A few weeks ago, concerned (i.e. nosy, spiteful, possibly dating archnemesis Matt Wardlaw) citizen-journalist Annie Zaleski leaked a letter I wrote, one that would let all of my constituents know where I’d been since New Year’s Day.

I had every intention of leaking — nay, showering — it on the people myself, but first I wanted to make some revisions, eliminating potentially offensive heterophobic words like “rainbows” and the statement “Bootleg City is the only place I feel any warmth and affection,” which was an insult to my puppy-filled water bed. (The puppies sleep on the bed. I repeat, for PETA’s sake, they’re not in the bed. )

Unfortunately, another letter — an e-mail to my former Spanish lover, Anita — has been leaked, and this one could be slightly more damaging to my career …

From: Robert
To: Anita
Subject: You know what time it is.
Date: Sun, 3 Jan 2010 00:24:54 -0400

Hey, girl. I been thinkin’ ’bout you.

And while you’re asleep in the other room, I’m sitting here in your den, thinking about you and writing you this e-mail. But since I’m an American, I need to be staring at two screens at all times, which is why I’m watching some freaky Pedro Almodovar movie on TV as I write this love (to talk dirty to you, hahaha!!!!!) letter on your laptop. (I know I’m at a loss without the subtitles, but I have to give that guy from “Eat Yo’ Mama’s Tambourine” credit — he’s pretty hot as a young Julia Roberts.)

And speakin’ of freaky, I wanna do some freaky things with you, girl. You speaky freaky? That’s what I thought.

I want to drip melted chocolate ALL OVER some half-salted almonds from Trader Joe’s. Then I wanna eat those chocolate-covered almonds one by one … OFF A DIRTY PLATE. (I told you I was nasty when you met me, girl!)

I want to take you to my good friend Matthew Boles‘s home in the mountains, where I can watch you watch him milk a chipmunk.

I want us to see “Avatar” — in TWO dimensions, not three. (Are you sweatin’ yet, baby?!)

I want us to wear diapers under our pants and go to interviews at expensive preschools, and when the teacher asks for our child’s name we can say, “Af-FREAK-ah.” (It will be very important that we stress the middle syllable, girl, less for the sake of political consciousness than conjugal freakaliciousness. So don’t forget.)

I also want to take extra puppies from my bed and put them inside the diapers. Or donate them to needy children. I haven’t decided yet.

Now, I could digress and say that you have the ability to give magnificently gentle kisses, or that I love your tan lines or that I love the curves of your hips, the erotic beauty of you holding yourself (or two magnificent parts of yourself) in the faded glow of night’s light — but hey, that would be going into the sexual details we spoke of at the steakhouse at dinner — and unlike you I would never do that!

Okay, so I stole that last paragraph from Governor Mark Sanford of the freaky state of South Carolina, but when you hold your ears in the moonlight, girl, and you bend the top half and the bottom half together so they look like lips, and then you make them sing “Rhythm Is Gonna Get You” by the incomparable Gloria Estefan & Miami Sound Machine, I can’t take it, baby!

Whew … ooh, girl … ooh ooh ooh … you’ve worn me out again, and you didn’t even have to be awake to do it.

(Freaky) Love,
The Mayor of Your Pantalones

… Now, before you judge me, ask yourself this: if French president Nicolas Sarkozy wrote an e-mail like that to a mistress, or Mayor P.R. Nelson of Erotic City wrote it to Winnie Mandela, you’d think nothing of it. But I’m supposed to be Mr. Morality when it comes to my sexual proclivities just because I’m an elected official? If you knew your garbageman was addicted to gambling, would you ask him to stop picking up your trash? No! And has he stopped picking up your trash because of all the body parts he keeps finding? No! My point is, we should all mind our business so we can get back to business as usual.

However, I would like to take this time to say that I have no immediate plans for the future other than spending time with my family. Unfortunately, I don’t have a family. So I’ll have to get one. And that will take some time.

As for this week’s bootleg, last month “JT8” sent a query to the mayor’s office: “Hey Matt – what ever happened to the Y100 sessions?” You want it, you got it, JT8! Straight from the request line, it’s— HEY, MY NAME’S NOT MATT!

Maybe you missed a little song on Sesame Street called “The People in Your Neighborhood” when you were younger, JT, because Matt Wardlaw is not the mayor of Bootleg City, no matter how many skywriters he hires or pints of blood he wastes to tell people otherwise. (Were you running low when you wrote “MATT WARDLAW, MAY” outside the Bootleg City Boutonnières’ abandoned stadium last week, Mr. Wardlaw? You “may” what? Die from blood loss for an unworthy cause?)

Luckily, I’m a forgiving person, not to mention a forgetting person. In fact I’ve already forgotten how much you offended me, JT8, just as I’ve forgotten most of the songs featured on Y100 Sonic Sessions, Vol. 4, a collection of live-in-the-studio performances recorded for Philadelphia’s WPLY 100.3 FM a full decade ago.

Unfortunately, I haven’t forgotten, nor have I forgiven, featured Y100 artist Ben Harper for appearing on The Jay Leno Show on January 18 and Conan O’Brien’s final Tonight Show four days later. Pick a side, hippie! We’re at war here.

But I do hope everyone in Bootleg City can forgive me for my sexual indiscretions. Just don’t forget me (I’m sure Matt Wardlaw is already planning a coup, even if he’s unsure of how to spell the word). And if anyone wants a puppy, you know where to find ’em.

Kryptonite (3 Doors Down)
Everything You Want (Vertical Horizon)
Wonderwall (Oasis)
The New Pollution (Beck)
Barrel of a Gun (Guster)
Meet Virginia (Train)
Pardon Me (Incubus)
Absolutely (Story of a Girl) (Nine Days)
Responsibility (MxPx)
Little Black Back Pack (Stroke 9)
Roses From My Friends (Ben Harper)
Is Anybody Home? (Our Lady Peace)
Why Does It Always Rain on Me? (Travis)