- - - -
Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
- - - -
L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to letters@mcsweeneys.net. Thank you.]
Date: Fri, 16 Oct 2009 Dear McSweeney's, I recently purchased a copy of The Better of McSweeney's Volume One Issues 1-10, and although I am very pleased with its content and outstanding writing, I withhold several gripes concerning one aspect of the journal: the cover. For those of you who do not own this McSweeney's release, or are unfamiliar with the specific cover I am regarding, I will gladly describe it as to not exclude anyone. The cover contains an inanimate (I hope), brown, moist, non-patterned blob against a bright white background. This blob is very apparent; that is, it can be easily seen (measuring about six inches long and four inches wide), much more so than the inconspicuous, near-fine-print of "Stories and Letters" below it. I have come to terms with this blob and accept it. In my mind, it is merely a half-masticated, discarded Tootsie Roll. However, my uneasiness concerns the preconceptions of those unfamiliar with McSweeney's. My main two discontents are as follows: 1. At first sight, ill-conceived judgments may be passed about McSweeney's solely based on this cover. Consequently, due to these callous assumptions made by the uninformed, McSweeneys Quarterly Concern/Literary Journal may be misconstrued as McSweeney's Quarterly Concern for Inanimate Objects Which Resemble Fecal Matter. Obviously, this would be bad for publicity, but moreover, it strays away from the true purpose of this publication. I assume. Now, this letter may be deemed as just some pedant kid with too much time on his hands. To this I say: yes. But I retort: pedantry is an art form and living entity; and free time its canvas and niche. Well, that's about it. I hope this was helpful. But even if it was, don't take anything I've said here too seriously or too much to heart, because you guys are doing great. Matter of fact, you're doing magnificent; regardless of exposé-ing objects that mirror stool. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Sun, 9 Aug 2009 Hello, Yesterday I watched the movie Juno (dubbed in Italian) and I discovered that the reference to McSweeney's (quoted in the first part of the movie) had been replaced with Siddhartha by Herman Hesse. I said: "Noooooooo!" Greetings, - - - - Date: Mon, 15 Jun 2009 Dear McSweeney's, As someone who spent many a fourth grade lunch hour insisting that Ewoks were not George Lucas's attempt at capturing some of the Care Bears market share, I applaud this piece of revisionist history that brings to light the vicious nature of the beasts I totally saw boiling the skulls of Stormtroopers back in the summer of '83. It's sad that some fans, like Don Kuntz [see letter below], cannot appreciate this alternative xenopomorphic survey of the cutest thing Star Wars fans had to endure until Jake Lloyd made everyone want to smack Anakin Skywalker for being such a precocious snot. Regarding the lengths Mr. Kuntz went to in refuting the findings of this study, I suggest he broaden the scope of his research beyond that found in the official archives of the New Republic (and Steve Sansweet's basement). Perhaps Mr. Kuntz might be enlightened by Dez Mondmor-Iss' book The Naked Ewok. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Fri, 12 Jun 2009 In response to your article ["Yub Jub Means "Devour the Weak": An Authoritative Study of Ewoks, From the Field Notes of Davo Atten-Boru and Pladdo Cardigun, Exo-naturalists"] I would like to point out that you are mistaken on several facts. 1. You wouldn't be a member of the Republic Science Academy. You might be from the new Republic Science Academy or the Galactic Alliance Science Academy, but since the Forest Moon of Endor was never explored by the Republic, the first official exploration team came from the Empire between the years 2ABY and 4ABY. (By 5ABY the Death Star II was half completed, so they must of had at least one year to work on that beast). While many crashes were known to have taken place on the Sanctuary Moon, and a few bases manned by people outside of the Republic (such as the Confederacy of Independent Systems), no exploration teams ever met with the native populations until the Imperial Survey. (Also: While I see you state the New Republic gave you a grant, you would never call the New Republic the "Republic" because they sought to differentiate themselves, so they call themselves the New Republic and the pre-imperial one the Old Republic, never saying just "Republic" in the post-imperial galaxy.) 2. You wouldn't have had a droid named C3QP, the C in C-3PO is the model. Cybot Galactica never created a 3QP line of Protocol Droids, and nobody ever made a C3 line of droids. 3. Ewoks are NOT cannibalistic. In all offshoot media, the Ewoks NEVER eat anyone − they even befriend the Towani family, a group of humans stranded on Endor. And in the movie [The Return of the Jedi], the only reason they tied the strike team to logs was because it was the easiest way to transport them. The big pot in their village is not for the team, but for the animals they were trying to capture when the team ended up in their traps. 