01.24.09
Dear Little One
Dear Baby Upstairs,
I understand. You don’t like it here. The womb was warm, protected, slightly muffled; everything seemed magical, perhaps even transcendental. Now you’re here in Queens and the heat doesn’t work in the house. At least, not down here. I’m assuming it’s pretty cold up there, too. I understand, also, that your mother is perhaps not the first person you would have chosen to raise you. Give her a chance. She’s a little goofy, but she sounds like she can be very nice.
The point, Baby Upstairs, is that it’s really only going to get harder. I know you think that crying helps, but it doesn’t and truth be told, what you know of life is nothing to cry about. Now, interrupt one more of my recording sessions with your ad hoc vocals, ruin the final take of a solo I can’t possibly reproduce, delay my creative efforts so long that my very soul’s inspiration dies inside of me, and then you’ll have something to cry about. I’d hate for that to happen, Baby Upstairs. When you’re not making a racket, you seem like you’re probably a pretty nice guy. Or girl. I really don’t know what you are. What I do know, Baby Upstairs, is that I’m not the one who fathered you. Why do you make me suffer such things?
Sincerely,
The Guy Downstairs Who Is Sorry To Say He Doesn’t Like You