Dear Sean, After touring your site, I'd like to offer you a little advice. I work for a record company, and while I don't do recording contracts, I happen to work with some people who do. If one of these guys happened to check out your site, he may decide that you are too immature or emotionally unstable to be able to guarantee your end of a potential recording contract. (i.e., it would be in your best interest to eliminate such verbiage as "fucky-sucky- cunty-wunty" from your site.) I came to your site because a friend who is a fan of yours suggested it to me. However, although I agree with her that you're cute, etc., I also think that your site is a reflection of your lack of business sense. Best wishes, Jen Dear Jen: Since when isn't "fucky-sucky-cunty-wunty" a viable expression of artistry? If you recall, Mr. Jim Morrison made a reputable rock 'n' roll name for himself and The Doors by flashing his waxy bobo at concerts for all the world to see. I haven't stooped to that level, although if I fancied myself satisfactorily endowed, I just might. My point, Jen, is this: since when does cussing imply a lack of business sense? Bill Gates supposedly swears like a sum'bitch in heat. Ross Perot's language has been known to cause many a Texan hooker to blush. Lee Iococca amuses his party guests with dirty limericks. Donald Trump, in the fine Eskimo tradition, knows 500 synonyms for "penis," and amuses his party guests by reciting these to the tune of Gershwin's "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off." Why not me, too, dagnamit?!! And another thing...if, indeed, you think I'm "cute" and somewhat talented, why the fuck aren't you getting your fancy-shmancy A&R comrades to snatch me up? Have you any idea how great my forthcoming album, alt.mania, will be?!! Hop to it, Jen, before I get too huge and won't answer your irate emails anymore. Yours, Sean Dear Sean, In the recent publicity of JFK Jr., I learned that he went to Brown University. You and he are around the same age, so I was wondering if You saw him on campus? Were you in the same classes? Just curious. Love, Aimee Dear Aimee: Yes, John and I were classmates. My friend and producer pal Billy Straus, who produced five Rockapella albums and my own "alt.mania" CD, was John's housemate at Brown and, as such, I chatted with our nation's prince at many social events. My friends and I referred to Kennedy as "The Big Guy," owing to his larger-than-life presence on campus. He was always warm to me, and I'm quite saddened by his passing. Yours, Sean Dear Sean, I recently went through a bad break-up with a guy that I was truly in love with. I just wanted to tell you that your song, "More in Hate With You" describes exactly how I feel about my ex. We only had a brief relationship,but I still love him. On the other hand, I hate him. I know that you understand this, your song described it perfectly! You explained it better than I ever could have. Julie Dear Julie: Yes...the Seanster knows your pain, dear. I wrote this ditty on the 42nd Street crosstown bus two days after I was released from the hospital (a near-death bleeding ulcer experience....Thanks for asking). I was drugged up and drooling, and I free-associated my way into that provocative title. I happily struck a nerve in myself and, apparently, in you, too. I'm working on a great recording of this song, which will appear on my forthcoming CD, alt.mania. For more on navigating the murky waters of heartbreak, check out the song that bears your name, "Julie Gone," on seanDEMOnium. Yours-in-Solace, Sean Dear Sean: I've read from you that you have the incredible talent of being able to crack nuts with your butt-cheeks. Now, who exactly wishes to eat these particular nuts after you have performed such an act upon them? Just a note, I started dating my husband when he was 34 and I was 19...I say, go for it. You sure do seem to have a big following of young girls. I sure hope you answer... Barry Carl always answers my questions without haste! Wendy, Baltimore MD Dear Wendy: Oh, so now I'm competing with Barry Carl for best response time? You've got it all wrong, Wendy; my 30-something butt cheeks are way too wimpy to crack anything but the occasional feeble fart. My urethra, on the other hand, is a finely-tuned, nut-cracking machine. I'm so good, in fact, that I occasionally rent my loins out to the Skippy Peanut Butter plant. So you were 19 and your husband was 34, eh? What could have possibly induced him to date someone more than half his age? That's just foolish. While it may be true that I have a following of young girls, I never get to see them; the clubs I play are all 18+!! Woe is me. Oh well...back to my nut-cracking detail....And SQUEEEEEEEZE and (crunch!)