One thing I havent done is drunk write a handwritten letter, and send it through snail mail. I'm sure it's been done. I know its been done. In 1873 Lord Blackwell had one too many snifters of brandy and was feeling quite amorous in his lonely brocade infested country estate. He started thinking about that hot strumpet Lady Pettigrew of the Stratfordshire Pettigrews, and proceeded to write her the most scathingly inappropriate letter of it's time. A lot of nonsense about passonate loins, heaving busoms and 300 pounds a year. That sort of thing. Anywho, he made the butler deliver it post haste and promptly blacked out only to wake with a pounding headache and a vague feeling of dread. Cut to two weeks later when he showed up at the Byron's Midsummer Ball, and you can just imagine the snarky looks and cold shoulders he got. You'd be surprised how fast word can travel in an age without computers. That just about ended his social and romantic career. In his desperation he was forced to wed his odious spinster cousin Eunice (she was an ancient 28) who later gave birth to 3 rather unfortunate daughters non of which received a mere thought of a letter let alone a marriage proposal... putting a nail in the Blackwell family legacy forever.
It happened again in 1956 when 15 year old Peggy had been drinking spiked punch at the sock hop. As soon as she got home she just HAD to write a letter to her cousin Mary Beth in Ohio. It was all about how she was just sure Sammy was going to pin her any old day now, and really he's positively radioactive! All the gals are jealous. She was over the moon now that her brassiere was finally filling out, and golly; she CAN'T WAIT to go to college her parents are so square they wont even let her listen to Buddy Ho----- That's when she started to feel a bit green and instantly developed a cold sweat. That doomed letter never made it to Mary Beth because before she could even set her pencil down, she blew chunks all over the letter, her poodle skirt, and the pink shag carpet. Mother was furious and took the record player away for 2 whole months, squaresville indeed.
There were a few more drunk letters written after that and not all of them ended in regrets and vomit, but somewhere around the advent of personal email they drastically started to taper off. In fact, in the last 10 years not a single drunk letter was ever written, let alone mailed. That was until November 21st, 2011 when Baxter wrote me a letter at approximately 3 o'clock in the morning.
Earlier that evening Jesse, Baxter and I had been steadily throwing back rye manhattans while laughing it up at the Improv. When the show was over, the real show began. Aghast and appalled that I had never been to the Chateau Marmont, the boys were determined to take me there before the night was through. Once settled at the bar with fresh manhattans in hand, I was ousted from the boy talk with orders to make some new friends. EASY PEASY. Let's see; socialites, models, and celebrities, blah blah blah. I make friends with the guy who has one arm and two hands. You do the math. I thought he looked like one of the comedians from the show earlier, although you would think I'd have noticed if the comedian on stage had one mini hand poking out of his left shoulder blade or not. But dude, I just see people as who they are inside, man, not their physical representation and attached societal prejudices... or whatever. Mostly the manhattans were taking over.
SO the bar closes and Jesse decides to get a room for us. Thanksgiving is the next day, and we do love to spend our holidays unconventionally. You could say it is our tradition to spend the holidays untraditionally. Oh the irony. Ok, ok, enough stalling. Mini hand comes with us, and once in the spacious suite we all head to the kitchen to raid the well stocked bar. That's when it must've happened. That must be the point where Baxter finds the hotel stationary and unbeknownst to us writes a letter thus breaking the drunk letter writing drought of the 21st century.
A few days later I'm sifting through my junk mail when I find a slim envelope addressed to me with the return address of the Chateau Marmont. Confused, I opened it to find this:
|Dear Misty, I have enjoyed your company and the company of your man very much this evening. Love your coat. You look hot. Love, Baxter|
P.S. Hi Jesse