My Darling Paris,
Excelsior! Bon jour! It is with great satisfaction that I, at long last, ship this parcel to you. Find enclosed a few CDs, a lyric sheet, some notes, a glitter-drenched poster collage tribute to your effortless fabulousness, and a manila return SASE in the event that the song I’ve written to launch your pop career into the stratosphere isn’t quite to your liking. Thought about fashioning a shiv and sending that along, too, but by the time you read this you’ll be outta the clink, in all likelihood. Maybe next time. So anyway, you live in a burned-out, boarded-up bowling alley in Malibu? Not very chic, but oh-so shabby, right? I guess the only intruders you’ve gotta deal with there are crack heads and rats. You’re probably wondering how I found your address. Well, funny story, well, not really funny ha-ha, but I’m prefacing with “funny story” because I don’t want to sound like a stalker – do I? I’m not! Your management company never returned any of the e-mails I sent or the voicemails I left while on helium, but it’s cool, turns out I know someone who knows someone who’s tight with your dealer, heh heh, so here we are.
Chorus:
1-800 CIA, union rep’s all on your case
Call me Matt Damon cuz my word is Bourne
I’m all outta flour, let’s go to Safeway
Del Monte on sale, I’m bout some creamed corn
REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED
Might be time to trade in the Nissan
Five-star black-op renditions, Darfur safari vacay
My online psych prof’s nicknamed “Brie” Sean
Gird thine loins for tomorrow’s front page:
REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED
Verse:
Last night I dreamed I was Aeon Flux, sulking with Iranian sheiks in a Kenta burka
Last night I dreamed I could walk again, woke up screaming in a drainage ditch
I don’t know why I’m in a catatonic trance, slumped right in a stalled-out Prius
At a stoplight in central Los Angeles while strangers kick my tires
It’s as though nothing bears any consequence
It’s as though I’m imprisoned in dry, abandoned bong
Verse 2:
Repeat Verse 1 in Spanish.
Chorus.
Verse 3:
Repeat Verse 1 in Czech.
Chorus.
Verse 4:
Repeat Verse 1 in a halting Appalachian dialect.
Chorus.
(1) In the video, you should be slathered in all-natural honey and covered in swan feathers. You should also be wearing an onyx and white-gold tiara. I’m thinking David LaChappelle to direct? Or a gibbon? Or Wesley Willis, even though he’s dead.
(2) Also, we’ll need a rapper. Have you met Lil Wayne? Dude’s put out 125 mix tapes this year so far, never seems to sleep, and is apparently down for whatever. I know this because on a whim I sent the teen pop, zydeco, and bluegrass mixes of this song to his Bust.com email addy – along with a zip file of Lightning Bolt’s Wonderful Rainbow – and a month later I got a freestyle tape from the guy where he’s freestyling about hobbits and unicorns and shit. I mean, he’s rhyming about buying coke from Shrek and hunting gnomes and Emerald City detainees testifying before Judge Wapner! Apparently our collabo – I Can’t Feel MySpace – has been downloaded 2,899 times, so even though you’ve yet to put your inimitable stamp on the track, it’s already blazin' hot on the streets! Or Idolator.com. Same thing.
(3) My mom blasts this tune in her minivan on the regular and tells people in other cars that I wrote it! Which is embarrassing but maybe kind of telling because my mom hates pop music that doesn’t involve Michael Jackson. Do you think Michael Jackson would be willing to guest on a crunk remix? Think you could bring him onboard for what might be the pop event of the decade? Mom and I have a bet going; she thinks you can’t! But if you can she’ll forgive the $13,524 in back rent that I owe her. So no pressure.
(4) Back to the video. I was thinking that a white pigeon could be procured and trained to follow you around from start to end –through the exploding cacti and the cascading Skittles and the Mama Sunshine Singers dance revue and the part where you drive to Bill Bateman’s and order some wings but the waitress brings you a plate heaped with baby skulls – sort of like a benign falcon or something, perched on your shoulder most of the time but flapping around crazily whenever the Casio SK-1 keyboard hook-whine kicks in on the choruses. Anyway, when the video concludes with you selling yourself on the street in a D.C. slum, the pigeon transforms into Sanjaya! Wearing a hot pink baby tee emblazoned with the words “No Homo”! I think he’d be game; I think he’d be down.
(5) The first verse should be delivered totally straight, totally sincere, and from there each successive verse should be increasingly flippant and ambiguous. Maybe you mean it, maybe you don’t, and if you don’t, who could blame you? When my mom sings along to it you’d think she was shopping for apricots or something. Usually she’s just washing the dishes, though. Or brushing our daschund, Lars.
