ear Oprah,

I am writing you about a very special guy. No, this time it’s not Jake Gyllenhaal. His name is Craig. See, recently I moved to the big city, and it hasn’t always been easy. (You must know that, Oprah. You must know that better than anyone.) But anyway Craig, along with his wife Lisa, welcomed me into their home to stay as long as I liked. Whenever I had bad days—and Oprah, I had bad days—Craig would call my cell and announce, for instance, that everyone was eating Kentucky Fried Chicken that night. He kept the fridge stocked with Diet Dr Peppers. He often congratulated me heartily on such activities as drinking soda before 11am or not taking a shower, things I am exceedingly good at. Craig holds no pretensions and believes in comfort above all--if Lisa or I change into our jammies to watch TV, he applauds. Whenever Lisa and I stay out late getting drunk—and Oprah, we stay out late getting drunk—I inevitably tell her, somewhat weepy with booze, what a wonderful relationship she has with her husband. And she inevitably tells me, somewhat weepy with booze, that if there’s anything she wants for her friends, it’s to find someone like Craig.

Craig is a giant sports fan, with little interest in movies not starring Will Ferrell. So I had a lot to learn from him. Craig taught me, for instance, what the phrase “in the pocket” means, and showed me that “Anchorman” isn’t actually the horrible hack job I feared it might be. (Although “Starsky & Hutch” is. Craig, did we have to watch it twice?) But I like to think Craig was not merely the teacher but also the student. From me, he learned about such things as blogging and Tara Reid. Now, whenever we do anything, he asks, “Are you gonna blog the shit out of this?” And when I assure him that I am, he adds, “OK, will you add that Lisa keeps trying to make out with me?”

The reason all this comes up is that Craig let me borrow his car last week. He was going out of town and knew I could use it for errands. (This followed a horrendous moving day about which I wrote a not-really-all-that-exaggerated tragicomedy.) Yesterday, I found the car had a flat tire. I said many words I will not repeat here, Oprah. I felt helpless. I didn’t know what to do. So I called Craig. “Let me finish up here, and I’ll be down there in a bit to change it for you.” No frustration, no swearing underneath the breath. Just the acknowledgement that these things happen, and even if he had to carve three hours out of his Sunday to hoof it to Brooklyn and help me, he was going to do that. (Briefly, Oprah, I do know how to change a tire. But the lug nuts are on so tight these days, they won’t budge.) And for all that and more, Craig is my hero. And to have someone like that in the world is a real comfort, Oprah. I think you know that better than anybody. And so what I’m asking is that you give Craig the New England Patriots, because that’s his favorite team, and I think he deserves it. Otherwise, he’ll have to do with this shabby letter and the Gatorade I bought him, and you and I both know, that just ain’t gonna cut it.

Sincerely,
SH.com

P.S. Glad you brought back the book club. But A Million Little Pieces? Are you shitting me, Oprah?