First, it’s this kind of writing I sit in jealous delight of.
E. McDaniel is the name the songs were published under, spirits having no use, apparantly, for songwriting credits. Bo Diddley is something else. Something deep, something in the air, in the land, something that Jes Grew, that may have been sleeping until it chose to inhabit E. McDaniel, but which now stands Paul Bunyanlike astride the continent, one foot on either side of the Mississippi Delta, facing north toward Chicago, grinning in his cowboy hat.
It’s how there’s a medium length sentence that kind of strikes you as funny. Then there’s that short declarative sentence. And then there’s that long, winding sentence with both that delicious “Paul Bunyanlike astride” and “grinning in his cowboy hat.” That’s a sentence I just want to cheer at the end of, it does such a good job of putting an image in my brain.
Second, while I’m sad I didn’t get this in a letter ages ago, I am delighted that I get it in a form I can share with you without feeling like I’m letting you peek at something that’s not your business.
Tiny Cat Pants 
Aww. You are too kind to me. I never expected my writing to inspire jealousy in you.