Richard Kriheli

Dearest Cola,

I am writing this letter to you to formally request a divorce. I don’t think we should go the separation route, as we’d be kidding ourselves and making excuses to coexist. Let’s face it, our relationship has fizzled over the years and I feel it is best for us to go our separate ways. We’re not good for one another.

There was a time when you were always around and available when I needed you. You were cool and refreshing company. You tickled my insides with your spark, bubbly effervescence, and striking caramel color. Our dinners used to have a lot more pep, now everything is still. I don’t even have to shake you.

Lately things have just gone flat. Things seem more complicated now: you appear to be preoccupied with counting calories and changing your look so often that you’ve become almost unrecognizable. Even when you appear sweet, it’s all pretense because we both know it’s all artificial. And those nicknames were just brutal. Pop? Come on, most folks call their father that. Big turn off.

So, it’s over between us. It has been for a long time. The fizz is gone. I need time to cleanse myself. I am not necessarily prepared to find a suitable replacement just yet, and I figure to test out the waters when I am ready. But for now, I renounce my reliance to you and will choose to just walk away.

With this farewell, I wish you the best with your future and have little doubt that others will latch on to you as I have. And I’m sure you’d stick to them too (pun intended).

Always,

Richard’s Health.
“Life tastes Good”

Dear World,

Your second face is now in plain sight. Both faces as black and white as the man you snubbed. Oh, the irony.

Be ashamed of yourselves as you sit and weep for a man you turned your back on during his pleas for reasoning. Truth is, Michael was not perfect. In a lot of ways, he was sick and troubled. He was/is a case-study of a child that grew out from abuse – both physical and psychological. When he caved to pressure and made mistakes, he was lost to you. Lost because he couldn’t supersede the image of the dude dancing with zombies anymore. Instead, insanity is the label you bestowed. YOU, the smoking gun, wrecked Michael and ultimately did him in. How dare you draw on fond memories after his passing when last week he was the subject of your ridicule? Do you not see the sheer hipocrisy of your tears?

The moonwalk, as you are all familiar, is a dance step appearing as a forward step but in fact moving the dancer backwards. It appears as if your opinions and judgements are not dissimilar.

For the sake of our futures, I hope this event serves as a lesson for you all.

Regretfully,

Your Guilty Conscience.

Juliet,

“It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!” B.S! Sun, you are not. But since you are being annointed as a good person on the ABC tragedy known as LOST, I figured I’d let you redeem yourself for real. Let you save some face. The show is about redemption, right? A lot to gain you have, Juliet – sans the Shakespearian babble.

Look, it is clear that those around you are obviously brain-dead (I’m lookin’ in your direction, James) and are missing the necessary screws to deduce that you hold some key knowledge that has yet to be shared. So, I will do question-asking for them since they are too busy self-indulging. Enter : a real interrogator. No, not Sayid who punked out when he had the chance. Call me Jack-like, if you will… not Jack Shephard, but Jack Bauer as I am about to employ Keifer-tactics to get some info out of you, Miss Burke.

Note: Please answer with a modicum of honesty, as we know the deceit you are capable of. This is a matter of national security, as many people are glued to their television sets like my wife and I in utter horror and frustration that these answers are not being gleamed – directly from the source. And I am here to prevent an all-out act of aggression against television writers near and afar. Copy that?

Have a seat at the interrogation table, Miss Burke.
(I throw the table violently aside and begin):

1. Tell me everything you know about the Island! Start with the hieroglyphics and statue.
2. Tell me everything you know about Ben Linus, Charles Widmore and most importantly Richard Alpert (a.k.a. RA).
3. How are you time-hopping like the other 815′ers?
4. Where did the firearm proficiency come from? Who trained you?
5. Why are you still using your married name?
6. What is your real agenda?

See, to me the sun sheds light. You shed nothing but that irksome smile of yours covering layers of pretense. In short, I don’t trust you. I shall not fall asleep at the wheel like the others, err… other-others (current 815′ers, otherwise known as the ‘77 Dharma recruits). You will be sitting at my virtual interrogation table, and this charade and your motives will all be judged in the end until you start spitting out something to chew on. Soon.

Sincerely,

Not Romeo. Not Jack. Simply, Rich.

