I'm an outa touch man, but I try to keep a foot on a ground when I recollect the correspondence over the past 94 year. I sincerely dig the letters I've received; answered, or not. We all know of the letters that we've neglected to answer. I hope all of you have had some successes this glorious but maybe boring year. Anyway, this past year for me has been a real learner, getting hip the fact that this music is a young man's game. Well, I can vouch for meself that I can still carry the rock card for a few more rekkid's worth. Now that release #2 has been sighted on the record rack, I can relax (unless a dream tour starts tomorrow), and look forward to my introspective third album. Then again, I might have used up all my pensiveness on my first two CDs. Peers are pushing me for a more street-wise sound, one that reflects on an urban upbringing in the ghetto. In order to get right down to these roots, I must flee this San Franciscan paradise, and live in relative squalor in a funky city somewhere in the South. Never happen. Could just make more melodic rock for unadulterated folk. I welcome any patronage. I see you.
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Now for the straight news from my own relative basement squalor here in S.F.: It's a freezer here, we're imitating the northern states with a cold chill to make Christmas holidays seem real. I've become a real nut with the chair, desk, and notebook, not to mention the computski, which makes a great grinding sound when I write something sarcastic in my dingy dungeon. I've passed up my physical workout routine for a daily ritual of checking email, crawling to the post office box, and writing down those elusive songs. My favorite album this year was “Sundown,” by G. Lightfoot. I can relate to everything he sings about, especially the references to sailing the high seas, and gambling, two of my fave pastimes. It might have made the top of my list last year, as well. The S.F. newspapers strike came and went, the paper's still crappy, so I guess the bluff was called. My recent gas station gig ended, thankfully, I have a habit of taking on someone's shift for a week, just as I'm becoming ill with some new strain of cold flu. Someone out there started a rumor that I'm a sound man, so those occasional employment nights have helped as well. This brings me to the subject that I nearly forgot, the “Season of sharing.”
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I was at an art auction for charity recently. Sharing was a big word that afternoon, being that the proceeds were to benefit a local benefactor, and most people were slow at bidding. What share? Share a day, these Christmas days go so quickly, so get it together over a coffee or beer. I remember my first Franciscan Christmas, 1985, spent with brothers Martin, Bob, and Dave. We walked around Chinatown, a compact yet overcrowded community oblivious to any Christ child. Buses were honking, traffic lights ignored as usual, and the post office was open, I swear. This year I will escape this beautiful city, and tread on new sands, specifically Maui. That's Hawaii, I believe. Mother is getting me away, my little red shorts might make the trip as well. We will bask for four days, let the phone machine get the calls, and promise to send postcards after we get back. Vacation implies something like a leave of absence, so be it. Holiday is in there, too, so what better time.
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Have a most festive observance, and more redundantly, please have an unprecedented new year. A brand new fresh one. Get it on! Who's going to bring back Match Game ‘95? Naw, don't bother. I never understood that game show anyway. I've just been educated in the history of ancient Greece, and those freaky Romans. Was Helen of Troy really worth fighting for? Certainly Judy on Rye would have sufficed in a pinch... My last blessing and salutation: watch the alch-ing when driving your metal machines. Sit down, ring up, and say “Hi” instead, especially if on a friend's phone line. 415-621-4592. Merry Christmas. Resolve to enjoy life- eat out and write back more often.
From a warped frustrated young man,
Chris von Sneidern