An open letter to Linda Ronstadt

Dear Ms. Ronstadt,
As a representative of all Millennials everywhere, I'm writing to tell you that I don't understand you for a minute. Seriously, what is going on? Who are you? Where should you be placed in the cultural landscape of my mind? Why did you decide to be famous? Who are your friends? Who buys your records? Are you my mom? Do I want to fuck you? I can't tell. Sometimes I hear one of your covers on the radio and, if I do the ear equivalent of a squint, it kind of makes sense. Later I'll catch "You're No Good," and I'll really feel it. Along comes "Blue Bayou" and I'm floating in non-space, looking desperately for something to cling to, wondering how I could be so fully lost and feel so fully right at the same time. It's like a dream of my childhood house that fills me with the warmth of nostalgia until I realize something is out of place, then I find it's not my childhood house at all but some kind of dopple-childhood-house, then I realize it isn't anything I even recognize as a house or a childhood, and then all my teeth fall out and I'm covered in tiny dogs.

You with what became The Eagles. Alright.

Alright.

(also, imagine this photo I saw of Mick Jagger wearing a t-shirt that says "Linda Ronstadt: Queen of Rock and Roll" that I can't find anywhere right now)
Wait. What?

Seriously?

Oh shit.

Tiny dog stage.

At this point the only place I can find for you is that of the matriarch of the wide-fat-nosed, generally kind-faced placeless musical mind-fuckers genre, alongside Sheryl Crow, Kelly Clarkson, and sometimes Pink. If music were high school I feel like all of you would be more or less well liked and sometimes show up at parties w/o incidence, but do mostly post-sec senior year, blossom in college, and no one would really ever hear from you again. And you're not on facebook.

To all of you: please respond with a mission statement, brief bio, resume, and a cover letter.

Very Truly Yours,

Nick