Date: Thu, 02 Sep 1999 13:50:14 -0400

(note: Just got this from another mailing list I am on for another band. Sound familiar?)

Thursday, September 2, 1999

Hello again,

I know it’s been a while since we’ve spoken, and in some way it is my fault. But it is mostly YOUR fault. I’ve been carrying the Secret Grape Wagon from city to city, waiting for you. I’m writing today because I just realized that I need some money. Send me some money.

How have you been? Even though we may have met once or twice in person, I don’t really remember you. Nor would I acknowledge you if we ran into one another on some dusty downtown street. I’d probably cross to the other side of the street. Send me some money.

This is Drew Ford writing from Cincinnati, Ohio, on a day that is so nice that it makes any other days that have been nice look not-so-nice in comparison which isn’t really fair because each day is its own creation and shouldn’t be compaired to any other no matter what but I did it anyway. I am fond of this city. Send me some money.

The other night, I was performing with Hillbilly Junkfood the other night (buy their stuff!). We were in Detroit. Detroit is an unusually stunning town in its own right — the crack whores on the gritty sidewalks, the drug-dealers under the bell towers. Send me some money.

I’ve been recording some stuff lately, too… Mostly it’s just sounds of Drew Ford — me sleeping, me brushing my teeth, me taking a shower, talking to the mailman. It’s so self-indulgent that it’ll make your heart stop beating and blood come out your eyes. Send me some money.

A few weeks ago, when I was in Nashville recording, I spent part of a lazy, golden Sunday afternoon with the Koshockton Tribune and a cup of Mocha Java in a coffehouse called Coffeehouse in the neighborhood of Black Lung. I read in the Tribune that Tommy Tune would be playing at the Civic Theatre the very next night. So I scraped up what little money I have (send), found a payphone (me), and dialed with a fury not often seen in these old fingers (some) until I was able to get through and get tickets to see Tommy Tune (money)! Send me some money.

It is exactly this sort of depraved lunacy that made me want to stand on two glossy metal folding chairs in the middle of a bus station and play gypsy xylaphone for whomever cared enough to drop some shiny coins into my empty French Vanilla coffee can. That French Vanilla is so good on a lazy, golden day. Maybe a Sunday. Probably Sunday. Certainly NOT on a Wednesday. Sunday it is then. Send me some money.

It’s September, folks, and we’re nearing one of my hands-out (err… hands DOWN) favorite times of the year here in Ohio. We’re counting the days on our outstretched fingers until Coney Island, then we’ll be busy counting our money. And what can you expect? Send me some money.

I hear onstage stilted tomfoolery, reminding you that even though you paid money to see me play, I am only up there for my own enjoyment. You’ll wonder at the color of my eyes, because I never look at you. Only at the keyboard and my lovely, lovely hands stroking the keys like they were the spine of some long-forgotten lover. Rose?

If enough people send me some money, I may not speak at all during the show. If I don’t get enough money, I’m planning on sharing, in great detail, my thoughts about such topics as: me, my take on me, my take on other’s take on me, and more about me. I may not shut up at all, if you don’t send me some money.

There may be some others playing with me. Or maybe not. Or I may tell you that specific people will be there, but then they won’t be. That’s it. You’re out of the band. Wait. You’ve got money? No. You’re back in. Come give me a hug. Give me some of that money.

Down by the river we’ll dream awhile. Bring your wallet.

Tada!