Fan Letter

When you are addictive, like me, you tend to do everything a little too much. Hence I could never buy 1 book, must buy 7. Could never buy one sweater, must buy 5. Because I appreciate all the colors, because they all look good on me, because I have such good taste---it's an ego-fest.

Anyway, the consequence of such actions is a lot of unread books and unworn clothes. Typically, they get purged every decade or so, but once in a while something pleasant happens:

1) Today I wore a John Smedley merino wool striped mock turtleneck that I bought at Barneys in----drumroll----1988. Yes. It's actually shocking that I bought something that tasteful back then because I had money and I had bad 80s taste. I still remember the acid green fucking phosphorescent blazer I was wearing to Palladium in 1985 and inexplicably Sally Randall let me in...

Anyway. Barneys. Smedley, Focus. It was too tight, too itchy, too clingy. I would put it on before going out and then yank it off.

But alas, I held onto it the way one holds onto things that were very expensive (I still have hope for these two incredible Versace knit shirts circa '88 that are a miracle of engineering--come to think of it, I bet they are worth a bundle since Gianni was offed) in the hopes that one day will see ROI.

Well, that day came. I put it on. It felt good. (I am no longer skeeved by wool --same with peach skin--no problem anymore.) Better yet it looked good. Nice and fitted across the chest but not West Hollywood fitted. Horizontal stripes, too. I looked like a fucking linebacker. So, I wore it to work and made the girlies swoon.

2) Now, the books. Different story. More of an investment of time. (Remember, I am going to die soon so I have begun to measure my activities in terms of their value --- would I rather be reading a so-so book, trolling the Internet for fresh ass or watching TV on Vico? The world is no longer a blank canvas...) I will often read 20 - 30 pages and then toss it down in disgust. Maybe write a scathing Amazon review if I'm feeling vindictive.

So, I looked through my library (yes, I have a library. A whole room just for books. Eat your heart out) the other night and came upon a title. I remember buying it 10 years ago, being less than pleased at the dearth of sex scenes, and calling it quits. But alas, I began to read it. It held my attention. It is called "Secret Life" by Michael Ryan and is a memoir written BITD when the market was not flooded with such tomes. It is about his molestation and sexual addiction and he is a very good writer and very humorous. I love that he spends an enormous amount of time writing about the so very awkward years of 10-15. I can so relate. Being a bit pudgy and very young but very horny and smart and just craving to be older. Ryan writes about the absurdity of himself at that age. Whatever. It touched me. So I wrote him a note and told him so. The kind of note I would like to get should I ever publish a book, simple: "Just wanted to thank you. I loved the book." Nothing creepy.

And would you believe he wrote back? Props to him. One good turn deserves another. I hope I made him happy. I don't need Oprah's (Uh, Bank America's) money to do something nice for someone. I do it every day.