Late Nite with Kevin Letterman

The View From Here     By Brad Mellesmoen, Vancouver

WHY AM I HERE? a free association rambling

You are a child of the Universe No less than the moon and the stars You have a right to be here -The Desiderata

"My advice is keep your problems deep inside, eat a lot of red meat and hope for a quick, painless heart attack" -my redneck friend Jim

At the interesting age of 35, you begin to wonder a few things. Why am I here? What is my purpose? Why doesn't a merciful "God" get off his throne and drop a few miserable drops of rain on those starving African children? Why did they change the name of "Two Guys A Girl and a Pizza Place" to just "Two Guys And A Girl"? These are the questions that keep me up late at night, hanging naked from my bedroom window screaming at a moon that taunts me with it's ever evolving shape (it's a sliver, no it's full, now it's half--it's enough to give Oprah Winfrey a complex).

Let's face it, there are no answers. Whether we are here because of some cosmic twist of fate or because some cosmic "other" force that judges us based on whether we're good or bad, it matters not a whit. We're in it for the long haul and have no choice but to make it work, whatever it takes. Presently, I am single, technically middle-age, making a barely passable living and happier than I've been in a very long time. And, that has to do with just letting things go. I've had relationship problems, legal problems, family problems, drinking problems, self-image problems and one by one, they are released. They cannot haunt me anymore, cannot follow me wherever I go, because I've put them in their place. And, I did it all thanks to my newfound respect for crack cocaine. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, it's awesome and (contrary to rumor), totally harmless. Especially if you do it all the time. It's curbed my appetite, helped me drop weight, given me a focus for my meager savings and introduced me to a whole new subculture that I, otherwise, would never have known. Last month, I even had the opportunity to visit a methadone clinic. How many of us get to say that? Yes, crack cocaine is my friend, my companion, my secret lover that I can't deny anymore. And, I think it's my calling to get the message out there. Finally, the answer to "Why am I here?".

I wrote a book about it, which (sadly) you will never read, because the advance I got my from my publisher went right to my dealer for more crack cocaine. Oh yeah, I also had to sell my computer to buy more and am writing this free hand to be transcribed later by my parole officer (who has also introduced me to some amazing new connections, all for a very low fee). Is it just me, or shouldn't parents stop worrying so much about this issue and just let their kids get into it, too? If you're worried that they're never home, believe me, once they're hooked, they'll probably never leave! By the way, my middle-school speaking tour begins in late November and I'm quite excited about it. The season and all. I had little flyers made up for the teachers to hand out "It's A Crack Cocaine Christmas". There's nothing better than waking up on our favorite holiday, looking at all those presents under the tree and thinking your hair is on fire. So many adventures. A few weeks back, me and some friends (under the supervision of Dr. DJ-Kool Kitty), got together in my apartment (free from the constraints of furniture--sold to buy more crack cocaine), slit our wrists and sprayed the walls with our blood. Laugh if you will, but I read in Architectural Digest that John Tesh and Connie Selleca did the same thing in their Beverly Hills manse.

Sure, there are some drawbacks (like the time I vomited all over the group of CBC new anchors that were in for dinner at my restaurant), but who am I to quibble. After all, there are no answers to the universe, nothing concrete anyway. So, I'm taking my own advice. I'm making the best of it. I'm in it for the long haul. I remember walking along Wreck Beach one day with my hypodermic needle and a juicy new speedball. I asked the crack cocaine why there was only set of footprints in the sand, and it said to me (in it's rich baritone): "That's when I carried you..." And, I understood. Ahh... Anyway, my hand is getting shaky so I'd better stop there. After all, this afternoon I'm going gun shopping. Ta! 

East London Line     By Kevin Letterman, London

I wonder if the Grandma Walton hated it when John Boy brought home one of the first phones, claiming it was the wave of the future. Would she have thought it rude to answer it during dinner? Surely she would have inspected it inch by inch, searching for the numerical symbol of the beast. Then along came the answering machine, so we wouldn’t miss those all important calls when we were out. Technology can be great, but haven’t we come to the point of thinking we’re so important we absolutely have to be reached at all times?

My boyfriend and I decided to have a nice, quiet evening out for dinner some weeks ago. During our tete a tete, his mobile rang and he instinctively reached for it. Scolding is a nice way of describing how I reacted. "But it’s Sarah.." he wined. "I have to know how she got on with that guy she shagged last night!" He couldn’t grasp why I thought it was rude to interrupt our dinner. Is it abnormal for me to want the undivided attention and affection of my loved one? After I stabbed the lone olive in his martini glass with about 12 tiny plastic swords, he lowered himself to merely checking for messages every 20 minutes.

Greater London has a population of about 14 million. I know this because I have to shove most of them out of my way each morning as I tread my way to work. That’s about all the human interaction I need, thank you very much. Now, not only do I have to deal with this maze of rats scurrying around trying to find their way everywhere, I have to listen to the incessant ringing of mobile phones. It’s a concrete jungle, where the real birds are comatose, having been replaced by electronic chirping. I’ve been to a lot of the world’s cities and I must tell you I have never seen as many cell phones as there are in London.

There are two reasons people buy cell phones. 1. Convenience 2. Status Symbol. Unfortunately, the majority fall into the latter category. I suppose it’s the cheaper alternative to penis extension surgery. Now, all can wave their magic phones around as some kind of Freudian replacement for what’s lacking. Nowhere is this more apparent than amongst the gay community. You’re nobody until you have a mobile phone.

Soon, and my psychic advisor confirms this, it will be in vogue NOT to own a cell phone. Sadly, whilst I await the glorious day when yours truly will be trendy again, I’m surrounded by the media’s chronic need to sell the devil phone. You have to keep up with the latest styles you know. As with toothpaste, which seems to have a new improved ingredient weekly (baking soda, whitener, breath freshener, micro-cleaning granules, crack filler and liquid sandpaper…), mobile phones change like the British weather system. As with most technology, they are getting smaller and coming in all colors of the rainbow. My personal favorite is the ‘hands free’ unit, or the ‘Turret’s Pack’, as I like to call it. You don’t have to take it out of your pocket now. You just plug in your earphones and walk around town talking into the air, looking like a complete twat. Of course, no one will know you’ve set it to vibration mode, so you’ll look even more diseased when people don’t hear it ring.

It’s simple. Most of the time, I don’t want to be contacted by the pesky human race. I’m not a recluse by any stretch, but I simply don’t elevate myself up to that urgent pillar that screams "Here’s my mobile number, call me and we’ll do the cocktail thing". Granted, I do own a PC and answering machine, but I possess the will to turn those things off and don’t have to carry them around with me for eternity, waiting for my buddies to ring and let me know which hair salon they’re sipping cappuccino at….and that’s The East London Line.

Editor’s Note: Kevin has since parted ways with his partner, after lengthy peace talks which led to the following conclusion: "Kevin, I just don’t feel that you give me enough attention". The party in question emailed him mere days later with words stinking of eternal love and the possibility of retribution…