Dear “Queen of the Damned”,

It must have been about six years ago, on the 25^th anniversary of “Animal House” with a parade that made a “human interest story” on “Yahoo! News” that I was moved enough by nostalgia or the guilt of time that turns us into rotten, unhip trees rooted unhappily in our lives in a tumble-down forest of compromise, age, and withered good looks (-- mine included) to send a sentimental fan-mail of some putrid affection I wouldn’t let an old man wipe his ass with. Something about a young wolf-pup turning into a semi-adult rolling in the snow before the lady he remembers. Pretty sickening stuff, that only got a photo out of it—it was a signed photo because he sent an SASE, but it was a tight-lipped one of you looking on in consternation at the pitiful state of fandom that oozes around like fat and shit and slime and pus and whatever else needs to be “chased out the door” with a boot to the ribs. Don’t encourage the fuckers—never write back. A tight-lipped photo stands there like a monolith as if to say, “I’ve met my part of the bargain”—stay back before I tastefully ignore you! There may be other actresses in Michael’s Parthenon of Hollywood pulchritude who live by similar principles, and “don’t want to prime the pump” of squealing piglets, a roaring pork splatter of gorping mouths like winos and cretins and sex-starved obsessives. Eventually, the piglet-- even one of a higher quality such as myself-- is going to have to be rolled indignantly from a blue blanket and start sneezing at hay chaff before it goes trotting off like all the others. For either you grow into a man or turn into somebody’s ham on the butcher’s block. Such is the fate for many of my generation. . . . . no skills, no discipline, no purpose, but a fence post where their severed heads will be mounted in the rictus of a squeal, like something out of “Tales from the Crypt”. Or would that be out here on the internet at www.dearwinona.com? Throw a coin to “Wayne & Garth” in their basement or even come over and fuck on the couch because otherwise they wouldn’t “have a hope” beyond their local cable access personalities. . . . . being the geeks and losers and social rejects they are like consumers of pop culture vomit.

(Yeah, I like that smile of recognition. See you at an Indiana Jones sequel near you!
Until then, keep up the filtering wall of separation and club all gooey, baby-mouthed
assholes old enough to have pubic hair and a struggling post-adolescent stutter)

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

"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)

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("I heard that, Missy!")