Dear Boy George

Only three things on earth seem useful or soothing to me.

One: wearing stolen shoes. Two: photos of exquisitely

dressed redheads. Three: your voice on the radio. Those songs

fall smack-dab into my range! Not to embarrass you with my

raw American awe, or let you think I’m the kinda girl who

bends over for any guy who plucks his eyebrows and can make

tight braids – but you’re the plump bisexual cherub of the

eighties: clusters of Rubens’ painted angels, plus a dollop of the

Pillsbury dough boy, all rolled into one! We could go skating,

or just lie around my house eating pineapple. I could pierce

your ears: I know how to freeze the lobes with ice so it doesn’t

hurt. When I misunderstand your lyrics, they get even better.

I thought the line I’M YOUR LOVER, NOT YOUR RIVAL, was I’M

ANOTHER, NOTHE BIBLE, or PRIME YOUR MOTHER, NOT A LIBEL,

or UNDERCOVER BOUGHT ARRIVAL. Great, huh? See, we’re of like

minds. I almost died when I read in the Times how you saved

that girl from drowning . . . dived down and pulled the blub-

bering sissy up. I’d give anything to be the limp, dripping

form you stumbled from the lake with, wrapped over your pale,

motherly arms, in a grateful faint, as your mascara ran and ran.


by Amy Gerstler