...BINGO! Yours, Sean Dear Abby... er... Seanie: Recently, my 18-month relationship was exposed for the torturous fraud that it was. After being used, walked on, stepped on, spit on, thrown to the wind and laughed at while my heart bled profusly all over the pavement, my sincere love for this man was obviously unappreciated. While seanDEMOnium has helped greatly in expressing my feelings...would you have any other advice for getting over such a stampede? Sincerely, broken-hearted, but strangely attractive, Goddess Dear Wounded Goddess: The current crop of New Age vegans, twelve-step wussies and neo-Buddhist pacifist wimps will tell you to let go of your anger, put your faith in an amorphous higher power, forgive your assailant, and smear cauliflower jizz on your nose to relieve tension. They may all respectfully nuzzle my colon. Embrace your anger, damnit! That bastard creep scummed you, Goddess, And now it's game time! Forgiveness feels ok, I guess, if you're a Whimpering sad sack or a quivering human jello mold; but revenge fuckin' ROCKS! Your most important mission is to convince your ex, through whatever means necessary, that you have "won" the breakup. I recommend sleeping with someone he knows, perhaps even a woman he knows. Better yet - sleep with both members of the couple you and he used to double date with! That'll show the prick that you neither need him nor his schvantz. If this isn't feasible, then here's a few quick fixes that will shift the balance of power back into your righteous court: 1. Inject a syringe of cat piss under his door, directly into his carpet. 2. Smear feces on his car door handle. 3. Graffiti disparaging comments about his penis in his office Lavatories (both men's & women's). 4. Infest his apartment with vermin and roaches (I saw this in a movie). 5. Send a positive V.D. test-result postcard to his parents' address. 6. Have a festive gift subscription to the North American Man/Boy Love Association newsletter delivered weekly to his office. How is that we Americans are quick to embrace retribution in our criminal justice system (fines, imprisonment, the death penalty), yet we eschew vengeance in our personal lives? Only the Mafia and the rap community seem to accept what any sensible student of humanity knows: revenge feels good, and it sends a clear signal to the rest of the world that you, Goddess, are not to be fucked with ever again. Peace, Sean Sean: I had subscribed to your mailing list and was planning to buy your CD, but now that I have read your web page I have seen the true, rude side of you, I plan to unsubscribe from your mailing list and certainly won't buy the cd, since it is probably as bad as your language. I thought that maybe you would be one of the few people who have realized that the dirty humor thing is getting old. Grow up. -Shannon Shannon: As a trashmouthed kindergartener, I used to needle my older brother with the phrase "cocky-pissy-wee-wee-doody," cackled maniacally. He was much bigger than I was, and his ever-present threat of physical retribution kept me from nurturing the dreaded phrase to its full scatological potential. You, however, pose no such threat to me. As such, I am free, finally, to let the mantra of my youth blossom twistedly to adulthood. So here goes, Shannon...just for you: "fucky-sucky-cunty-wunty!" Are you still reading? Here's some more: "assy-munchy-browny-lunchy!" You are hereby banned from the Seanosphere. Prudes suck. -Sean Dear Sean, I was wondering what you would like for your birthday on May 9. If you don't want me to give you anything, perhaps I could buy you dinner, or a drink, or something else?? Love, Aimee Dear Aimee: "Birthday" is such a stodgy term; I prefer the more flavorful "Womb Emergence Day" "Placentapendence Day," "Beaver Relief Day" or maybe "Vaginiversary." Regardless of moniker, however, my grim march toward death continues on May 9, and I'd be grateful for gifts to soften Mother Nature and Father Time's cruel blow. Here's what I desire, in no particular order, followed by the approximate cost: o Used guitar pedal effects, aka "stomp boxes" ($25-75) o Percussion toys like shakers, cowbells, guiros, wood blocks ($10-30) o Anything with the Beatles' name or image ($ varies) o Any sexual act performed on any body part by any female J. Crew model ($ varies) o Post-It notes, all sizes welcome. Any color but pink ($1-5) o Astro Glide adult