Came across something just now. It occurs to me that this is the first installment of my ho treatise and I should warn you now that I�m pirating this whole first installment. Because, my friends, I am a ho. I�ll have to stitch my thoughts together over time, and incoherently, because I�m not together in my mind. I�m desperate and sad and all the things I am. But this letter must be attended to, must be pasted in now, at the moment of its discovery. I'll do myself one better, more like one worse actually, because I'm not attributing the letter. I'm afraid of google searches today. I fear discovery. By whom? For what? Never mind, you.

Eh, Monsieur:

Please excuse the impertinence of this letter and let me apologize for the impertinence of all the other writers herein. Although they may not say it, I will. We are not writing these letters to you. Indeed, we are merely writing to ourselves or to the part of ourselves that once had true literary aspirations, had honor, had good-hearted and honest artistic intentions, and was not jaded. I am sure you know the favorite vice of writers is masturbation. Beyond that, too many writers love to talk about writing. No wonder the young people of this country have retreated to television and computers. I swear to Christ there is nothing more boring than hearing writers wax on about literature and their own pissy contributions to it. What�s even worse is to listen to writers who claim to understand the big picture of books, yet are unable to write a simple, engaging, whiskey-belching American sentence. Were we lucky enough to have the fame and money God bestowed on you, we would not waste our time with such crap as this exercise.

Frankly, I can�t recall much of your writings, except of course that big novel that made you huge money and allowed you to run from the scheming, conniving, petulant world that is American literature, but I couldn�t tell you the plot, the only thing that sticks in my mind is the business of �prostitute writers.� But hey, I guess that�s what we all are or aspire to be. The guys who hit the big time are whores or eventually get turned out as whores, but the lesser guys like me are surely sluts. But even those minor league poets like myself can break out of the penitentiary of iambic pentameter and become flash-in-the-pan whores. I have recently sold a novel to Hollywood and they are now filming it. Finally, I have become a �prostitute writer�! I only hope it brings me enough greenbacks to never have to write again, to never have to talk to another agent, editor, publisher, poetaster, or journalist. I hope I never have to send my obscure work to yet another obscure publication or university-sponsored literary journal. I hope to never have to stand in a bookstore and read the drippings of my heart to a scant and strangely longing crowd of American losers. I hope to never have to stand in front of a class full of freshman comp students who don�t understand why a dependent clause should be set off by a comma. In short, I hope this stupid movie allows me to toss my computer out the window for evermore. Thank God literature is dying. It is dying, isn�t it?

At any rate, here�s to you, pal. Honestly, I don�t even know if you�re still living. Last I heard you were in New England banging young girls. I lived in New England for some years so I can�t blame you. But, if it�s true, more power to you. If it�s not true, get some Viagra. But never mind, like I said, this letter is not to you. And, it�s not really to me either. It�s to Mxxxx Mxxx, my high school English teacher in Yxxxx, Nevada. The year was 1962. That was the year they moved me from fullback to pulling guard. The state of Nevada was in a time warp. We had never even heard of Jack Kerouac who is far more important than you. We still ran the ridiculous single wing although more learned areas of the country ran the T or split-T. Mr. Mxxx made us read your friggin� book. We all liked it because it spoke to us young folks. Mxxx was a half-breed Paiute Indian like myself. I don�t even know if he�s still alive. He had a charcoal gray mohair sports coat, wore thin ties, and had coal-black eyes that told you he could kick your ass if he had to. He�s the guy that made me love literature, and I know we spent a full week on The Catcher in The Rye, but I don�t know if we said anything meaningful or even truly understood it.

Then again, what is meaningful to a teenager? Even though we can read great works as a teenager, all things eventually dissolve into meaninglessness. Sometimes I have a hard time recalling the first piece of tail that I ever got. I�m fairly sure it was in a cathouse since cathouses were and are legal in most of Nevada. I couldn�t tell you what the woman looked like or if I enjoyed it. It was just a rite of passage for us hicks in the sticks of the high, western desert. I have lost that true memory. It doesn�t matter. We are born lost, only to gain a little bit of wisdom and then watch our bodies disintegrate almost at that same time we begin to gain that true insight into this cheap puzzle of life. Imagine the descendents of the Ghost Dance messiah Wovoka reading your book in the small desert valley of so long ago�.Anyway, to make a long story short, this Bud�s for you. And it�s for me too. But, it�s especially for my high school English teacher. Au revoir, my man. Don�t take any wooden nickels! Especially beware of those Indian head nickels. Thanks, I think, for encouraging me in this peculiar direction.