Attention everyone:

Can y’all stop referring to Romeo and Juliet at “the most romantic story ever told”?

‘Cause it’s not. It’s about two dippy teenagers who meet, get married and die in the space of a few days. Yeah, real romantic.

Music is my

Whenever anyone asks me about what kind of music I like, I kind of panic. That simple question somehow magically erases the “Music J.P. Likes” part of my brain for a few seconds, so I literally can’t think of anything. Once I recover, I never know what to say. See, I’m not the kind of person who listens to music all the damn time. I don’t have an MP3 player, I don’t have a huge collection of my music on my computer, I have various music players, but I never really use them… about the only sound system I use regularly is the CD player in my car. Most of the time when I drive, though, I’m just listening to the noise in my head. When I do listen to CDs, about 80% of what I listen to falls under the following categories:

-Audio books

-Stand-up comedy

-Cartoon Music

-Really cheesy shit I’m embarrassed to admit I like to just anyone

-Shit you probably haven’t heard of

The first two categories aren’t music, obviously, so they’re out. Saying something like, “Ever see Animaniacs? Yeah, they had three different soundtrack albums and they’re really funny!” makes me sound like I have some weird Peter Pan complex. I can’t freely admit that I love disco to someone I’ve just met because… come on. If I mention, say, Sean Altman or Rappy McRapperson, I just get a blank stare.

You’d think it would be possible for me to say some moderately popular band that most people have heard of, but that’s a whole other kind of angst. Most of the time, I’m only familiar with a handful of songs or (gasp!) a greatest hits compilation, so if someone starts talking about random facts about Moderately Popular Band, I have nothing to add and feel like Knownothing McGooberton.

All this angst over superficial small talk. Sheesh.

The perfect place for jelly to lay

(First person to identify what the title of this post has to do with the post itself gets a gold star.)

I-275 is an interstate highway that runs a loop all around Cincinnati and the surrounding area, which is where I live. For those of you who don’t know or care (I’m guessing that’s most of you) Peter Frampton now lives in Cincinnati. Specifically, he lives in Indian Hill, a fancy-pants suburb of Cincinnati that’s right off I-275.

I tell you this so I can tell you a story: Earlier this year, The Mister traded in his truck for a new car. Two nights before he was supposed to go trade it in and sign all the papers and what have you, neither of us could sleep, so The Mister decided he’d burn up what was left in his truck’s tank by driving the entire 275 loop in one whack with no stops. We had both been on every mile of it at some point, but neither of us had ever made the entire circle. So, at about midnight on a random Wednesday in January, we set out on our mission.

As we got close to the Indian Hill exit, we could see a HUGE house just off the highway. “I bet that’s Peter Frampton’s house… he lives out here, you know,” I said.

The Mister didn’t say anything, just leaned on his horn for a solid 10 or 15 seconds. Several lights in the house went on.

“I think you just woke up Peter Frampton!” I said, then we spent the next five miles or so giggling like idiots.

I never did find out if that really was his house, but it doesn’t matter. Now, whenever Peter Frampton comes up, I think of That Time We Woke Up Peter Frampton and can’t help but smile.

Special Guest Letter-writer!

Remember that co-worker I mentioned a while back? When I told her about this website, I asked if she would write a J.P. Vonderhaar letter. She wrote this one to Frito-Lay about their GrandMa’s Iced Lemon Cookies:

She wrote “look inside” on the wrapper and put the letter in it, but that didn’t scan very well, so just use your damn imagination.

I’m such a bad influence.

Change is good

I got a whole bunch of rolled change from the bank recently, and several of the rolls had address labels on them. That’s all you really need to know for this letter (click to see full size):

Circle Slash Popcorn Button

This is just something I’ve always wondered about:

(click to enlarge)

I borrowed the word “popcornspiracy” from here.

Hokay

Hooking up the scanner is much more of a pain in the ass than I’d anticipated. That means I’ll probably save my crazy letters and scan them when I have a whole bunch. However, I’ll post with other stuff more regularly.

Since I have zero readers at the moment, none of this really matters anyway, right?

All Mailpieces Big and Small

Next time you buy a sheet of stamps, check out the big sticker on the sheet that looks like a stamp. I always wondered if you could use that sticker as a stamp, so I wrote a letter to The Mister and put that where the stamp should go. I didn’t think it would make it to him, but it did.

(click to enlarge)

I got an Arthur mini stationery set in a Wendy’s kids’ meal a while ago that included envelopes, paper, a stencil, and an embosser. The envelopes are 4.5×3 inches, or about 1/3 the size of a business-sized envelope. I used all the paper to write a letter to a friend, then dropped it in the mailbox. I thought for sure it wouldn’t go through, but it did.

(actual size)

The next logical step, of course, was to put the supersize stamp on the wee envelope. That went in the mail today… we’ll see if it makes it back to me.

Tequila!

A little while ago, The Mister and I bought a bottle of cheap booze, got drunk, watched The Adventures Of Pete & Pete, and ate an entire bag of Wise Cheddar & Sour Cream Ridgies chips. Sometime during the course of the evening, we wrote this letter.

(click for full size)

And the back:

And the envelope:

I wasn’t so smashed that I don’t remember writing it, but I was smashed enough that I don’t remember dousing it in perfume.

One Oh One Oh Eight!

When I was a kid, Nickelodeon had a block of shows called Nick In The Afternoon which was hosted by Stick Stickly, a puppet Popsicle stick with googly eyes. Stick would do things between shows, like hang out with other stick puppets, get dunked in various substances, build a giant rubber band ball, or read letters kids had written him. After he read a letter, he’d tell the kids at home to write to him by singing a jingle I can still remember over ten years later:

Write to me, Stick Stickly

P.O. Box Nine Six Three

New York City, New York State

One Oh One Oh Eight!

I tell you all of this so I can tell you some terrible, tragic news. Stick Stickly has moved, and he left no forwarding address. How do I know? Come on, how do you think I know? (Click ‘em to enlarge, duh.)

The Envelope

The front

The back

(Because I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell the letter’s written on… I got a weird novelty camera and the first roll of film didn’t come out right at all. The letter’s on one of the worst photos, and it’s not the view from my driveway, it’s the view from my porch. I think.)