Why? Because the car horn was originally designed as a safety feature. It was meant to alert a pedestrian of your existence, or maybe just to scare off livestock or men on horseback who might be in your way. These days, however, drivers and roads are a little more sophisticated than they once were (unless you’re in a place like West Virginia, or Boston), and I think it’s time for a more sophisticated honk.

For example, we only have one honk, and it basically means “Hey!” Like, hey! I’m driving here, or hey! you’re about to die, or hey! nice boobs. What if there are other sentiments that we want to express? With that, I humbly submit to you my latest invention: the multi-toned car horn. It would feature several different sounds, such as…

- The “Sorry” horn – for use when you accidentally cut someone off or splash a pedestrian with puddle-water. I’m hearing it sort of like a trombone going “wah-waaah.” It would be nice to be able to honk to take responsibility for your actions, maybe even warding off a “hey!” horn.

- The “Thank You” horn – for use when someone lets you into their lane, or when someone waves you ahead at the stop sign (I’ve often wanted to honk in this situation, but invariably, because of the single-use car horn, you’d come off as an asshole). I picture this horn sounding like when you get a 1-Up in a Mario game, or maybe when you kill a duck in Duck Hunt.

- The “How About THAT Guy” horn – have you ever been in this situation? Sometimes, after being stuck in traffic with people long enough, I start to feel like we have a common bond, a shared experience of hardship, sort of like veterans or Holocaust survivors. And then someone comes along driving on the shoulder, bypassing like hundreds of cars. There needs to be a way of expressing not only outrage, but camaraderie. I’m hearing this horn sort of sounding like “Pshhhhht, really?” like maybe a record being scratched to a halt, then a short, up-turning honk.

(Was it too much with the Holocaust reference?)

- The “Turn It Up!” horn – for use when the guy next to you is blasting his music, which I usually hate, but then I realize it’s Phil Collins and I LOVE it. The horn could actually be a human voice that says “Phil Collins! Fuck yeah!”

That’s all I’ve got for (semi) serious ideas. This is the part of the post where I take the idea too far and start suggesting things like a “your pants are too tight” horn or a “stop picking your nose” horn, but I’ll spare you. Besides, people need a place where they can pick their nose with impunity – I’m just glad you can’t get fined $300 for doing it.

But when I see everybody carrying an umbrella, I feel left out. Like it’s some piece of juicy gossip that everyone got but me (did you hear it was gonna rain today? and the dew point, wow!). I feel like the cool kids all got a memo (because they all work in the same office, of course) and I didn’t get it. And then there’s the dread that there’s going to be like a flash flood or something and I’m gonna get drenched. And it’s crazy because I don’t even like umbrellas. Why do I not like  them? A multitude of reasons:

1) They’re a pain in the ass to carry around. When it’s not raining, you feel like a chump for lugging it around with you, and then it rains, and then you get on the subway and you’ve got this wet thing you’ve got to deal with. It drips all over your legs, pretty much canceling out the benefit of using it in the first place.

2) Most people tend to hold their umbrellas at an eye-poking level. This might not be a problem in Hicksville-Wherever-You-Live, USA, but here in the big city, it’s a real hazard. Imagine walking down a crowded street and every person you pass is like a crazy threat to your eye-safety! Imagine walking in Times Square on a rainy day – it’s a big enough pain in the ass on a good day, but on a rainy day, there’s like no place at all to move.

Ok, so I guess I only have two things I hate about umbrellas. The drippy thing and the eye-poking thing. And also, they don’t keep you that dry. Three things. And they’re a pain to carry. Four.

And yet I still feel like I’m being left out when everyone has one but me. And whenever I do have an umbrella on me, it never seems to rain, and I feel rage with every dry, umbrella-laden step I take. I positively feel like I could poke someone’s eye out. On purpose!

Also, umbrellas breed sadness. Immediately after a storm, you see tons of inside-out umbrellas abandoned on the street – dead soldiers in a senseless war. There’s nothing so sad as seeing a turned-out umbrella just lying there on the sidewalk. Except maybe when you see one glove (or one shoe), and you know someone out there has a very cold hand (or bloody, gross foot). For every turned-out umbrella, there’s someone out there with soggy pants. Tragic.

