Amy Weber

Dear Amy,

I just want you to know that there is no point to what I am going to write. There really isn't any purpose for writing you. I can confidently say this for one simple reason, I don't' know what I am going to write. Forgive me if I go astray. Forgive me if I run afoul. With infinite possibilities staring me in the face, I cower and run to a dark and forgiving corner for I cannot think of a thing to write about. Amy, surely you won't hold this against me. I could speak of your profession or your success, but in the self-centered world of Orpheous, I would find it more pleasing if the subject was me. I, however, am finding myself rather boring today and I fear that you are beginning to agree.

Have you ever written an open-ended letter and then sent it to someone who you don't know? It's an interesting phenomenon. For I, being of sound mind, like to pontificate on subjects, but feel empty when I draw the subject to a close and no one else gets to share in my fancy. You may receive this letter. You may not. It is more about the possibility that for a few seconds in time I may drag you into my world. Maybe reaching a dark recess in your brain, stimulating some ions causing you to walk away saying hmmm? Or what? Or huh? Although, I write this with my feet firmly planted on the ground so I realize that the channels to you can only be as immense as the red tape littering the intersection of our paths.

Sometimes I think if our roles were reversed would I be up to the same shenanigans? Would I reach out to some unsuspecting nameless and fame-less person, saying something, anything, in an effort to share some time. Well Amy, no I probably wouldn't. Frankly, if I received a little more stimulation from my position in the food chain of corporate society, I probably wouldn't even be writing you. I guess you can read between the lines and see that I am merely using you and I apologize for it. I am using your name and address as an escape. An escape that affords me the luxury of investigating the endless possibilities of life all while using the time that proves to be such a burden to me.

Now this is not to be a solemn correspondence, rather it is a celebration of sorts. I realize that patience is taking the lead and that in due time all will be worked out. With this knowledge, Amy I hope you will celebrate with me. Celebrate with me this sunshiny day. Celebrate with me the fact that not only is today Friday, but I have already had two good nights of partying this week. Celebrate with me the fact that I hit a recent hot streak with the ladies. Amy, while we're at it, let's take a minute to celebrate you. Way to go!

Well Amy, with that being said let me bid you a fond farewell. It has been a pleasure while it lasted. Rest assured that our mission has been completed. The recess bell is soon to ring and I am soon to traverse the streets of New York City. Free at last, thank God almighty, I'm free at last.

Sincerely,

Orpheous Roy

www.amyweber.net

Cindy Margolis

Dear Cindy,

Cindy, even though this has been done to death I would like to take a moment of reflection to thank the lord up above (whichever one you subscribe to) for bestowing upon you a beautiful face, a curvaceous bod and, of course, perfectly aligned teeth.................................................................…………………Way to go!

Now that we have that out of the way let's get down to some serious business. The aforementioned serious business that I speak of is a problem that I have been faced with for quite some time. It's typically embarrassing, often uncontrollable and an overall pain in the ass. My problem is that I have a pain in my ass! Well, not the ass really, it's more of the ass cheek. Right one to be exact, about two paces left of center. Follow the spine south and take a left, however, whatever you do, DO NOT GO THROUGH THE TUNNEL!

It all started when I was a wisecracking whippersnapper of 10 days old. I took everyone by surprise when I came shooting out. Bald head, mustache, mouth packed to the rafters with teeth, I was chain smoking Cubans and hitting on the nurses. After three days in the nursery, I was up ten large. Craps was my game in more ways than one. The Doctors, suburbia learned white boys, fell victim to every scam I pulled. Upon leaving in Dr. Feinstein's convertible black Mazarati, I was pulled over for speeding and reckless endangerment of life. I got off, scott free, sighting Mazarati's failure to design a seat that effectively positioned driving ten-day-olds. Upon suing for gross negligence, I was awarded a settlement of 3.5 mil, only to see it overturned by a glue sniffing appellate court judge with ties to big business and gambling doctors. Crest fallen and disillusioned, I, like Jonathan Sea Gull, did some soul searching. I realized that I had lost control. The fast life, the only life I knew, had taken the reigns as puppet master and now it was my turn to take them back. I decided to shave my mustache and return home a new infant.

I was a year into my new life and had just turned one. I spent the year nursing on my mother's bosom while building my new business from the ground up. Orpheous' Cactus Chair and Porcupine Pillow Warehouse was the name. Stupid idea really, but one thing I've learned in my life is if you advertise, they will buy it. Cindy, you can use that one if you want to. Anyway, business was good until Dr. Feinstein returned seeking revenge. He didn't recognize me without my mustache, but held me at gunpoint none the less. The irate doctor, seething with anger, could barely contain himself, fidgeting about and making the porcupines nervous. "Don't worry," I told him "they won't charge unless you continue to sweat like a fat woman at a buffet." Unfortunately his glandular problems just increased, incensing the quilled pigs. They charged and so did he. During the hail of bullets and quills, I found refuge underneath my cactus desk. Needless to say this fiasco was a publicity nightmare. All the advertising in the world couldn't rescue the business, so I folded up shop and returned home. I started to live the life I was supposed to. I stopped gambling, sold the Mazarati and re-grew the mustache.

That first year of driving really spoiled me and since I sold the car I am forced to use the conventional one-year-old method of transportation. What with all the booze, gambling and the store managing, I'm not as limber as your average one-year-old. This lack of looseness combined with a strong urge for a beer caused me to pull my hammy crawling to the fridge. Don't worry it's just a temporary condition. I'll be good as new in a few days.

