Rather than brainstrain to segue a group of random thoughts together as is usually the case with OMM, I've decided to go with a series of open letters this quarter. Should you have been expecting the standard column and thus demand a refund, by all means send a note to statelywaynemanor@aol.com. It's not my address, but feel to write there, nonetheless, crybaby.
Dear Extreme Goth People:
You are not from Transylvania. You are not Christopher Lee or Vampira. You are a laughing stock--and deservedly so.
Trekkies are predominantly white and middle-class. dress absurdly to imitate a non-existent world from a fantasy series, and can't dance a lick. Complete losers, you'd say, yes? But change their theme movie to Dracula, and they're...YOU!
Dear Third-rate Screenwriters:
Having an obviously Yank actor call someone "a wanker" in a ridiculously fraudulent Cockney accent to signify he's "English" is like having him wear a T-shirt that says "Wouldn't know the Thames from a Tampon." Oh, and do tell the rest of the hacks there's no union rule stating the same asinine accent must be affected by anyone playing a "rock star."
Dear Sting:
Just wanted to thank you for making my job so much easier over the past year. It used to be, I'd occasionally have to argue to prove my contention you're a phony and a pretentious asshole. But after the "working-class hero" who rode in on the coattail of punk charged around a C-note per concert ticket and did a TV ad for Jaguar Motors, I hardly have to convince anyone!
Tell me, Gordo, me boy: The leather seats and wood trim on super luxury cars--they come from animals and trees that commit suicide, right? Just checking, Mr. Concerned Environmentalist.
Keep up the great work, Stinkeroo. I very much look forward to seeing you replace Heston as the NRA's chief shill.
Dear Aging Women Who Comb Their Hair Into Their Face To Hide The Advancing Years:
Hey, gals, this female equivalent of the balding guy comb-over--otherwise known as "The Ann-Margaret" at the Stately Salon--does an incredible job. Nobody's going to call you a granny with that clever styling. "An immeasurably vain, fatuous, broken-down-cheap-hooker-looking old hag," maybe, Miss Kitty, but certainly not "granny."
Dear SNL:
It had been ages since I last caught your program and--though I blush to admit this--I apparently missed the announcement that you were changing your format to straight drama (ifI may use the term "straight" in reference to a show with Chris Kattan in its cast.)
At any rate, I am writing to pass along a sincere apology. I was in a bar the other night when your program came on, and at one point during the first hour, a singular patron let out a stifled titter midway through one of your dramatic readings. Believe you me, I severely admonished this coarse fellow for his rudeness; and, I have utmost confidence no one else will laugh during your fine program the entire remainder of the season.
Dear Athletes Discussing Paydays:
Um, fellas, don't look now but nobody with the least bit of sense is buying into that "I've gotta do what's best for my family" routine you run when you really mean, "Screw loyalty; I'm going to work for whomever pays me the most."
Don't get me wrong: it's entirely acceptable coming from a 19-year-old from the projects ditching college for the NBA. But when a multimillionaire thumbs his nose at an eight-figure offer then turns around and tries to deflect his boundless greed by slipping into his "Concerned provider" cap, that's a baloney sandwich nobody at the Manor Mansion is biting on.
What family can't scrape by on "only" 40 mil, the friggin' Cosa Nostra?!? Cut the crap, jockstrap.
Dear Drew Carey:
It's wonderful that your use of "Cleveland Rocks" has put a few pints on the table of poor underappreciated Ian Hunter. But would you mind doing me an itty-bitty favor? STAY THE HELL HOME FOR ONE STINKIN' NIGHT!
There's the sitcom, the syndicated version of same, ads for both, Pay Per Views, ads for other products; on the tube, in print, glued to the bus stop plastic arch. Worse yet, there you are promoting the most irritating, aren't-I-bloody-brilliant medium on the entire planet. (Some call it "improv.")
Well, at least I can enjoy the King Of Sports in peace. Let's see, I'll just flip on the WWF Survivor Series; and coming down the aisle towards the ring is...OH, NO, NOT YOU AGAIN!
Ever hear the expression "Familiarity breeds contempt," Drew? Well, you're getting so familiar, I'd like to wring your goddamn neck--if you had one.
Dear Members Of The Scientific Community:
Come on, you can tell your old pal Stately: you guys take a secret pledge swearing to grow really goofy hair from the neck up, correct?
Dear MTV:
You mean, if you point a camera with a worldwide feed at drunken immature Spring Break revelers or, better still, preening self-consumed pop stars forever attempting to nurture their phony "wild child" images, they'll do something wildly "outrageous" (like tearing the tag off a mattress)?!? Wow, deeyoods, you are just so "cutting edge' and "pushing the envelope."
Oh, um, while I like have your attention, could you remind me what the "M" in your initials stands for? I can't seem to recall.
Dear People Who Bend Their Arm At The Elbow, Jerk It Back And Exclaim, "Yes!":
Isn't it wonderful what they've trained you automatons to do these days? And I bet, if I ask why you perform said ritual, not a single one of you would be able to supply an answer...besides, of course, monkey see, monkey do.
Dear Lou Reed:
Nice one! I thought it was a hoot hearing a Muzak version of "Perfect Day" in a supermarket once; but catching it as the theme for an NFL ad campaign was...well, this easily surpasses the motor company using "Walk On The Wild Side," as far as putting one over on the squares.
If you can imagine how shocked the fogeys on the Board Of Directors would have been had they a clue "Wild Side" chronicled drag queens and male prostitures, just think of how many cardiacs the ultramacho, tight-assed unfunky football bigwigs would suffer if they knew their spokesperson lived with a transvestite, had numerous shock treatments, included "shooting up" in his stage show and wrote a paean to heroin!
Hell, you'd likely kill half the jocksniffers in the universe if you convinced the NFL to let you play the Superbowl halftime circus, then performed "Metal Machine Music." And if you can't get that gig, think of the damage you could cause by volunteering to work the league's annual awards banquent and crooning "I Want To Play Football For The Coach" in all its fey glory.
Dear Yo Yo Ma:
Just wondering--are your groupies known as "Yo Yo Ma Mamas"? To get your attention, does one shout "Yo, Yo" or is that considered redundant?
Dear Denise Richards,
All right, all right, I WILL "go to the movies and make out" with you next time you're in NYC or Philly! Now, please, enough with the phone machine messages and letters, already!
Dear Denise Richards:
Me, again. Forgot to mention you are this issue's special Hubba Hubba Honey. Though I'm heartbroken you weren't in the Starship Trooper shower scene, and I usually select senoritas who have been around a bit longer, I am half-mystified someone with your flawless frame and face didn't instantly become "Absolutely IT" with America's yoots. I say "half" because these are the same pinheads who instead plaster their walls with Limp Bizkit posters, bought Dude, Where's My Car? tickets and consider the subwoofer the ultimate engineering achievement. No wonder you're crazy about me.
Webmaster's note: The above was written before Denise began hanging around with that Sheen fellow and dropped noticeable weight. Not that we suspect there's any connection between the physical change and Charles' infamous, ahem, "lifestyle," you understand. ;-}