Category Archives: Open Letter

Open Letter to An Organ Donor: Samuel Flegel (8/31/78-1/11/00)


“it is a serious thing,
just to be alive,
on this fresh morning,
in this broken world.”
— Mary Oliver, ‘Invitation’


My god, Samuel, we are here.

We had to tiptoe hell’s half-acre the past couple days, but by god we made it: A QUARTER CENTURY together! Twenty-five years, with you literally at the hips the whole ride.

Or was it I riding shotgun? After two-and-a-half decades, the lines begin to blur, the sutures blend, the scars become creases. We’ve been together longer than apart, keeping time in a rhythm that was never mine to claim.

My god, Samuel, what we’ve done together. The day we met, you taught: Life is brief as a whisper, and twice as faint.

And when we walked from the hospital that frigid Minnesota morning, I knew there was no turning round. I was through writing about crime, even if it meant quitting an occupation I loved. I was done asking the mothers of dead kids how they felt.

I knew how they felt. I was alive because of how they felt.

So we moved out West. And somehow got assigned to cover the movies, even appeared in one! We sat in Jack Nicholson’s living room!

And we rode our bikes for miles in the California sun.

My god, Samuel, what we’ve seen. We have lost fathers and father figures. We have buried some who should have long outlived us, including Sis. And Michael. And Richard. And Kevin. Ad infinitum.

But for nearly every of our 9,131 days together, you have represented life. We became ordained to officiate a magical wedding of a magical couple. We discovered the love of dogs, and they have loved us back seven-fold. We have taken up poetry.

My god Samuel, what you have taught me. Since you, I know that science is a faith; that time ticks up, not down; that hope resides not in grand gestures, but quiet choices.

Since you, my job has been simple: See tomorrow, sing your praises. So I do. Every. Single. Day. I’m as obnoxious about drivers licenses as a bouncer in a dank bar. But HAVUSGNDURLCNS2DAY? won’t fit on a vanity plate. Thus I harangue dog park passersby during the day.

At night, I think of immeasurables. How do you thank a man for curing your diabetes? What cost, ideal blood sugar? How do you make square the debt to a stranger who offers a kidney? Words could never capture your last morning becoming my first sunrise.

My god Samuel.

You are my second birthday, my courage incarnate, my love embodied. It took only a childhood of books and 25 years of your wisdom, but I finally get Seuss: Sam I am, and Guy am I. And I may be wrong, but I could swear I see a six and a zero in the not too far off. But you taught me to never assume health or time, and I will do neither.

So stand up, stretch your legs, admire the stratosphere. You’ve turned off the seat belt light; now chat up the first-class cabin about your unmatched flying skills.

And think of what you would like to see next. With you in the co-pilot seat, anywhere feels possible.


Open Letter to The National Weather Service


Dear National Weather Service,

As you may know, our city is on fire.

It smells like god left the flue closed, which, I guess, it did.

Anyway, with the fires burning to the north, west, and east of me, I thought I would pass along a couple suggestions for future alerts.

In fact, I received one just a few minutes ago about the Kenneth fire that thoroughly confused me and inspired this column.

Los Angeles County is one of the nation’s largest counties with 4,084 square miles, an area some 800 square miles larger than the combined area of the states of Delaware and Rhode Island. Los Angeles County includes the islands of San Clemente and Santa Catalina.

I have two suggestions for your weather alerts:

    1.    Explain the air quality warnings for pets.

What sort of animals are threatened? What exercises should, say, dogs and cats avoid? Are certain breeds more at risk? They’re the first things many of us grab.

Include the innocents in your alerts. They have no option for a mask

    2.    When naming fires, include the zip codes of affected areas.

If you tell me a fire’s name, that doesn’t tell me if it’s near me.

Who the fuck is Kenneth, and why does he wear the scarlet letter? Am I near Kenneth? Is it safe, Kenneth?

Your maps are great. Your predictions are spot on.

But we need even keeled heads-ups, not Chicken Little cackling. Especially when we must keep guard for more pressing alerts: The one in our lungs.

Let’s make those alerts crystal clear, and maybe give fang and claw a heads-up too. After all, they’re not the dumbasses starting the mess.

And zip codes so we know exactly where the trouble is.

Thanks for keeping us informed, even if we’re the ones causing the mess.

Sincerely,

Scott

Open Letter to Our Human: The Case of the Dinner Delay

Dear Keeper of the Kibble,

We write this with heavy hearts and, frankly, empty stomachs. There has been an unforgivable delay in tonight’s dinner service, and as your loyal, ever-starving companions, we feel it our duty to address this grave oversight.

We’ve been nothing but patient. Well, mostly patient. Charlie even refrained from licking outlets, and Jadie kept sock consumption to one.

Yet here we are, the clock ticking past dinnertime, our bowls still somehow empty. We’ve tried to remind you — subtly, of course. Puppy eyes, intentional yawns, even pacing.

Still, you went about your business as if our plight didn’t exist. You folded laundry. You mopped, for some reason (as if we weren’t going to walk those floors). Then, to add insult to injury, you sat down to watch TV. We even had to endure you laughing at some show instead of addressing the situation at hand.

Now, we understand you may have had a long day. You might even claim you forgot what time it was. But let’s be honest: we know you checked your phone at least five times, so that pig isn’t going to fly.

Let us be clear: this is not revolt. We would never stage a mutiny. (Unless you run out of soft food. Then it’s Lord of The Flies.) This is simply a nudge from your devoted pack that dinner isn’t just a meal—it’s an event. A sacred ritual where we gather around bowls and pretend not to notice you sneaking people food we can smell from three rooms away.

So, please, put down the remote, step away from the laundry, and fulfill your most sacred duty: feeding us. We promise to greet the meal with the enthusiasm you’ve come to expect, even if it’s just kibble and beans. (Though we wouldn’t say no to some of that chicken you had earlier.)

Faithfully famished,

Jadie the Jealous

Charlie the Chaotic

P.S. Jadie says if this happens again, she’ll be forced to eat your wallet. Don’t test our resolve.