lubricant ($10) o Sony/Loews Movie Theater gift certificates. ($8.50) o A facial from a reputable NYC salon ($50-120) o A handjob from a reputable NYC hand model ($ varies) o Interesting soaps, but nothing sissyish or perfumey ($3-6) o A toy piano or xylophone ($10-50) o A sincere declaration of eternal love from Miss Christy Turlington ($ varies) o Flannel pajamas ($20-40) o Magazine subscriptions: Spin, Guitar Player, Penthouse, Barely Legal ($ varies) o Kleenex with aloe ($2-5) Your fave superannuated rocker, Seanie P.S. Add (pluck; ouch!) "pubic hair dye" to the list. Hey Big One! Just heard on the Discovery Channel that the planet Pluto has a moon! While you may not think that that is ground shaking information, hang on to your zubie... Pluto's moon's name? Sean! Kisses, JMO Dear JMO: What a bizarre coincidence; I nicknamed my tuchas "Pluto"! Somebody call Geraldo! Yours, Sean Hey Sean: You must clear up an ordeal between me and my sister. On your song "Married Man" there is that little noise at the beginning. My sister claims that it is you peeing in the toilet and I tried to tell her different but she wouldn't believe me. What is that sound supposed to be? Lacy Dear Lacy: Your sis is taking the back-cover photo on seanDEMOnium quite literally. Indeed, those are my bare feet straddling my toilet, which contains the centerpiece from my wedding cake. The "Married Man" noise, which occurs in the intro, bridge and ending, is not me whizzing, however. It's random saliva- tongue-lip smacks, harmonized down an octave with the help of a Boss RPS-10 pitch shifter. I intended for it to sound like someone slogging through muck, which is indicative of my wounded state of mind at the time. For the record, Lacy, a man's pee produces a more explosive, higher pitched sound. Yours, Sean Dear Sean: Caught your show tonight [March 14, 1998] at Arlene's. I have been intrigued since I have seen you perform at just about every Loser's Lounge, and I must say, your show knocked me out. I took home your CD (which I'm listening to as I type) and when I saw your request in the liner notes for Beatles stuff, I came to the realization that you are just too damn perfect. Talented as hell, and a Beatles fan! (Says the one who just plunked down major bucks for 1964 Remco dolls of the Fab Four). Anyway, you probably get fan mail up the wazoo so I will float into the crowd of Sean swooners, but you really rock my world. Jackie Dear Jackie: Thanks for your kind words. If all humankind had your wisdom and artistic sensibility, I wouldn't be fending off creditors and neighborhood crack villains while my once billowing bank coffers shrivel into insignificance. Despite my impending poverty, however, I'm truly psyched and emboldened when I hear that my efforts occasionally rock a good soul's world. Thanks, Jackie! Your support rocks my world! Love, Sean Hey Sean: I have had a crush on you for years. I am 19 and was wondering if you ever came to Seattle if we would be able to have dinner? I know that such a gorgeous guy likely has many dates, but who knows? Let me know if you are ever in Seattle. Thanks, Karie Dear Karie, I've always wondered what happened to the hordes of twelve-year-old Carmen Sandiego fans. Now I know: they're nineteen and living in Seattle! Dinner? Karie, are you aware that I'm nearly twice your tender age, and that an intimate encounter with a chick of your youth and pertness could instigate cardiac arrest? If you think that I would risk the big flatliner for a mere lousy dinner, then you've got some serious 'splainin' to do, Lucy (that's a TV reference from when you were a sperm, milling around in your Dad's gonads). Dinner?!! Yeesh. Contact me when you've got something grander in mind, like dancing. Yours, Sean Dear Sean: Melodies & harmonies supreme - I found so much of seanDEMOnium brilliant, fun & clever. Loved the in-between patter. What's so disheartening is the appeal to crass/rude sexual references. Your concepts are above & beyond that. You don't need it, nor does it enhance a thing. You have so much worth saying, with such a way of saying it. Lose all the crassness; then you'll really be different from what's out there already. Gary Dear Gary: I take it, then, that you won't be enjoying my new fave hit, "Dick About Me." Pussy. Yours, Sean [Click here to see previous exchange in the Adin saga.] Dear Sean, Why do you insist on being so cold and short with me? Would it be possible to hand deliver the money to you, and then maybe we could negotiate on the merchandise I could buy with it. I think that there are other