By Natalya Jones
By County Grind
By Liz Tracy
By Chris Joseph
By Liz Tracy
By Matt Preira
By Jesse Scheckner
By Michael E. Miller
Dear Jewel, I have heard a rumor that you are a double agent leading a putsch against our great republic, that you are attempting to shake the foundation of our society with empty, post-hippie platitudes. Is this true?
Dear Jewel, The other day I had a dream that we were at the movies together, and you got up to get some popcorn -- in the dream, you loved popcorn -- and leaned down and whispered in my ear, "Who will save my seat?" In real life do you love popcorn?
Dear Jewel, Last year you were sued by Inga Vainshtein, your first manager. Vainshtein sued for breach of contract and loss of earnings, claiming that she was forced out of the management role by your meddling mother Nedra. She also said that much of your career advice these days comes from an ancient spirit named Z. Can you tell me if Inga Vainshtein's claim is valid, and if it was Z who encouraged you to publish your poetry?
Dear Jewel, Will you marry me?
7. "When I look back, I really don't think I'm going to care that I sold 10million records or what people said about my poetry book. I don't feel successful, I feel accomplished. The part that doesn't sit well with me is that it seems a little arbitrary. I went from being homeless to being rich in four years. And granted, I am blond and I am talented and thus the world feels it should pay me a lot. I am just damn thankful."
Dear Jewel, Please remind me: What's the most annoying thing on the planet?
8. "It's so easy to feel alone and to feel you are the only one going through what you're going through. You feel very isolated when you're young. If I can help, that's great."
Say you're a guy who blew it. You raised your hand to your wife once too many times, and now she has a boyfriend who your daughter calls "Daddy." Say you were in the service, and now you're re-upping just to set your life in order. Say you're waiting for the bus in your army greens, and you hear a bird. No. It's not a bird. It's something else with wings. It's an angel, dropped down from the empyrean green, and she's singing in her angelic voice. Like all angels, she has a sweet face. Like some lucky angels, she has healthy breasts. It's Jewel, and she was meant for you. Two minutes earlier you were dead set against the world, ready to rage. Now your eyes are newly polished. Your cynicism suddenly embarrasses you, just as your proclivity for terry cloth briefs once embarrassed you. But that's another story, and this one isn't over yet. You stand, newly converted, and walk until you find a man who scorns your love for Jewel. You beat him badly, leave him for dead. Then you travel America, going door to door and introducing your chuckaboots to all of Jewel's detractors. Is she your angel or are you hers? This strikes you as the perfect opening line for a song, so you buy a Gibson acoustic and begin to strum a pleasing melody line. After a few days, you start to shine. Like a star. Like a gold ring. Like a jewel.