Excelsior! Bon jour! It is with great satisfaction that I, at long last, ship this parcel to you. Find enclosed a few CDs, a lyric sheet, some notes, a glitter-drenched poster collage tribute to your effortless fabulousness, and a manila return SASE in the event that the song I’ve written to launch your pop career into the stratosphere isn’t quite to your liking. Thought about fashioning a shiv and sending that along, too, but by the time you read this you’ll be outta the clink, in all likelihood. Maybe next time. So anyway, you live in a burned-out, boarded-up bowling alley in Malibu? Not very chic, but oh-so shabby, right? I guess the only intruders you’ve gotta deal with there are crack heads and rats. You’re probably wondering how I found your address. Well, funny story, well, not really funny ha-ha, but I’m prefacing with “funny story” because I don’t want to sound like a stalker – do I? I’m not! Your management company never returned any of the e-mails I sent or the voicemails I left while on helium, but it’s cool, turns out I know someone who knows someone who’s tight with your dealer, heh heh, so here we are.
Chorus:
1-800 CIA, union rep’s all on your case
Call me Matt Damon cuz my word is Bourne
I’m all outta flour, let’s go to Safeway
Del Monte on sale, I’m bout some creamed corn
REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED
Might be time to trade in the Nissan
Five-star black-op renditions, Darfur safari vacay
My online psych prof’s nicknamed “Brie” Sean
Gird thine loins for tomorrow’s front page:
REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED
Verse:
Last night I dreamed I was Aeon Flux, sulking with Iranian sheiks in a Kenta burka
Last night I dreamed I could walk again, woke up screaming in a drainage ditch
I don’t know why I’m in a catatonic trance, slumped right in a stalled-out Prius
At a stoplight in central Los Angeles while strangers kick my tires
It’s as though nothing bears any consequence
It’s as though I’m imprisoned in dry, abandoned bong
Verse 2:
Repeat Verse 1 in Spanish.
Chorus.
Verse 3:
Repeat Verse 1 in Czech.
Chorus.
Verse 4:
Repeat Verse 1 in a halting Appalachian dialect.
Chorus.
(1) In the video, you should be slathered in all-natural honey and covered in swan feathers. You should also be wearing an onyx and white-gold tiara. I’m thinking David LaChappelle to direct? Or a gibbon? Or Wesley Willis, even though he’s dead.
(2) Also, we’ll need a rapper. Have you met Lil Wayne? Dude’s put out 125 mix tapes this year so far, never seems to sleep, and is apparently down for whatever. I know this because on a whim I sent the teen pop, zydeco, and bluegrass mixes of this song to his Bust.com email addy – along with a zip file of Lightning Bolt’s Wonderful Rainbow – and a month later I got a freestyle tape from the guy where he’s freestyling about hobbits and unicorns and shit. I mean, he’s rhyming about buying coke from Shrek and hunting gnomes and Emerald City detainees testifying before Judge Wapner! Apparently our collabo – I Can’t Feel MySpace – has been downloaded 2,899 times, so even though you’ve yet to put your inimitable stamp on the track, it’s already blazin' hot on the streets! Or Idolator.com. Same thing.
(3) My mom blasts this tune in her minivan on the regular and tells people in other cars that I wrote it! Which is embarrassing but maybe kind of telling because my mom hates pop music that doesn’t involve Michael Jackson. Do you think Michael Jackson would be willing to guest on a crunk remix? Think you could bring him onboard for what might be the pop event of the decade? Mom and I have a bet going; she thinks you can’t! But if you can she’ll forgive the $13,524 in back rent that I owe her. So no pressure.
(4) Back to the video. I was thinking that a white pigeon could be procured and trained to follow you around from start to end –through the exploding cacti and the cascading Skittles and the Mama Sunshine Singers dance revue and the part where you drive to Bill Bateman’s and order some wings but the waitress brings you a plate heaped with baby skulls – sort of like a benign falcon or something, perched on your shoulder most of the time but flapping around crazily whenever the Casio SK-1 keyboard hook-whine kicks in on the choruses. Anyway, when the video concludes with you selling yourself on the street in a D.C. slum, the pigeon transforms into Sanjaya! Wearing a hot pink baby tee emblazoned with the words “No Homo”! I think he’d be game; I think he’d be down.
(5) The first verse should be delivered totally straight, totally sincere, and from there each successive verse should be increasingly flippant and ambiguous. Maybe you mean it, maybe you don’t, and if you don’t, who could blame you? When my mom sings along to it you’d think she was shopping for apricots or something. Usually she’s just washing the dishes, though. Or brushing our daschund, Lars.
Yours truly,
Blaine Vancouver
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