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Dear
Britney,
Our New Jersey Meadowlands thrummed with anticipation over
your appearance. The tension, I am sure, felled men lesser
than myself, for I am used to staring into the crucible
of the American experience and emerging perhaps singed,
but unbowed. But I must confess that in your presence I
grow a touch crazy and perhaps find myself "in too
deep," as you so aptly put it.
As you first appeared on stage, marched forth through the
blooming smoke in your gleaming vinyl jumpsuit, I knew that
you were one of the outstanding personages on our earth
who understands what it is to command an audience so thoroughly
as to touch the gods. You, Ali, myself, we are of this ilk.
(Or in proper order: myself, then you, finally, after a
fair margin, Ali.)
It is now, naturally, inevitable that we meet, but I must
warn you that as the giant snakes do, I too swallow my subjects
whole, engorging myself on their essence until all that
is left is the bone-rack, cleansed and beautiful, shining
amongst the scrub and field grasses.
Be in touch. I have arranged my schedule to follow your
path on its southwestern swing, ending on the western coast.
If it is convenient to meet, I will be at the Alamodome,
in the blasted standing-room-only section. At America West,
I have scored lower level, but as of this writing am still
searching (desperately so) for ducats for your three nights
at the Staples Center.
Truly yours,
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