Once again I'd like to say "kudos" on the good looks and keep up the good work. Cindy you are a treasure to us all, especially the ones who can vividly remember nursing.

Sincerely,

Orpheous Roy

www.cindymargolis.com

Cheryl Ladd

Dear Cheryl,

I just wanted to butt my nose into your business in order to congratulate you on the good looks. Way to go! When I saw your "North Americow" cow painting I immediately gathered my screeners in order to decide my opinion on it. Well, I'm pleased to say that they have decided that I like your painting by a whopping 64-1 vote. You see Cheryl; I am leaving all of my decision-making responsibilities up to the sixty-five monkeys that I keep in my apartment. Not only was it a landslide victory, but the room was buzzing with interest as soon as I mentioned your name. Foo-Foo, a retired "working girl," credits you with inspiring her to leave the streets and get her life back on track. I'm sure you will be pleased to know that following in your image, she died her hair blonde, married Scooter, the juggling chimpanzee, and gave birth to twins, Shwumpy and Lumpy. Flavor, the multi colored orangutan, claims that all The Angles needed was a signature car, such as the General Lee, and it would have been an international phenomenon (at least among the monkeys who Neilson is starting to recognize as a growing target audience).

The only nay came from Nipples, the three-legged cow posing as a baboon. He just wanted me to include the following statement:

Dear Mrs. Ladd,

I am grossly disturbed by your rendition of the cow in your painting North Americow. Despite the fact that I am a monkey, I still have the right to take offense.

Thank you,

Nipples

The screeners (except Nipples) and I were so enthused by this idea that we also put our heads together and came up with a few ideas. Feel free to use them as "Inspirato" on your next canvas. Oral, the ex-Portuguese ventriloquist monkey, thought of "Cow-Dee-Doodie." That, of course, would be a cow's body with a How-dee-doodie head attached. There was some debate as to who gets the head and who gets the body, but with Nipples protesting and out of the room, it was an easy decision. Jade, the hairless chimpanzee, came up with the ideas "Cow on the Cob" or "Harvest." This would be a corn stalk about five to six feet high, with a cow growing where the corn should be. "Harvest" could be the same idea just with an entire field full of Cow's on the cob.

Anyway, just some thoughts followed by a boisterous round of applause on the good looks.

Yours truly,

Orpheous Roy

www.cherylladd.com

Dita Von Teese

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Michelle Behennah

Dear Sage,

I was going to drop an email to comment on the good looks and the nice bod of your girl Michelle Behennah, but I have decided to scrap that idea and give you a "kudos" on the efficient, timely and passionate job of web hosting that you do. I am also a web representative; however, Gary the world-renowned ventriloquist doesn't get quite as many hits as your models. Don't you get sick and tired of them always getting the attention? Sure they may be beautiful, sure they have great bodies, sure they throw their voices 200 feet making a dog sound like he's French Cabaret Dancer, but can they keep up in the drive through world of E-commerce. Can they communicate in hypertext markup language? Can they handle the excessive hit rate that comes after a successful show at Billy Bob's Chuckwagon Steakhouse in Tuskeegee? I think not. Where would Michelle be without you Sage? Nowhere! And I'll tell you what, that no lip moving bastard Gary wouldn't be throwing anything if it weren't for the publicity generated from MY site.

I mean, really, how hard is it to take a few pictures? Stand here! Stand there! Shake 'em a little harder! Look down! Lift your leg! Arch your patella! Suck in that neck! Spread those toes! They certainly have no idea what it is like to be an information disseminator as you and I do. Sage, they don't understand the power that we have. They are just lucky that we don't abuse this power, although, Gary has been rather arrogant lately. I wonder how much business Gary's new site, Gary the world-renowned proctologist, would generate.

Sage, I apologize for ranting and raving in your face like this, but really, we deserve some credit too. Is that too much to ask? I guess I just wanted to say that you don't hear this enough. Good job on the hosting. Keep the chin up kiddo, we'll get our due some day.

Obversely yours,

Orpheous Roy

www.michellebehennah.org

Jacqueline Collen

Dear Jacqueline,

I felt compelled to verbally gush over your scintillating beauty, your macadocious bod and of course your ethereal nature. Jacqueline, in my insatiable efforts to kill time at work, I have anointed you the chosen one and have chosen you the anointed one to read my latest letter. I guess, really what I am saying to you is nothing. Despite having nothing to say, I boldly push on, never tiring, never looking back. This next sentence, devoid of purpose, babbles on like a brook of communication. Flowing thunderously, this typed glacier is steering its own course, for you see Jacqueline, I'm not the driver of this train, I am simply a passenger in the bar car, sipping Merlot, tipping well, thinking out loud but saying nothing, wishing I hadn't eaten all that damn Gouda. I could follow the masses using the commoner's form of communiqué, the question. I could ask you, which would be worse, poison ivy underwear or poison ivy gum? I could give you my philosophy on the art of vacuuming; "It's all north to south baby!" I could give you my philosophy on women; "I have absolutely no idea." I could tell you that I am over-appreciated and under-worked. I COULD YELL AT YOU! I could pick you up, "Hey baby, my name is Orpheous, I'm a Taurus and I'm not afraid to cry." I could test your eyes
A T F G H I B. Backwards sentence a write could I. I could share a few lines of a rhyme that I have written:

if Picaso was my dad I'd probably paint my room
startin’ at eleven done at half past noon
I didn't touch the ceiling cause that's minimal
I didn't touch the clock cause that's digital
I didn't paint the window because that's plain stupid
when he asks who did? I'll say you did

Jacqueline, I will do none of that! Instead, I will continue to hold on for dear life while this letter continues to, "get, get, get on down, get on down!" brmp...crmp...brmp Sorry, I was snacking. There’s nothing like a mid-afternoon batch of Melbatoast and Conch Fritters to pep you up.