things that I would like to have, not just the glasses. Would that be possible? Submissively, Adin Dear Spec-Pac High Bidder: I've only recently become "cold and short." I was once a warm-as-toast, towering pillar of a man with a mighty lust for life and a ferocious optimism regarding mankind's inherent honesty. It took two Spec-Pac auction welchers - you and Chas Palmer - to obliterate my faith in humanity's integrity and reduce me to the pathetic, untrusting, shriveled, twitching beast I've become. It's not so much that I needed your $900 and Chas' $1100 to pay my rent or support my lap-dance habit; rest assured that the Altmeister continues to live in the grand style to which he's grown accustomed (a little lower and harder, Soon-Yi. That's good. Grab me a brewski from the pool, you wicked minx. Thanks, hon). No, Adin, your crime is worse than that: you've made me distrust my loving fan base, thus ruining this once-splendid game for all of us. It's never too late to do the right thing though, Adin. Frank Gifford came clean and now the world forgives him, except for Kathie Lee, who still keeps his balls in a vice. Peewee Herman made an unexpected, triumphant comeback on Murphy Brown. A penitent Hugh Grant was welcomed back into Elizabeth Hurley's luscious embrace. Even O.J.'s once-tarnished image shows signs of its former luster. And hey, Adin, it's not like you cheated on your talk-show-host wife, got caught white-handed in a gay-porn theater, performed acts against nature with a hooker in a moving vehicle, or brutally wacked your ex and her man-pal. All you did was shamelessly bamboozle a loving, naive, widow's-peaked, formerly myopic, aspiring rock star with a winning smile, a way with a ditty and two pairs of Lennon-style, gold-filled, wire-frame specs rendered useless by a double blast of laser fury. Repent! Repent! Get thee to a nunnery, or better yet: get thee to a financial institution! Get thee a bank check or money order! Get thee to a post office! Damnit, Adin...GET THEE THY SPEC-PAC! Love, Sean Dear Sean, I think that 36 is the perfect age for me. I am 18; what do you think? Sean, I am going to be in New York in the summer of '98, possibly permanently. Might we get together for dinner, drinks, maybe even a couple of nipple twists and biting sessions? But you have to be careful with mine, they're pierced. Submissively, Adin Dearest Adin: If my memory serves me correctly, you were one of the two winning bidders in my legendary "Sean Spec-Pac" auction. I anxiously await your $900 bank check, so that I may send you my glasses, certificate of authenticity, and corrective surgery video. Once that transaction is done, I'll happily discuss issues pertaining to our respective nipples. Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. Yours, Sean Hi Sean! I recall you mentioning something about you being pregnant in one of your "Seancedotes." If so...where is it? What is it? Who's to blame? Love & kisses, Erica Dear Erica: False alarm; it was just gas. I got plastered on vodka martinis and enjoyed wanton, unprotected digestive relations with a well-endowed heap of nachos. The kind clinicians at Planned Vomithood prescribed a popular morning-after pill called -- get this -- "Alka Seltzer." Sounds like Superman's slutty Jewish neighbor on Krypton. In response to your "where is it?" SeanQuery, I successfully harvested the fetid emission, stored it in an archival balloon, and will soon make it available to the public for purchase. My agent is negotiating with the Pentagon's chemical weapons division regarding their interest in procuring the entire stock, but I think the real money is in selling it off one whiff at a time to thrillseekers and cheese connoisseurs. All the Best, Erica! Love, Sean Hey Sean: What's with the butter? You refer to it in several of your tunes. Churn butter, melt butter, draw butter, drink butter. Help me out! Love, Curious Dear Curious: My frequent references to butter are more evidence of the debilitating eating disorder that has plagued me since my youth: Acute Condimentia Nervosa. Butter is, perhaps, the most revered condiment in history and, as such, demands my tuneful homage to its spreadable charms (Are you listening, Land o'Lakes endorsement honchos?). Look for future SeanSongs lionizing ketchup, cranberry sauce, mango chutney, fluff, and schmaltz. Love, Sean Dear Sean, I often hear you asking for a woman half your age. I think I am in that range. How does 20 sound?? To be totally honest, I would absolutely die or a date with you. You are the most intelligent, gorgeous, talented