4. What the hell are you talking about when you say "a ritualistic devouring of 34 captured Imperial storm troopers, who were spit-roasted alive in their armor for seli beli ("to seal in the flavor") and tanga tiru ("divine tang of mortal fear"), a delicacy to the Ewok palate"? That didn't happen, that wouldn't happen. Where are you getting your facts? Your retranslations are off, and wrong, and you need a new droid, one that actually knows more than six million types of communication, as oppose to one that's assuming it knows what it doesn't. 5. There is no such thing as a "blood duel." Watch the Ewoks' animated TV series; they never fight with each other. EWOKS ARE PEACEFUL! I don't even want to continue. Your article is so wrong that it's an insult to Star Wars fans − even if it was meant in good humor. − DK - - - - Date: Mon, 4 May 2009 I've read the article by Robin Hemley about the recent decision of Philippine Customs to tax books, and I quite agree with his point. What disturbs me, though, is Mr. Hemley's statement about G20 blacklisting the Philippines is misleading (and inaccurate). The G20 blacklisted the Philippines (together with Malaysia, Costa Rica and Uruguay) because Philippine laws make it hard to open bank records of individuals; tax standards in the country are different, not because of "corrupt practices" as you are leading your readers to believe. You should have also noted that the blacklist was removed already. And personally, Switzerland and the rest of those tiny European states have more morally questionable banking practices than the Philippines, having hidden billions of dollars stolen by dictators such as Marcos. Sincerely, Robin Hemley responds: When I wrote the piece several months ago, the designation had not been removed. This seems a bit of a "not seeing the forest for the trees situation." While on this point, the letter writer might be technically correct, the larger point is that the Philippines is and remains one of the most corrupt countries in the world, and is considered such by the vast majority of its own people, who suffer the greed of government officials. Virtually every week, a new corruption scandal hits the front pages of the newspapers in the Philippines, each example more egregious than the last. The G20 news just happened to be the story of the week when I wrote up my dispatch. Happily, the vast majority of people who read my piece have responded positively. The dispatch has received the strongest, most enthusiastic reaction of anything I've written to date. I state this not to pat myself on the back but to give kudos to the thousands of ordinary Filipinos who have spoken out against the Bureau of Customs' defiance of an international treaty (The Florence Agreement) that the Philippines signed in 1952 and ratified in 1979. Hundreds of bloggers reposted and commented on my dispatch. That led to an article in the Philippine Inquirer by prominent newspaper columnist, Manuel L. Quezon III. That led to more blogging and a Facebook cause, "Filipinos against the Taxation of Books by Customs," that has recruited over 8000 members (and counting) in the span of a week. Now, Congressman Teodoro Lacson, Jr., has appealed directly to President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo to overturn the capricious tax imposed by Customs, and most recently Senator and Chairwoman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Miriam Santiago has called for an investigation of Customs. Considering the positive impact of the dispatch, I hope you'll understand that I admire the Philippines greatly, especially its millions of honest and hardworking citizens. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Mon, 27 Apr 2009 So, I read "My Reading-Tour Rider" the other day and found the idea of the "Peanut Butter Pornography" cookies absolutely amazing. Apparently, the recipe for those cookies doesn't really exist, so I had to get creative and make it up myself ... and they were amazing. The best part was taking them to my mom and telling her what they were called. Thanks for the inspiration. Mandi - - - - Date: Fri, 27 Feb 2009 Dearest Tendency, I am writing to add some thoughts to Mr. Hart's channeled recommendations from the late Mr. Brown on investment opportunities in today's troubled economy. But, first, a caveat: I am not a certified accountant, hedge-fund manager, broker, or Fox News commentator, nor even an apprentice plumber, but I do feel that Mr. Hart's portfolio needs some diversification to remain competitive. Specifically, we have yet to heed the late Mr. Brown's advice to "get up off of that thing," as well as to "dance till you feel better." In these uncertain times, it is important to remember that hard work and perseverance have always helped to pull America up by its proverbial bootstraps, even if they were manufactured in China and sold at Walmart at a 20 percent discount. That, and being able to profit off needless wars. Mr. Brown's feelings on the latter option are, I believe, well known, and an ethical reinvestment plan should reflect this. Hope things work out with the spaniel, - - - - Date: Thu, 20 Nov 2008 Dear McSweeney's, As a longtime fan of your esteemed publication and an excavator at the La Brea Tar Pits, you can imagine my joy upon reading that you were selling a T-shirt seemingly made just for me! But lo! My glee was cut short by your T-shirt's glaring (albeit amusing! I will give you that!) anachronism: A caveman. In the tar pits. Oh, no, no, no. As a member of Research and Collections, I feel it is my duty to share some interesting and 100 percent true facts with you: 1) As a rule, we do not find people in the tar pits. And definitely not cave people with humorously large clubs. Completely wrong continent for that sort of thing. We have found the remains of one human woman, dated at approximately 9,000 years old, but we do not believe she was the victim of an asphalt-entrapment event; she was found with burial artifacts and the skeleton of a domestic dog, implying that she was buried at the non-tar-related end of her life, and that her grave was subsequently pulled into the asphalt deposit after the fact. Now, to be fairyes, there have been several instances of overconfident paleontologists and overzealous park visitors becoming momentarily stuck in asphalt seeps, but none of them "stayed in tar pits," so to speakall were rescued in a timely manner. As far as we know, anyway. Things we do find in the tar pits: dire wolves Thus, a more accurate T-shirt would feature something like a stuck and saddened giant ground sloth (possibly surrounded by a pack of hungry dire wolves if the illustrator was feeling a bit macabre). 