Well Jacqueline, I guess that's it. Our paths have crossed in the oddest of ways, for the briefest of moments, stirring the deepest of emotions and tantalizing the tastiest of taste buds (Conch Fritters are good!). With that I bid you a fond adieu. I would like to offer one last "Cheers" on the good looks and good luck with all of those things you do so well.

Blankly yours,

Orpheous Roy

Stephanie Cameron

Dear Stephanie Cameron,

Well I just wanted to write in and say congratulations on the good looks. Good job! Anyway, I really don't have much to say at this momentito in time. That usually isn't the greatest way to start a letter, with nothing to say, but hey I'm ostensibly cavalier so I'm giving it a shot. Actually Stephanie, if you must know, saying nothing at all in as many words as possible is a god given talent. Other god given talents that I possess are:

1. I can make my eye squeak
2. I can make my chest crack, and
3. I can breathe underwater

I think that gracefully saying nothing over several paragraphs is an art form not to dissimilar to minimalism. Imagine a book that keeps you on the edge of your seat from cover to cover. As you read you sink deeper and deeper into the nether world of vague opinionism, gathering more information than your brain can handle, waiting for the ever illusive link that is and has been missing from the entire story. The link that neatly fits like a puzzle piece, a binding tie there to serve you, the reader, as a bridge to connect the unconnected. Reading further your thirst for a conclusion, an understanding, a meaning, grows furious. Finally!, you have reached the final page and to find what, nothing. It hasn't said a damn thing, but it kept you reading. Now that is art.

I would write a book like that but I have realized that the optimum length for my writing style is no more that one typed page. I just don't have the stamina to push on, to see the obstacle and conquer it. My flow will be precise, strongly mowing down the opposition for 52 lines. As I cross into the uncharted territory of line 53 the vision comes toppling down and I am disillusioned once again.

So as I near my maximum thought expression capacity, I am going to bring this letter to a close. I guess you can view this as the demented and useless offspring of an existential philosophy. Anyway, with absolutely nothing being said, I want to, once again, say "kudos" on the good looks and keep up the good work.

Meaninglessly yours,

Orpheous Roy

http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Academy/3851/

Christina Chambers

Dear Christina,

Well, my dear, I just wanted to offer my sincerest congratulatory congratulations on your good looks. Excellent job! As for me, I just haven't had much "Inspirato" lately. There was a day when I could just sit down, stare into a blank page, wait for the "inspirato" to strike, then craft a bouquet of verbs tantalized by poignant adjectives linked in meaning and thought by those worker bee conjunctions. Nouns were my friends. Christina, that was then and this is now. As it stands, I look deeply into the foreboding whiteness of the page before me with only one thought swirling my mind, "what is the deal with an itch?" Christina, I understand that itches occur for several reasons. Itching signifies the healing process. It can also call attention to a budding problem, of which, the caretaker my not be aware. I truly appreciate the release of energy and the phantasmal feeling of relieving the nagging nomad of his stronghold on my body. However, the itch has overstepped his bounds. The itch, in a word, is a bitch! How did he gain free access to the remotest of the remote bungalows of my body? He may crop up on your head, he may crop up on your tibia, but there is one thing you know and that is the itch will rear its ugly head to tease the ends of your nerves and ultimately grab your attention which he so desires.

Christina, ponder with me. Have your ever concluded your day itch-less? Have you ever been wakened by an itch? Have you ever had an itch that you just couldn't locate? Trying in vein to cease the disruption, a disruption as clear as day but as mysterious as night. A disturbance that toys with your existence only to disappear just when you think you have it nabbed. It's a cruel joke if you ask me. I don't understand. As I write this I have an itch doing its prickly version of the electric slide directly on the center of my back. Pen poised for invasion, movements cautious and calculated, zeroing in on the target and waiting for the optimum time to strike, my attack is quick, daunting and successful, but how long can I keep this up. What if I wasn't such an intelligent tool using species of animal? What if my arms were short? Christina, what if I was a Giraffe? How long can I be expected to keep up this battle? Does it end? Will I be invaded by the random itch until the day I die?

I believe that we are making some headway. Christina, me and you, you and I, the lady and the tramp, the beauty and the beast, might have just solved the yet unanswered and oft pondered riddle of existence. Christina, proof of existence lies within the itch. Birds itch. Wildebeest do too. Dogs definitely itch and what's more they all exist. We did it!

Hmmmm....wait a minute. Plants exist as well. Do they itch? Do they have to deal with the incessant mockery of life that the itch purveys? I think not. But do plants exist? Hmmmm…I say sure, they can exist too. Christina, me and you, you and I, Tito and Germain, Sugar and Rays, Q and U, have a new philosophy to proclaim to the world. Awareness is symbolized by the itch. If you itch you are aware. Hmmm...Are dogs aware? Are iguanas privy to the celestial aura that we, the hair-less apes, are? Does the Muskrat contemplate the origins of life, the vastness of space and the contents of scrapple?

