Fan Mail

Dear Mr. McInerney: Please find enclosed one extra large pair of women’s underpants and one magenta sharpie marker for you to use to autograph my left buttock.  A pre-paid/pre-addressed mailer is also included to facilitate return of the aforementioned autographed panties to me.  Thanks in advance.  I am really and truly your biggest fan, Mr. McInerney.  I’ve read most everything you’ve written and really liked your last 3 columns for the WSJ quite a lot.  (That first one was tough to swallow - but then again what juices of love are not?).  In case you couldn’t tell, that’s your face on the front of the panties.  I enlarged your dot-matrix portrait at Kinko’s and then used my bedazzler to recreate your likeness with pink rhinestones.  That’s why the panties are XL.  I couldn’t fit your whole face on the sexy, little ones I’d originally bought at Victoria’s Secret.  But no matter, so long as you know that the President of the Jay McInerney for Editor of Wine Spectator Fan Club doesn’t have an extra large ass.  It’s kind of more medium plus.  I am also writing to find out about any upcoming tour dates you might have this summer.  You may recall from my Facebook page that I already have a picture of me and my other boyfriend, Tyler Florence posted up top.  I was hoping to add a picture of the two of us to my ultimate fan link.  By the way, I have tried to friend you like 5 times, and you never respond.  Someone told me that you can reset your preferences to ignore friend requests, but I’m sure that’s not true.  You’re probably just busy writing the next Great American Novel about an impotent white ex-pat who meets a whale, dreams of throwing kids off of a cliff, and moves from Oklahoma to California to drink oaky chardonnay.  (Ha ha get it? “Oakie” and “oaky?”  I graduated with honors in English Literature from an Ivy League college).

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep at night, I imagine you ask me to edit your work for grammatical errors.  After I point out that third comma splice, you look deeply and gratefully into my eyes and wonder out loud how you ever wrote anything before I came into your life. 

I also have this weird recurring dream about the two of us.  We are at a trendy Manhattan bistro sipping Dom rose champagne, oddly enough.  (I guess that first column affected me more than I thought).  You take my hand in yours and whisper, “This is so fruity, like Kyle’s gay dog dry humping Cartman’s leg.”

I respond back, “No, this is fruity like Ricky Martin’s coming out last week,”

Ever the king of wine-centric similes, you quip, “No, fruity like Maksim’s spangled spandex on Dancing with the Stars.”  Just wait until I get to the part about the acid, mouth-puckering like Kate Gosselin’s angry paparazzi face.  Oh Mr. McInerney, you make me woozy.  As an avid reader of US Weekly and People, I really “get” your columns.  You know just how to make a gal feel like a real wine pro. 

Please let me know about your summer tour schedule as soon as possible.  I’d like to book my airfare before it gets too expensive.  I’m a little short on cash after I bought 35 cases of rose sparkler at BevMo.  It’s the closest I’ll get to the Enotheque.



Your #354 Fan