Me & Craig Finn Down by the Pool Hall

The official video won’t embed properly. This is an excellent replacement.
(Edit: Eh. Just watch ’em both on the YouTubes.)

Yeah, Craig Finn!

Ready for our New Year’s Eve celebration? Debauchery and sing-a-longs, oh yeah. I spent a bit too much money on you this quarter, but you and The Hold Steady put on one of The Best Damn Shows I’ve Ever Seen. And what better way to ring in the New Year (and say good riddance to this mess of a year) than with three (edit: two + four = six. Thanks, Bebe) of my best friends?

Now that I’m writing this letter to you, I feel so nervous. I’ll enclose my photo and a box of those candy hearts, and I’ll have Jessie slip this to you after lunch. No? You’ve just got that voice. And the way you dance when you sing, all hands and facial expressions? I was so tempted to jump onstage beside you, grab the mic and belt out “Chips Ahoy.” It took every bit of restraint (and three burly best friends) to hold me back, but you should have seen me – dance-thrashin’ like a fucking hurricane. I think what I’m trying to say is, well, I like you. I like you a lot.

Not, you know, actually. You’re kind of old for me, and you’re not really my type.  But we’ve got so much in common. There’s that appreciation for literature. There’s our mutual fascination for the three amigos musicales: Schwarzenbach, Springsteen, Westerberg. I mean, sometimes I wonder if we’re not the same person. But then I remember that you’ve got that penchant for lyricism and a legion of rabid followers, and it occurs to me that we’re actually pretty different. I can still pretend, right?

Look, Craig. I’m clearly prattling on and on, but here’s the crux of the matter: Over the course of this year, you kind of saved me. This year was rough and cutthroat, but you got me through. I don’t mean to pander, but you’re The Dunce Cap Person of the Year. You don’t get a cool trophy or any sort of monetary prize, but you do get my adoration and a loud-mouthed, front-row-dweller.

Your psalms are sing-a-long songs. And the sing-a-longs will be our scriptures.

See you in two weeks, Craig’elles.

Love,
Coco, cheyenne sunrise/the girl you probably wrote “magazines” about/the girl with the dunce cap

P.S. Can you please play “Arms and Hearts” in Milwaukee? It would really make my night. Hell, if you played it as we count into 2011, it’d make two of my years.

P.P.S. You know, really, do whatever you think is best. You’re the songwriter, I’m just the critic. You’re the party pit, I’m sweat wet confetti.

P.P.P.S. I’m sorry for peppering this letter with all of your lyrics. It must be annoying.

P.P.P.P.S. Hope you still love me too.