Well Christina, it was a nice effort. We tried. Unfortunately the only thing I can say for certain is the itch is a bitch and there's no denying that. As I bring my thoughts to a close I hope you will join me in giving thanks. Thank you for Solarcaine. Thank you for Novocaine. Thank you for Scalpacin. Thank you for Benadryl and especially thank you for Cortisone, the queen hootchie-mama of itch relievers.

Scratchingly yours,

Orpheous Roy

P.S. I bet you have an itch right now.

http://www.christinachambers.com/main.html

Kimilee Bryant

Dear Kimilee,

I don't know if I can say this to you since you are an Operatic Singer and I don't want you to get offended by my vociferous vindication for perusing your sight, but I must say you are one sexy opera singer. I didn't realize, stereotypes ruling my thoughts, that there was such physical beauty in your line of work.

As for me, your sight has brought a quiver to my lip, a twitch to my neck and a small tear to my eye. Don't worry. It is nothing you had anything to do with, nor is there anything for you to do. It just makes me think back to my ill-faded music career. I just want to scream to the heavens, "By God, Hath you no mercy?" Well, I want to scream that for a different reason, now back to my story.

It all started in the fourth grade when I, a budding musical prodigy, entered the music class to choose my weapon. Trombones, clarinets, oboes and triangles galore. Vexed by the magnitude of my decision, I was frozen stiff in time. This was going to decide my fate with the ladies from the fourth grade on. Well, I spotted my arc de triumph in the form of a clarinet. I was aghast to see that the instrument that I coveted, the instrument I was born to play, the clarinet, was not called a trumpet. In fact, there was nothing trumped about it. "I doth protest," I exclaimed to the teacher to no avail. Forever stuck with the stinking trumpet, I pushed on determined to be the Dizziest Gillespie who ever French kissed the brass horn. Unfortunately for the next six months I lived a lie. I lived a Milli Vinilli style farce until the day it came crashing down upon my well-groomed head. I faked it at the recital. I didn't play, I couldn't! I never regained the zest, the zeal or the inspiration that was naturally bestowed upon me by the clarinet and when it came time to perform I could only go through the motions.

Don't worry Kimilee, my stick-to-itiveness kicked in and I wasn't going to give up on my music career so quickly. Fast-forward to the eighth grade and my next date with destiny. We had been working all year for the recital at the mall, the crème de la crème of venues in Pennsylvania. We practiced and practiced and I even had the black pants, white shirt and red bow tie laid out in preparation. I practiced "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" so many times that I could say it backwards and forwards. I could break it down into anagram form. I could equate each letter in the lyrics with a star in the sky. I still have swinging visions and chariot dreams, but all I can remember is "Swing low sweet chariot, coming forth to carry me home." Anyway, my friends and I were playing a little "grab ass" when we were supposed to be rehearsing. The teacher, singled us three out and we had to sing solo, a cappella and by ourselves. Needless to say my rendition of the verse melted the other children's skin. I put several young girls into psychotherapy when I hit the "sweet" and I caused Danny, the "slow" kid, to foam at the mouth. Unfortunately, the story ends there. It was general music from then on in.

So what I am saying Kimilee is, you, the people who pushed through the boundaries, are an inspiration and hero to the people like me, who failed miserably at an early age. Not too mention you’re pretty hot. Good luck on all of your future endeavors and if you could, hit a high note for me.

Thanks

Orpheous Roy

www.kimileebryant.com

Marliece Andrada

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Carol Alt

Dear Carol,

After such a long and illustrious career I feel obliged to offer one of my sincerest "kudos" on the good looks. I would like to follow that up with a resounding "way to go!" also directed at the fine looks that you have acquired, nourished and purveyed throughout your days on this earth. I, myself, am sitting here pondering the word confection. Carol, I understand that this isn't the typical pontificatory project, but I just can't get it out of my mind. My brain is confected to the word confection. I, before I go any further, must apologize for my obvious dismantling of the English language. I enjoy; nay, I strive to rearrange, readjust and reap havoc with the word, its form and also you, Carol, the reader, desperately trying to follow the story while deciphering this code.

Carol how is it that a word so sweet in meaning as well as sound can be so similar in look to a word such as infection or injection. I constantly hear the word dissection and confection confused which I'm sure you, as I, are disgusted by. Last week I was asked for the confections to route 76. I sent him to Hershey, Pennsylvania. And, if one more person tells me they are going to the cesarean section store for some mike and ikes, I'm going to have a cranial hemorrhage.

Last Saturday, the one-year anniversary of the same Saturday a year before, I was sitting at home minding my own business. The ring ring of the telephone startled me away from my book, "Midgets – The Abridged Story" and led me unto the path of confectionery confusion. I was greeted by a pleasant voice on the phone, "Hello, this is Bill from the Confections Agency." Delighted to hear of and from such an organization, I decided to show them my support, "Well well well Bill, I've been waiting for you to call for a long time now."

"Is that so?" "Yes, I would like to order your entire stock of Raisonettes and three Swedish Fish." I could taste the sweet morsels of raison covered by thick milk chocolate as each syllable rushed out of the opening just above my chin.

"Sir, I think you are confused, I am from the Confections Agency and I am calling about your bill."

"Yes Bill I know, remember the Raisonettes? The Swedish Fish?" Growing ever more huffy, the voice on the phone rose in tone, "Sir, I am from the Confections Agency trying to confect on your outstanding bill!"

"Look Bill, I wouldn't call you so outstanding, you can't even get my order right!"

