An open letter to Gogol Bordello, the Gypsy-punk band with a heart of gold

Mr. Bordello:

Dearest sir, I fully understand if this correspondence finds itself promptly shuffled off to the refuse bin as soon as you read the post-script; however, I ask for your patience and but a moment of your time. I realize that you are a man of action and that you have little time for pompous blowhards such as myself, so I shall endeavor to be as brief as possible for your particular benefit. In so doing, I hope that you will, in turn, display some of the magnanimosity...er...magnanimousness for which you are so well known.

I will take the vague stare and tapping foot that you are presently displaying as an assent to continue. Yes?

Gogol -- may I call you Gogol?...Of course not, how presumptuous of me -- Mr. Bordello, while I lack any official capacity or legal office myself, I would, as an ersatz, self-appointed ambassador of good-will for the burgeoning metropolis of Denver (excluding the People's Republic of Boulder, of course), like to extend my deepest apologies to you regarding your most recent visit to our fair city. Your performance was, as always, exemplary and a tribute to your craft. (As a bit of an aside, I even found myself "white-boy shuffling" a tad during your bit. Oh it's true! I even did the little clap thing over the head that you were encouraging from the stage.) As I was saying, your show was superb, and I wish to apologize regarding the abominable treatment that you received throughout the evening after offering our dear town such a sweet, melodic gift.

First, it was quite dreadful that you were, as they say in the business, the "opening act." When considering the level of talent shown by your successors on stage, I'm surprised there wasn't a riot of some sort. (God only knows that if this were a more civilized town like L.A., that would have been the appropriate response.) Instead, we merely stood there and swallowed the melodic tripe dished out by those under-aged, identically-genomed, Canadians. (Bah. The mere mention of the word floods bile to my mouth...Canada. Ptui.) These talentless hacks should never have been placed on the stage after your performance, mayhaps at all (although, their bon mot about jacuzzis and crack was rather delightful).

As if that weren't bad enough, the representative from the local radio station 93.3 referred to your masterful note-smything as some "f"ed up "s." (I won't use the exact words that he did, just in case you missed the full venom of his verbal barrage.) I believe that we would all agree that that particular description should be reserved for more appropriate occasions such as Bjork videos and David Lynch films. To apply that phrase to your work is an insult that should not have been permitted, but alas, it was.

Of course, the conduct of the crowd was no better. As anyone with any education beyond that of third grade will tell you, proper concert etiquette dictates that when one throws one's panties on the stage, one should a) not throw them in the middle of a line and b) not throw them directly into the face of the singer. Unfortunately, the afore-mentioned Canadian jailbait seemed to draw a particularly callow and witless crowd, composed predominately by even more jailbait, who knew no better. That would also explain the crowd's inability to support the weight of anyone attempting to crowd surf...well, that and the candy-ass hippie insurgents from Boulder. Everyone knows hippies lack upper-body strength.

Be that as it may, kind sir, you received shabby treatment from this city, and I cannot allow that to go unnoticed. I would once again like to extend my hardiest apologies and ask that you not hold that against us when planning your future tour dates. It would be a shame if these few misunderstandings resulted in a loss that would be tragic for both parties. Know this. When next you return, we will treat you better, or heads will roll.

With Warmest Affection,
J. Young

My name is Josh, and I'm a procastaholic

This past week has led me to realize that I am addicted to procrastination. Once again, I have dragged my feet to the point that the knocking of opportunity has slipped through my fingers - not once, but twice.

For the past year, I have repeatedly stated that I was going to move out of my apartment and actually purchase a home of my own. Tonight, I find myself on the eve of resigning my lease for another year. Reluctant to enter into debt in the six figures, I kept putting off talking to realtors and mortgage brokers, and with a lease that expires in a matter of weeks, I'm out of options.

As if this weren't upsetting enough, I find that another of my plans has recently fallen apart. I was at work this morning, and I came across this unsettling news. It never fails. Just as I'm about to put the moves on a girl, BAM!, the U.S. federal government has to step in and screw everything up. I mean, what is America coming to, when a man has to compromise his right to privacy before he can go about purchasing a bride for himself. As a staunch federalist, I cannot morally engage in actions that would undermine my Constitutional rights, even if said undermining actions would lead to the purchasing of connubial bliss at a fair market price.

Again, for the past year, I have repeatedly stated that I was going to stop futilely asking women out and actually purchase a wife of my own. Tonight, I find myself resigning to search for a potential mate for another year. Reluctant to enter into debt in the four figures, I kept putting off talking to Russians and marriage brokers, and with this Orwellian law taking effect a week ago, I'm out of options.