Estimados Hnos. Jiménez,

I overheard your concert in the backyard the other night.  I liked the part where you led the entire audience in a rousing chorus of whatever you call that noise you make.  The audience seemed enthusiastic, everybody singing along to the redundant insect beat emanating from the backyard.  Jiminy is a great singer and performer.  He held the crowd in the palm of his insectile claw.  It was like Woodstock, except smaller and in Spanish, and covered in chili powder.

Sorry, wrong picture.  That's the Chapulines Killing Fields of Oaxaca, where millions of your countrymen are slaughtered and sold as a snack to the residents of Oaxaca every day.  In my ignorance, I bought a plastic baggie filled with your countrymen, your friends, and fans, and tried to eat them while I was walking down the street.  Actually I bought 2 bags.  One in which the corpses of your fellow little jumping men were covered in chili powder, and another bag in which they'd been inundated with lime juice.  It is horrible how we flavor the corpses of dead music fans, even if they are insects.  The lady weighed out the toasted corpses of your friends with a large spoon, and filled the bags.  It was a morbid, impersonal exchange.  I am pleased to report that I didn't enjoy the snack.  Popping something with a little head and alien face in my mouth proved to be profoundly unappetizing.  Suffice it to say, the ones that are too hot are better than the ones that are too juicy.

I gave the bag to an employee at the hotel, who was very pleased to receive it.  He reacted as though I'd given him a bag of chocolate, or delicious candy.  I was genuinely surprised.  Personally, I couldn't wait to get back to my room and pick the legs and arms out of my teeth.  It was a disgusting, sorrowful chore.

But the show the other night was great.  I want to assure you that my backyard will never be a Chapulines farm.  Your friends are welcome to set up booths and sell merchandise and whatever intoxicants are appropriate to your species and your culture.  However, if there is any excessive abuse of insectile intoxicants, a situation that requires emergency services of any kind, I may have to revoke the offer.  But for the time being you're more than welcome to have your shows out back.  I will admit though, your songs all sound the same to me.  Every song sounds like some variation of the same chirping melody, sung over the same abrasive, sawing beat.  Which weird, monotonous sound is somehow melodious, if not quite danceable.  I don't really get it.  But you're welcome to host your shows in the backyard anytime.

But none of this is why I'm writing.  I'm writing because I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for moving your band practice into the kitchen.  While I am a supporter of the arts, practicing under the bedside table was too much.  It was ridiculously loud.  It was like having a tiny metal band practicing under my pillow.  I could barely hear myself breathe.  It made me laugh, but I was like, "holy smokes, silence, please."  So, thanks for moving your practices into the kitchen.  Your music is a lot more mellifluous from a different room, or through a bedroom window in the moonlight.

I see your kids walking across the floor from time to time, sneaking a bite from the pile of cat treats on the floor, leftover from the security guard who roams the premises at night, playing with toy mice and napping on my boots.  I know you're not afraid of each other; indeed, sometimes I see him playing with you while he's on his rounds.  My security detail will swat somebody lightly, perhaps your bassist, or one of your children, and they'll hop away, and my security guard will follow him and swat at him again.  It's all pretty mellow and harmless.  It's good to see you playing.  I'm glad y'all are friends.

Just be careful when the lights are off.  I will take extra care not to step on anybody, but if you're hanging around in the middle of the floor in the middle of the night, beware.  Human parents generally dissuade their kids from playing in the freeway, or even on a quiet street.  It's more common sense than special custom.  But it's not without reason.

Anyway, thanks again for moving your practices into the kitchen.  If you ever need help funneling refugees from the Oaxaca killing fields to my backyard, perhaps we can work out an underground railroad of some kind.  We can make a sort of Schindler's List, to put next to the schopping list.  "Save Jiminy's friends/buy milk," etc.  

Just make sure it's in English or Spanish.  I don't speak your alien bug-tongue.  Indeed, I believe a weird hybrid dialect of Martian Arabic spoken by a dyslexic Russian would be easier to understand.  English or Spanish are preferred.

Perhaps, like Oskar Schindler's non-producing munitions factory, I can start a Chapulines farm that doesn't produce any Chapulines.  We will make elotes instead.  Or, better yet, I can plant some cheeseburger trees, package their carnivorous fruit as "Chapulines," and hope that the people of Oaxaca will be fooled.  It will cost me a fortune, but the lives I save will be worth it.

Something to think about.

I have attached a photo I took of your practice in my room the other night.  Thanks for taking the piano off my bed.  There was no room for that thing up there. 

If you ever need a guitar player, let me know.

Saludos,
NP