Carol, unfortunately there is no such a thing as a confectionery agency that sells its product via telemarketing. Don't you think there really should be? Oh well, if only the earth was made of chocolate, the rest of the world would be as fat as Americans. With that being said, Carol rest assured that in the modeling world you are the object of my confections. We are linked together like an electric confection. I even think I am going to vote for you in the next Presidential Confection.

Once again good job on the looks and keep up the good work.

Confectionally yours,

Orpheous Roy

Tatiana

Tatiana,

Well, well, well, my dear, "way to go!" on the good looks. Excellent job! I, myself, me, the guy writing to you, is currently drawing a picture. It's of a feather. Plumage has been on my mind a lot lately. I don't know if it is the incumbent spring, which rhymes with sing, which is what our flying friends do and you know what birds are covered in, feathers. Tatiana, you must admit that the feather is an underrated natural resource. Its many duties are only equaled by its vast availability, for you see, there are many different birds with many sprouting feathers. I have feathered pillows, a feathered comforter and one special pair of feathered underwear. I have a quill pen. I have a 10-pound bag of feathers lying around just to prove it weighs as much as the 10 pound bag of cement that I also have lying around. On those dismal dreary days, I tickle the nape of my neck with a feather. It always cheers me up. My son is named Feather Although, that may have been a mistake.

I have, however, had one bad experience with a feather. Though I continue to travel down the road that led me to the feather fiasco, I proceed with caution and a scarred memory of that faithful night in the blustery month of June, during the scavengerous year of nineteen hundred sixty plus thirteen. I was, as we say in America, "Kickin It" with my friends, watching the Skeeball Championships. Let me tell you Tatiana, the competition was intense. Skee Masterson, down to his last shot, needed no less than a 90 to push the match into an extra chucker. What did he do? Draino! He sank it, bullseye, for a C-Note, not to mention the championship, not too mention a fat prize (A watergun, complete with utility belt, extra water cartridge and a squirt distance guarantee of at least 200 feet). Anyway, as I do for every Skeeball Championship, I popped few dozen buffalo wings into the oven. No, Tatiana (silly!), they aren't wings from a buffalo, those would be much too large for one person to eat. These are the lower half of the leg from the Alabama State Bird, the chicken. Commonly called "Yardbird." Ding, they're done and I was famished. Despite the large amounts of skin, fat and unknown entities on the wings, I dug in. I was through about four when I picked up what will forever be known as "The Evil Wing." Well, as I creased my teeth through the bluecheese, through the skin, through the fat and into the meat, I was greeted by a tickling sensation on my nose. "Strange" I thought, "eating wings never tickled my nose before." Despite the fact that I didn't want to unglue my eyes from the climactic event on the tube, I felt it was my duty to investigate this, the oddest of occurrences. As I pulled away and investigated, there it was, staring me in the face. Taunting me with its maniacal smile and dripping in hotsauce, this feather was praying to be eaten. This was no small feather that could be ignored, or digested for that matter. No! This was the "Queen Hoochie-Mama" of feathers. Aghast, I threw down the wing and began to dry heave. How did this feather make it so far? What was it planning on doing to me after consumption? Thankfully, I didn't have to find that out.

Disgusted with Will, Purdue that is, and his shoddy inspection system, I decided action must be taken. I wrapped it up and put it in the fridge, prepared to send it, complete with a scathing and profanity-ridden letter, back to its maker. Unfortunately Tatiana, I forgot about it until the other day when I found it, hunting down the "missing?" cherry turnovers. This, I believe, is why my days have been filled with plumage visions and two legged dreams.

Tatiana, take it from a friend, survey the wing before you eat it. It will pay off in the long run. That being said, good luck on your future endeavors and "kudos" on the good looks.

Cautiously yours,

Orpheous Roy

Heather Pariso

Dear Heather,

When I came across your website, I just had to write in and say "Va-Va-Va-Va Voom!" Way to go on the good looks! Anyway, other than that not much is new with me. I'm just sitting here pondering the meaning of life, love, the good, the bad, the ugly, jimmies vs. sprinkles, Je ne sais quois and time travel. I'm pondering a new and more efficient design for my Rolodex. I'm thinking about fiscal calamities and provincial territories. I'm thinking of kings, queens, princes and paupers alike. I'm wondering why, I'm wondering how, and you damn well know I'm wondering huh. I was wondering if fish didn't have scales, would they still be able to "do that dance, da da do that dance." I was wondering if people were actually tiny dinosaurs or large ants. I was contemplating the inverse relationship between reduced interest rates and increased global temperature. I was wondering if gravity was called buoyancy, would we bounce when we walked. I was thinking about all of the bridges I've burned, those few bridges that I've burned and then bombed and that one bridge that I dismantled piece by piece, chopped into toothpick size pieces, doused in acid, loaded into a rocket and sent into space. I was thinking that I need a new walk, mine is slightly outdated. I was thinking that if blood was ink, then we could write with our fingers. I was thinking that food is good food. I was wondering if Q and U were gay. I was wondering why dictionaries come in different sizes. Shouldn't there be one standard issue dictionary? I was thinking of how arrogant the word government is. "Yeah, not only are we bossing you around, but we're making no bones about it!" I was wondering why there is a magazine about the advertising industry and I was wondering who is advertising in it. I was philosophizing on the art of relaxation. My philosophy is "Breath in, breath out." I was wondering whether liquorice was just low grade plastic. I was wondering why we compare apples to apples and oranges to oranges. It seems pointless to me. I was trying to fool myself into believing that I was not here. I was also trying to fool myself into believing I was a 6'5" black woman with a weave. I was wondering if they can read palms, then why can't they read bottoms of feet. I was wondering if using the word "hither" makes me sound intelligent. I was listening to myself listen to myself. I was also watching myself out of the corner of my eye. I was wondering what the consequences of whiting out the word delete would be. I was wishing that my knee joints were of the ball and socket variety. My front kicks would be devastating. I was practicing the art of spontaneity. I was trying to decide if Orpheous Roy was a name I made up in my head or if he is a real person. I was penning my name and naming my pen, Ron. And most of all I was assuming my assumptions.

