in: big words

Open Season: A Letter to Craig Finn

in: big words

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.

 

Open Season: A Letter to Rob Thomas (the other)

in: big words

Matchbox Twenty

Dear Rob Thomas,

Your band sucks*.

Sincerely,
Coco, the girl with the dunce cap

*Yourself or Someone Like You is good. Really, really good. I’m happy to give you credit for that. But that was the ’90s, and Adam Duritz still looked okay with dreadlocks, and your sadsack melodramatic act worked. And Jakob Dylan was winning Grammys, and I was 6. It was kind of all downhill from there. I can’t listen to “If You’re Gone.” I mean it. I change it every single time. For my birthday one year, my mom woke me up by playing that song. As a joke. To ring in my birthday in the worst way possible. Stop now.

**”Smooth”  is also really good. I made up an interpretive dance to it, and sometimes I still whip out the moves. But that was just you, and Santana can make even Michelle Branch melodious.

***Just kidding. I like Michelle Branch.

****Your band still sucks.

Open Season: A Letter to Rob Thomas

in: big words

Oh, Veronica Mars.

remember this track?


The Dandy Warhols, “We Used to Be Friends”

Okay, so I’ve been kind of absent from the blogosophere these past couple days, and, in full disclosure, I’m starting to look pasty and kind of crunchy like Kristen Stewart – except with facial expressions. I spent an absurd four days straight on my couch/in my bed, engrossed in the three seasons of UPN/The CW’s all-too-short Veronica Mars. That’s right – I watched all 64 episodes of Veronica Mars in the span of one long weekend. Needless to say, I was more or less a shut-in for those few days, but I remain unashamed. The show? Completely worth it.

I watched Veronica Mars off and on when it aired initially but never really regularly. And what a freaking shame. The show is one of the most brilliant pieces of small screen cinema I’ve ever seen. For those of you held captive beneath a rock for the last five years, Veronica Mars ran from late 2004 to mid 2007 and followed a female amateur private eye through the end of high school and the beginning of college. It was, by all CW estimations, a commercial failure – but it was a critical darling. And, within the first ten minutes of the pilot episode, I was utterly in love.

So, to kick off a brand new feature, Open Season, I’m writing an open letter to Veronica Mars‘ creator, Rob Thomas. Open Season will be an open letter to someone prominent in popular culture (or not, I suppose) about an issue that concerns or intrigues me. I’m maybe three years too late with this one, but I figure it’s never too late to write a love letter.

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