Dear Boston, Lenny Kravitz, Pat Benatar, Foo Fighters, Foreigner, Bon Jovi, and Van Halen,

While I write this with all due respect, let’s face it–some of your band members are pretttty long in the tooth these days. In light of your advancing years, and various band members visits to rehab… uh, pending retirements to places where therapy is aplenty and soothing pastel colored walls surround them, our band, “Team Wheelchair,” by popular demand, has come together in a fantasma of harmonic, post (okay, way post) teenage musical extravaganza.

Thus it is with great pride we submit to you (cue trumpets and light bulb moment music) our audition video in the hopes that you’ll consider our possible entry to your band (and we’re not picky–any one of you’ll do). Our list of attributes includes, but is not limited to– we’re all clean and sober (okay, Jaye isn’t, but she’s not intervention-ish). We’re hard-working (I mean, we practice every night for at least thirty minutes before our backs give out and we need Ben Gay rub downs and warm milk).  Most of us could probably learn to play for realz if you just put those colors (you know, for the notes? Think primary. Red, blue, green, etc) discreetly on the instruments somewhere we can see them without being caught, and we all (okay, not Jaye, but she just joined, so cut her some slack) play on the level “hard and or “expert”. “Fingers”, as we lovingly call him, is a prime example of  ”expert” musical prowess.

And lastly, I have crazy big hair to rival even a hardcore rocker (and I promise the next time we shoot a vid, I’ll pull my sweater down so it doesn’t look like I’m three hundred pounds with no waist), and dare I say, our dedication is matched by none. Plus, we figure, if you Boston people can hire a guy who worked at Home Depot right off of MySpace to sing lead, it’s obvious you’re looking for real talent.

Sincerely,

The rock-a-licious members of Team Wheelchair,

Jaye Wells, Robert LaBo, and Dakota Cassidy

And our apologies to awol band member and alternate drummer, Michele Bardsely–rumor has it, she’s on tour with Motley Crue.

(For those of you who don’t know, Tito-Burrito is Michele Bardsley’s puppy, and while she was staying here with me, a little canine affair got purty heated round these parts. As in, Tito couldn’t resist Pebbles and Pebbles, though she played coquettish and coy, was just as hot for Tito–the tart When he came back at Xmas with Michele for dinner–he was still just as in lurve–as was my Pebb-in-ator).

This is Tito–

Okay, so he looks like he’s had a gallon of tequila, but he’s really just practicing his sultry Latin wink.

Anyway–

Dear Tito-Burrito…

…Or Dear John, depending on how you feel after you read this letter.  Oh, and read it with a Spanish accent–it’s much funnier.

Oh, my leetle Spanish enchilada of love. My hot tamale of passion… we must part.

No, don’t try and stop me. The forces that be conspire to keep us apart. Truly, we were never meant to be-me a wee innocent, petite, cute as a button Yorkshire terrier and you, a volcano spewing lava of love Chihuahua (er, Rat Terrier–we never did figure that out, did we?), are just too different. 

Our love was impossible from the start. Surely you see that? We knew it, yet Hartz flea collars and Milk Bones compelled us, nay, drove us to one another in a maelstrom of mounting passion we should have denied ourselves, but instead drew us further into the whirlwind of searing, heated desire.

We come from different worlds–worlds that set us apart in class, social standing and grades of kibble.

I know, I know, my hot lovin’, bone buryin’, rawhide chewin’ Latin brush fire–believe me when I say this hurts me more than it hurts you because I luhhhhhhhhhh you (insert husky, heartfelt sob here).

But decisions were already in the making when we met and fell so deeply in lust.

Like the one where the chick who feeds me said, “No way are the two of you creating so much as a puddle of pee together, let alone spawning offspring–no matter how cute little Chorkies would be! It’s off to the vet to be spayed for you, young lady.”

Alas, it’s true. On Wednesday at 8 in the morning (an ungodly hour, I tell you), I’m off to have my girlie reproductive bits removed.

But remember this–we’ll always have the backyard…

Forever and a Taco,

The avocado in your guacamole of lurve , er… Pebbles

And it’s true–Pebblissimo is going to be spayed. Yorkies sometimes have trouble with their livers, and she has to have some shunt test that costs a bazillion-gotrillion bucks–so send a good thought out hers is A-okay, huh?

DC–the starcrossed lover wrecker