To My Brothers

Dear Scott, Clay, and Bob,

I know you’re reading this (dirty traitors) so I will dispense with pretenses and get straight to the heart of things.

Scott was off key during the second chorus of Crazy tonight. Ordinarily that’s not a problem, but while I was helping Bob set up his drums someone - I suspect Clay - spoke to the sound engineer and had him remix my monitor so Scott’s voice was the loudest. Clay was a little off his game tonight, but then he started flirting with some girl in the first row and things might have been going well - until the forty-year-old woman behind the teenage girl thought Clay was flirting with her and --

Well, Clay has good reflexes. He ducked.

Which meant poor Bob ended up with some strange woman’s bra hanging from his crash cymbal. Luckily for Bob, he could hide his embarrassingly bright blush behind his pretty long hair.

We’re professionals, though, and none of us laughed.

Until we made it off stage.

Even Carolyn laughed. Apparently Dad had asked her to skip onto stage between songs and rescue the bra - none of the guys on crew wanted to go near it - but she was laughing too hard to be of any use.

Bob really, really needs to cut his hair.

Or at least clean it out of the drain in the shower after he’s done, because I don’t much appreciate getting his hair wound around my toe while I’m showering first thing in the morning.

From now on, when we get two rooms, I am so rooming with Clay. Let the long-haired monsters share the shower.

Adieu,

Dan

(276 words)