man I have ever layed eyes on. Tell me, would you be interested in someone my age?? If so, when are you free?? Love Always, Aimee Dear Aimee, I resent the implication that I'm 40 years old. In fact I'm only 36, but think I look only 35, and I feel only 34. Whatever... no matter how you slice it, you're at least two years too old to be my fantasy nymphet. The math might work out better for you with some of those old guys in Rockapella. Here's another thought, Aimee: would you pay for a date with me? If so, would I have to put out? If so, would I have to pull out? If so, would I then be allowed to pass out? Would your parents freak out? If so, could I grab my pants and head out, and maybe raid your fridge on my way out? Is there enough ketchup? If you're serious about buying my flesh, make a written proposal to the Seanosphere and I'll consider it. Thanks for your interest, Aimee. Yours, Sean Dear Sean, What is your main singing goal now that you don't have Rockapella to follow you around? Hall of Fame? Taking over Michael Jackson's fame? Buying Graceland? Let me know, will ya? Lacy Dear Lacy, The Hall of Fame is indeed enticing, but the commissioner has yet to lift that damned lifetime ban - punishment for my betting on vocal groups in the Harmony Sweepstakes competition. Me take over Michael Jackson's fame?!! Wake up and smell the morning breath, Lacy! He's the one who has spent a fortune in plastic surgery trying to become me! We're now virtually indistinguishable, but for his genital vitiligo. This has proved to be a huge nuisance for the true King of Pop... Sean Altman! Our synthetic similarity has forced me to adjust my daily routine, and I'm not happy about it. I can no longer wear white gloves, moonwalk around the East Village, hiccup, screw Lisa Marie Presley, bar-hop with McCauley Culkin, or even ride my llama without getting chased by murderous, limo-chasing paparazzi. If I'm not careful, Elton John will be re- lyricing "Candle In The Wind" with the words, "Goodbye, crooning Jew..." Lacy, my needs are simple these days: a smooth cup of coffee; a well-shaped poop; a jog around Central Park with a topless Christy Turlington; power lunch in drag with Mayor Giuliani; a chord change so sublime that Motor Vehicle Bureau clerks become happily incontinent; stealing the gratuity off a neighboring restaurant table; stealing the virginity off a barely legal neighbor; pumping iron 'til the harnessed power of my exploding neck veins can meet the city's electrical needs; a breezy walk around SoHo with a bottomless Christy Turlington; cranking my guitar amp so loud that the annoying hag upstairs thinks we're under enemy attack and drops dead; a well-shaped booger; and finally, a soothing ketchup bath with a topless, bottomless, shameless, devil-may-care-less, maybe even hairless... Miss Christy Turlington. Is that too much to ask, Lacy? Am I not worthy? Love, Sean Dear Seanosphere, This might sound a little strange but, I've been talking with someone on the net. We have become good friends. One day he told me he was Sean Altman. I'm like "No way! My kids watched you all the time!!" Well just the other night he called me at my home. I swear this person is not Sean Altman!! He sounded like a teenager. Is there anyway I can find out if it is really him? Our other chat friends are starting to get curious and we just want the truth! I would appreciate any help you can give me. Lisa Dear Lisa, Thank you for calling this impostor to my attention. For months, I've wondered why I haven't gotten any chick action; I now know that some wily teenage hooligan is getting laid in my stead. As I'm not the most distinctive-looking guy in the cosmos, here's a list of my distinguishing marks, to help you ascertain whether or not your supposed "Sean" is indeed I. Two-milimeter scar on left eyebrow. This is where I nearly champagne-corked myself blind on New Year's Eve 1981. My girlish screams and bloodied face ruined many stroke-of-midnight kisses; one woman nearly bit off her boyfriend's tongue, and some poor schmuck can no longer reproduce. Gnarled right index finger. My brother, his large friend Nick, and I were wrestling when I was 6 years old. While we were rough-housing, my finger was snapped like a celery stalk. My brother was afraid he'd get in trouble, so he forbade me to tell my mom. The finger was never reset; it remains a hideous hulk of bone and scar tissue which, nevertheless, can accurately detect the presence of garden-variety boogers and G-spots. Contrary to rumor, I was not the model for Mark Wahlberg's