Dear Dancing Boy That Stood in Front of Tara:
Your joy at seeing Mike Doughty play last night was adorable. I was sorry for all of us, but especially you, that the seven-foot-tall man refused to spend the show on his knees--and I was glad that you finally found your way closer to the front. I think you should have head butted that tall man in the kidneys. I would like to hire you to stand in a corner and dance like that at all of my parties.
Thank you for not speaking in tongues or in other ways letting your religious experience completely overwhelm you. Tara and I would not have picked you up off the floor.
Yours Truly,
me.
Dear Mike Doughty's Head and Shoulders:
Thank you for writing lovely songs made of lyrical nuggets that I would like to tie up with ribbons and give to all my friends. Thank you also for coming to Seattle playing a show so good it made a roomful of grumpy Seattleites get down and boogie--or at least nod their heads and move their upper bodies.
Were you wearing pants? I couldn't see down past your elbows--your crowd of followers is much taller thank I. (One of them is a bald giant who stood directly in the way of a dancing boy that was praying to you. I mean it. Praying.) I would suggest that the next time you elevate yourself above the stage some more. I noticed, during all of my neck craning, that there were some hooks and loops on the ceiling. Possibly you could suspend yourself from them? I advise this only because there were so many others farther back than I who probably also would have liked to know if you were wearing pants.
I hope to see you again soon. Next time, I will bring stilts.
Fondly,
me.
Dear Dancing Boy in a White Shirt and Black Wristbands that Stood Behind Me:
If you elbow me in the side one more time, I'll tell all of your friends that you were wearing black wristbands like a Solid Gold dancer.
Sincerely,
me.
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