Ken Socrates - Open Letter From Debbie Harry

Open Letter From Debbie Harry

Dear Fuckface;

A friend of mine has informed me that your website has posted the news that you're getting married again and that, in the course of discussing it, my name has once again been raised and some of our history has been dragged out into the open yet again. My lawyer is currently investigating whether or not any of this constitutes a violation of the restraining order I have against you but in the meantime, I'd like to use this letter get a few things straight.

I don't even want to know what poor, delusional young hussey you've gotten to fall for your freakshow act this time. It doesn't matter that yet another idiotic, weak female had debased herself by buying the insane bullshit you sell to people. That's fine. It was bound to happen again, I know. The way you prowl about in social circles like a sleek panther, silently, subtly hunting your prey, waiting for that perfect moment to jump on them and make them yours. Oh, yes, I've seen that in action. But I don't care, honestly. I just wonder if this one really knows what she's getting into. Have you really told her everything?

Have you, Ken?

People probably know that we met at a Blondie gig at the Apollo Theater in Glasgow in 1979. That's no secret. You were on hand doing one your moronic music reports for god knows what long-dead, brainless fanzine and I was putting on one hell of a fine new wave show for some hungry scottish fans who, quite frankly, had their fucking minds blown that night. Somehow, and let me tell you, people were fired for this, you got back stage. I didn't know who you were but the buzz was you were and up and coming writer for the London scene and, mainly because of the way you were dressed, I took pity on you and granted you the interview.

Big mistake, as we all now know.

First of all, you were so shitfaced that you slurred every question you asked me to the extent that, at one point, I thought you were asking me about Union City Blue and you were asking if you could "use the loo". Ten minutes later we found you passed out on the bathroom floor of my dressing room and, of course, we left you there. Embarrassing as that was, you'd think that would be the end of it, but no. The article you wrote, Ken, was so obscenely libelous, such a ridic- ulous lie that it made me feel sick. I quote:

"Ms. Harry was adequate on stage, for sure, and those few in attandance
still clinging to the last shreds of the punk scene were impressed, I guess.
Many of them stood like vacant manakins, mouths agape in dumb worship
of an idol whose aura has now faded to a pale glimmer of what it once was.

Backstage, however, things were different. Perhaps it was simply a matter
of proximity to such incredible virility as mine that reawaked the passion and
fire that had once made Ms. Harry the punk goddess that she was but she
wasted no time showing me that, at least in one art, she is still a dynamo."

It stil pisses me off to read that. As if you could ever have a chance with me, Ken. As if I would ever stoop that low. For the record, I think I would have to be completely mentally disabled from, say, a back alley lobotomy using a pool cue, before I would ever allow myself to even be alone in a room with a deranged loser like you. I don't care what they say about this mythological zen cunnilingus technique that you've mastered. I wouldn't let that diseased tongue near me if it was in a jar of formaldehyde.

But that didn't stop you, did it? You wrote eleven more articles describing our "relationship" before the record company's lawyers got to you. What relationship, Ken? Maybe I should explain that just because someone writes hundreds of filthy fan letters to someone begging for descriptions of them taking showers with other female pop stars, it doesn't mean they have a relationship. Nor does it if someone sleeps on your fire escape for a week. Not even if they send Dee Dee Ramone over with four dozen roses to plead on their behalf. No matter how hard he cries.

And that stunt you pulled on the set of Videodrome? Do you know that James Woods, to this day, has intensive weekly regression therapy to try to rid himself of the memories of that incident? And have you noticed how disturbing David Croneberg's work has gotten since then? Not a coincidence, shithead.

So, please, if you're going to go through with this, at least tell the misguided little whore what she's getting into. If the simple evidence presented in your overwhelmingly demented body of work isn't enough to convince her that you're a bad gamble, then maybe this letter will help. Then again, maybe the dirty trollop can't even read, I don't know. And if this letter seems similar to some of the other letters I've written to you before your other weddings or if it sounds like some of the messages I've left on your answering machine or through your agent or at your office or in your e-mail, then so what? The world needs to know what a slimey, no-good, unfaithful love panther you are.

And the restraining order stays in place, in case you even care. Until you come back on your hands an knees and beg me to remove it.

Sincerely,
Deborah Harry