Dear Barbra:

Hi, It's me, Willie. You might not remember me, but I served you a drink once, I think it was house wine at I Tre Merli about five years ago. I don't work there anymore. I got a better job with less celebrity traffic and better tippers. Speaking of which, you didn't tip me. I think your bar tab - the one for you and your entourage, was about $250, you didn't drink much, but man, those hangers on can really pack it away.

Anyway, that's about a forty dollar tip, and although you stiffed me, I understand. I mean, hey, you're "the Barbara". Tipping shiftless bastards like me in clean shirts is so unnecessary. I was supposed to be happy I got to pour your chardonnay. I know plenty of guys who would have paid me ten times that just to get a phone call from me telling them you were at my bar.

In a couple months I'm bartending at a charity event at you know where. I know you know where since you're the organizer. It's very hush hush, because you don't want the papparazzi all over the place, or a bunch of screaming theater fags lined up outside dressed up like, well, you.

So, here's what I'm proposing. A little deal. You do me a favor. Next time you're on Rosie O'Donnell, or talking to Entertainment Tonight about how in love with that guy from Hotel, just say "I hate gays." okay? Just three words. But it would mean the world to me, Babs, the absolute world.

I don't like your voice. I liked Aretha Franklin's version of Evergreen a lot better, and frankly, when I hear your voice, I have to pee. If you sung an octave higher, you'd be communicating with dolphins. But my fellow gay men love you. They've spent millions on your records, and now that the box set is out of print, have a little heart, it's not like there's anything else they can buy. It won't wipe out your market entirely, there's still a lot of frumpy housewives in Queens who need music to dust their Hummel figures by. Besides, don't you buy the old standby that all PR is good PR? You'll get full media saturation, I assure you, if you casually toss of the little gem I'm suggesting.

I just want to go to one party with my brethren and not have you be the sound track wedged in between Iggy Pop and U2. Even the fags who hate camp love you. I might be the only one who gets annoyed. Barbra, isn't that a small price to pay for more fame, more media exposure and my sanity?

I know where to find the divas, and I can have them lined up outside that secret location in less than 30 minutes. In full Barbra drag no less. Singing at the top of their lungs. One of my regular bar patrons, a great tipper, I might add is a news director for a big nasty tabloid too. I'm sure he'd love the exclusive tipoff. Hell, he's worth at least 600 for that one. And as you can see, I'm on the Internet. Matt Drudge is a point and a click away. I'm not too shy to lie to him. I may just make it up myself.

it would be a lot easier if you did it for me though Babs, it's really the least you can do. Besides, you owe me. This way, when you're sashaying around this party next month, you can feel secure no one peed in your Long Island Ice Tea, because you know, I would. It wouldn't be the first time, either, so I know I can.

Oh, no this is no threat. It's just a suggestion. A what if, if you will, and Babs, you'd better.

your sweet pea,
Willie

write to willie@smug.com

in the junk drawer