rock show entities

the following letters are directed towards some of the people lucky enough to be in the crooked fingers audience in san diego and los angeles....

dear sketchy nasty guy with no shirt on,
what in the HELL makes you think that anyone in the club wants to see you with your shirt off? and for god sakes, if you feel the need to cool off or whatever by taking off your shirt, PLEASE don't feel obligated to walk back and forth through the crowd and give the girls sleazy stares. you disgust me.

to the trio of convulsing, somewhat homosexual young men in front of the stage,
i realize that you came to the crooked fingers show hoping to rock out. and i realize that you may have been disappointed when eric bachmann decided that, for this show, he was going to play the piano and be pretty mellow. i realize all that. but it's bachmann's choice. no amount of so-called "dancing" (aka convulsing), hand clapping, screaming, or hugging, was going to change his mind. i'm not sure what beat your were hearing in your bald little heads, but your dancing was hysterical. you are crazy, you are weird, i laughed at you through the whole show...but i admire your enthusiasm.

dear 50 year old bald, extremely overweight man with glasses in a grubby t-shirt, nasty shorts, and pageboy hat,
rock on. crooked fingers rules.

and dear eric bachmann,
we love you. oh, we love you so much. would you have talked to us if we would have sat down next to you in the bar after the show and bought you a beer? god, we'll never know. ahhh, the regrets.