2) What happens in La Brea Tar Pits is eventually extracted from the tar pits. Excavation is active, ongoing, and (as of June 2008) year-round at Rancho La Brea! In fact, we have just begun a brand-new project, code-named "Project 23." Our neighbors to the west built an underground parking garage; they discovered 16 large fossil deposits, including the semiarticulated skeleton of a mammoth (with complete tusks!); the deposits were boxed up and moved to our side of the park; and now you can come by and see us excavating seven days a week! Please, stop by and say hello. 3) If you are interested in learning more about what is currently happening at the tar pits, please visit our vastly entertaining and updated-at-least-once-weekly blog, The Excavatrix. Thank you for your time in reading this tar tutorial. And please remember: tar pits + cave people = fiction. Tar pits + saber-toothed cats = fact! Here's hoping you make a shirt I can wear to work in a non-ironic fashion, Andrea Thomer - - - - Date: Fri, 6 Jun 2008 Dear McSweeney's, Apologies for such nitpickery, but the name of the group is, in fact, Panic! at the Disco, not Panic at the Disco, as printed in a recent "McSweeney's Recommends" note. With such rabid competition for originality in indie-rock-band-naming going on these days, it seems only fair to lend aid to those who contribute to the mix through the whimsical, if slightly unnecessary, use of punctuation marks. You must agree that the practice has certainly evolved since its earlier incarnations, in which the band moe. introduced one measly period and thought they had something over on us. Tsk tsk. Yours, Editors' Note: We hate to be the ones to break it to you, Julie, but the band has jettisoned the exclamation point. Here's how Rolling Stone magazine opened their review of Pretty. Odd.:
- - - - Date: Wed, 23 Apr 2008 Dear McSweeney's, Recently, you published a letter from Mike Hicks in response to "Selections From the Forthcoming Quantum Aesthetics: The Best of The American Journal of Physics' Music-Review Section" by Kevin Evers. Mr. Hicks refers to himself as a "fifth-year undergraduate physics student at a third-tier liberal-arts college" and an "increasingly self-righteous undereducated pseudointellectual" and then proceeds to claim that "according to special relativity, the Sun does orbit the Moon" because "the reference frame of the Sun is not preferred over the reference frame of the Moon, so it is just as true to say that the Sun orbits the Moon as it is to say that the Moon orbits the Sun." I sincerely hope that Mr. Hicks has misunderstood his textbookthe alternative, that a third-tier liberal-arts college is using a worthless textbook, is simply too horrific to contemplate. In either case, Mr. Hicks misunderstands special relativity. The "special" in special relativity refers to inertial reference framesi.e., nonaccelerated motion. Given that any "orbit" involves acceleration, the "no preferred reference frame" clause that Mr. Hicks invokes specifically does not apply in this case. (For the record, special relativity also has nothing to say about the absolute/relative nature of morality or the perception of the passage of time being related to one's enjoyment of the event being experienced. But I digress.) However, Mr. Hicks's criticism of Mr. Evers is in one sense correct even if his details are wrong. In any two-body orbit, it is not technically one object that orbits the other; rather, both objects orbit the center of mass of the systemin looser terms, it can be said that the two objects orbit each other. This is a consequence of Newton's third law, which is not contradicted by special or general relativity. The additional bodies in our solar system complicate matters a bit, but the same idea basically holdsall the planets, moons, etc., orbit the Sun, but the Sun also orbits them, albeit a comparatively tiny orbit that is mostly dominated by Jupiter, the most massive planet. By the way, my qualifications in this matter start (and presumably end) with a Ph.D. in astrophysics (seriously). So, while I, too, might fall under the description of an "increasingly self-righteous ... pseudointellectual," I happen to be an educated, professional pseudointellectual. To summarize: (1) The Sun does orbit the Moon. (2) The above has nothing to do with special relativity. (3) I just spent way too much time offering criticism of a criticism of a criticism of a song sung by the exMrs. Rick Fox. Regards, - - - - Date: Thurs, 10 April 2008 Dear McSweeney's, As a fifth-year undergraduate physics student at a third-tier liberal-arts college, I couldn't help but be excited by Kevin Evers's recent article, "Selections From the Forthcoming Quantum Aesthetics: The Best of The American Journal of Physics' Music-Review Section." For the most part, I was not disappointed. It was witty, properly maligned many deserving songs, and reaffirmed my belief in Jimi Hendrix's true transcendental nature. However, as an increasingly self-righteous undereducated pseudointellectual, I did find one minor inaccuracy: in the review for Vanessa Williams's "Save the Best for Last," Evers calls the idea that "sometimes the Sun goes round the Moon" a "farcical assertion." A careful reading of my modern-physics textbook's short section on special relativity confirms the opposite: according to special relativity, the Sun does orbit the Moon. Special relativity asserts that there is no preferred frame of reference for motion. From the reference frame of the Moon, the Sun orbits the Moon, and, from the reference frame of the Sun, the Moon orbits the Sun. The reference frame of the Sun is not preferred over the reference