Wow, I can’t believe I got that much material out of umbrellas. 545 words, in fact. (Now 549. 551. Damn. 554 – ha!) And here I was worried this was a bullshit topic. And you, you read the whole thing, didn’t you? Sucker.

I got a call from my friend Jesse. Actually, in real life, his name is Lunch. Well, that’s not his real name either, it’s just what we call the poor guy – Lunch Dinnerson. (Don’t know where that one came from. The legend is that a while bunch of his friends were sitting around, and somebody just made a declaration out of the blue: We should call you Lunch.) In real life and in all actuality, his name Matt something (well, not Matt Something, because that would be ridiculous, but what I’m saying really is that I don’t know the guy super well. All of which contributes to the bizarreness of the dream).

Ok, now in reverse order, the guy’s real name is Matt, but we call him Lunch, and for some reason he was named Jesse in my dream. (Man, I just summed up the whole last paragraph in one sentence. I need an editor.) I know it feels like I’m spending a lot of time on the guy’s name, but trust me, it’s important. See, I’ve got a friend who’s (real) name (in real life) is Jesse Green, and he’s definitely the first Jesse I would think of when I hear the name. So when the phone rang in my dream and it was Matt/Lunch, my subconscious needed to somehow let me know that this wasn’t the Jesse I would normally think of, and it did so by displaying the name “Jesse (Alternate) Green.”

(Do you remember the old days, when phones didn’t have first and last name fields for the address book? If you had one guy in your phone book named Matt, and you met another Matt, he was doomed to be “Matt 2″ in your phone forevermore. And of course, it always goes wrong, like you end up drunk dialing the wrong Jessica to ask her to come over late one night. Or, even worse, someone sees your phone. I vividly remember sitting around with my friends one night with my buddy Brian going through someone’s phone. When he looked up and said, “Dude, am I Brian number 2 in your phone?” you could hear the pain and disappointment in his voice.)

So Jesse (Alternate) Green gave me a call in my dream, and immediately I knew that it was Lunch on the phone. He said to me, “Man, I’m so glad you picked up the phone. I’m about to make you rich!” I was understandably excited, so he laid it all out for me: “See, I’m down in Virginia for tennis camp, and I met a guy with a connection. How would you like for me to pick up a pound for you?” I was a little shocked, not about tennis camp, because Jesse/Lunch is a pretty athletic guy, but because I don’t use or sell drugs (seriously, in the dream and in real life). I gently reminded Lunch of this fact, and I was met with silence on the other end of the line. Then, “not a pound of weed, man! A pound of Quick-a-day!”

If you don’t know what Quick-a-day is, don’t worry, you’re not alone. It’s an invention of my subconscious, and I STILL didn’t know what it was. Lunch explained to me it’s a daily multivitamin health shake mix that you drink once a day, to like, lose weight or stay fit or some such nonsense. Apparently, it’s not so easy to get a hold of, so I could make a killing selling it on my own. After I heard all of this, I was excited to jump in. There was one condition – I had to be one of the first ten people to get there.

Immediately, I was transported to Virginia with my friend Lunch. All around me, everyone was racing to get their hands on Quick-a-day (I guess it’s all the rage at tennis camp). In my mad dash to win the race, I ran across a busy busy highway (far too busy for Virginia) in the dark. Having made it to the other side, I was faced with a steep hill. People were tripping and falling as they scrambled to get to the top. I climbed and climbed, but never seemed to get any closer to the top. Eventually, I collapsed. With my dying breath, I shouted to Lunch, “It’s ok, leave me. Just make sure you get there first and put in my name for Quick-a-day!”

And that’s when I woke up. Not really a full dream, more of a dream fragment. Interesting (hopefully?) nonetheless. Bottom line: if you ever get a phone call from anyone number 2 in your phone offering a chance to sell Quick-a-day, don’t go for it. It’s not worth losing your life over – remember, it’s imaginary.

