Dear Dave and Buster's,

[pic via maddogmarko]

Dear Dave and Buster's,

Until I moved to New York, I had heard of you only in the vaguest way - that you were something like a Chuck E. Cheese for adults (or those who, at least legally, count as adults for purposes of drinking). I considered the pros and cons of such a place:

Pros:

• Beer
• Video games
• Possibility of hilarious prizes

Cons:

• The type of person who would frequent such an establishment

In this case, I determined that the cons outweighed the pros, and decided that I would not, in fact, enjoy you, Dave and Buster's. I imagined overgrown fratboy types saying things like "Broseph, you really killed it on that last Fast and the Furious brand video game" while giving each other sweaty high-fives upon getting the hot waitress' number. Gross. Not my scene.

So when a friend's birthday party took place there recently, I was skeptical. Said friend is a theater person, and as such the invitees were also primarily theater people, but still: who else was going to be at Dave and Buster's? On a Monday? In Times Fucking Square?

The answer: a wide variety of demographic segments, all there just to hang out and have a good time. A surprising number of kids. We had some nice moments with some trivia-game-loving mini gangstas. The staff were surprisingly nice and helpful, considering the shit they likely must put up with. All in all, not too shabby.

So Dave and Buster's, you're okay in my book. But your $9 beers have got to go, broseph.

Laters,
Anna

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

[photo courtesy altemark]

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

I'm sorry that I walked barefoot on my floor last night after midnight, and that the floor's squeaking disturbed your slumber.

But I regret to inform you-- when you spend the afternoon shouting the word 'butt-crack' repeatedly through a megaphone, you relinquish all rights to issue noise complaints.

Yours in Christ,
The Girl Upstairs

Dear Baby Wants Candy,

[photo via ari_nyc]

Dear Baby Wants Candy,

I know it's kind of wrong for me to love you. You go against every tenet of musical theater writing I have learned in the BMI Workshop. Your rhymes are lame (love/above? Come on, y'all), sometimes they're slant rhymes, and sometimes there are no rhymes at all. And sometimes you are a little too self-aware of yourselves and that you're doing improv.

But you know what, BWC? You are still FUCKING AWESOME. You are all expert improvisers and good-to-mediocre* singers. Every time I see you, I laugh so hard my face hurt and my abs feel like I just did the ab rotation I used to do when I was briefly on the rowing team in the fall of 1999. When I can see a show that starts with a chorus of people on a banana boat and ends with a human-monkey war with the monkey side being led by Richard Pryor (who was in disguise on the banana boat for a number of years), I know that all is right with the world. Also, you have a totally sweet live band.

Never stop, Baby Wants Candy. Keep on musical improv-ing.

With guilty pleasure,
Anna

*this is not meant as a slight, only as a statement of fact. In this case, I'd rather watch a good improviser who can't sing very well than a good singer who can't improvise very well.

Dear Irregular Choice Shoes,

Dear Irregular Choice Shoes,

I was first introduced to you many moons ago when my girl Jessica worked at a relatively upscale shoe store and gave me a sweet, sweet discount on some terrycloth floral print pumps (which I subsequently broke the heel off of during a particularly wild dance party, but later got repaired). Your styles, in a nutshell, boggle my mind. You occupy a misty grey area, like the moors of Scotland, between shoes that are "cute," those that are "fashion-forward" and those that are "batshit crazy." I thought the terrycloth floral print pumps were bonkers. It turns out that compared with the rest of your line, they are like the orthopedic polio shoe my Grandma Luella wore before she died.

Cases in point:

Okay, this little baby, named Polly Picked a Pepper, is pretty much adorable. Cute but bold color, sweet detailing, interesting heel, etc. We start to see the cuckoo-bananas creeping in with the combination of a red shoe and a lavender flower. Not a combo you see often.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 2 (chewing your hair)

Cookie Green Blythe is the next stop on the Crazy Express. Still very cute - almost too cute, almost Japanese kawaii cute - but fashion-y enough that if you wore them, everyone would undoubtedly comment on them and their almost-a-wedge-but-not-quite-a-wedge-thank-god- because-I-hate-wedges heels. Also, they have a print, which is weird, but not unwelcome, in a shoe.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 4 (planning an elaborate wedding in your head for you and the cute guy across the train)

This boot, with the relatively pedestrian name of Parrot Talk, is hot pink and has a fucking parrot on it. And yet, in the world of Irregular Choice, this is, like, what your mom wears. To church.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 5 (feeling bugs crawling on your arms though there are no bugs)

This is what I'll be wearing in my upcoming production of Tartuffe's Zig Zag Can Can Extravaganza.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 7 (lengthy conversations with imaginary people)

My luchadora name is "La Defenestradora," or "she who defenestrates." These, dubbed Wrestlemania, are La Defenestradora's shoes, hands down. Note: these are not being sold as a costume. These are being sold as actual shoes you wear in your life, like to the drugstore and stuff. They're actually listed under the "Trainer" heading, implying that you could rock the elliptical in these. I'm not gonna lie: I'd do it, till the sequins fell off. But still: bonkers.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 8 (lengthy conversations with imaginary monkeys and/or unicorns)

I. Wait. What? There's a rope. And a triangle? For a heel. Secret Sailor, I have nothing to say to you.
Slow Descent to Insanity Scale Rating: 9 (lengthy conversations with Bilbo Baggins, who you call your "financial adviser" and have on "speed dial," though your "cell phone" is actually a banana)

Look, all I'm saying, Irregular Choice, is that while every single shoe you carry is some level of nuts, I still love all of them. And if that makes me crazy too, well, I don't wanna be sane.

I'm head over heels for you,
Anna

p.s. I'm usually about a US8-8.5/Eur39 in your shoes. Just, you know, in case you feel like sending me any.

Dear Letters To Things,

Dear Letters To Things,


What's going on? You appear like a bright shining star in the firmament of things on the internet that distract me from work and then without warning you barely update. What am I supposed to do... actually type up invoices for me boss? Christ, Letters To Things... do you know how boring that is?

Come back. The interwebs miss you.

Typed in an act of procrastination,
Deborah

Dear Deborah,

It's summer. We're all just so hot. That's our story, and we're sticking to it.

We still love you,
Letters to Things

p.s. Yes, we know how boring that is.