“I’m writing a letter to our foster child, Horace.”

“You mean that homeless little orphan who lives over in that foreign country that’s somewhere on the other side of the ocean?”

“That’s the one, Horace. I’m telling him a little bit about us. You know, what it’s like to live in America.”

“Good idea, Zelda. Did you tell him about last week when we had front row seats for Cher?”

“You mean that night we ended up sitting next to President and Mrs. Bush? Of course I did, Horace. I couldn’t leave that out of the letter, now could I?”

“Did mention that after-show party the president took us to?”

“That shindig with all the celebs? Sure did. Hard to believe our president is a David Bowie fan, isn’t it?”

“You’re telling me, Zelda. I couldn’t believe my own eyes, but there he was, standing next to the Tori Amos at the piano, belting out `Young Americans’ like he was born to it.”

“And what about that cake? Wasn’t that something?”

“You mean the cake Eric Clapton popped out of at the stroke of 12 playing ‘After Midnight?’ You told him about that, didn’t you?”

“Sure did, Horace, right after I told him about Ted Nugent performing his William Tell trick on Elton John and -“

“And how Elton is going to have to wear a baseball cap for the next few months? That Ted. He’s always got a surprise up his sleeve. Uh, did you tell him about meeting Fleetwood Mac and Def Leppard?”

“And Radiohead, and Mariah Carey and the Eagles. Sigh… That was some party, wasn’t it?”

“It sure was, Zelda. And thanks to this foster parent program, we can share our experiences with a starving, homeless little boy living somewhere over there, somewhere.”

“Yes, isn’t it great, Horace? However, there is something that’s been nagging at me.”

“What’s that, Zelda?”

“Well here we are, telling this little destitute urchin about all the exciting moments in our lives. Right?”

“Right. But what’s wrong with that?”

“Well, it’s just that his life is so pitiful and hopeless. I mean, he’ll never meet Tom Petty or hang out with Bruce Springsteen. He’ll never have tickets to see Boston or Whitesnake. Heck, Horace, that poor little guy doesn’t even have a Ticketmaster on his block. And I’ll bet the local radio over there probably sounds like the way radio used to sound like here before Clear Channel came to town.”

“You’ve got a point, Zelda. After all, we don’t want to sound like we’re bragging about how good our lives are. So, what are you going to do?”

“There’s only one thing I can do, Horace.”

“You mean.”

“That’s right. I’m cutting out the line about having front row seats for Cher.”