Our story starts at Vassar College, my alma mater and home to the next generation of relativistic, hippie pinko liberals. This is the type of college where you can major in something as useful as (I swear) Victorian Studies. (I myself majored in Bullshit Studies, which focuses on honing your ability to write 20 page papers about nothing at all. I feel like it’s serving me well in my blogging life (Exhibit A).) As our story begins, I’m waiting outside Vassar’s main entrance for a cab to take me to the airport. An NYC yellow cab pulls up, and in the driver’s seat is none other than Iron Chef Japanese – Masaharu Morimoto, pictured below giving the international sign for “killer bunny fangs.”

Image courtesy of LA Weekly

We throw my bags in the trunk and we’re off to Stewart Airport in Newburgh, NY – a small landing strip that houses six planes at a time, five of which are crop dusters.

On the way there, I confess to Morimoto that I’m a big fan of his work. I’ve seen him on Iron Chef, Iron Chef America, and I’ve been to his restaurant Morimoto in New York City. I tried at first to converse with him in Japanese, using some words I’d picked up from watching anime, but since the only things I can say are “thank you,” “lunch,” and “my crime-fighting robot suit is at full power,” the conversation took some weird turns. Eventually we settled on English, and Cabbie Jon prevailed until we arrived at the airport. As it turns out, I wasn’t actually flying anwhere that day, I was just dropping my bags off (a practice that I’m pretty sure is strictly verboten these days). I hopped back in the cab and we drove back to Hogwarts, er, Vassar.

We were on New York’s scenic route 44/55 just minutes from the school when a police car started creeping up on us. Morimoto immediately became paranoid and scared, checking the rearview mirror and saying things like, “you’ll never catch me, coppers!” As we turned off the road and pulled up in front of my school, the police put their sirens on. Morimoto cursed as he pulled the cab over. Two cops approached the car, giving him the typical “do you know why we pulled you over today?” line of questioning. Morimoto responded with the “I wasn’t speeding, was I, officer?” defense, but it quickly became clear that wasn’t the issue.

“We hear you like the crickets,” said the cop on the driver’s side. “Isn’t it true that just last week, you shipped six crickets home to Japan?” A look of terror flooded across Morimoto’s face. “But, but, I bought six plane tickets!” Morimoto said. (Let me say that I don’t know how you’d get a cricket to stay in its seat for a 12 hour flight to Tokyo. Furthermore, if I was stuck in the middle seat on a long flight and there was a cricket sitting on the aisle, I would be super-pissed.) “It doesn’t matter,” said the cop, “it’s still illegal to ship insects out of the country. Please step out of the car.”

They proceeded to cuff Morimoto and drag him to the backseat of the cop car. He kept shouting, “But no one said anything at the time!” in a most undignified manner. Then they simply drove away, leaving me sitting in the cab in front of my school. You know how after a car crash on TV, someone’s head is always resting on the steering wheel and the horn is going off in one loud, constant drone? Yeah, that was happening, inexplicably. And then I just woke up.

Sort of an anticlimactic ending, I know. If this were a TV show (specifically Dragnet), there would be an epilogue while the show’s theme song played. I picture Morimoto standing there holding that thing they hold in mug shots, (you know, that little clipboard thing, sort of like the thing they use when they say “action!” on a movie set?) looking guilty while the announcer says that he was sentenced to six months in a correctional facility – one for each illegal cricket he shipped.

Dunnnnh dun nuh duh…dunnnnh dun nuh duh daaaaaaaa. Fade to black.

I don’t usually write about my personal life, so I need to introduce a cast of characters:

- Steve: my brother

- Arielle: his new wife

- Dad: my dad

- Mom: my mom

So Steve and Arielle got married on a Sunday, but I got up to Boston (an American city where my brother lives) on Thursday. I was the best man, and I came in early at Steve’s request to meet his future in-laws (not sure if they qualify as my in-laws too) and to…well…just sort of be there. Which I was happy to do – I’m currently unemployed, and my time is split pretty evenly between eating junk food, having stomach aches, and then napping. I saw it as my main task to keep things light during a stressful time and insulate Steve from as much bullshit as possible – a task at which I believe I succeeded. Not too much to say about these couple of days, so I’m going to fast forward: Cheesecake Factory, bridesmaids, rehearsal dinner (executed flawlessly by Mom), explaining that Steve and I aren’t gay together (or separately), watching a man eat 180 oysters.

