An Open Letter to Pam Grier
For the way you hide razor blades and small pistols in your hair, for the way you run over a druglord’s goons both forward and in reverse, for the way you fight with a barstool, for the never ending closet of jaw dropping outfits, and most of all for your undying devotion and love for your man, I have totally and completely fallen for you.
But your boyfriends have short lifespans. I watched Foxy Brown and Coffy this week, and while you possess every quality I could ever want in a partner plus attributes I never would have thought of on my own, our relationship would be short lived in the most literal sense of the word. Right when we really got our groove going, I would undoubtedly be beaten into a coma by smack dealers or be shot by mafia goons while bringing you flowers. I would do anything for you, Pam Grier, but I don’t want to die young and melodramatically in your arms.
Your boyfriends are like red shirted security forces in Star Trek, like the cop 3 days away from retirement, like the slutty girl in a slasher flick, like a virgin soldier in a war movie: they all die, without exception, and before the second act. They die coughing up blood-bubbled I-love-you’s with copious amounts of red dyed corn syrup on their butterfly collared shirts. They are shot in the back and stagger with their last bell-bottomed steps to the woman they love. They are never late for a date, but they also show up right on time to their funerals.
Pam, the solution is Amsterdam. We’ll have to start dating in an area where there are no evil pimps and ruthless druglords. We’ll have to stay there at least until the third act. Even then I know I wouldn’t be completely safe, but you could rescue me from any trouble we find.