Dear MJ/Paul,
Hey man, thanks for writing to me. (You can tell I’m an American since I start my letters with hey man which all Americans use in their formal correspondence to denote their Yankeeism ha ha ha pulling yer leg man). I love that you love me! Thank you for reading my little bookies! I wrote them on napkins and on the floor. But look, Paul. I think you’re a mixed-up kid. I think you need guidance. Don’t be writing that metafiction shit man. That stuff was old hat in the eighties. Imagine what it is now! It’s a decaying chapeau. It’s a mouldy bowler, man. Stop it. I don’t read modern stuff since I once read a Paul Auster novel and thought what the hell is this man, is the dude on artichokes and cough syrup or something what the fiddle? If you were here, I’d teach you all the things you need to know about the piddle-widdle and the prostate. So get on a plane! I live in Brooklyn, which being a Scot you will know is one street somewhere at the bottom of New York, near the scuzzy bit where the blacks live but sort of near the posh bit where the yuppie hipsters live. We all consume Ritz crackers and Chablis. In the meantime, I have attached a scan of my left nipple to amuse your cousins. My latest book—This Squeezy Bottle Looks Somewhat Phallic—is coming out next March, be sure to buy four copies.
Til then,
J T Leroy
Hey man, thanks for writing to me. (You can tell I’m an American since I start my letters with hey man which all Americans use in their formal correspondence to denote their Yankeeism ha ha ha pulling yer leg man). I love that you love me! Thank you for reading my little bookies! I wrote them on napkins and on the floor. But look, Paul. I think you’re a mixed-up kid. I think you need guidance. Don’t be writing that metafiction shit man. That stuff was old hat in the eighties. Imagine what it is now! It’s a decaying chapeau. It’s a mouldy bowler, man. Stop it. I don’t read modern stuff since I once read a Paul Auster novel and thought what the hell is this man, is the dude on artichokes and cough syrup or something what the fiddle? If you were here, I’d teach you all the things you need to know about the piddle-widdle and the prostate. So get on a plane! I live in Brooklyn, which being a Scot you will know is one street somewhere at the bottom of New York, near the scuzzy bit where the blacks live but sort of near the posh bit where the yuppie hipsters live. We all consume Ritz crackers and Chablis. In the meantime, I have attached a scan of my left nipple to amuse your cousins. My latest book—This Squeezy Bottle Looks Somewhat Phallic—is coming out next March, be sure to buy four copies.
Til then,
J T Leroy
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