I’m going to slow down to acknowledge the suite I was staying in. It was practically the size of my apartment, and it had a king size bed and a dishwasher. A DISHWASHER! I was considering driving home just to pick up my dirty dishes and bring them back for the free cleaning.

Which brings us to the day of the wedding. That morning, Dad and I had to drive to the florist and pick up (guess what?) some flowers and such. We had just enough time to pick up the flowers, race back to the hotel, change into our suits, and head to  the wedding. Or at least we should have. When we got to the florist, she told us she thought she had another hour to get ready. Fine. No reason to get excited, no need to worry the bride and groom. Dad and I went to get a bite to eat and when we came back, the lady was almost ready. What was holding her back, she told us, was that one of the chuppah poles wasn’t fitting into its stand.

(Parenthetical aside here for all the non-Jews on the internet – a chuppah is a tent under which the bride and groom traditionally stand while they perform the wedding ceremony. I believe it’s pronounced with a throat-clearing “ch” sound, but a regular “h” might be acceptable. It is composed of four posts with a tallis, or Jewish prayer shawl, stretched between them. It represents, well, something symbolic. I feel a little strange explaining this (I’m not a very good Jew, I’m only Jew-ish) but in the land of the people who can’t see so well, I guess the man who can kind of see okay is king.)

So one of the chuppah poles, a beautiful piece of birch, wasn’t fitting into its metal stand. It needed to be sawed down in order to fit. Now chuppah-pole-sawing wasn’t listed as one of my responsibilities as the best man, but I think it falls into the fine print clause of “handling shit.” So there I was, out on the street, sawing wood on my brother’s wedding day. And here I am, doing same, in photographic form:

After earning my woodworking merit badge (and sort of breaking the stand), we got everything to fit. Then it was off to the races (or the hotel, then the wedding).

To set the scene, the wedding took place at a farm (the reception was in a barn, but it wasn’t the kind of barn where they keep horses and horsepoop – it was the classy kind of barn). Another important detail – it was 400 degrees that day (Fahrenheit), and the relative humidity was in the thousands. Now, I happen to be a dude who sweats a lot (I like to think of it instead as condensation), and it was my job to lift heavy things and set them up, so I was off the charts pretty much immediately. Then, photo time! My only comfort was that nearly everyone else was also sweating through their clothes. Then we went into a gazebo for the traditional signing of the Jewish wedding contract, which has a Hebrew name that I’ve already forgotten. The rabbi had us all sing a song in which the only word was “die” while the document was signed by Steve, Arielle, and two witnesses. And since they had to sign in Hebrew, and none of them really know Hebrew, the song went on for what felt like 10 minutes (at which point, the lyrics became fitting).

What followed was a beautiful wedding ceremony. Steve and Arielle wrote letters to one another which they read aloud (letters which I, as the best man, proofread to make sure they were equally sweet and loving). They both looked unbelievably happy and content, Arielle in her beautiful dress, Steve in his the-only-Mossberg-able-to-pull-it-off vest. They exchanged vows, exchanged rings (which I totally didn’t forget to bring with me!) and sealed the deal with a kiss.

The reception (or “after-party” to R-Kelly) was a blast. But before the fun could start, I had to give a toast. I will sheepishly admit that I was unable to get to sleep the night before, agonizing over what I was going to say, running through it over and over again in my mind. Finally, I realized something important – my brother’s wedding day had nothing to do with me and nobody would care what I said. After that, I fell asleep promptly and slept well. I gave my toast, people said “aww,” and I could finally relax. The food was good – I wished I had a second stomach so that I could keep eating – and the wedding band, comprised of Steve’s friends, was kick-ass. I danced like a crazy man (who was dancing). Then we had the traditional Mossberg singalong, led by Steve at the piano. It began with a gorgeous duet with his new bride playing banjo and contained some of the best love songs known to man (and also “Kodachrome”). I even got to play the sax on “Just The Way You Are.” I think at first, people were unsure of exactly what to do, but by the end, they’d gotten over their apprehensions and were singing along in full.

