Dear Amy,

Last night I fell in love. I knew I liked you the minute I laid eyes on you; those switchblade stilettos, that skyscraping beehive, that Tura Satana makeup and trashy swagger. But it's when I heard you sing that I came all unglued. Simultaneously confused and elated, I knew we were meant to be.

The ragged soul in your voice goes through me, leaving me flushed with a low-grade fever and high-grade lust. Your music is a soundtrack to daydreams where I'm better looking, better dressed, and a girl like you actually laughs at my jokes.

I avoided taking the plunge into your music because, well, I've been hurt before. A red hot mama would croon a tune, pique my interest, and ultimately let me down, the majority of her material dumbed-down and tarted-up for the gringos. The same gringos that feast on your flesh as you go through the downside associated with living a high life.

Amy, I never bought into pop or tabloid culture. It all makes my trigger finger itchy. I can see who you are without the paparazzi peeking up your skirt, or those that delight in your agony. I've listened to your music and your voice and assure you none of these self-righteous assholes are worthy to walk an inch in your fuck-me pumps.

I can't really offer you much, darling. Hell, I'm married. But I'm a good listener.

Love,

Frank