Well, Heather, have a nice day. Congratulations on the good looks.

Orpheous Roy

http://www.all-heather.com/

Kari Wuhrer

Dear Kari,

I felt compelled to write in and offer my sincerest congratulations on the good looks. This, however, is truly a sad, sad, day. For you see Kari, I am writing you to say that I will never be writing you again. I know that this is our first official communiqué, but it is also our last. Shhhhhh! Let me finish. I understand that the destruction of a bond as strong, as pithy and as tight as ours surely would be devastating for you as well as for me, but I must do it. You see our bond has driven the wedge of insurrection between me and Sven, my other personality. Sven is a tall blonde cable car driver with nationalistic tendencies and a flair for crochet. Despite his stunning good looks, his rudimentary language skills (both Swedish and Portuguese) usually hinder his progress with the ladies. He can play piano with his toes but hates the look of his feet. His ears are large and his forehead is even larger. Sven has seven fingers, three elbows and only one knee, which bends the wrong way. Despite his calm demeanor, Sven loses his temper every time the temperature reaches 73 degrees: Kelvin that is. He has given up on both Fahrenheit and Celsius because they are, in his words, "Symptomatic of a selfish culture driven to chase the almighty buck due the formalism of the government systems." When Sven was a child he was beaten with his own hand and told repeatedly not to blink. When Sven turned 10 his parents fooled him into thinking he was twenty-one. He grew a goatee, developed a drinking habit and got an apartment in the mean streets of Swedenville, where he worked odd jobs to pay his bills. When Sven was twenty-five, he reached puberty and with this, he had his first sexual encounter. His partner, a seven hundred pound Mongolian woman named Wilma, toyed with his emotions and left him a tattered shell of a man. When Sven turned thirty-eight, twenty-seven in actuality, he finally took a step in the right direction, he admitted he had a problem and got help. Better living through chemistry is now his motto. The proper mix of Prozac and Melon Liqueur keeps his ions in proper balance. Sven lives a lonely existence, it's just him and his pet rabbit named Forest Whitaker. Sven is to charm what toothpaste is to Europeans, non-existent. I think he fears our healthy relationship. Kari, he's never been so jealous before. When I asked him if he was upset by my new relationship with you, he said, "Da." The clincher was when I told him that I would call it off immediately and he replied, "Da. Gut." I feel horrible for letting you down.

I would just like to let you know that I am normal. Well, as normal as a guy with two personalities can be. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices, unfortunately you are caught in the wake of this sacrifice. All that’s left is for me to say goodbye and let you know I think you did an excellent job on the good looks.

Remorsefully yours,


Orpheous Roy

http://www.kariwuhrer.net/

Kelli Maroney

Dear Kelli,

Let me first say that it was very nice of you to write back. I have informed a few of my friends of your site and I urged them to check it out. The problem is, your gracious return of my email has caused me some ill. I need to come clean and tell you that my name is not Conway Twitty. I apologize for hiding behind that thinly veiled mask of illusion. My real name is Baron Von Needlestein. Now don't get excited, I'm not a baron. It is just my name. I am an internationally renowned "Lawn Jockey" artist. Maybe you've heard of me? I really am a trailblazer in an unexplored realm of artistry. You see I understand that lawn jockeys have been around since the invention of lawns, but I add flair! Drama! I add a sense of being and purpose to the jockeys and make the owners feel as if they, the jockey and its owner, are kindred spirits. Have you ever heard of "The Down and Out Lawn Jockey?" That was a true reflection on the problems I faced during that particular time in my life, struggling artist. Or maybe you have heard of the creation that put me on an international level, "Jockeys Playing Poker." I have outfitted lawns from Tuscaloosa all the way to Belize, but enough about me.

Well, maybe a little more about me and my new direction. I am pushing the boundaries of my artistic intentions and have discovered what may turn out to be the new wave in what is really a blase culture of modern art. I am giving life and relationships to inanimate objects. My first work "Isolated String Reaches Out" encompasses the passion that I have for art as well as the passion inanimate objects have for relationships. It is a string tied to the rafters of my “showroom." The key is that when people come in the look for the art they see the string and question it, or look at it or maybe if they are bold, touch it. It is at that exact moment that a relation between the inanimate object, string, and various humans, animate life, has formed. Albeit a strange relation. Look for my newest creations "Leaning Trashcan Lid," and "Upright Plunger" coming to an art gallery nearest you.

Thanks again Kelli, I just had to come clean. I will be looking for you in your various productions and I am sure that you will have a little more traffic to the website because I have been talking you up.

