which my mother would enter a strange, house-bound psychotic fuge, hole up in the tv room and watch QVC and HSN for extended periods of time. As far as parental insanity goes, it was a pretty innocuous sort, but it still resulted in the purchasing of several interesting items. Once, it was a giant faux-Oriental rug. One time it was a pretty awesome down blanket, and on one very relevant occasion, she purchased a set of pots and pans, endorsed by none other than celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck. Like, his signature is on the damn handle and everything.

My problem with these pots is not they they suck, or that they have major design flaws (they do, but we'll get to that) my problem is that it is COMPLETELY FUCKING OBVIOUS THAT WOLFGANG PUCK HAS NEVER NOR WOULD EVER USE THESE POTS AND PANS. I was not fooled for a second. These are the worst fucking pans I have ever used in my life. Invented for the casual cook in the era before Teflon, these pans are 100% heat transferable metal - including the goddamn handles. THE HANDLES ARE ROUTINELY THE SAME TEMPERATURE AS THE REST OF THE POT. No matter where the handle is pointed during cooking, it is always scalding, injuriously hot. I have burned the shit out of my hands so, so many times.

I know, I know, you're saying "stop crying, asshole, and use a potholder." Well, you know what? Fuck you. I am not a chef, granted; on the rare occasion I do break out the pots its usually for the purpose of heating soup, heating water (for ramen noodle soup, or for regular damn water, since I seemed to have misplaced my teakettle in one of my last three moves) ...and that's pretty much it. So I know it seems like I'm not exactly in the place to comment on utilitarian elements of cookware, but think about it this way: wouldn't you expect the expert cooking of Wolfgang and his employs to be going down in a loud, crowded, high pressure kitchen environment? Do they always have a sizeable, heat absorbing potholder readily available? Don't you think sometimes they have to just grab a damn pan and get on with it? Probably, right? Don't you think it would be somewhat useful for the kitchen staff at Mr. Puck's esteemed restaurants to have access to pots and pans with some insulated fucking handles? Probably, right? I mean, I'm just saying.

And yes, parents, I do own a potholder. Two of them actually. I bought them last month at Target.

And, assorted palms scalds asides, I do appreciate the pots.