In 1992 I made a clumsy attempt to approach Julie Andrews through a letter. Below you can see the public relations business reply envelope that I received in answer. The envelope contained nothing else but Julie's autographed photo. Take notice of her P.O.BOX number - 666: I wonder if "J.A." has signed the pact with the Devil, for there is truly something satanic when the woman was delivered a boy, and the child was taken straight up to Hel...sinki by air cargo, and hypocritical moderators burn her son's letters to mother in the burning lake of oblivion like the Nazis, who liked to burn banned books instead of reading them: where they first burn books, they finally come to burn human beings, and where they first dump reels, they finally come to dump children, for this is Hollywood, larger than life, where an ordinary secretary can have the director's baby, the movie, cut short and keep children separated from their career mother. Still, somewhere "the Fates", who keep record of everything in my life and make decisions that define my fate, read my little pathetic letter to her before it was dumped to some secretary's trash can.