Not much more to say. The night wrapped up at around 10:00, and after a trip to the 7-11 (and the best Gatorade ever consumed), the groomsmen ended up back at the hotel. I hung out for another couple of hours, and collapsed in my king size bed (DISHWASHER!). The next morning, I picked up a couple of friends and we all drove back to NYC. It was an event to remember, and though there are already like a gajillion photos on Facebook, I’m glad I got to document it here as well. Now is when I try to think of something witty to say and end my post, but instead I’d just like to express my love for Steve and Arielle, my joy and my well wishes for their future together. I love you, guys.

Believe it or not, I’ve actually been to many states in this great country of ours, but most of my experience of it has been seen through a car or plane window (I don’t count it as an actual visit unless I’ve stopped there long enough to use the bathroom). Thankfully, this trip let me crap in a couple of new places, and I thought I’d tell you about them (the places, not the craps).

• Let’s start with home. Did you know that the TSA officials at La Guardia airport in New York are actually very kind? It turns out that if you try to walk through the metal detector still carrying your bag on you because it’s 4:00 in the morning and your mind isn’t operating at full capacity, they’ll ask you politely to put your bag through the x-ray machine (they even called me sir!).
• It’s also good to know that the La Guardia Au Bon Pain carries hot breakfast sandwiches, but they WILL NOT let you put back the bagel you picked up before you realized this fact.
• In Milwaukee, Wisconsin, it might interest you to know that literally every store in the airport’s modest shopping mall sells cheese (great news if you just happen to have an extra bagel handy!). The selection is also fantastic – most stores carried yellow, orange, AND white varieties.
• (I wanted to make at least two jokes about every airport, but there’s literally nothing else to say about Wisconsin.)
• If you’re lucky enough to visit San Francisco’s SFO, be sure to check out any one of the many “City By The Bay” shops for a scale model of a cable car. The locals call these “souvies” and they can be used to barter for services such as cab rides and organ transplants – often more readily than cash.
• If you happen to be at SFO for a redeye flight at midnight, you may be fortunate enough to listen to the conversation of three very loud (possibly very drunk) Russian women who just don’t get the hint from the library-quiet conditions and the looks of misery on everyone’s faces. If you understand Russian, perhaps you can even explain why every single sentence spurs a round of uproarious laughter – surely these are the funniest women in the world.
• God Bless Atlanta’s airport for having the nation’s only Popeye’s that’s open (and serving crispy strips) 24 hours a day. If your watch says 6:00 AM and your body says 3:00, but your stomach says “hungry,” be sure to check it out.
• After visiting Popeye’s, be sure to mix with some of the locals, but be wary – you will meet many older black gentlemen wearing hats, chains, and outrageously-patterned three-piece suits, but be advised to many of these men are not pimps

I hope that my travel guide has been helpful. Whether you’re visiting the east coast, the west coast, or any one of the (I wanna say five) states in between, take solace in the fact that I’ve been there too – and their bathrooms are clean.

This is all really just a clumsy introduction to a blog post comparing my two favorite American cities (I haven’t forgotten you, Dubai) and pitting them against one another in a death match. And even if I’ve already telegraphed the winner (cough, cough, New York), you should still stick around and see how the two towns stack up.

Vertical:

Excepting the Financial District, most neighborhoods of San Francisco are severely lacking in perpendicular (not counting the hills – a category in which San Francisco kicks New York’s ass). Most buildings are two to three stories in height. While this does have its distinct advantages (such as being able to see the sun), I found I missed the charm of New York’s concrete canyons. New York makes you feel small in a way in which San Francisco can’t, and I guess I just like feeling small. Winner: New York.

