Dear Jake,

Ever since your mom and I split twenty years ago, I’ve been itching to revive my guitar career in the presence of a decent-sized audience. And your recent engagement to Molly (Maggie?), well, let’s just say it’s put wind in both our sails, a wind that we can ride all the way to your wedding day and—depending on who you invite—beyond. Son, what I’m saying is, I’m playing guitar at your wedding, and there’s really nothing you can do about it.

It’s been a rough two decades, Jake. Ever since “the incident that upended my life and tore apart our family structure”—I’m talking about the day I packed my 1993 John Kruk jersey and a bottle of aftershave and left with a postal employee—things haven’t been so “cool” with your old man. Technically I live in Fort Worth. I haven’t been to Fort Worth in twelve years. I guess you could say I was “born a ramblin’ man”—which right now is the third song in my first set.

Speaking of, I’ve been thinking about playing some Allman Brothers at the rehearsal dinner. But I might need a little lead time to learn the solo from “Jessica.” How firm is that wedding date, anyway? Feel like spotting your old man a couple weeks? Three weeks max. A month tops.

Yeah, I know it’ll be a sad song for you, son, as it’s the one I used to lure your mom of the same name into my boarding-house boudoir that fateful morning in 1996. Nine months later, let’s just say you were “born to be wild” (nineteenth song, second set). But hey, don’t “fret.” When your mom sees me up there in my road-gray #29 Kruk jersey (I'll get it altered), she’s gonna drop her new boyfriend and return to your old man like a “Cracklin’ Rose” (not on the setlist, but… well… could be). I guess by “new boyfriend” I mean Wayne, her deadbeat CEO husband of twenty years. Once she gets a taste of my “Bad to the Bone,” she’ll remember the morning she lost me to the USPS and will be forced to—as we all do, son—rethink her life choices. As for Wayne, don’t worry: He features heavily in the live-only secret verse. (#Revenge)

Okay, so that was my first attempt at a hashtag. Did I do it right? I’m trying to connect with the youth.

Speaking of youth, I’ll agree to play the following just for you and your high-school tennis buddies (why didn’t you play football?):

  • Allman Brothers (aforementioned)
  • ZZ Top (duh)
  • Skynyrd (double-duh—your fiancée’s probably gonna shit herself)
  • KISS (for the kids)

Just don’t ask me to play any of that new age Weezer crap, at least not until the Dirty Thirty (my lapsed AA buddies) have passed out or been located by their parole officers. You don’t wanna embarrass me, do ya?

In terms of who you can invite, I’m so glad you asked:

  • David Geffen
  • Clive Davis
  • Todd Rundgren
  • Quincy Jones
  • Sharon Osbourne
  • The guy who produced Elton John
  • Elton John
  • James Brown
  • Fleetwood Mac

And that’s just half. You let me know if you have extra room. Lord knows I’m not paying for this thing.

Overall, I want to stress the following. This is your big day. But it’s also my big day, and I don’t want to deprive this small crowd of 250 (minimum—see my contract) a chance to learn what the world should have known back in ’93. And who knows. Maybe I’ll get your mom back on my side and we can be a family again. But let’s see how the night goes—or “moves,” as Bob Seger says. (#3rdEncore)

Best to your fiancée,

Lou (Dad)

P.S. I’m bringing a date!

P.P.S. Don’t worry—she’s older than your fiancée.

P.P.P.S. How old is your fiancée?

P.P.P.P.S. We broke up.