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Open Obsessive Letter

HERE'S THE THING, BABY: When you jump, I shout. When you say you'd never put me down, I hang around. When you blow into that harmonica, I find myself imagining having your love child. It's not just the rolled-up dark blue jeans, the way you swing your cute-as-a-button son around, or the hair I'd love to run my fingers through. More than anything, it's your catchy, upbeat blues that keep me coming back (you were wondering if I'd get to the music, weren't you?). I know every song. Yes, you may offer me some wine, and yes, I agree that we could have a real good time. Keep doin' whatcha do, Eric, with one exception: certain adoring fans have curfews, and too often find themselves leaving a show they paid $7 for when you're still saying "Check-check-check- checkyyyyy-cheeeeck." Now, I know it's important that all the monitors are working, but other bands manage to get everything up and running in much less time. (I am speaking, of course, only as the messenger; I'm much too hip to have a curfew. I assure you that many youngsters I know have come to me with this concern.) And finally, a simple note to all of those so-called Sonoma County residents who haven't heard of him: For shame. Lindell and his steaming-hot Reds are what make this county sizzle in the summer, and what keep us warm in the winter.--Z.L.

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From the March 27-April 2, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent

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