frame of the Moon, so it is just as true to say that the Sun orbits the Moon as it is to say that the Moon orbits the Sun. Both are correct. So (though little does she know it) Vanessa Williams is not wrong. Of course, the song still sucks. Yours, - - - - Date: Tue, 15 January 2008 I believe another example has missed the auspicious gaze of Mr. Andrew Bridgman: That of one Pedro Cerrano. Possibly one of the most powerful power hitters in Cleveland Indians history, Cerrano couldn't hit a curveball to save democracy. Instead of getting his eyes checked for depth-perception problemsan option he was clearly aware of, as his teammate and friend Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn's natural skill was also hampered by vision problemsCerrano instead opted for the help of Jobu, a voodoo deity. The combination of prayer and cigars indeed helped the big Cuban cure his bat of sickness. Although the 1989 World Series win was clearly a team effort, without the help of Jobu, the storied Cleveland Indians franchise quite clearly would have ended up in Miami, Florida. Brad Millar - - - - Date: Tue, 8 January 2008 I must reluctantly tell you that [Andrew Bridgman's "Excerpts From the Lost Mitchell Report"] is seriously deficient in that it missed the most obvious case of unacceptable interference with baseball. I refer, of course, to the now largely forgotten Joe Hardy. Mr. Hardy received phenomenally improved performance, not from some temporary source such as chemical injections (for which he could be deemed to be lacking proper moral balance), nor even from divine intervention (which would seem to indicate religious discrimination), but from entering into an actual contract with the forces of Darkness (which should be considered worse than the infractions of all the other offenders combined). This allowed him, in an incredibly brief period of time, to lead the totally inept Washington Senators ("First in war, first in peace, and last in the American League"), whose record for futility was surpassed only by the Chicago Cubs, to defeat the invincible New York Yankees of the 1950s for the American League pennant. Hardy's contract not only provided him with unbelievable baseball prowess but it also made the Devil himself available to provide legal services in a disciplinary hearing brought by Major League Baseball. No one can top that. So, Mr. Hardy received not only unrivaled baseball skills but also the services of the greatest lawyer in history. To top all of this off, Mr. Hardy's lawyer, a Mr. Applegate, was even able to replace Hardy with a different person in the World Series and no one was the wiser. This by far surpasses any of the instances set out in the report. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Tue, 20 November 2007 Dear McSweeney's, and/or Mr. Frank Ferri, If you are going to write a humorous piece about NFL referee, trial lawyer, and strongman Ed Hochuli and present it in four parts, please ensure that none of those four parts is based on a nonexistent premisenamely, that a pass-interference call can be challenged by the defense thus penalized. Any red-blooded NFL fan knows that defensive pass interference (or any penalty, for that matter) is not a challengeable ruling, as it is a judgment call by the referee. I ask that Mr. Ferri be forced to provide a more accurate humorous combination of penalty call and legal parlance as a reparation to all who were harmed by his poor choice and do not feel sufficiently entertained. Sincerely, Matt Rogers - - - - Date: Wed, 21 November 2007 Mr. Rogers, Thank you for pointing out my error. In my blind rush to be funny, I ignored the time-honored rules of the NFL and have punished myself accordingly. I guess I can take solace in the fact that I am not alone. One only has to look to the New England Patriots, who, in their quest to be the best, also ignored the rules. (Just to clarify, I'm referring to "Videotapegate.") Perhaps there should be an asterisk next to my McSweeney's piece. Best, - - - - Date: Wed, 19 Sept 2007 Dear McSweeney's, As I read your current list written by Kevin Griffith, "Iraq-War Clichés or New Euphemisms for Taking a Crap," I remembered something that happened over this previous summer. I was teaching at a debate camp and was instructing the students to find better buzzwords for their cases. For example, using the word "justice" instead of "fairness" and the like. The junior staffers at this camp are all college-aged students and were sitting in the back row of the classroom playing on the Internet, sending text messages and so forth, when I used the following example: Instead of using the word "duty," you could use the term "moral imperative." We all know that "duty" and "moral imperative" mean the same thing, so why not make it sound more important by calling a duty a moral imperative. The junior staffers all seemed interested in this, judging by the many whispered conversations that started and the laughing that followed. They were becoming a nuisance to the rest of the class, so I asked them what they were laughing about. The eldest statesman of the group said, "Oh, I just need to ask a question." "What is it?" I replied. "Mr. Harrison, can I go to the restroom? I need to take a moral imperative." Much raucous laughing and gasping ensued. I say all this to humbly add my cliché to the list: We have a moral imperative to finish what we started in Iraq. Kasey Harrison - - - - Date: Thur, 12 July 2007 Dear McSweeney's, If you thought that an online literary/humor journal would be far enough beyond the reach of obsessive, humorless mega-nerd types to safely publish a gross miscarriage of modern astrophysics like "Recently Declassified Letters From NASA" with impunity, then I'm the humorless nerd to set you straight. Keeping silent would only concede another battle to the Republicans in their