A Maverick before Jodie Foster made it fashionable, Holly Wilde was a cowgirl by birth before being uprooted from a Western town with only one Mc Donald’s and replanted in the superior Twin City. Though she learned how to ride a snow machine before Slednecks went viral, she yearned for more to do in the taupe months than wear hand-knit scarves and drink coffee in a refurbished downtown railway depot. Having read all the books in the public library, and having never drunk the Prairie Home Companion Kool-Aid, she escaped the Midwest for the Ivy Tower where she wrote papers attacking American football as one of the four pillars of the patriarchy by day, and dated wide receivers by night. Desperate to cure the indigestion brought on by the grade D meat at Rhode Island’s finest catering facility, she then expatriated to Italy in search of a good meal.
Fluent in fourteen languages, Ms. Wilde feels that, though singularly ugly, none beats English for sarcasm. A fan of Max Tucker, Ms. Wilde hopes one day to publish her own diary detailing her Los Angeles exploits and provoke a bidding war for the movie rights: working for aging Beverly Hills proctologists who indulge their rock star fantasies singing Weezer at their children’s Bar Mitzvahs by day will net you $60,000 a year, while dating actual rock stars by night is priceless.
Currently, Ms. Wilde is contemplating a return to her beloved Italy where, although Berlusconi did what Rupert Murdoch could not, at least they have health care.