You haven’t called in months.
I always wanted to say that from here.
I hope you’re well. You’re going to make a brilliant Violet in August: Osage County. You know I think Tracy Letts is overrated but you were born to play the role, and after it opens, no one will even remember It’s Complicated. I follow Mamie’s career, too, and she has real promise. That silly doctor show, like Mickey Rourke’s ill-fated comeback, shall soon pass.
It’s lovely here, Meryl. I’m still not sure where I am, but it’s a bit like the pit stop where Al Brooks romanced you in Defending your Life, without the clichéd robes. The restaurants eschew food trends and everyone rejects Twitter as a legitimate vehicle for wit and the movie theaters offer matinee prices all day and there are very few children and I haven’t had a migraine since June. And even though I’ve avoided sunscreen since I arrived, my neck somehow looks smoother than it has in years.
I have to ask you something and I hope you’ll be honest with me. They discourage cynicism and elitism here (it’s not as bleak as it sounds), so I haven’t read The New Yorker since my move. But I heard a horrible rumor that after I died, that tubby teenaged troll whose name isn’t worthy of my memory wrote my obit in the pages of MY magazine. Is this true? Why didn’t they ask Woody or Steve or Calvin or Fran or Diane or Billy? Even that Joker-faced bag of Botox would’ve been a more fitting choice. What’s next – will Moby be asked to eulogize Philip Glass?
Please tell me I’m mistaken, Meryl. I didn’t pen Heartburn and Silkwood so that one day, Hannah Horvath could dazzle the world by binging on cupcakes in her G-string.
All my love,