war on science. So get ready for a factsplosion. Single-cellular life in another galaxy? Do you even know what a galaxy is? We can barely detect planets in our own galaxy, much less ones in freaking Andromeda. The extra-solar planets we have spotted (and only indirectly, mind you, by detecting the gravitational wobble they induce on their parent stars) orbit stars within a few hundred light-years of us. And that's damn close, in case you're too lazy to look into it on your ownAndromeda, for reference, is about 2.5 million light-years away, which makes it roughly 280 billion roundtrip-NASA-probe-years away. Anyway, I could go on, but I'm starting to foam at the ... knees? That's weird. Screw it, I'm going on. Why not pick a star system like Gliese 581 or HD 189733? Those have even been in the news recently. Putting aside the absurdity of finding a planet in Andromeda and of detecting its damn atmosphere (and, by the way, helium is inert, so elevated levels would be biologically irrelevant, not to mention that a planet with enough gravity to keep helium in its atmosphere would be too massive to support lifeoh, and elevated nitrogen is another so-the-hell-what, since our own atmosphere is mostly nitrogen), what the crap kind of device do you think NASA used to spot a fucking Andromedan amoeba? A giant telescope duct-taped to a giant microscope??? Where's my inhaler? Anyway, remember how you felt when the Abu Ghraib pictures came out and exactly no one was held accountable? I can't do that again. I expect some damn heads to roll. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Tue, 10 July 2007 Everyone, I must take exception to Kate Taylor's characterization of the giant caper. Put another way, she gets it largely correct. The caper berry (for it is under this name that I know it) is a salty mistress, and not to everyone's taste. I've been known to eat them by the handful (one at a time, of course: I'm not a complete savage) and to place them in a martini. Wikipedia tells me I'm not alone in the latter habit. And, yes, I realize that the garnish makes it technically something other than a martini, but I'm not here to debate that. I'm here to represent an opposing opinion on caper berries, which, as salty pickled things, can generally do no wrong in my loving eyes. I'll have yours if you don't like them. It's a great big pickled tent. Respectfully, - - - - Date: Wed, 11 Apr 2007 Dear McSweeney's, In a recent "list," the "listmaker" implies that he would use the playing of Dolly Parton albums to torture someone. To him I say, "Bring it on." Nothing would tickle me more than to hear a number of Dolly Parton albums in a row. Ms. Parton is widely acknowledged as a fine songwriter, not to mention a thoughtful interpreter of other peoples' work. Her recent forays into bluegrass provide an excellent example of both aspects of Ms. Parton's particular creative gifts. Jack Pendarvis - - - - Date: Wed, 11 Apr 2007 Dear McSweeney's, I just got through reading "Another Night With Jim" by Damian Dressick. While I certainly found the story enjoyable (thinking about a grizzly bear polishing floors had me smirking for at least half a minute), I take issue with Dressick's depiction of the kind people of Minnesota. It is indeed true that many 'Sotans use an atypical flattened o sound for words and phrases like "cola" or "whatever floats your boat," but I've never met a true Minnesotan (of which there are many in northern Minnesota, where I assumed Jim would be headed) that used the word "cola." As everyone knows, "pop" is the preferred nomenclature. Jim, therefore, has nothing to worry about, as he will never hear anyone utter the word "cola." He may, however, have to hear the words "rote," "emote," and "connote," which are all heavily used by northern Minnesotan intellectuals. Thanks, - - - - Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2007 Dear McSweeney's, Yes, it's true that without The Last Waltz, Jonathan Demme would have never thought about making the masterpiece that is Stop Making Sense. This debate can go on for hours, and if McSweeney's would just return my phone calls and drop the restraining order, then it would rage on for hours. I think one major factor is being grossly overlooked here, and that is a movie called Big Time. It could be argued that this collaboration between the otherwise unknown Chris Blum and the otherwise legendary Tom Waits isn't just a concert film but rather a series of vignettes with some concert footage throughout. Whatever. It's Tom motherfucking Waits. It's the closest I may ever come to seeing the man in concert, and he's still releasing albums, unlike the Heads and the Band. Come on, McSweeney's ... it's Tom Waits. Also, you were spot on about Rick Danko. He was an amazing talent and a tragic story. Call me! - - - - Date: Wed, 14 Mar 2007 Dear McSweeney's, In regard to your recommendation of Kleenex Tissue With Lotion: Why would you clean your glasses with tissue in the first place? This was very disappointing. 