Dear Mr. President Barack H. Obama, Vice-President Joseph R. Biden and staff:

I spent all of my stimulated tax rebate within my home state, our Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I paid for pricey parking in Copley Place, so I could hard-knock, once again, the third-floor United States Census Bureau office about the job exam I had aced in my hometown of Framingham back in mid-April. Blown off, I met up with my friend across Back Bay Station. I portered the guitar case and other bags of this shelter-quartered Bostonian friend. I introduced him to my fellow Metrowest church-goer who had played her harp in our Natick Congregational sanctuary for Earth hour. She happened to stroll out of her Berklee College's village-y vicinities.
After JJ told Liz about my YouTube filming of his own music, I watched over him (and a goose afloat our Muddy River) as he took his noonish nap right on the bank where Charlesgate begins. JJ reclined on a leaning tree trunk near Muddy River, whilst I figured out how to rhythmically cane his tree trunk with a fallen timber readily forming a lever fulcrum-ed by a mound of dirt and stone. I would stomp my Florsheim-loafered feet on my end of the Flintstone snooze-free alarm lever.
JJ then moved to the stone bench-ledge facing John Boyle O’Reilly's bust. While he was a-napping, I was a-tapping a la Vaudeville, for the entertainment of patrolling Boston's Finest on cruisers, as well as shutterbugging Duck Tours sight-seers.
We split beer and pizza at Little Stevie's. I mean, I bought me a beer and a slice for JJ.
Amy, Bianca, Ashley and company hailed from Wakefield on a school field trip. They interrupted me reading the book I brought from the three-tray set (Massachusetts Reports and Decisions, the pre-Depression years, for $60 of my tax refund dollars; I don't have a full twenty grand, say, to file a civil law suit against the private corporation known as South Middlesex Opportunity Council, which has, in bad faith, sued my dear hometown of Framingham, on false pretext of bearing such overflowing affection for "disabled" people) I scored from the Wellesley Free Library's final minutes of their two-day flea sale.
Amy really grabbed the attention of JJ and myself, and warmly and politely conversed with us. Perhaps, she and her schoolmates had to prepare a term paper about us Bostonians, I later suggested to JJ.
Amy said she, Bianca, and the lot of them frequented the Bowla Drome in their Wakefield, especially on Fridays.
JJ scribbled our YouTube keyword search details. YouTube Uniform Resource Links, URL's, are tailed off with indecipherable characters which don't spell handy, easy words. JJ wanted so much to correspond with Amy by e-mail, but Amy shared the fact that she did not bother much with e-mailing (much like our United States Senator John McCain).

Bianca then reminded Amy and company that they had to board their field trip bus.

JJ resumed reading his Aramaic (not Our Good Lord's טלתא קומי, but The Zohar).

I could not focus on reading myself anymore, so I swung over to the corner convenience score, and beat jacked-up cigarette prices with a bonus pack of Marbloro Smooth Menthols, the very brand I used to share with my fellow Drive for Change (New Hampshire) election volunteer, Pamela Lee Newcomb, of Natick.

JJ and I then followed Liz's correction of the Berklee Red Room's street address number. JJ had thought he remembered his own friend telling him that the teetotalling music cafe was om 339, whereas Liz had just before his naptime told us that it was 939.

The Red Room had its doors open for us to scope, although we knew that they only had acts perform at night.

JJ just jot down information on the bulletin computer screen.

We strolled on Newbury Street, and then around Beacon Hill. The buzzer which worked in William Spring's Comm. Ave. multi-residential building did not work, so JJ and I just split a coffee between us. That is, JJ bought one large serving of coffee, and had it split with me in a separate cup.

I told JJ about what a wonderful volunteer coordinator Will was in our Massachusetts for Obama headquarters on Roland Street in Charlestown.

Before I Got Out The Vote in Ohio, William Spring had asked Roger Fisk and the others working with us in Charlestown that, if not himself compensated by means of a paycheck, could he perhaps at least be granted health insurance.

I had personally suggested to Will that he could consider getting, as I have, MassHealth.

Other than that, JJ and I shared a high table on the second floor of Borders Bookstore. All the while, we did not share a few of each others' views.

Anyway, JJ and I hit the Boylston sidewalk again, where he introduced himself to a fellow YouTuber we had never met before (kyriesong).

Kyrie agreed with me that Mr. Mister's namesake song, "Kyrie," was a lovely hit. Kyrie and JJ are more skillful musicians than myself, so they had more to talk about.

JJ then took me to Mel King's career center in the South End.