Years ago I got roped into a Fantasy Football league. I was new in LA and it seemed a good way to bond with my brother and his friends. Besides, what would be more fun that beating my little brother and his friends, who were, after all, actors, struggling and otherwise. Like taking candy from a bunch of adults indulging their inner children.

This didn’t work quite as well I’d planned.

After getting beaten like a rented mule for a few seasons, I handed over the reigns of the team to an old college friend from New Orleans, Tubby LaFluer. He promptly renamed the team the New Orleans Decayed Southern Gentleman, recruited several of his more degenerate friends to help with the statistics, and we were off to the races.

Tubby was never actually enrolled at UNO as far as I know. He was always this sort of shadowy figure on the periphery of the Creative Writing program, and would generally put in an appearance late in the evening, when we were scattered and half blind from the drink. Several of my friends at the time weren’t entirely convinced that he actually existed. Another friend, Steve, not only was sure he existed but was convinced that under the ratty Hawaiian shirt Tubby wore he had wings. Short, black wings covered in soft rat fur, like velvet.

Though it should be noted that Steve denies that conversation ever took place and claims instead that I’d spent the balance of the night under the table singing one Henry Rollins song over and over.


Tubby, wings or not, was always a little, well, wound up tightly, and in the many years since I’ve moved away, seems to have gone a fair bit around the bend.

He communicates primary through regular mail, though I occasionally get a crazed flurry of texts, usually from a phone he’s pinched.

Anyway, I thought I’d include his correspondence on the blog. Mostly because I think they’re funny, but also because it might come in handy during commitment proceedings, should it ever come to that. Particularly since he’s threatened to come visit me in Los Angeles this year, and I know if that bastard ever lands on my couch I’ll never get him off without getting him locked up.

Consider this insurance then.

The photo here is of this years Draft Kit. A stack of notes scribbled in haste and jammed into an empty bottle of whiskey. Spent most of my money on Jordy Nelson, who blew out his knee while we were drafting. The New Orleans Decayed Southern Gentlemen are off to a good start.