1. Warm water Love (is blind), - - - - Date: Wed, 14 Mar 2007 Dear McSweeney's: I agree that Half Nelson is quite possibly the best film of last year. But, seriously, why the bejesus is it called Half Nelson? I've been asking everyone I know for weeks. The checkout guy at the grocery store is sick of me talking about it, to say nothing of my boyfriend's response last time I tried to bring it up (for, like, the 30th time). Please help me. My personal relationships are suffering. Sincerely, Alison Eldridge - - - - Date: Mon, 12 Mar 2007 Dear McSweeney's, While I wouldn't go as far as agreeing with Steven Shattuck that the movie Heat was "fantastic," I have to concur that Patrick Cassel's List entitled "Words Never Used in the Titles of Remotely Good Films" is seriously flawed. Ever heard of the movie The Ice Storm? Come on. It was fantastic! Seriously concerned about your screening process while remaining your loyal reader, - - - - Date: Mon, 5 Mar 2007 Dear McSweeney's, Check out these new emoticons I've invented (happy face!). These things are the best (happy face). Not only am I able to perfectly convey emotion without using all those hard words the English language gave us (confused face, with an adorable little brow wrinkle), but you don't need to go through all the effort of trying to figure out what the goddamn things say (angry face). It also affords a larger range of emotions than the standard set of punctuation gives you (a face that looks like it's thinking hard about describing a fine wine, but is actually just a little sleepy). I think these things are the awesomest (happy face, again). How do you feel about them (inquisitive face)? Solid! (with the face of a white man trying to look cool using this word) Nat Logar (proud-of-myself face) P.S. I just found out a friend of mine has the clap (uncomfortable face, but there might be a hint of schadenfreude in there). He did get around a bit (laughing-out-loud face). - - - - Date: Fri, 2 Mar 2007 Dear McSweeney's, I am writing in response to Patrick Cassel's List entitled "Words Never Used in the Titles of Remotely Good Films." Have you seen the film Heat with Robert De Niro and Al Pacino? It's fantastic! Fondly, - - - - Date: Tue, 27 Feb 2007 Dear McSweeney's, While scrolling about on the bottom of your site where the miscellaneous links wait so tidily to be clicked, I was noticing that they almost seem to have a pattern. The first set (from "Red dot denotes content that is new today" to the first "----") appears to be a short, squat bowling pin wearing a sombrero, a bow tie, and an overly tight cummerbund, or else a downward-pointing arrow, for the less imaginative. Making sense of the second set proves to be a little harder. From the first "----" to "B.R. Cohen's Annals of Science," I kinda see a person sitting in a bowl with a pilgrim hat smushed down tightly on his head, with a Cat in the Hat hat on top of that. As for the rest, it's kind of a mess. But if you really want to push it, it looks a little like someone doing a headstand. He looks a little squished, because all the stuff piled on top is crushing him. So I was wondering, did you do this on purpose? Skeptically yours, Editor's Note: No. - - - - Date: Fri, 9 Feb 2007 Dear McSweeney's, After an exhausting go of buying a bundle of gift cards as last-minute Christmas gifts (I got to choose what gift-card design I wanted at most storesdoes the fact that I chose, say, a googly-eyed-reindeer graphic over a dancing snowman make a gift card more personal?), I thought I'd finally be able to put plastic presents behind me (until next year, anyway). As impersonal as they are, I have to admit that the convenience factor is appealing. At least a LongHorn Steakhouse gift card saved me from buying my grandpa another bag of peanuts. And, honestly, in the retail world it's like having a website or a business card: your store isn't legit unless you offer a gift card. But, as Valentine's Day approaches, I've noticed that, everywhere I go, stores are taking the opportunity to push the gift cards once again. A while back, I began to have a genuine curiosity about the whole phenomenon, alerting my significant other when a store as bizarre as the little-known salvage shop near our house offered gift certificates, just in case you couldn't find that perfect piece of junk for that perfect someone. It's nonsensical to give someone the gift of choosing their own salvaged trash, unless the person receiving the gift is into that sort of thing. But what's even more nonsensical, and, well, rather disturbing, is what I discovered while getting my oil changed recently. While in the waiting room, amid unsmiling customers and Wheel of Fortune blaring on the TV, I saw a sticker in the window that said "Gift Cards Available." That made me chuckle, because, jeez, what a lousy gift! But then I took notice of another sticker: a big plastic heart sticker in the window said "Gift Cards Available: The gift of an oil change for that special someone on Valentine's." What? I'm sure the gift of lube may be appealing to some on Valentine's Day, but is it just me or has the gifting of gift cards gone too far? Sincerely, - - - - Date: Fri, 2 February 2007 Dear McSweeney's, I am writing in response to Jeff Alford's review of "Eye-Popping Apple Jacks." Never has a review of new food touched on my feelings so completely. I have yet to locate Count Chocula in the whole state of Maryland. They offer inadequate alternatives like Chocolate Lucky Charms, but these Count Chocula impostors lack the satisfying Transylvanian essence and send me into tantrums wherein I demand what I really yearn for: the single-fanged goodness of the Count. Like Mr. Alford, I have been forced to stock up on monster-themed cereals around Halloween, when they finally haunt shelves again. But it's only February and I am already running low. The whole thing makes you wonder where they store all those cereals the rest of the year. Most likely, there's some magical vault with little magical elves running around sprinkling magical dust. And by that I mean a warehouse in Newark with rats and dust mites. Let's find that warehouse, Mr. Alford. We can beat this thing together. Yours truly, - - - - Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2007 Dear McSweeney's, I am writing in regard to your recent recommendation about "not showering for a day or two." I am in full favor of not showering, but I take issue with your reasoning ("you've really been taking being clean for granted"). Not showering has so many other benefits that surely this is the least of them (and, really, I don't even consider it one). One benefit would be not wasting water on an unnecessary shower each and every day. I