My Dearest Kathy by Andy Kaufman

(This short story from Andy is actually a letter he wrote to Kathy Utman on June 16, 1972. As you'll see, even Andy's letters to friends were extraordinary.)

So I lefteth the telephone booth feeling an emptiness inside gnawing at my flesh, ashamed that I should call at such a time. Thinking later on that it was only because I had not slept much the night before (first night back) and because of lack of rest was becoming cranky it sometimes happens. Walking back to my apartment, combing my hair, just about to leave, left, stood outside feeling depressed, realized that I forgot my glasses, decided whether to go in for them or not, went back in, got them, ready to leave, decided to play one song on the stereo, played "Feel So Bad" by Elvis Presley because I had been singing it to myself anyway, and left, on my way to the Center for my last night of work but first to the O.W. Theater to see my friend who worked next door, recalling my doings with them, thinking "America, you just blew the best thing you ever had" and contemplating becoming a wino again, wearing my blue jacket which made me feel like a cross between Jason Robards in "A Thousand Clowns" and a wino, recalling when I used to be a wino and how I used to get drunk whenever I felt like this and I used to feel like this everyday so I would get drunk everyday hence I was a wino but really an alcoholic because I didn't drink just wine but everything under the sun but wino sounds more glamorous so here I was walking down the street thinking why did I have to bother you with all this crankiness ashamed of myself telling you all because you would listen and sometimes we need someone to listen just listen but you said "aw" and joked around making it worse who can I put the burden on? Thinking I'm disgusted pondering getting drunk yeah I'll just get drunk I'll go to my old friend who still gets drunk and we'll have a good time but remembered last time I got drunk a few years ago and how it made me feel worse for about a week so that idea was out - - - then become a wino - - - picturing myself a wino not caring anymore throw everything down the drain stagger around see meditator friends "is that Andy?" "No - - it couldn't be." "Poor Andy." Yep, poor Andy that's what they'd say poor Andy, that's me panhandling say buddy so you have any spare change finally getting up enough for a Weston's hamburger, yup just panhandling and realizing that I'm an instrument of God -- instrument of God" -- O' no -- how could I do it like I used to do it years ago but I didn't realize that I was an instrument of God -- no, I could never do it again -- well, what could I do -- I mean, I'm disgusted more just disgusted -- the people don't want me then I don't whant them and they lose because I could've shown them all a good time and lifted the level of entertainment to a higher plane but they blew it - even the manager of the O.W. Theater just month's ago auditioning me stopping me after a few minutes saying he didn't have a time tonight, making endless appointments with me, always breaking them never having any time it's too bad because if only he had the time he would see that I could pack 'em in every night and would "break a leg" and "knock 'em dead" but he blew it



going through my mind as I walked stressfullly to my friend's record store which was adjacent to the O.W. Theater by now talking to myself out loud not realizing it and moving my hands and arms expressfully as though talking to someone everytime I said "That's it" and "I've had it" and "I'm disgusted" and walking into his shop with a large smile on my face (who can I put the burden?) "Hi Andy" "Hi Peter" "How are you" "I'm terrible -- I feel disgusted and fed up -- all my timing is off" "Well, you sure look it" sarcastically of course I mean a smile like that could only be found on someone who's totally disgusted -- hey old rattlesnake you know you by now you fooler you -- yes that's right Peter really I'm only fooling I feel wonderful (who will take it?) How are ya doing? Okay where have you been to New York saw Elvis the most beautiful show I ever saw.

Peter showed me the Village Voice and the reviews of Elvis's performance -- all bad -- intellectually analyzing his performance -- tearing it apart -- preposterous -- tomfoolery -- blundering -- "The most presumptious" -- "No sense of rhytm" -- "plastic" -- what! -- they don't understand -- how could they -- an outrage -- everything wrong -- the greatest entertainer in the world and they knock him -- how could they? --

I finished reading and left the place completely spaced out. Wandered onto the street resuming

(Completed text coming soon.)