8/13/02

Dear Mr. Griscom:
Have you forgotten something? Your rent for November is twelve days overdue. Please advise when payment will be sent.

Best regards,
Phil T. Rich, Jr.
BFI Realty



9/31/02

Dear Mr. Griscom:
Thanks for your call today. I'm sorry to hear that the "bastards have got you down." I think that Nerve's mission is an admirable one, and I sympathize with you re: the "inhospitable advertising climate." Times are tough, or to quote De La Soul, stakes is high. Unfortunately, we cannot allow you to occupy your office without paying rent.

Regards,
Phil T. Rich, Jr.
BFI Realty

PS. Thank you for your gift of an Aneros prostate massager. Unfortunately, the only thing I want introduced into my body is your check in my hand.



10/23/02

Dear Mr. Griscom:
I appreciate you answering my summons to settle our disagreement re: rent on Judge Judy. And although it was an inspired idea to send the lovely Ms. Taylor and Ms. Sharkey as proxies, the facts of the case took an unexpected turn into an impromptu workshop on fisting. I would ask that you meet me on The People's Court, but, on a recent afternoon in front of my 500-channel DirecTV system, I was shocked to discover that Judge Wapner is no longer presiding over that program. I think he's now hosting a show called Famous Pets on cable, and make no mistake: I will take you on Famous Pets, Mr. Griscom, if that's what it takes, so help me God, I will go on Animal Planet, I will go to the ends of the earth or the Oxygen Network if need be.

You have not heard the last of me, Griscom.

Phil T. Rich, Jr.
BFI Realty



11/3/02

Dear Mr. Griscom:
Thank you for your partial payment of $24. Unfortunately, your rent remains $33,745 overdue. And although the half-used Metrocard is a lovely gesture, I use a radio car to take me to my spacious home in Jackson Heights, Queens, the mortgage for which will almost certainly be late this month because you HAVE NOT PAID YOUR RENT IN THREE MONTHS. How can I make you understand that this is causing me great torment and ennui? Sometimes, I sit on my porch and think about what it used to mean to be a man, to honor one's obligations in a society without justifications or limits, and about the unfairness of it all. And sometimes my next-door neighbor takes a break from the shallow ditch he's been digging in his backyard and comes to talk with me. My neighbor is a man named Vinnie Princiotta. He has a neck the size of your mother. He's in the pest-control business. He's also an aspiring writer of personal essays and facetiae-self-taught. I might bring him by to pitch you some ideas. Unless, of course, you pay your outstanding rent, in which case I will surely be too busy counting the copious amount thereof to bring him by.

I sincerely hope that no further correspondence will be necessary.

Phil T. Rich, Jr.
Bad Friggin' Realty

PS. Yes, for god's sake, pass on to Nerve readers my hope that they will subscribe to Nerve Premium, etc., etc.