Postscript: No offense to Elizabeth Mitchell, who is simply reading lines off a piece of paper. The real attack is directed, um… elsewhere.

Santa was always a tough sell for me. With the current economy laying an egg, I’m no fool: I know there is no shiny new Macbook Pro waiting for me under the tree, courtesy Mr.Claus. But, hell, even as a child, I wasn’t expecting jolly ol’ Nick to be making any cameos in my household. Not because I was a bad apple or anything — nope. It’s all because of where I grew up – Queens. To be frank, I wondered how any kid around my neighborhood could believe that Santa would venture ’round our neck of the woods. My pea-sized pre-K brain was positive that reason and logistics in this case were way off. That said, my childhood holidays were pretty much wrecked from the go.

Recently, I found this old pic of myself and Santa in some mall, circa 1977. At close examination, the apprehension and doubt painted all over my little face is clear as day. I wonder if this blatant lack of faith messed with the dreams of those around me. I suddenly feel terrible. This time of the year (or any time for that matter) should be spent with more positive energy and less skepticism. So, I feel it’s time for me make amends with ol’ Kringle. Here goes:

Dear Santa,

Alright, I suck. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you when I was three. Can you blame me, though? Forgive me for wondering how you could maneuver around Queens in your bright red suit without getting mugged. Hey, the 70s-80s were a rough time. I apologize for telling you not to bother with my building because of the security cameras. Reindeer flying or not, I was sure there was no way you were lugging around a bunch of Ataris through the projects just to make your way to my neck of the woods. I was just a little kid and I didn’t know the importance of your presence/presents. So I shall compose a little jingle verse in hopes you can absolve my childhood deriliction:

Money is tight ’round the country
you must be busy fielding requests
I know I’ve been naughty, even at three
now your word will live at my behest

Tis the season, or so they say
But don’t let my mood kill your glow
I shall spread your word every day
so try get me a Macbook Pro

Sincerely,

- Rich from Rego Park

In short, I can get behind this Santa thing now. Even though I am back in Queens for the time being, I think a little good juju (especially out of me) will go far. With NYC looking more like Minnesota everyday, I see no reason why we can’t leave our collective cookies and milk out and have some faith, for a change. Ho ho ho.

Dear MTA,

Yesterday, I was in between tracks on my iPhone when not-so-ironically, my train too, was in between tracks. The announcement that followed instructed that the R-train was going over the V-line because of construction at 59th/Lex. It got me thinking. Let’s see: I’ve lived in New York for over 33 years now and every weekend for as long as I can remember – there has been “construction” announcements and train re-routings. Even during the maddening holiday-shopping weekends!

My question to you is: what exactly are you constructing? Something profound and immense, I hope. I mean, Citi Field and the new Yankee Stadium were built in a little over 2 years. I have seen a complete transformation of Columbus Circle in the blink of an eye as well. I am positive you have something far more grand with all those years logged. A whole new speed-of-sound bullet train system? A massive underground monument to celebrate the return of the Sumerian Gods? What is it? I see all the rats scurrying in an excited frenzy and we are experiencing more and more sick passenger delays. Goodie, goodie.

Humor me and tell me you are not lying to your loyal and overly tolerant city. Yes, I say tolerant. What other word would you use for a city that does not question the “work” that is being done without any demand for a status update. Please don’t tell me that “construction” is just a code word for “we don’t work weekends.” I mean I’ve seen my one-way fare hike up from 75 cents to the two dollar mark it is today. Surely, that should cover paying some extra folks working the weekends (especially since there are plenty of unemployed folks willing to chip in). And gee, the Metrocard afforded you the luxury of cutting the jobs of all the token-booth folks, so salaries shouldn’t be an obstacle, should they?

So . . . when should we expect this “construction” to conclude? Do we have an end-date? Can I get an invite to the press-release or unveiling-party? I am greatly interested, as are my fellow brethren. Show us the greatness that is being laid between the tracks. Unless of course, it is one fat goose egg.

Regards,

Strap-hanger # 10,021,974

Postscript: due to ongoing construction (of this blog), this is the last stop on the K-train. for service to the next post, please get off and take the free shuttle bus uptown.