Dearest Blog Reader,
Thanks for stopping by. Last night & yesterday were devoid of band happenings, except a feeble attempt to fix my melodica, derailed by a lack of properly sized screwdrivers, so, instead of trying to stretch that out to a tangent-filled diatribe about the merits & history of said mouth-piano, I'm going to write some more letters. Check your mail.
Dearest Emmylou Harris,
I know it's six years old, but Red Dirt Girl is an amazing song. I listen to it every morning. You should stop singing with Connor Oberst and make more Red Dirt Girls. Pretty please.
Dearest Bum at the Corner of Second & Mission,
I really want to help you out. I do. But you can't just stagger over while I'm reading a book and scream "CHANGE!" six times while drooling down your shirt and smelling like a 300 year old foot. See: you've got to refine your approach. Maybe you could learn that one-stringed violin thing that old Chinese guy has on the subway or learn to juggle chainsaws or, at least, stop salivating on yourself. Upgrade to polysyllabic sentences. It's the little things.
Dearest Ken Lay,
So, I hear you're dead. That's too bad. Say Hi to Reagan while you're down there.
Why would you play One Life To Live, two days in a row, instead of the World Cup Semifinals? I mean, I hear that Hugh Hughes might start making out with Victoria Lord Davidson, and although I find that prospect highly enticing (dare I admit, erotic), the World Cup happens once every four years. Have some dignity. Some of us can't afford cable & the Spanish channel is disorientingly wave-y on our rabit ears, so, please, next time, play the last three rounds. And while we're at it: Hugh Hughes?Seriously? Take the keyboards away from orangutangs.
I've been thinking. You know how they have those English language courses for foreign born Americans? I think you should start one. How much better would our city be if second language-ers asked me "What's cookin' pepperonni?" instead of "Hi, how are you?"? A lot better, if you ask me, which you didn't, because I was asking you. You're an entrepreneur. Get cracking.
Dearest This Conceit,
I think you might be getting old. I'll always remember the good times, like that picnic in Alamo Square with the Pimms & Lemonade, but, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to put you to sleep now.