Original Fan-Mail
(What Started It All)

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11/29/99

Dear Winona,

Probably most fan-mail you get reads something like "you are the beautiful snow goddess of my heart" and "your eyes are like a doe's in which I found myself drowning in infatuation" or some other form of bad, fucked-up maudlin poetry nobody but the guy who wrote it would ever want to read over again!

That's pretty strange, you know. Fans sending you letters dripping with Hall-Mark-card sappiness when you've never met these sad bastards in your entire life! What are you supposed to say after some love-sick fan spills his soul on a shredded piece of notebook paper, barely-legible and stained with tear drops & creased, obsessive care?

What usually happens (-- this is only conjecture; I've never shot over a letter before)  is that your bleached-blond, chain-smoking, world-weary assistant stubs out a cigarette in a stale puddle of beer, focuses her iguana-like eyes in the middle-distance, and sends them a mass-produced photo and generic letter that reads:

Thank you for taking interest in Winona Ryder.

Here's your "autographed" picture.

Now FUCK OFF! Only 1 photo per household!

Hey, I might be a demented loser by actually sending you something, but at least I'm not incapacitated while thinking of you & the better place you represent above this hellhole of modern life.

Well, here's my sap:

"It was within the first 10 minutes of Alien 4 when I, with the rest of my family whom are also fans of the franchise, realized that this piece of shit was by far the worst of them. An abomination of money-grubbing excess that defiled the fictional universe that we knew and adored on home video for years. It was then that the ship of motley space-rats came docking at the space station and I saw. . . . . I saw. . . . . I saw you.

For the rest of the film I was thinking "won't these other actors and creatures move out of view or just fucking DIE so I can see more of HER?". You were the only saving grace to a movie that should have been consigned to the film can and never unleashed on the gullible public. . . . an atrocity for studio executives to pace around over and lock themselves in a room with a loaded pistol.

I knew that I'd seen you somewhere before so I queried your name on the "Internet Movie Database" (imdb.com) and realized with a start that you were "spook-girl" from Beetlejuice, a sweet highlight from my youth. I think those are the only two films of yours I had actually watched. What "sophistication" on my part, because "Little Women", "The Age of Innocence" and "How to Make an American Quilt" flew over my fucking head.

HOWEVER, while watching your scenes in the movies I DID SEE, it kind of reminded me of "The Mask" where Jim Carey betrays his feelings to the world by pounding his fists on the table, whistling with both index fingers in his mouth, cartoonishly rolling his tongue over the floor like a faulty tape measurer, and other shenanigans that only $30 million of computer animation could buy."

That was my sap! Which brings me to the meat of my letter:

Soooooo. . . . if perchance your current Hollywood suitor (-- i.e. that cocksucker Matt Damon) doesn't work out and you happened to find yourself in St. Louis, I wouldn't mind taking you out for a stroll in our Botanical Gardens, one of the largest outdoor "one-of-those" in the country with more exotic trees and flowers than recovering dope fiends and/or hopeful scriptwriters in Hollywood.

To abet you in your decision-making process (-- just in case), here's a little "case for/case against" for dropping everything & dating me, an 18 year-old who still lives with his parents.

 

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PRO

-- Am 18; if we get married and those life expectancy tables have any accuracy, we'll croak at around the same time

CON

-- Am 18

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PRO

-- Am an outsider to Tinsil Town and the usual barrage of full-of-themselves millionaire actors (grrrrrrr)

CON

-- Am an outsider to Tinsel town and am not a millionaire

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PRO

-- I still live with my parents; you can have a place to stay

CON

-- Still live with my parents

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I know you'll carefully and impartially weigh the facts and make the sensible choice and only the sensible choice.

So in conclusion,
"See ya soon!"

Michael Adams

(To Her Assistant-- Thanks for not pitching this in the garbage!)

(SO ENDS THE MOST BRILLIANT FAN-MAIL IN THE UNIVERSE!)
(Incidentally, I never heard anything back!
What to do, MAN? What to do?!)

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"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!")