Dearest Amy Grant,

Here's my wish. A room. A loft, maybe. Rustic wooden floors. Sparse, couches, big off white cushions and knobby, wooden arms and legs. On the couches sit Saul Williams. (If he wants to bring Mos Def and Talib Kweli along, he can; he doesn't have to. But if they come, I can tell Mos Def that my brother thinks it's a mistake he's hanging with Kanye and that I agree, or maybe he can tell him that himself.) Taylor Mali. And they just talk. Spewing words all over the place. And I'm right there with them, and my words, too. Ira Glass is there and he's eating meat and he's bringing out the best of the stories in all of us. And he's bickering with David Rakoff. In the background we have Low Millions except they're good looking and their songs are not repetitive but fresh and good, and good, and so good. And when their music tires, Saul will jam. And Julia Child is resurrected and flambeing those crepes that are so good for gatherings like this, and of course, whipping up some Taiwanese vendor style snacks. And we're all kicking it.

Of course, my tightest friends are there. And those of my friends that I would be tight with had distance and circumstances not separated us. Not so many that this gathering is crowded, just enough. Because this isn't a Who's Who of my heroes, this is just one wish, because you can't be greedy. Just one aspect of myself. The Paul Farmers and Mitch Duneiers and Oliver Sacks of the world will have to wait for another special, another intimate gathering.

Amy Grant, are you still with me? Because here comes the important part. This gathering, by just chilling together, will raise money not for causes, but for people. And my non-profit of choice, as always, is BP.

Sincerely,

Mostly Wishing I Didn't Have Three Papers To Write Right Now