Under "The Lucky Numbers" section, what came up repeatedly was numbers in their 20's which marked significant moments in my life. There was a "30" in there, when Winona got in trouble. And most interestingly, a "29" and "38" which may represent me and Winona's ages when everything gets "launched".

Then again. . . . . I could be fooling myself.

*** To answer the charge that I am "Lord of all Illusion", I would have to tell you that my whole life here at www.dearwinona.com has been a long process of reinvention. Because it's very easy to be slow, dumb, fat, "and in a lot of pain". If I lived my whole life as "a sincere chunk of shit" and took everything at face value, I would have died a long time ago of a broken heart. Being able "to pull the camera back" and see the methods of "the game" is the best thing you can ever do for yourself. For a laugh, I recommend reading Robert Greene's "The Art of Seduction", "The 48 Laws of Power", and "The 33 Strategies of War". . . . . namely, because what are virginities, but partridges to be spitted & roasted?!

Con-artistry is about "the art of misdirection", or having your mark's attention settled somewhere else while you secretly pull out your true intention. To the extent I had been pulled down by "the noble lies" of others, either what they half or truly believed because their thinking was so muddled and intellectually dishonest, I had almost "been driven off a cliff". It's no worse than "the media hologram" we live in, or politically-correct "slave shibboleths" we live under "so not to offend others".

In this life, I figured out that the spoils do not go to the weak, but to the bold & confidant who march in there and get what they want. They do not deny "the life force", but embrace it proactively. Those are the ones who get the girl, the power job, and the gold and are not living like a tuburcular adolescent "fit for the trash heap".

When I was about six or seven years old, a Hans Christen Anderson fairy tale that always had me softly crying into my pillow was "The Little Fir Tree" in a storybook up at my grandparents. A young sapling was selected, and cut down in the forest and displayed in the family's holiday parlor with decorations and candles and good cheer with the presents under its sweeping bough. Christmas came and went, and gradually the tree was forgotten. No one paid attention to her. Then they took down the decorations and threw her down in the cellar. The little fir tree was awfully lonely, and some mice would gather around and listen to her sad tale. They would point out, that at least "she had something before", but then they'd go away-- everyone leaves in the end. Finally, after a length of time, the needles would fall off and the damn thing would turn yellow.

And then the master of the house would throw it in the fire where it was destroyed, sleeping in the fire for an eternity.

The sight of that poor Christmas tree sagging there in the garage going into the March of '88 was so depressing, that I insisted, forthrightly, that we never buy another tree again. Instead, every Christmas we decorate the plants in the living room "so everyone's special" and no one is junked.

To the extent that the actresses I grew up with are getting older, I want them to know that "they are not forgotten" and will not be thrown into the fire. At least not on my watch. For all the wasted time in the intervening years, for a little bit too much of the things that turned out bad, they're family to me and will be taken care of with love and respect. And that's about it from here. . . . .