mean, really, are most of us doing dirty, manual labor that requires a thorough scrubbing? I think not (and I point to America's obesity problem as my evidence). Also, for those of us with dry skin, not showering allows your body to cope somewhat naturally without making you a slave to the lotion bottle. Finally, not showering is quite the time saver. In the morning, I am up and out the door in 15 minutes flat. Think about the extra sleep! And regarding the recommendation about taking baths, I do take baths and do not find myself to be "steeping in my own filth." Cordially (and on the second day of my no-shower cycle), - - - - Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2007 McSweeney's, One, you guys really should not be having FreeDarko on your site if you're going to ignore completely one of that site's main tenets, that the regular season matters. Two, no basketball matters if you're watching crappy teams like the Pistons and the Heat. My God, have you seen what Gilly has been doing in D.C. and what L.A., Phoenix, and Denver are rocking? Derek - - - - Date: Mon, 8 Jan 2007 Dearest McSweeney's: I generally find it rude to question the recommendations presented in "McSweeney's Recommends." After all, it is "McSweeney's Recommends" and not "Nick Hanewinckel Recommends." However, there are times when I feel comments are warranted, especially when it appears that the compilers of said list are not aware of better alternatives. What it boils down to, McSweeney's, is that you jumped on the Bear Grylls bandwagon too quickly. It's understandable, given all the flash and dazzle with which Mr. Grylls peppers his show. I will even admit that his feats are impressive. However, this man is a well-trained adventure machine. He has trained with the British Navy and climbed Mount Everest, so his abilities are to be expected, given that he possesses (a) the aforementioned training and (b) a really cool knife. But where is the adventurer for the everyman? Where can the average Joe or Jane turn for inspiration? The answer is another Discovery Channel show, one called Survivorman, with host Les Stroud. I don't wish to start a consumer rivalry of Pepsi-Coke proportions, but Les Stroud is the real deal. He puts himself into simulations of real-life emergencies, such as a plane crash in the frozen Canadian wilderness and a motorcycle breakdown in the desert. From there, he survives for a week or more with only what a person in such a situation would have (and where Bear Grylls has a cool knife, Les has a harmonica). Les braves the harshest of conditions with courage and true Canadian politeness, even showing remorse at eating ensnared animals. Also, Les has released a self-titled music CD and helped produce music videos for Rush. In conclusion, before you join the Grylls or Stroud camp, give Survivorman a shot. He once made a needle and thread out of a freakin' agave plant, people. And he used nothing but his teeth! Yours, P.S. Bear Grylls sounds like a name for ursine hip-hop dentalware, not a respectable television host. - - - - Date: Tue, 2 Jan 2007 Dearest Friends, I have found your recommendations both useful and informative and have delighted in telling them to my friends, who are also your friends. I mean, what sort of sadomasochist doesn't like Cheap Trick? So, with all of this in mind, you can imagine my surprise when I saw your recommendation of the number 26. I felt it was fate, for, you see, I was headed to Vegas for my best friend's wedding mere days after I read this. Plus, I, like your writer, don't like playing the slots. So what do I do when I get to Vegas? I proceed directly to the roulette wheel, feeling that both fate and destiny (two sources I know now not to mess with) are on my side. I slapped a crisp Franklin on the number 26. Then, thinking better of it, I put a 50 down on the opposite color (I don't remember which was which now; those three minutes were a blur). Needless to say, when the ball stopped rolling around, it had landed on 00, a 1-in-I-don't-even-know-how-many chance. I was devastated and, yes, I'll admit it, a little upset at you, McSweeney's. However, this quickly faded as I realized you were not the one to blame. I was out $150 and I had been in Vegas all of half an hour. Thankfully, I didn't do much more gambling out there. Now, sitting back in Minneapolis out $150, I don't regret my decision. I just sort of wish you had recommended 00 instead. Always, - - - - Date: Wed, 6 Dec 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I was very surprised to read Haley Coleman's letter (29 November) regarding the use of "chockablock." Sadly, I have never been to the States, much less had the pleasure of visiting South Louisiana. I'm currently staying in London but was born in Edinburgh and have lived, roomed, and squatted in many towns and cities up and down the British Isles and can say with some degree of confidence that the use of the word "chockablock," while far from common usage, would meet with nary a raised eyebrow in any (British) location. Although I've never encountered the elaborate hand signal (as described by Mrs. Coleman), I have run across several helpful ways of articulating the level of chockablockedness one is trying to describe. A common London variant, for example, when trying to convey a fire-code-violating level of busyness would be "chock-a-fuckin'-block," where each word is pronounced as a complete sentence (occasionally with accompanying jerks of the neck). For those pressed for time, a common diminutive is the simple but fun-to-say "chocka": "I wouldn't bother with that place, it's chocka" etc., etc. Yours, - - - - Date: Tue, 5 Dec 2006 Kia Ora, McSweeney's, With delight and considerable bonhomie, I'd like to let Haley Coleman know that Louisiana is not the southernmost location to use the term "chockablock." It is in current and