The Art of the Fan Letter

I have achieved...nothing today. I haven't even managed to catch up on my scant e-mail correspondence. I've been seized by an awful lethargy, and the only activity in which I've engaged is to watch Wrestlemania IX and bemoan the good ole days, when wrestling was proudly and unabashedly hokey, but the crowd was into it like crazy and laughed and cried and still called the baddies "sons of bitches" and invited them to come over the rail and get a piece. I remember being 14 and sitting in the nosebleed seats with my best friend, hurling out such witty repartee as, "Flexy Lexy" and "Hey, baldy! You want some Turtle Wax for that chrome dome?" Ah, memories.

I've been contemplating writing a fan letter to Eddie Cahill, the blue-eyed devil that dons the Flack jacket once a week, but really, what would I say? It could likely be summed up in three sentences or less, and I'm sure he's heard it all before from people more eloquent than me. I'm certainly not going to draw stick-figure fanart, send him fanfiction or Polaroids of myself in my Battletank, and I'd feel uncomfortable and intrusive were I to inquire or make small talk about anything beyond his acting, and quite frankly, his body of work is not prolific.

I suppose I could simply thank him for his work, send along a SASE, and ask politely for a picture, but even that seems presumptuous.

"Hi. You rule. Please send me, a random and likely batshit crazy stranger, a picture of yourself along with a signature. The photo will be the centerpiece of my obsessional shrine, and I will gaze at it rapturously for hours on end. Were I fifteen years younger, I would also use it to practice my French-kissing, the way I did to the yearbook picture of Jeremy Coppock when I was in sixth grade, but luckily for you, I grew out of that. The signature can also be used for possible identity theft, but don't you worry. I'm not that sort."

See? Creepy.

Bienvenidos, lengua_demorada, al rollo de amigos.