Fan Mail

People in the public purview sometimes get fan mail. Actors, famous writers, rock stars. Even us lowly midlist writers get, now and then, a note from somebody telling us how much they a) enjoyed something we wrote or b) hated it. I've gotten both. Plus I get a fair amount for the former lead singer of Journey, and let me hasten to add, I'm not him.

And, now and again, I've sent snail- or email to folks who have written things I found enjoyable. Or to point out that when they shoved a clip into the butt of that revolver, they ought not to have said that ...

Um. Anyway, once upon a time I sent a note to Dave Barry, in Miami, who for years had a very funny column in the Sunday papers, until he got so rich he didn't have to work any more. (Dave was also in the Rock Bottom Remainders, the rock band made up of rich and famous writers, with people like Ridley Pearson, Amy Tan, Matt Groening, and Stephen King. I'm waiting for my invitation to join, but so far, no love ...)

People who get thousands of letter every month seldom remember the contents of most of them, but if I ever have a chance to meet Barry, I'm guessing he'll remember mine.

True story:

One Sunday fifteen years back, my wife and I were in bed, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. I had just gotten to Dave Barry's column -- something about cows, I think -- when Roxanne, our Chow-Chow dog, who was next to the bed, started heaving.

Those of you who have dogs know this impending horror -- dog opens her mouth, leans forward, and makes an unmistakable noise, kind of a sloshing sound, and normally you try and get her to the door and outside real fast ...

Being that our bedroom was all the way in the back of the house, I knew we'd never make it, so I leaped off the bed like Spider Man and thrust the paper I was reading under Roxie's nose, just as she puked up a torrent of half-digested dog food.

Saved the carpet, but the paper was, ah ... no longer readable ...

Next morning, I wrote a letter to Dave Barry. Explained what had happened, and finished the note with, so, Dave, how'd that cow story end ... ?

A week or so later, I got a manila envelope from Florida, the Miami Herald, and inside was a tearsheet of Barry's column for the previous week, with a note clipped to it that said, "Dear Steve -- Here. Try and take better care of this one ..."