Have a good one

B. Vn.

http://www.kellimaroney.com/

Susan Egan

Dear Susan,

I agree it is truly a mad, mad, mad mad mad world out there, but it's not only in 1999. No, Susan, it is a continuous evolution, or devolution, of madness that spirals like a staircase both up and down. Take for instance the situation in Kosovo where NATO has proven that two wrongs do not make a right. Take for instance the situation in Africa where a lightning bolt struck a field of soccer players killing 10, all on the same team. Or Susan, take the situation that happened to me right here in Manhattan. Since I am not sure what I am going to write there will be absolutely NO guarantee of a factual basis for this story. One morn I was on my way to work when this gorgeous young lady approached and said, "Hi Orpheous." I was taken aback and replied, "Hey good lookin' what you got cookin? And how do you know my name?" Without a moment's hesitation she cocked her left arm, balled her fist and yelled, "TIMBERRRRRRRRRR" as she let fly with the classic straight right to the body followed by a left hook to the head. When I awoke, I was noticeably dazed and slightly enamored with this mystery girl possessing the heavy hands. I pushed on and in pushing on I noticed that I could not get this girl out of my mind. I wanted to know, no, I needed to know who this femme fatale was.

Now, I know that the anticipation is building and I have you on the edge of your seat, but unfortunately the madness ended right there. T'was not to be, alas for me. We never crossed paths again and I have remained loveless ever since. Women have been ruined for me, since I have met the Isis of my time. I have met the most bedeviling, most beguiling and most disciplined body puncher that I could ever have dreamed. Her memory fades like a ship on the horizon, but the scar above my eye is a daily reminder of the madness of this world.

I say this to you because Susan, you are absolutely correct. Madness abounds like pollution in New York. Madness' grip is not only on the ninety-ninth year, for you see my tale transpired in 1998.

I don't have any tales from 1997, so for all I know madness may only sing his eerie song in the years of 1998 and 1999, but I will tell you one thing, we won't let it happen in the year 2000. That's right you, Susan, and me, Orpheous, will not let this scourge on society crochet its evil afghan. Your singing, dancing, acting and general beauty combined with my "Lawn Jockey Art" should be enough to hold back the evil tide of the madness in 2000. That's my story. Thanks for joining the effort and keep up the good work.

Frivolously yours,

Orpheous Roy

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0250743/

Shauna Sand

Dear Shauna,

I just wanted to give you a little shout of "boo-ya" for the good looks. Way to go! I see that you are fluent in French and I am also fluent in French. Let's communicate in French so the uncultured won't know what we are talking about. Je m'appelle Orpheous. Je manges le fromage et l'egumes et la poisson. Je travaille aux New York City et J'habites avec mon chateau. Je faire du volley et football Americaine et curling et bowling. Je suis fatigue. Et tu?

Anyway, I only like to pull out the French when I romance the ladies. You can see how it charms them. It is the language of love after all. I used to get really confused when I would speak French to women and sometimes it would end up hurting my chances. One time I said, "I like to eat my cat and play with my plant," but I meant to say "That guy in the corner is Pat and I pay him to play with my plant." Needless to say the confusion drove a lifelong wedge between me and ma cheri, but my plant is thriving. It's a Ficus.

Sorry to cut this short but my coffee break is up and I have to get back to the grind. Yeah, I am still an MTV "The Grind" dancer. I am the oldest one, sixty-three, but I don't think anyone notices. I can still cut up the rug, just, sometimes I bust out one of my solid moves and the rest of the cast just looks at me with crinkled faces. I guess they don't do the "Butter the Corn" or the "Puttin out a Cingarette" anymore. It's a shame that is how I used to score with the babes. Oh well, I do it for the love.

Take care Shauna and once again I would like to say congratulations on the good looks

Bon Soir Ma Cheri

Orpheous Roy

http://www.shaunasand.com/

Leah Remini

Dear Leah,

I just figured that I would write and say I really don't have much to say. I'm just trying to kill a few moments at work. I guess I could tell you that we do have one thing in common and that is I also took ballet and tap when I was young. Well, took really isn't the correct word, I should say was forced to partake. The tap dancing was okay because at least there were some boys in the class, but the ballet was too much.

Anyway, that is where I met my first girlfriend, Heather Catwilder. Needless to say that relationship didn't work out (you know how fickle 6 year olds are). So it comes down to recital night, a night that I had been dreading for every waking moment of the six months leading up to it. Well, even though I didn't want to do it, I fired myself up and was determined to be the best damn ballerina in the company. (I think they call it that). So when it was our turn to go, I ambled over to my designated spot on stage and what did I find? Heather Catwilder was standing in my spot. Well, I told her, "Hey you're in my spot," to which she replied, "No, I'm not." This went on for about 2 minutes until I started hearing chuckles form the audience. I tried to give her a little push (a gentle nudge into her spot) but she wasn't having any of it and she pushed me back. Needless to say the audience was enjoying this way too much for me to be comfortable, so I backed down and went over to Heather's spot. As if you couldn't guess from that moment on I was completely out of whack, discombobulated if you will. It is all really a blur from then on in, but I do remember the quintessential moment of the evening. That was when I went backstage and found my mom. "We have to talk," I stated huffily as I dragged her off to the side. "This is the last ballet show I ever do!" And it was. Strictly sports from then on in. Although, I do think that I am so light on my feet because of ballet. I also think the reason that I can really "cut up the rug" is because I learned early on the mind set it takes to be a dancer. The concentration, the focus and the determination were instilled upon me, in those, my early years and it has translated into many spectacular moves on the club scene ever since. I don't hit the clubs all that often but when I do, Forget About It!, the floor gets singed.

