12.2.09

Dear Cat Stevens



Dear Cat Stevens,

Hello. It is me again. Its been a while, I know. Listen, I gave it another try. It wasnt that bad this time around. Your music that is.

I know I told you already. But I really can't portray the gravity of it enough. When I was a child, my mother would play your music, unceasingly, whenever we were in her blazer.

I wished death upon you. Many times. For that I apologize.

I am also sorry that I confused you with America. I could have sworn you were the man.

In the desert.

On the horse with no name.

I am even more sorry, that I categorized you with Squeeze. Squeeze is way better. But if it is any consolation, I thought for the longest time that the album's titles was 'Singles under 45.' Which made more sense, then, for my mother.

Basically what I am trying to say is, I get you now. It isnt the beer talking...

...ok, maybe like 45%

But there is some sincerity in the jest. I envy you. Maybe its the semi-whinny but wholly embracing voice. Maybe its the completely obscure but entirely enthralling lyrics. Really, it is your facial hair. I envy your facial hair.

And the truth comes out. I am listening to your music for your facial hair.

Listen, Cat. May I call you Cat? Cat, I understand. I get it. The shirt that billows. The accent. The denunciation of western civilization and the transformation into Yusuf Islam. I love you.

And I have finally listened to what you have been telling me all along.

Oh baby, baby its a wild world.

And I'll always remember you like a child, girl.


Ok, the girl part doesnt make much sense, but I've been drinking, and your 60.

Truly,

Brent Michael Canle