prosthetic appendage in the final scene of "Boogie Nights." Two empty pierce holes in left earlobe. In the height of my mid-'80s glam splendor, I sported a gold hoop and a Native- American-style dangle. In the pared-down '90s, I decided that dangles were for sissies, so I de-escalated to a lone faux-diamond stud. When I cut my braids in 1995, I deemed that the leaner, meaner me shouldn't wear jewelry, in order to focus more attention on my cheekbones, my winning smile, and the death- defying gymnastics of my pectorals. "Widow's peak" is an inaccurate and downright gloomy term for my undulating hairline condition. I prefer the gentler, more confessional "divorcé's peak." A flat, discolored spot on my forehead, from repeated beatings against a brick wall toward the end of my tenure in Rockapella. I tried mightily, but I never got my prudish bandmates to rehearse at my fave strip joint, New York Dolls. Had I succeeded, I could have kept my preferred table and saved mucho dinero on cover charges. Love, Sean Dear Sean: With the holidays swiftly approaching, I'm sure we'd all like to know what's on your wish list. Necessities which Carmen Sandiego paid for in years past? Components for your recording studio? Rogaine? Pocky sticks? Chutney? Love, Amy Dear Amy, You're sweet to inquire about my holiday needs. At the top of my wish list is a Miss Christy Turlington dressed as one of Santa's elves, followed by any cool percussion toys (tambourines, cowbells, wood blocks, etc...), guitar stomp boxes, a full body pillow, 100% white cotton queen fitted sheets, black leather gloves, a subscription to Spin Magazine, flannel pajamas (size XL), and any decent hetero porn flick. Love, Sean Hey Sean, I've noticed that you have taken an interest in exotic body piercings. Would you ever get any of your body parts pierced? Like private parts, for example?? Maybe a nipple? Tongue? Other places? Love, Adrienne Dear Adrienne, In lieu of a pricey buttock lift, I've considered having my nether cheeks fastened together with rings, or perhaps a simple, elegant railroad spike. I like to stand out from the pierced crowd, so maybe I'll pierce my nipple...through my thigh, or affix my tongue to my nostril so as to eliminate the finger as a middle man. Thanks for your concern, Adrienne! Love, Sean Hi Sean! I love the Five O'Clock Shadow version of "Be My Friend." Will you continue to write a cappella music, or will you be switching your focus? Will you be offering other new songs to FOCS and other groups? 10Q, Stacey Dear Stacey, My songs, like grapes on Earth's bountiful vine, are ripe for the people's picking. Copyright law dictates that once a song is published (is made available for purchase as a recording or on sheet music), it may be performed live or album-recorded by anyone in the Universe without the author's permission. The only restrictions are as follows: The publisher (wahoo...that's me!) must be paid a mechanical royalty of 6.25 cents per unit sold. No reworking of lyrics without permission of the publisher permission, except for certain "parody" uses. No synchronization; that is, no uses on TV, film, or video without a special "synch license." No public theatrical uses; that is, in drama, choreography, corporate presentations, etc., without a special license. In short, everyone is free to sing my songs in concerts for free, and to cover my songs on their records for a few cents per album. Thanks for the SeanQuery, Stacey! Love, Sean Dear Sean, Yeah yeah yeah... Sell your glasses, sell your braids, whatever. What I want to know is, when are you going to sell me your body, baby? If you don't want to sell it outright, can I at least rent it for a while, like a fine luxury auto? Not to fret, I promise not to kick your tires, and you'll love my attention to detail... Kisses and stuff, Jolene Dear Jolene, I'm sick of being treated like a slab of meat. Does anything matter to you people besides pleasures of the flesh? What about my heart, my honesty, my devotion to family, my optimism, my charity and my patriotism? Sure, I can push a bowling ball up a near-vertical incline with my tongue. Sure, I can crack walnuts between my butt cheeks. Sure, my high school locker room nickname was "Oven-Stuffer." Sure, I supplement my income with a nifty cabaret act called "Precision Pec-Twitching: Adventures in Shadow Puppetry" Sure, my boys took the Silver in the 100-meter relay at the Winter Sperm Olympics. Sure, one drop of my concentrated pit sweat can drop a wildebeest at fifty yards. But deep down, really far down, way the hell down, pretty much