Ophelie Winter

Dear Ophelie,

When I saw your website I just had to write and say, "Bloody Smashing" on the good looks. Now, I understand that your are French, but my French skills have deteriorated since I cut out the pastries, so I figured you would understand a little U.K. jive talk (since it is relatively close to France).

When I checked out your biography section, I was amazingly pleased to find the strikingly fantastic coincidence that has seemingly guided our paths towards a head on collision filled with mutual respect and admiration. Your likes read, "Animals, playing the synthesizer," well Ophelie you will be amazed to know that I actually had an animal that played the synthesizer. It started out when I was a young lad and my Grand Ma-Ma purchased a brand new Mitsubishi Synthesizer and a Chiwawa for me to play with. I named the Chiwawa "Ratdog" and I named the synthesizer, "Mike" and the rest is, as they say, history. I quickly became bored of "Ratdog" with his incessant scratching and his trite wagging of the tale. After a few weeks of enjoying ourselves, Mike and I were really hitting it off. Needless to say this drove Ratdog crazy with jealous rage. The summer of '69 had just come to and end and I had to return to Iraq for the camel racing season, but that is an entirely different story.

It was during this period in time that Ratdog plotted his maniacal plan to, how do you say in French, "Steal My Cheese!" It couldn't have been more than a day after I left when I caught wind of the twisted poochly poisonous plot. With trepidation, I went on to defend my championships and took the crown at the "Sandstorm Cup." In case you were wondering, I won 45,000 Drachmas for that race, which roughly equates to a side of garlic mashed potatoes internationally.

When I returned, Ratdog and Mike were off on an international tour. With my heart broken and time to kill, I stuffed my face with BonBon's while I read Mike's instruction booklet. Their world tour was terrifically successful, unfortunately it was short lived. Philosophical differences in the band's direction caused a riff between Mike and Ratdog, so they split. Mike tried to continue the tour as a solo act but realized the "logistics" were just too tough. Tale between his legs (so to speak), Mike returned home and has been with me ever since.

Ratdog, however, changed his style from a mellow jazzy lyricist to a rough, rugged and raw gangsta-rapping dog. You may have heard of him, "Chee-W and the Walkers." He claims he "keeps it real" but me and now you, Ophelie, know the truth. As amazing as it is, it is equally saddening. Mike has never recovered.

Sorry to bring you down, but once again I would like to say "way to go" on the good looks.

Tearfully yours,


Orpheous Roy

www.ophelie-winter.com

Krista Allen

Dear Krista,

Well, I must admit that I've never heard of you before, partially due to my complete distaste for every ounce of the entertainment industry and partially due to the fact that you aren't mass marketed, packaged and shove down my throat like so many others out there. I must say that you are a beautiful woman, nothing you haven't heard before, but I am not writing to dote, ogle or aggrandize (despite the fact that these words don't really work in this sentence I figured I'd use them for, let's say, the hell of it) you. I am simply here to write you. No Krista, I don't want to write on, with, or about, I just want to write you. The subject of this particular letter is a subject that I strive to perfect. It is the subject of nothing. I am simply writing you, about nothing, on nothing and for no reason at all.

My entire day has been spent pontificating, to various homosapiens, via mixed mediums, simply one subject; you guessed it, nothing. Now, I don't know what you do all day long, but I think it can be neither as exhausting nor as fruitful as my daily routine. I like to slip in and out of reality as an exercise of control. Most people will think that I am a crazy man, speaking crazy talk, in a crazy tongue. I say, "NAY!" This, simply, is an exercise in keeping my grip on reality, for slaving my life away in the corporate landfill has but one reward at the end of the day, the mighty cashola. Krista, I ask you where is the fulfillment? Where are the dreams that come true? Are they only for the beautiful? Are they only for the lucky? Questions a plenty, I know. I don't expect you to answer, frankly I don't expect you to even read this cornucopia of verbalization. I simply want to kill the last half-hour of my day on a Friday.

As we look back over the past few paragraphs there can be only one thought that crosses your mind, "What in the Sam hill is this freak talking about?" I would like to reiterate that I am talking about nothing. I know I've said it before, but sometimes it takes a few times hearing it before it really sinks in. I stated my goal and I hope that I have pulled it off with grace, zest, zeal, passion, and deftness. I hope not to make you say, "I have to get my address off the internet," and I hope to make you say, "What? No really what are you talking about and what did I do so wrong in my life to have this 'verbage' (verbal-garbage) spewed in my direction. I didn't think a letter could actually transmit stink, but I now think I smell worse for reading it. Not only am I dumber for having read this, not only have I wasted the last 7 minutes and thirty four seconds of my life, but I think I am falling for this twisted word smith." Or something like that.

So with my day fading like an ego in time, I am off. Off to party hardy in the city that never sleeps. The city of lights so bright, buildings so big and people so small. Take comfort in the fact that you were once an outlet for me, a distraction from the chaotic world of keyboards, swivel chairs and office memoranda. A distraction from the world that I long to escape, but cannot find the escape hatch. With that being said, I would like to give thanks for 5:30. I would like to give thanks for weekends. I would like to give thanks for my friends and I, especially, would like to give thanks for you Krista, because you cannot understand what this letter means to me.

Sort of Sincerely,

Orpheous Roy

http://www.krista-allen.com

Meredith Monroe

Dear Meredith,

I just wanted to write and let you know that I can really empathize with you. There really is an increase in the difficulty of concentration in New York. It's crazy! I didn't heed the warnings or listen to the advice of the elder New York ex-patriots distraught and bedazzled by their inability to concentrate in New York. When I was living in Philadelphia a man said to me, "Be wary of the Rotten Apple (as he called it), for evil lurks behind every turn. I was once able to balance three "Lawn Jockeys" on my nose. That, my friend, was until that faithful eve, in the robust month of May, 1973. I parachuted in, jockeys in tow, and was prepared to dazzle the world with my skills. I shined my shoes and emptied my wallet for I knew that this specialized and remarkably unique talent would net large profits and land me some beautiful women. But NO! I can't concentrate in that god forsaken town."

