he's the DJ, I'm the rapper

Dear Jefferson Airplane,

Wow. I thought you were just one of those bands that sucked who happened to have a name that overlapped with another band that sucked. I stand corrected. I don’t know anything about anyone of you, other than your datedness. You might be dead. You might own property in Northern California, or perhaps Alberta, Canada.

I think you in particular, girl singer, grabbed my attention. I never want to see a picture of you, because I have a distinct image of seeing lots of tonsils during your set, your mouth all agape enunciating lyrics and shit, with hair shaking and eyes ablaze. Drummer, that whole Revolutionary War percussive feel you lay down brought me back to my days as section leader of the Brandon Valley High School drumline, and I bet you could get all Bonham on the kit for hours if you did as many drugs as the girl singer’s lyrics suggest you all did. By the way singer your lyrics sometimes suck, but for some reason that doesn’t even put a dent into my newfound appreciation.

It seems like you, Jefferson Airplane, might have had potential for militancy, aside from the regular do drugs and disappoint your parents 60s deal. Knowing nothing about the rock history of your era and basing my entire sense of you on “White Rabbit” (I abhor your other song about wanting somebody to love), I will keep to my own imaginative devices as far as establishing a sense of who you were and what kind of difference you made on my parents’ generation. Normally I am adamant about avoiding any music listed by either of my parents as something they listened to prior to getting jobs, getting married, and becoming boring, but since my encounter with you was organic I shall dispense of the rule with alacrity.

Still grateful they’re dead,

ME

Dear nameless ancillary character in my dream last night who looked kind of like an older version of my childhood neighbor Martin, whose mom (Martin’s) used to lock him out of the house all day during the summer because she was a crazy bitch:

Why did you insist on repeatedly pantomiming Eliot Smith’s purported suicide? You are obviously my own creation, which makes you all the more vexing, but all the indie kids I know who live in cities and go to coffeeshops to have elaborate conversations about esoteric aesthetic conundrums dispute the suicide theory. Are you telling me that I do not dispute the suicide theory of Mr. Smith?

Dear my friend in SoDak who’s getting married:

So, you finally asked her huh? I was wondering when that would happen. She is a good woman, and has a name destined for the Name Hall of Fame. Because I am uncertain as to the feasibility of myself and marriage having anything to do with one another, I will live vicariously through you and periodically put your kids on my knee and/or teach them how to ride a bike. I assume you are ok with this. I would appreciate being called Uncle as well. Also, because I carry the Y chromosome and have a hard time saying things in person that are invested with large amounts of personal feeling and emotion, I will not go into great detail about how weird (but wonderful) it is to see someone I’ve known for sixteen or so years have this piece of a life’s puzzle fall perfectly into place.

Forever and ever,

ME

Dear Opening Day:

I took off work on Monday just for you and the fearful symmetry you birth.

"It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone."

To masochistic reveling in the chance to have a broken heart again soon,

ME