Cleanliness:

It’s not until you leave to New York and return that you realize how truly filthy the city is. Black bubblegum leopards the sidewalks; trash lines the sidewalks and fills up the subway tracks. San Francisco, on the other hand, is clean (though not pathologically so). I ate several meals off of sidewalks and public bathroom toilets, and only developed moderate stomach aches. Winner: San Francisco

Street Musicians:

This is actually a tough one. While New York boasts literally hundreds of anonymous jazz geniuses performing on various street corners, no one really cares about them. Far more memorable are the roving Mariachi bands, which invade subway cars during non-peak hours and ruin your day. I did not see a single Mariachi band while in San Francisco, but I did see a man playing a large, upright bass/guitar combination thing performing Pachelbel’s Canon on repeat. There was also a one-man-band performing up by Fisherman’s Wharf (who, to my dismay, did not perform Pachelbel’s Canon even once). All in all, as is so often true in life, the prize must go to the city with an Asian man who plays classical music on a retro, 1980′s-version-of-the-futuristic wind controlled fake synthesizer instrument. Winner: New York

Subway Systems:

New York has the most extensive underground transportation system in America, with 16 lines operating on hundreds of miles of tracks. San Francisco has about 7 trains which all follow the same route. San Francisco trains are great at getting you where you need to go, as long as where you need to go is on Market Street. To its credit, however, the San Francisco system is called “The Muni,” which means that you can reasonably (and with a smirk) call it the Money Train – a casual reference to the on-screen brilliance of Wesley Snipes and Woody Harrelson. Winner: San Francisco

Preponderance of Naked Dudes:

San Francisco has way more naked dudes (or dudes wandering around wearing only what I love to refer to as “banana hammocks”) per capita than New York. Whether or not this qualifies as a win is questionable. Winner: Questionable

As you can see, San Francisco gives New York a run for its money in some very narrow and foolish categories. However, the number one city in my heart is and always will be Dubai.

I really don’t understand you germ folk. I mean, I understand that germs cause disease. That part, I understand. But come on, folks, there’s gotta be a limit to the phobia. I know some people (okay, women) who wash their hands before going to the bathroom, flush the toilet with their foot before sitting down, hover, flush with their foot again, wash their hands and turn off the water with their elbows, then use their elbows to open the door and leave the bathroom. This is insane! (What would you do if you had something in your hands, like an ice cream cone? You’d lose at least the top scoop when you use your elbows on the bathroom door. A whole scoop. Gone!)

You’re being crazy. If you’re about to use the bathroom, why wash your hands first? And what’s with the pre-use flush? Are you scared that germs from the perfectly fine water in the bowl are going to float up to your bum? And then what, you’d get bum disease (buttivitis)? And the whole flushing with your foot thing – if you’re about to wash your hands, what’s the big deal? The thought of your shoe on the handle is enough to make ME want to use my foot. It’s a vicious cycle!

And why do we have hand-sanitizer all over the place in my office? Are we now no longer comfortable sharing hand germs with our coworkers? What about the business handshake? Does it become a fist bump? Maybe an elbow tap? Where does it stop? I don’t want to spit in the face of science (because that would be gross) but aren’t we just making germs stronger by exposing them to all of this antibacterial crap?

If you believe you can’t touch the bathroom faucet, then you should take it all the way. Don’t. Touch. Anything. Or anyone. Forget hugs and kisses – never again (why is it that germs are ok once we’ve decided we like the other person enough?). Really, how can you get out of your apartment and go out in the world everyday? The world where people touch things! Gross! Here’s something that’ll keep you awake at night – there’s only so much air in our atmosphere. That means that every breath you take (every smile you fake) has been breathed in and back out by someone else. It’s been in their mouth (and probably about a billion other people’s mouths throughout history)! Stop breathing! Now!

Can we just settle down? Most of us don’t have cholera or dysentery anymore. As long as we wash our hands a few times a day and don’t bathe in sewage, we should be ok.

More importantly, why was she coming off the subway with them? Did she actually think that the nearest Starbucks to wherever she was going was before she got on the train? Did she really think “Oh dear me – there might not be a Starbucks in midtown Manhattan – I’d better stock up while I can.” Perhaps she just didn’t know that there are approximately 3.2 Starbucks on every block in this town. No, I think something much more awesome is at work here.

