Letters to the crowd that pre-ordered “Twilight” tickets

I was going to the gym the other day, and found that my local mall had been positively overrun by hundreds of questionable individuals. They were formed into a rough line that started at the move theater, hair-pinned around and down the stairs, and then cut back all the way across the mall. And what was the massive crowd waiting for?

To pre-order tickets to the new Twilight movie.

So I said and watched. I observed the sorts of people that would make the choice to wait in a line like this, and I was both surprised and depressed by who and what I saw. I said nothing then, but perhaps one of those folks will read these letters – letters I wish had written out and distributed then – and know my turmoil.

To the Girl Sitting by Herself in a Lawnchair:

I love your commitment; your passion for the great modern love story has obvious burned away your need/ability to maintain so-called “healthy” human relationships. I find you here, braving the moist heat and sullen glare of a Miami afternoon with only your New Moon t-shirt and an giant Frappucino to sustain you. The fact that your Starbucks cup – really more of a gourmet Big Gulp – is long since finished doesn’t reflect badly on you. I know how thoughts of mopey, alabaster hunks sneaking into your bedroom can make the heart pound – and pounding hearts need calories. Heck, sitting out here without a bucket of whipped cream, chocolate sauce to supplement your threadbare romantic fantasies in this heat would practically be suicide.

If only Edward were real – and I’m not convinced he isn’t, girlfriend! – I know he would see your grim, sweat-streaked commitment. In the middle of a line full of laughing, happy groups of people, you sit a silent vigil, fueled solely by love, a 64 ounce mocha-caramel-chip metabolic speed bump, and the knowledge that you’ll be able to talk down to all the other users on the Twilight forums later tonight.

Sometimes, that’s what real love requires of us. It isn’t about prom, or maintaining a relationship with somebody that exists in three dimensions. It’s about the feeling that wells up inside when your riding a really intense fan poetry surge, and realize that your and your composition notebook are the only inhabitants in the coffee shop on a Saturday night again. It’s that swell of emotion that comes from imagining Edward’s approving nod when you decide that your cats need the last bit of shampoo more than you do.

Most people can’t understand emotions like that – but I sure can. You and your lawnchair may very well be the last intact bastion of true love in this world of ours. Sit strong.

Yours in the ranks of Team Edward,

Joe

To the Meat-Headed Boyfriend Waiting in Line,

I won’t mince words with you: this is easily one of the lowest points in your personal history. Upon observing your tank-top, exhaustingly predictable tattoos, and presence in this ticket line without having been roofied first, I can conclude that you don’t tend to dwell or let yourself think too deeply into your decisions. In fact, I imagine you gotten very good at denial and rationlization.

I can practically hear you telling me that you’re only standing in line with her to “get fuckin’ laid, bro!” But that is one proffered fist I simply can’t pound in good conscience, because we both know better, don’t we? Coitus or no (1), the truth is that being dragged to Twilight by your girlfriend still beats spending another panicky night spent at home, googling variations on “how not to get an erection while watching MMA.”

Despite all that, I can tell you’re finding this situation difficult. Your girlfriend is ignoring you to talk to her friends because a) Twilight creates a herd mentality, and b) the most interesting thing you’ve ever done in your entire life was to swim up a Fallopian tube and fertilize an egg.

It must shock you to find that none of these girls seem interested in hearing about which Entourage character is most like you, or why its important to rub baby oil into your biceps. Somebody has yet to even acknowledge your theory on how you and Ethnic Werewolf probably have really similar workout regimens (2), much less inform you that it’s so incredibly insecure and stupid sounding that it’s probably dangerous to explain it when pregnant women are nearby.. But still, you’re probably the most alpha dude here, and that has to count for something. Try to take some comfort in that.

No homo,

Joe

Dear Mom Chaperoning a Flock of Squealers,

I can see that you’re tired. The efforts of keeping up with the trends and fleeting passions of an emotionally inscrutable (and volcanic) teenage girl has taken its toll. You probably had pretty high hopes for her when she was born (first female president! Unless some other gal beat her to it, which would be ok, you guessed). But those standards have shifted and relaxed – much like the elastic waistband of the sweats you long ago traded your jeans in for – so that nowadays, you’re just happy when she doesn’t go out in clothes tight, ill-fitting, and poorly advised enough to warrant a call from DFACS.

I’m sure that, in your heart of hearts, you want to talk to her about a few things. LIke the mouth-breathing boyfriend and his seemingly endless supply of wrinkled Xbox Live t-shirts that she has settled for. Or perhaps the topic of what she wants to do with her life; only, you’re afraid that the answer will involve an angry crying fit and/or a plan to drive out to Hollywood with her friend and do hair.

And as for your presence in this line: I know very welll what you’ve done. You’ve told yourself that while this fixation of hers may seem excessive, ridiculous, increasingly expensive, and bordering on unhealthy…at least she’s reading. You probably remember a time when children were pushed to read intelligent books by varied authors, but at this point in your life, you’ve more or less lowered the bar to just above “basic literacy.”

Fortunately or unfortunately, your offspring and her tiny, squalling clan represent the future. I wouldn’t say you’re contributing to the death of literature, per se. But you are standing idly by while it gets brained over and over again with a shovel.

Head shakingly yours,

Joe

Dear Professional Female,

Stunning. Simply astonishing. I want to clap my hands slowly while shaking my head from side to side, but you couldn’t possible know what I meant. I don’t know if it’s the meticulous blonde highlights or the fitted pants suit, but I never would have placed a person like you in a like like this. More to the point, I see the book in your hand – Lorca – and everything about you suggests that you’re the sort of person that is honestly determined to slog through all of 100 Years of Solitude whether you like it or not, before listing it as a favorite on Facebook.

It’s hard to believe that you slum with Twilight, but the evidence is right in front of me. Everything about you screams that you’re an intelligent, attractive young professional with the popular, lip-service liberal set of values that seems so popular with the headline readers of our generation.

Maybe the problem is that a person can only labor through so much of the stuff off the Recommended Shelf before giving up the pretense, blowing off their South Beach diet, and getting in line with a quart of Ben & Jerry’s and a petulant internal cry of “Well, fuck The Kite Runner!” Is that why you’re here?

Questions like that rarely have one good or easy answer. And they’re infinitely more difficult out here in the pre-order line for Twilight, the radical wastelands beyond the borders of rational thought.

One more question, and then I’m done: does it bother you at all that the only ethnic character in the series doesn’t get to wear a goddamn shirt?

Astoundedly yours,

Joe