There is a little button to the side that will take you to bambooda.ca, a cool online magazine in pdf format about Asian-Canadian culture.

Open Letter to the Guy Whose SUV I Keyed

I am not proud of what I've done. I want you to know that. But you have to admit it's a little odd that you're driving around in something that's bigger than my apartment. Isn't that a little odd? And when you turned right without signaling and knocked me off my bike into that bush, that was the first thing I thought. "This guy's car is as big as my apartment," I thought as I went sailing over the handlebars. Hey, far be it from me to tell you what to drive. I wouldn't want you telling me I couldn't take the bus. That would be crazy! But I have to say that there was a part of me, as I sat on the ground bleeding like a stuck pig, that wanted to comment on your choice of vehicle. It might have been the pain talking, or it might have been the brake lever embedded in my abdomen. But I'm no "activist" or "environmentalist." I like a good internal combustion engine as much as the next guy; heck, I probably like it more. Which is why I didn't say anything as I followed you to the underground parking lot and etched a giant penis on your SUV's hood.

Sincerely,

Thomas, not an activist.

Open Letter to the Girl I never Pretended to Like


Let me begin by saying I never pretended to like you. I know that Brad, or should I say the Brad formally known as my friend, told you I've never liked you and have only been acting friendly while secretly mocking you behind your back. I know he told you about dead-on impersonations of your duck-like walk, your tendency to mispronounce simple words, and your tremendous lisp. He might also have mentioned a certain hour long improv of you arguing politics with the cast of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Lies, all lies. Need I remind you when you showed up at the Christmas party wearing that orange sweater and green pants, it was Brad who asked if it was Halloween. And when Jerry switched your ice cream with balls of lard, I didn't laugh. Cause that kind of joke is just sick. Am I going to say I never shared in a quiet chuckle over some inconsequential foible? No. I am human, after all. But when the bucket of pig guts fell on your head releasing that swarm of bees, I wept inside. Wept for all humanity.

Now I know we've had our differences. You believe that eating animals is wrong, that the homeless should have affordable housing, that the government should represent the interests of the people, all very interesting ideas. I know that sometimes I might seem to discount your theories by laughing - the thing is, I'm a little slow, and occasionally a joke told to me that morning will only make sense in the afternoon. So if I laugh at inappropriate times I apologize.

You may wonder why I am writing this letter, especially after the chicken salad incident. Normally I wouldn't bother trying to "set the record straight," as it were. But I feel a certain obligation to the truth, one that demands a response. Sure I could have left Brad to his crazy stories, but I couldn't live with the idea that you were out there believing his lies. And why would Brad go to the trouble of fabricating these malicious missives? Because, and it pains me to say this, he is a sociopath. Yep, clinically insane. Only found out last week myself, and it came as something of a shock. They say with the proper medication he can control his tendencies, but I'd rather not take that risk. I have seen the damage he can do. I heard he even tried to peg that whole let's-glue-her-furniture-to-the-ceiling fiasco on me. Who but a crazy person would make up something like that? So, while I doubt we'll ever be the best of friends, let's not be needless enemies. Who knows? Once your limp clears up maybe we can even have a coffee and laugh about the insanity of it all. Just remember: I never pretended to like you.

Sincerely,

Thomas