down near China, I'm just a simple lad who craves the simple love of a simple waifish supermodel. In the meantime, this bouncy blow- up doll suffices, especially when I dress it in the latest heroin-chic fashions and dim the lights. Should it pop, though, I'll need to buy a replacement, and I suppose your dirty "flesh money" is as good as any. Perhaps at that point, Jolene, you'll have your tawdry way with me. Yours, Sean P.S. I resent your comparing me to a car - although my gas, too, is regular. Dear Sean, When are you going to sell your braids? Love, Aimee Dear Aimee, Once the Spec-Pac auction is over, I'll ponder what personal effects to hawk shamelessly. I'm not averse to selling anything - not my body, not even my soul. It's all fair game for the she-witch called Commerce. Is there anything in particular you'd like to purchase? Love, Sean Dear Sean, I could probably use a new pair of glasses, and would be interested in yours. In lieu of a cash bid, would you accept my promise to tell 300 family members and friends to buy your latest CD? That's a potential $4500.00 in seanDEMOnium disc sales, which would put me way over the current bid. If you're in favor of my proposal, say eye! See ya! Robyn Dear Robyn, Good try, but I'm afraid that "potential sales" are not a bird in my hand, much less $4500 in my itchy pocket. I have a proposition for you, however, and to all other Seanatics with big families and lots of friends: buy seanDEMOnium in bulk and receive a retailer's discount. I'll sell you 300 copies for $13 each; you sell them to your gang for $15 apiece, and pocket the $600 difference! Bigger orders get bigger discounts. I welcome other entrepreneurial inquiries. Love, Sean - CEO & CFO, Big Sean Music Dear Sean, Do you ever consult a psychic or tarot reader for advice on you love life? Love, Connie Dear Connie, Although I am skeptical about all things mystical, I did have my palm read two birthdays ago, and the reading was astonishingly accurate (see my Seanecdote, "Did You Miss Me?"). The palm reader said I'd have a major career change (I left Rockapella eight months later) and that it was not a good time to pursue romance. I took this to mean that casual sex was OK, and I've used this convenient logic to justify my flagrant promiscuity. Although I enjoy making lyrical references to Heaven, Hell, God, soul and fate, I am essentially a non-believing heretic. I truly wish these things existed, but all evidence indicates otherwise, so I'm resigned to the fact that I'm nothing more than an upright-walking mammal whose maggot-infested carcass will rot in the earth like the rest of the animal kingdom. I just hope my tombstone is well-appointed so my fans have a nice place to smoke a doobie. Love, Sean Dearest Sean, I read in your SongNotes that you were looking for a girl who has a body like "Polly Gets" from the song on your new and highly recommended CD. You said that if there was anyone out there who fit the profile, she should send a picture. I have to admit that I am a bit reluctant to do that. I wouldn't like for my picture to be in the wrong hands, if you know what I mean. So, to let you know what the picture would look like, I am 5'10", 120 lbs, I have long auburn hair with a hint of curl. I have size 38D breasts, pouty lips, hazel eyes, a slender nose, and long, strong legs. I do yoga 4 times weekly and I am at the gym 5 times weekly. I have my tongue, navel and one nipple pierced. Love, A. M. (The Seanosphere has withheld this sassy mama's name to protect her from potential harassment.) Dear Potential Next Mrs. Sean Altman: All right, you got my attention, but as far as I know, you could be making all this up. I've got to see proof, baby, in the form of a recent, full-body photo, preferably in a bikini or similar state of undress. I promise I won't let your photo fall into the hands of the Sandinistas, the neo-Nazis, The Psychic Friends Network, fundamentalist terrorists, the U.S. Navy or KAOS. It will remain safely on my night table, beside the box of Kleenex. Love, Sean P.S. Big Sean Music / 200 East 10th St., Suite 490 / NY, NY 10003 Dear Sean, I really love the album! Are you thinking about touring? If so, when? Your most loyal fan, Chas Palmer Dear Chas: Lately I've been staring quite longingly at my singer/songwriter friends on stage, with a wee bit of spittle collecting on my lower lip. I'm furiously practicing my guitar in the hopes of being an active instrumental participant in my soon-to-be- formed own band. I'm looking for a guitarist, bassist, and drummer/percussionist all of them good