Dear Ms. Buxbaum,

So. . . . . my old P.R. nemesis. Or rather non-nemesis, because you mostly don't deal with me. Is it obnoxiousness on my part? The stink of amaterurism on my cruddy site at www.dearwinona.com? Or the antics of "heavy metal parking lot" youth? So much intensity, "doused" with the delete key and drawing the blinds closed as he pumps his fist out in the street. Why the hell do I do what I do anyhow? Well, let me tell you something-- it's like what makes those cheering losers stand out in sub-zero weather at Rockefeller Plaza with their signs for an opportunity to be seen on "The Today Show". These, the expendable hordes from all across the country-- taking their existential stand and squawking like pestiferous starlings for Willard Scott "ho-ho-ho"'ing with ear-muffs. Mow them down with machine guns, and still they keep coming-- like Russians in the breadlines, the pollution-smudged architecture looming like street-side giants, the gray skies overhead, the tolling of the bell. After the camera cuts back to Katie Couric or one of her clones discussing cooking recipes at a make-shift kitchen, Willard Scott whirls around and says, "I don't want to deal with these fuckers!" and tramps back inside toward the pastry table. Those bastards can eat shit! The crowd slowly breaks up and leaves. But there is one feisty old granny there who says, "Come on out, you fat, old fuck!" and rattles the doors with her fingers hooked into claws. She beats her palm against the glass until security takes her out with a flying tackle. No one's going "to throw a wrench" into this well-oiled machine! Art meets life, and of course every publicist has her share of "snappers" when you're dealing with that alligator pit of the press & public. Most of the time if you don't bother them, they won't bother you-- and conflict peters out as they glide off somewhere into the swamp of "The United States", never to be heard from again. Good riddance. . . . . like so much spoor and Spanish moss in the steaming shit-hole of the public consciousness. Reach your hand down in there, and probably get infected by some fatal form of flesh-eating disease-- the putrid rot of Winona Ryder fandom. Here you got the fans sloshing through the bog like a gang of "Swamp-Thing's" in search of "true love", creepy in morbidity. Perhaps you got to whack 'em in the head with an oar, or even rev up the ole' chainsaw to keep 'em at bay. Personally I recommend lighting them on fire and reducing them to a mossy, smoking stump. In a perfect world, I'd be the hero in this tableau-- I'd swing in on a vine, help Winona ghost-write her autobiography, fall in love, get married, and write movies for her so she can revive her career. When we fuck up royally, when we find ourselves in a bind, when we're at a point when we're wondering, "what the hell happened to me?" we have to take time and fully make sense of it. It's like the man who wakes up one day and realizes that his whole life was a dream, that all the props are rolled away, leaving him with nothing. . . . . or is there really something? There is if we're honest, if we go back and see "what we did right" and "what we did wrong" and how in turn we can gain the adaptive advantage. It pains me greatly to see Winona starring in "Puppet-Fucker" or worse. I'd just as soon get a straight job than sit through that! So see me as a self-promoter, a wild-catter, a 27 year-old kid who is bored shitless by your "standard" straight-faced Winona Ryder biography. Whenever I'd attempt to read the damn thing, I was so eager to scribble in little notes in the margins to liven it up. And if this ain't lively, then I ain't the man for the job!

-- Michael "Lawless" Adams
(314) 647-0067

"Come on down to my neck of the woods!"

*******************

"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

("I heard that, Missy!")

© 2008 by Insufferable Industries

Drop "The Bard" a line at
michaeladams_s@yahoo.com

(Back to The Media Vault)

(Back to main page)