Open Letter to Suttonhoo

Let's get this straight ...

This. This place. This place, right here. Is mine.

Ignoring things like the proprietary rights and hardware of Google, it's the only thing in the world that is very truly mine. We play by my rules.

Period.

I make it a point to live my life in such a way that every being I come across for more than the briefest of moments has a pretty damn good idea of how I feel about them. You're no different. You know how I feel about you. You know that I think you're smart and sexy and beautiful. You know I want to chew my arm off because you claim you liked me but never acted. You also know that I think you've jacked with the B1 series more than once in our collective lives.

(You probably don't know that two different people have essentially asked if I'm having an affair with you, based on some crazy thing over at the Äcres that I haven't read yet.)

Anne taught me, decades ago, that the human spirit can best be expressed in the words of other musicians copied through love notes. People like Barry Mannilow.

I felt then about that the same way I felt about greeting cards you buy -- that it was a schmaltzy way to express sentiment and that there's nothing like getting a sincere greeting card that has been sent to 5,000 other people (most of whom dot their "i's" by making tiny loops).

I still feel that way today.

But, these are the times of the rat. And in times exactly like these, normal standards are off. Just look at this site for chrissakes.

So with that, I give you the lyrics to ABC's "Poison Arrow"

If I were to say to you, "
Can you keep a secret? "
Would you know just what to do,
Or where to keep it?

Then I say"I love you,"
And foul the situation
"Hey girl I thought
We were the right combination".

Who broke my heart?
You did! You did!
Bow to the target,
Blame Cupid! Cupid!
You think you’re smart ...
Stupid! Stupid!

Shoot that poison arrow to my heart.
Shoot that poison arrow ...
Shoot that poison arrow to my heart.
Shoot that poison arrow ...

No rhythm in cymbals.
No tempo in drums.
Love on arrival -
She comes when she comes.

Right on the target,
But wide of the mark.
What I thought was fire,
Was only the spark.

The sweetest melody,
Is an unheard refrain.
So lower your sights,
Yeah but raise your aim.
Raise your aim.

Who broke my heart?
You did! You did!
Bow to the target
Blame Cupid! Cupid!
You think you’re smart
Stupid! Stupid!

Shoot that poison arrow to my heart.
Shoot that poison arrow ...
Shoot that poison arrow to my heart.
Shoot that poison arrow ...

I thought you loved me,
But it seems you don’t care.
I care enough to know
I can never love you.

Who broke my heart?
You did! You did!
Bow to the target,
Blame cupid!
You think you’re smart.
That’s stupid!

Right from the start,
When you knew we would part.


Actually, I'm just messing with you. I've been listening to a Trevor Horn collection -- he's essentially the Phil Spector of the latter 20th century and his stuff sticks in your brain like peanut butter to a rat trap trigger. I only mean about a quarter of the lyrics -- it's up to you to figure out which quarter.

Or, let me put this another way ...

T*OTYAW

Leslie's 14 year-old daughter figured it out and she has even less self-confidence than you do. What is your problem here? You're a fricken good mind reader of me ... here, for 30 seconds I'll not think about your eyes or what you'd look like covered in a fine coating of salad oil. Okay.

DID YOU GET IT YET?

On second thought, this isn't a open letter, it's closed. If you're not Suttonhoo, you damn well better not have read it. And no, I'm not talking about this posting with anyone except for maybe Perl and whoever else I decide. I am getting goddamn tired of talking about what I do or don't write here.

(It should come as no surprise to anyone that I was born in the Chinese Year of the Rat. I just didn't think it meant things would turn out like this. Goddammit.)