An Open Letter to Smokey Robinson
Dear Smokey: “And maybe you’ll go away and never call/And a taste of honey is worse than none at all,” poured out of the battered transistor AM radio as two mascara teared fifteen year olds keep a constant vigil at the silent phone. Whatever heartfelt teenage tragedy I was lamenting over, Somkey, you always made me feel worse; which at fifteen was better, because you can really get off on feeling sorry for yourself, syrupy love poems and True Confessions.
An Open Letter to Smokey Robinson
Dear Smokey:
“And maybe you’ll go away and never call/And a taste of honey is worse than none at all,” poured out of the battered transistor AM radio as two mascara teared fifteen year olds keep a constant vigil at the silent phone.
Whatever heartfelt teenage tragedy I was lamenting over, Somkey, you always made me feel worse; which at fifteen was better, because you can really get off on feeling sorry for yourself, syrupy love poems and True Confessions. In 1966 it was Smokey, me and unrequited love — what a threesome. In fact, I’ve grown up with you, Smokey. You were my Dear Abby, my Ann Landers, my prime confessor. You had more impact on the teenage dilemma than Clearasil.
But oh those cold Friday nights babysitting at the Walter’s, when David Timassey was at the High School Hop with Janis Ballentine and Smokey despaired: “The Love I Saw In You Was Just A Mirage.” How much harder can you hit the nail on the head?