Dear Wigleaf,

I'm at Deedee's Pizza, watching an animatronic battle of the bands. Robot bears and beasts from penny arcades and pizza joints are vying for the title of the county's best robotic band. Some have come out of retirement, reunited from separate storage units and antique mall display cases, playing their hits; full-leather biker mice jamming funk songs about skee-ball, a bloodhound in psychedelic sunglasses thumbing a pepperoni power ballad. Some are a little rusty—literally—but each musician pushes their cogs to the limit, breaking a grease sweat, all to impress the audience, who are supposed to determine the winner through applause, but here's the thing: I'm the only one here. It's just me. The final act is finishing now, a woodpecker headbanging to a song about hamburgers. The rest of the musicians are side-stage, peeking from behind the curtain, waiting to see for whom I clap. There's not much pizza left.

Anyway, I hope those tap dance lessons are going well.

Warmly,

Tucker