indefinite articles

George,

I don’t fancy myself a fantasy nut, but my fancy has been struck, and your A Song of Ice and Fire novels are the ones doing the striking. You’ve made peace with the obligatory Lord of the Rings influence that plagues your peers, but you’re smarter than those chumps. Instead of brainlessly letting magic act as prime mover, you use it to set the scenery as the actions and words of your characters play out like great works of history.

You’re also about to turn 60, and you’ve got three more of these bricks to churn out. I’m not some fanboy ordering you to hustle — for the love of God, exactly the opposite. Keep yourself relaxed, or you are going to die.

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Dear Perez Hilton,

When we first met, I was in a dark stage of my life. I spent a lot of time watching American Idol on YouTube, read Us Weekly, and somehow managed to keep my nascent pop-trash flame alive long enough to stumble onto your website. The Sangina tidal wave, the Britney head-shave, the Brangelina babies, you were on the front lines, drawing MS paint fluids on celebrities’ faces. And suddenly, by your own proclamation, you were a celebrity, too. Now we see you on VH1 (on those rare moments when we couldn’t be bothered to change the channel away from VH1), read about you in Newsweek, watch you jet-set around the world to shower your meta-celebrity on unsuspecting victims around the world.

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Dear Batman,

Our universe probably owes yours an apology. Not only have we exported all of our post-9/11 and War-on-Terror-based anxieties to Gotham City, but we also seem to have inflicted our pundit class upon you as well. Truly, your reality is our collective civic nightmare.

The exceptionally serious-minded among us here seem to have seized upon you as a simple-minded booster or proxy for our current Executive Branch. Others that are equally committed to sober, face-value readings make similar-sounding accusations, even if they don’t make them about you specifically.

At the end of the day, you’re a fictional dude in a bat costume, which is something to keep in mind. But let’s address these guys on points.

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Dear George Takei,

In the eyes of America, you will never be the face of Star Trek. Nor will you, even with your unmatched gift of a booming cadence, ever be the voice of Star Trek. While Patrick Stewart’s shining crown, Leonard Nimoy’s parted fingers and William Shatner’s staggering delivery have been forever lodged in the databanks of popular culture, your name will manage to escape all but the most informed Trek conversations and parodies.

Let it be known: Your shoulders are meant for a greater mantle.

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Dear Brendan Fraser,

Your career seems set for a bit of a low-key renaissance this summer. Glad to see it. I’ve always found you a likeable actor, and it’s good to have you returning to the limelight, or at least the penumbra of the limelight. Thanks to TNT, I’ve probably seen you in The Mummy half a dozen times. I even voluntarily watched the incredibly bizarre sequel. When you were on Scrubs, I totally bought that you were the coolest guy J.D. and Dr. Cox knew.

Looking over your CV, though, one thing that stands out is that you don’t really seem to be much of a risk-taker. Aside from the occasional low-profile indie, the vast majority of your films are remakes or adaptations, and you’re rarely asked to bear the entire star-power burden alone. True, Rachel Weisz wasn’t that famous before The Mummy and your Journey to the Center of the Earth co-stars are unknowns, but in both cases the special effects share the billing with you, to be honest.

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Arnold: I’ll admit it, I was one of the naysayers when you rose to the top of the celebrity heap to topple Gray Davis, but as governor, you’ve proven more than meets the eye. Sure, your administration borrows and spends as if it were run by those filthy liberals, but at least you’ve shown a willingness to stick it to your party, your president, and your Humvee on a number of key environmental issues. But I’ve seen that gleam in your eye – you’re hungry for the reality that once was.

Aaron: Gotta say, I’ve grown weary of your unwillingness to diversify your style ever since you left The West Wing to rot in a centrist haze. You’re a spirited artist with a lot to say and the funding to say it, but you’ve endured a stunningly swift fall from grace. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip wallowed in the late-night clichés it set out to subvert, and Charlie Wilson’s War nabbed some good press, but most people took note of Tom Hanks’ hair and left it at that. But I’m convinced that you’ve still got the fire in you.

I have chosen to address you both for one reason: American action filmmaking is in peril, and you, together, can save it.

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Dear Nintendo,

With the Wii, you’ve hit upon a surefire, long-lasting approach to the console market, one which Microsoft and Sony are scrambling to appropriate for themselves. So far, you’re doing great, exceeding all the predictions of how well this new “toy” would sell. By emphasizing accessibility, the Wii abandons the usual barrier to entry so often associated with video gaming.

Perhaps the most powerful tool you offer to invite people into your new world are the Miis, adorable cartoon caricatures assembled by users the first time they sit down to use the Wii. It’s an effective method of introducing the most console-challenged members of the family to the virtual spaces of Nintendo’s games.

But you’re forgetting something, Nintendo. You’re forgetting that the Wii is for all of us — its for more than just bare-faced teenagers, its for moms and dads, too. And what do dads have? Beards. Tons of beards. And mustaches.

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Dear Gwen Stefani,

Seriously, if you hadn’t sported the bindi in 1995, I don’t know what sort of tired trend us pre-teen suburbanites would’ve latched on to. You liberated us from the greasy, grungy, helplessly style-challeneged, rock-chick prototype: the Alanis Morissettes, the Fiona Apples, the Courtney Loves. You kept “cute” interesting in sweet vintage numbers when Jewel, Sarah McLachlan and Tori Amos were sporting gauzy, fairy-inspired, piano-ballad-in-the-desert style get ups. You even managed to glamorize the fierce pencil-thin eyebrows and black lip-liner of The Chola while bearing your broken heart in the “Don’t Speak” video. Screaming, peroxided, and always perfectly manicured, you were a role model with style.

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Dear Mr. Verbinski,

I recently read online that you’ve been signed on to direct the movie adaptation of last year’s BioShock. That’s awesome! However, as much as I am excited to hear such a great video game is being turned into a live-action feature film (with a worthy director), I am also wary of this movie being the next Bloodrayne or Doom. So with that in mind, would you kindly take a suggestion? Just think of me as $10 on opening day.

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Yo Joe,

If you’ve been kicking back on your ottoman and living your life like a free man, lemonade and calabrese, I don’t mean to bug you, but where you been, man? Cinema’s been so glum without you.

I feel you, Joe – I can understand why you cast off the Tinseltown shackles. You think you’ve become a stereotype – that Hollywood money men saw one character trait that they could exploit in a budding talent and siphoned the well until it was parched. Hell, your roles basically fall into three subcategories:

1. Short-tempered, violent wiseguy (Raging Bull , Goodfellas , Casino , 8 Heads in a Duffel Bag )
2. Short-tempered, bumbling fish-out-of-water (My Cousin Vinny , Gone Fishin’ )
3. Short-tempered, bumbling felon (Home Alone , Home Alone 2: Lost in New York )

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