I think this woman must have stumbled upon a hidden treasure – the great white whale of the NYC subway system. I speak, of course, of the legendary Starbucks Train. While no proof of it exists (outside of grainy photographs and the rantings of lunatics), myth and hearsay tell of this magical vehicle. As the story goes, after a Starbucks was shut down in Brooklyn to make way for a funky, independently-owned organic coffee house, the disgruntled former employees went mad (with anger!). They seized control of an unoccupied F train, stoning the conductor to death with stale biscotti. Now they roam the unused and abandoned tracks below Manhattan, surfacing periodically to attack other trains and provide the passengers delicious frozen beverages. 

I’ve been on this story for months now. My sources tell me that Starbucks sponsors these pirates, turning a blind eye to their criminal activities in return for a cut of their profits. Once, I confronted senior executives at Starbucks Michael Moore style, with a camera and a man in a wheelchair. I demanded to know whether they were in collusion with the coffee privateers. (The man in the wheelchair demanded to know why I had kidnapped him.) All I got was a raised eyebrow and a security escort out of the building. 

I’m afraid it’s as I thought all along – the case is unsolvable. But it can’t remain shrouded in myth and legend for long. Soon enough, Dunkin Donuts will have to steal their own train just to compete. (Can you imagine how exciting it would be to be waiting for your train and all of a sudden see a Dunkin Donuts coming your way at 30 miles an hour? The conductor would have his head out the window, showering the platform with Munchkins, and when the train doors open, the station would be filled with the sweet smell of glazed donuts and coffee, almost totally overpowering the normal subway smell of garbage and urine.) Soon, branded subway cars would be all the rage – upscale Manhattan restaurants on the 5 train, snobbish cafes on the L, White Castle on the A. Subway bars would run through midtown for business lunches and happy hours. Fewer and fewer actualy trains would come, making it impossible to get where you’re going. Japanese tourists would be furious.

As soon as the New York Times gets a hold of this story, our trains will never be the same. Mark my words, people, it’s only a matter of time.

I have a request. I know it may be a stretch for you, but there’s a type of movie that I think has been missing from your repertoire thus far, and missing from Hollywood in general. I think you’re just the guy to fill that gap.

What I have in mind is a bit of a feast for the eyes – something totally garish and over the top that threatens to blind viewers. If you could throw in some 3D, that would be a plus, but some form of claymation would also be acceptable. I’m thinking something with bright colors juxtaposed with dark imagery and pale faces. Maybe you could dress up one of the main characters in purples and greens. Do you think you could handle something like that? If you’re looking for some music to match your visual style, why not turn to composer Danny Elfman, known for his whimsically creepy and haunting sound?

I know there are a lot of great actors in Hollywood, but I thought maybe you could hook up with Johnny Depp. I don’t know why, but he strikes me as someone who would look good with white face paint and dyed hair. I’m not sure if I’ve seen anything like that before. And if you’re looking for a female counterpart, maybe you could use someone like Helena Bonham Carter, or possibly Winona Ryder. I’ve never seen either of them in a Johnny Depp film before – I’m betting the on-screen chemistry would be magical.

If you’re looking for some source material, why don’t you take a story from my childhood and twist it into something unrecognizable? It would have to be something grim and dark that you could brighten up with whimsy and the aforementioned bright colors – maybe some sort of a ghost story, possibly involving pumpkins or Halloween or nightmares of some kind. Or, what if you took an author known for doing sort of quirky, off-beat stories (someone like Roald Dahl, for example) and co-opted his work? You could take something classic and add your own unique, never-before-seen flamboyant spin.

One more thing, Mr. Burton. Would it be possible to make a movie with the exact same color palette, cast, mood and feel of some of your own previous works, like Edward Scissorhands, Sleepy Hollow, Planet of the Apes, Batman, Batman Returns, Sweeny Todd, The Nightmare Before Christmas (or El Extrano Mundo de Jack, as the version I watched in Spanish class was called), Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, or the smash hit Corpse Bride?

Because that would be awesome.

Thanks,

Jon Blogberg

PS: Sarcasm!

PPS: Nah, I’m kidding, you’re great.

PPPS: Sarcasm again! Seriously, you have less range than Mexican food.