Stop sending me mail.
I have learned, through your incessant attempts to communicate with me, that you find me fascinating and whimsical and would like to initiate some semblance of a friendship. I am touched and flattered by this. I understand that the life of a socialite may grow tiresome-- that the parties and gala balls seem to fade into one another and that you long for a companion with whom you might sit in your flannel pajamas, eating Wheat Chex and watching the Lion King.
I can tell you are lonesome and are looking for non-threatening camaradarie. You want me to watch your videotape. A lot. Every day the same thing-- Raquel, watch my videotape. Raquel, watch my videotape.
Ok, Paris. I'll check out your 'independent film project,' if it's not unnecessarily obscure or overly drawn out and if you, in return, agree to watch any number of MY videotapes. I'll watch yours and you watch mine. This seems more than fair to me.
What was yours about again? The e-mail you sent wasn't quite explicit enough-- I couldn't really get a feel for the content of the tape.
Mine are incredibly varied. They may or may not include videotapes of me, age seven, attempting to jump off a wagon into a pile of leaves; shots of my father and his drunken siblings singing "You're a grand old flag" to the tune of "Won't you come home, Bill Bailey" while throwing scones at some off-camera entity which then proceeds to throw the scones back at them.
You are agreeing to watch my adorable younger sister repeatedly moon the camera, my father zoom in on my grandmother's breasts, and my Floridian uncle eating copious amounts of sausage. You will listen to my father say, "This is a MOVING camera, people," upward of eleven times over the course of an hour, and you will watch as my mother attempts to document the turning points of our lives, while forgetting to turn on the sound.
Are you still with me, Paris? Do you still need me to critique your video project?
You will watch films of my mother burning a bundt cake and then violently arguing over her boggle scores. You will watch my sister Pamela dancing to "Jenny from the Block" and continue to tune in as I randomly cut from shots of a pineapple, to a gluestick, to a poorly-done Ricky Martin drawing for no apparent reason. You will bear with us as various camera-operators get shots of themselves in the mirror, holding the camera, and think they are creative for having figured this out.
You will watch my grandmother do the Macarena from a wheelchair, laugh as my grandfather shows you how to extract a tooth using items from his craftsman toolchest, and will listen to various, unnamed people drink Pina Coladas and tell jokes in Spanish.
You will watch upward of thirty thousand birthday parties, weddings, reunions and vacations. You will cringe slightly when my father uses pick-up lines on Minnie Mouse, Daisy Duck and Winnie the Pooh's "Piglet," who he mistakenly took to be female.
Do we have a deal, Paris?
As horrible as they sound-- the majority of my videos are at least mildy entertaining, which is more than I can say for most episodes of your television show.
Call me at work if you'd like to talk.
I know this is a lot to take in at once and I'm sure you have a lot on your mind.
Tell me what you think. I'm free every day except Sunday.