singers. Until it all comes together I'll do giglets (a song or two) around NYC, and perform at events like the September 20 gig at the Bottom Line. I'm also upgrading my home studio and continuing to record new material. Your Humble Sonic Servant, Sean Dear Sean, What is your dream date like? Love, Aimee Dear Aimee, I'm just want to share a malted with "the girl next door." You know... 5'9", slender but with thighs that can crush walnuts, champagne-glass breasts (perhaps pierced), pouty lips, goyishe nose, perfect teeth, an a whopping dowry; a Jewish agnostic who is twist-pretzel limber, Kissinger-wise, Howard-humored, a lady in the parlour, a gourmet in the kitchen, and whore in the bedroom... who goes Dutch. Love, Sean Dear Sean: Do you ever listen to They Might Be Giants, Barenaked Ladies or Moxy Früvous? Sincerely, Sonia Libby Dear Sonia: They Might Be Giants is one of my fave bands. One of the two Johns, Linnell, was in a Providence new-wave outfit called The Mundanes while I was at Brown, and I recall seeing them play at a frat party. I still own that band's 45-rpm single, which is probably worth lots to some TMBG fan (yes, I'll sell). The other John, Flansburgh, is an occasional Loser's Lounge performer, and we've chatted amiably. I've been to ten TMBG concerts and I own all their albums. "Birdhouse In Your Soul" is one of my fave pop tunes of all time. TMBG contributed a song to Carmen Sandiego: Out of This World, an album I co-produced. I've read lots of great things about Barenaked Ladies, and have heard a few songs, but I own none of their albums. I own all of Moxy Früvous' albums, I've been to three of their concerts, and I admire them very much. Love, Sean Dear Sean: Do you ever look back on any part of your musical career and either strongly regret or strongly reminisce about it? Yours, Beth Weinert Dear Beth: What are you, my damned therapist? I have a lot of regrets about Blind Dates, the band I fronted for many years before Rockapella. We made loads of business errors, notably throwing heaps of good money after bad in reckless pursuit of a record deal, and not having a partnership agreement that spelled out the members' responsibilities upon breakup. I wish I'd started writing songs sooner, but I suppose I oughtn't kvetch, given my handsome output of the last few years. If I had practiced my guitar more, I'd already have a new band together and wouldn't sweat profusely from my butt cleavage every time I have to play an E-flat chord. Oh yeah...and I wish I had written a few of them Beatles' hits, as the extra dough would come in handy at the homeless-shelter canteen. My affair with Michelle Pfeiffer was ill-conceived, I admit, but she was hot for my stuff and I thought I'd get more tabloid photo play; seems I was regularly cropped out. In the final analysis, my career has been exactly as I would have hoped, but for the conspicuous lack of fame, Grammys, crisp greenbacks, orgies with fashion models, Lincoln Bedroom sleepovers and properly aged brie. Life is good. Love, Sean Dear Sean: What has been the best thing about leaving Rockapella? What has been the worst thing? Yours, Amy Fogerson Dear Amy: The best thing about leaving Rockapella has been being my own boss, free from the constimages/raints of that evil shrew "Democracy" and her heinous side-kick "Majority Rules." That sadsack bullshit may have worked for the founding fathers in 1776, but it has no place in the Seanosphere, where there are but two ways to do something: "my way" and "the right way," and those ways are the same. The worst thing about leaving Rockapella is that when I fuck up and make a lame-o decision, I can no longer blame my bandmates; I have to blame my mother. Love, Sean Dear Sean: Do you snack at the movie theater or not? Just wondering what, if anything, you munch during a film. Yours, Stacey Pilson Dear Stacey: I am a prodigious movie nosher. I enjoyed the classic combo -- buttery popcorn and a Coke -- until a horrifying éxposé revealed my fave flick combo to contain as much fat as a bucket of fettucine alfredo! Since then, I employ the "Dieter's Contraband" method: home-made air-popped corn and a deli-bought Diet Coke cleverly concealed in my date's purse. An added benefit: chicks dig this feisty outlaw behavior; it's rare that I don't get laid after a flick. Love, Sean [SeanGigs] [Seanatomy] [SeanDisks] [SeanTalk] [SeanPix] [SeanSongs] [SeanPress] [SeanStuff] [Site Map] [Subscribe] [What's New] [Email] [Home] Last updated: January 12, 2000 This site is designed by Nancy McGrath Copyright © 1998 Big Sean Music