Also there is another lesson to be learned from this situation. You women are nuts! Get an idea in your head and it is over. I don't think I have ever been the same. Heather Catwilder was just too much woman for me. I thought I knew what I was getting into with her, but boy was I wrong. She threw off my entire learning curve. I'm twenty-five and I'm just starting to make some ground figuring you women out. I'm sure you're guilty of confusing plenty of men along the way.

Leah, could ya just take it easy on us?

Thanks,

Orpheous Roy

www.leahremini.net/

Erika Christensen

Dear Erika,

I just wanted to write in and say, I wonder what it is like to be young and good looking. I guess I will never know, you see Erika, I am stupendously ugly. I am a veritable oasis of ugly in a desert of beauty. I am to ugly - what cake is to chocolate cake. If you looked up ugly in the dictionary, you would just close the book and hit me over the head with it. Erika, I want you to know that I do have a good heart. If you believe it then at least someone will know.

My mom always said that beauty (and ugliness) is derived from a person's inner being. She said that my inner beauty would transcend my outer shell no matter what I look like. To this I could only reply, "I agree to a certain extent, but there is such a thing as undeniable beauty and in my case undeniable ugliness. If my inner beauty was to transcend, then I would be welcomed at restaurants and people wouldn't call me Sloth."

I've never really had any friends because of, you know. It's a shame because I have plenty of fly stylish gear. If masks were in fashion, I bet you I would get women, maybe even you Erika. I chose you because I have confidence that your are a deep pool of understanding in a cavern of compassion. I know you would look me square in the feet (that's the closest anyone has ever come to looking me in the eyes) and say, "I like you, for who you are and not what you look like. I don't care that you look like living road kill and I don't care about your glandular problem."

I guess I should also mention that I have a slight glandular problem. I'm not fat! I just sweat a lot. I sweat a whole lot. I have to have an I.V hooked to me at all times to replenish the fluids I lose. Doctors said that it was nothing to worry about and I would grow out of it, but since I only grew to be three feet that didn't happen. I am the shortest, wettest and ugliest guy in the world.

Oh well...I guess there are the lucky and then there are the short, ugly and wet.

Damply yours,


Orpheous Roy

www.erikachristensen.com

Anjanette Abayari

Dear Daggar,

"Kudos" on the good looks is how I had started so many of my other letters to the "stars" willing to put up a site and daring enough to give me a channel for feedback. The letters, varying in range, style and length were unceasing in ridiculousness and unmatched in odd ball humor. I have spoken of "Lawn Jockey Art" and "Lawn Jockey Balancing." I have discussed evil magicians, girls called guacamole and my days as a ballet prodigy. I, with an undying passion for nonsense, stumbled onto Anjanette's page geared to challenge her sense of humor and sense of self, but was aghast at what I found. I actually like the page.

How bold she is to put herself forth in such a manner. Poetry? We might find out she's a fraud. Confidence? We might find out she's conceited. Open? We might find out we don't like her. My eyes tenderly greeted by words and not pictures of such a beauty, how could that be? I enter to find a mystical setting leading me to a world beyond, paths to the stars, sultry images to swoon over and most of all insight into her being.

Daggar, I don't know if you are just a cog in the wheel or if you control the machine, either way, you deserve a "that a boy!" You deserve a pat on the back. If we went to a bar, I wouldn't buy you a drink, but I would make a toast to your website. "Here's to your website" would probably be the toast. I have to warn you that I don't clink on the toast. I used to clink, but have done away with the contact, for I feel it crude and boorish to display such aggression when celebrating feats unequaled. And this, in my estimation, is a feat unequaled.

You may not have done anything to foster any hope for the entertainment/beauty industry, for I am too far along is my disgust, but you have rekindled a different hope. A hope that somewhere we will find the light, the light at the beginning of the tunnel, the light that is a guide from the start and not a reward at the end.

To you, Daggar, and to our girl Anjanette Abayari, I say, "Guten Nacht" for I know the sun will rise tomorrow.

Imperiously yours,

Orpheous Roy

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0007776/

Yvonne Reyes

Dear Yvonne,

Hello Yvonne! I see that you are from Venezuela. I have a friend from Venezuela. His name is Freddy. Anyway, I will now attempt to communicate to you in your native tongue. "Mucho Leche! Grande Manos!" I believe I just said much milk and large hands. I guess we wouldn't be doing much communicating in Spanish.

Actually, I am writing to you for some advice. You see, I have always had a little thing for the South American/Latino/Spanish Speaking women. Now that I am in New York I get to see a lot of beautiful Latino and South American babes. The problem is I am a white guy and they just don't seem interested. One time I was in a bar and hitting it off with this fine looking Latino chica. Things were going great and then all of a sudden she had to go to the bathroom. This is when things started to go down hill. When she returned she told me that she was going to hang on the other side of the bar. I questioned why? She told me that her friends (males) told her to, "Stop hanging around with Malibu Ken." As it turns out that comment is really kind of funny. I don't look anything like Malibu Ken, I look more like the Aqua - man figure, but I digress. So really what I am asking is, should I give up on trying to meet the Spanish-speaking women?

Some background for the case

1. I don't speak Spanish
2. I am tan, but if I am out of the sun for a day, then woosh, it’s back to creamy white
3. I can't roll my R's
4. I don't really like spicy food

Do you have any thoughts?

Thanks Yvonne.

Curiously,

Orpheous Roy

http://www.perfectpeople.net/biopage.php3/cid=134