He went on to tell me about the dismay, heartbreak and hardship that followed him that entire weekend until he was forced to leave. Albeit an amicable breakup, the mighty beast of a woman, New York City, distracted this poor man until he couldn't even concentrate long enough to blink. It's a shame really, because I've never seen "Lawn Jockey Balancing" before and I guess neither you, Meredith, nor I shall ever see it again.

I am sure that your play covers the ills incurred when the common man does extraordinary things. I listened to his advice, but I boldly went where so many others have gone and what did I find? A whole lot of goddamn people is what I found. Concentration, not a chance. The fact of the matter Meredith is there really isn't a need to concentrate in New York. I haven't done it once and I am thinking about giving it up for good. Who needs it? I don't! I mean of course there are residual effects of going concentrationless. I am frequently locked out, often at the wrong place and my bathroom floor is a mess, however, I save a lot of time during the day in which I used to waste by concentrating. Last Thursday I put in a full days work, ate 5 times, hit the gym, read a book, clipped my toenails, slept 12 hours and changed the carburetor on my lawn mower all because I cut out concentrating. (However, I got fired, I chipped some teeth, I have a paper cut, I have 9 toes left, I'm exhausted and I don't have a lawn.)

I will tell you your play has been a godsend, a real life oasis in the concrete desert. You, Meredith, were the bridge that brought me there. Thank you for showing me the light. Down with concentration. I reiterate, down with concentration.

Motionlessly yours,

Orpheous Roy

http://www.monroe-meredith.com

Laurie Plaskin

Dear Laurie,

Hey, an internet soap opera seems like a pretty good gig. I would call it a 'Soap Bopper' though, just to give it a little distinction. Also, that is what I have called them since I was a child in the weee little town of Borscht Creek, Novascotia. Now, I hope that your soap bopper is going to be hot and/or steamy, maybe dreamy, but definitely far-fetched. Are you going to send out daily emails or is it just going to be the web site? I hope that pictures will be included (only of the ladies of course).

Can I play a character? I think I would like to be Vond Meuller, the evil German Magician who is also a heart-throb and a player. The women on the soap bopper would of course be after him because of his on stage talents, his crowded wallet and his hulking body. He would specialize in death defying magic, but could display deft card tricks and an innate ability to pull a rabbit out of anywhere just too prove he is a legit talent. The problem lying behind this seemingly perfect male specimen is a lack of confidence combined with a touch of forgetfulness (hence the huge rabbit bill). Vond's inability to pull off his magic, it being the single most important thing in his life, causes him to go careening across the country, embarking on wild drinking binges which would induce rage-filled tantrums directed at the scantily-clad women he would pick up with his, still intact, god like beauty.

I guess I will come clean and tell you that I'm not really from Borscht Creek, rather I'm from Fleischnagle, Novascotia. I lived in Borscht Creek until "the incident" and then I was excommunicated to Fleischnagle where I maintain a humble existence. Fleischnagle is okay, but it is no Borscht Creek. For one thing there isn't a creek in Fleischnagle. We don't like to boast, but Novascotia is home to the most fantastic creeks ever seen on the planet and let me tell you the Borscht Creek is especially fantastic. Anyway, I would get to my sob story but I have to go. I have an appointment with my window washer. We're discussing strategy.

Well, once again I'd like to say way to go on the looks and good luck with soap bopper.

Orpheous Roy

Ali Sweeney

Dear Ali,

Hey, congratulations on the good looks. Also I want to send out a hearty good luck on the marriage. Man, marriage nowadays, it's a crazy situation. Did you know the divorce rate in America is over 50%? I, myself, am not married (I suspect lack of dates is the cause), but I'm not worried. I am still a young and sprite whippersnapper that can tantalize the ladies with a curiously sharp wit and a stinging style of jocularity. I wish to be married soon, before my 17th birthday or before I am completely bald. Yeah, I guess I should tell you that I have been gradually going bald since the age of seven. At first I could just play it off as "multing," but soon the kids caught on. They like to call me names and it hurts! They like to call me "Mr. Moorehead" because I have more head than hair. I don't think that is very nice, do you?

I wish that the girls would look deep down inside my head and heart to realize that I am more than just a bald sixteen-year old. I am a person; besides, I have enough hair on my back and stomach to make up for the follicle depravity occurring on my scalp.

I had a date with this girl, Meredith. I don't want to be mean and I also know that I am in no position to complain but they call her "Booger." I, and my viciously bald head, blew it off and figured it was just the kids treating a nice young girl, who may have a small snot problem, poorly. Ali, I really really really like this girl BUT! Isn't there always a but? But, she is called booger, not because of any mucous problems; she is called booger because she is kind of green and a little sticky. Any loose flying paraphernalia always seems to head right for her. It's pretty much a guarantee if it makes contact it will stick.

She is a really good sport about it. We even made up a neat game where I threw different objects at her to see if they stuck. I got my shoe, which scored big points, on the third try. I must say that I am thinking of calling the whole thing off. The kids started calling her "Guacamole." I don't think I can go out with a sticky girl called "Guacamole" even if I am grossly underdeveloped in cranial forestation. Do you think that I am shallow for it? If you were green and sticky would you go out with a 16-year-old bald kid who has had only one date?

Once again, congratulations on the good looks and keep up the good work!

Bye Ali,

Orpheous
The baldest and loneliest 16 year old on Earth

http://www.alisonsweeney.com/