constant use throughout the fine antipodean colonies of both Australia and New Zealand, often suffixed with the friendly "mate." As far as I can recall (having moved to New Yorkwhat the ...), there was no gesture associated with it. There was, however, a quite nice ice cream on a stick. Additionally, Wikipedia offers the following: Chock-A-Block was a BBC children's television programme in the early 1980s. "Chock-A-Block" was an extremely large yellow computer ... Fred Harris played "Chock-A-Bloke," and with that little nugget we move from wry amusement to mild discomfort, which is how I know to stop. Haere ra, - - - - Date: Tue, 5 Dec 2006 Hey, Haley, My fatherborn and raised in Cape Town, South Africauses "chockablock" all the time, though without the Southern USA hand gesture you mention. He used it a lot when we were younger as a "nay" vote on Saturday family outings, usually in reference to malls, Ikea parking lots, etc. Another thing he says sometimes is "Yahantee Skinner!" (pronounced "YAWN-TEE-SKINNER!"), used as an exclamation of awe or surprise, which he claims is the 100 percent true real name of a runner on South Africa's national track-and-field team when he was a teenager. You might be also interested to know that a fun thing to say here in Montreal, if you want to do the French/English mashing of cultures thing, is "Qu'est-ce que fuck?" Best, - - - - Date: Tue, 5 Dec 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Coming up on December 7, America will be remembering, mourning the tragic attack on Pearl Harbor 65 years ago. But also happening on December 7: my friend Amanda will be celebrating another birthday. Now, not only is it difficult for her to share a birthday with a devastating bit of history, she now also has to share it with the memory of her birthday last year ... a birthday that my actions now overshadow. Let's just say that the night started out grand, a group of us wined and dined in celebration of our cherished friend, we traveled to a local club to hear Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings ... a group I had been raving about ... and then things got ugly. Long story short, I apparently thought the night was mine to celebrate and partied like a rock star ... where birthday girl tended to my side. In an attempt to quell this humiliating night ("I did what?!"), I would like to appease Amanda with a birthday wish from McSweeney'sher love, her confidant, her travel-down-the-road-and-back-again friend. So, as I will be sitting on the sidelines this year to ensure that she gets to celebrate her birthday as she deserves, I'll be rooting loudly for a McSweeney's sing-along in honor of this charming lass. Lindsey McGuirk - - - - Date: Mon, 4 Dec 2006 Dear McSweeney's, The metaphor below is simplistic, to be sure, but the point itself needs to be made. In your imagined world of two to three decades from now, people will be arguing the merits of Piven v. Sam Jackson as the greatest practitioners of the American swear. Abruptly dragging the NBA into the fray, I say this: Piven is LeBron, Sam Jackson is Michael Jordan, and Mr. Bob De Niro is Oscar Robertson. Guy averaged a triple-double for his career. Fungo, - - - - Date: Mon, 4 Dec 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I check your Recommendation List regularly to learn about unique music, food, and entertainment that I should try. However, the latest recommendations included "not twisting your ankle." I think this is a subversion of your list because it is something to avoid, not something to seek out. You could go on forever listing anti-recommendations like "not getting audited," "not seeing your crazy ex," or "don't get food poisoning." Or we sum up the whole list by just saying "try not dying" or "enjoy good stuff, avoid bad stuff." Come on, think positively! E. Dobrinen - - - - Date: Fri, 1 Dec 2006 Dear McSweeney's: I'm sorry, but there are some lines that even I won't cross. I'll eat blowfish; I'll snack on warm brains served from a monkey skullcup; push comes to shove, I'd even drink unicorn blood to save my life. But I will not eat or drink anything made from the member of anyone from the holly familyor the cummings family, or the smith family, or the jones family. It just isn't right. Slugger. P.S. Not for nothing, but the fact that the holly family is not nearly extinct leads one to surmise that only members long past their useful primes are used to make this stuff. Gross. - - - - Date: Wed, 29 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I have just been catching up on your letters section. (Sorry, it's been an incredibly busy couple of months. I got married last week! I'll catch you up on that later.) I wanted to let you know I was astounded to see in Matt Baker's letter from October 3 that he uses the term "chockablock" in reference to the amount of useful observations in a previously printed article. I would never have considered myself to be sheltered in my life, but I have never heard anyone outside of South Louisiana, where I was born and raised, use this term! Indeed, we even have a hand motion for it, which involves pinching all of your fingers together, much like the universal sign for lots of money, and then tapping the pursed-together fingers of both hands together at the tips, while saying "chockablock." I will also provide a frame of reference sentence here, which was overheard in the crowded balcony section of my hometown church at Christmas Eve mass a couple of years ago, where an elderly man told his equally elderly wife, "Whew, Mama, it's chockablock up in here, cher!" So I'm curious to know, is this term indeed used everywhere except in Georgia, where I have been stationed for quite a few years now, and everyone gives me confused stares every time I say the word? I'd love to find out. Sincerely yours, - - - - Date: Mon, 27 Nov 2006 McSweeney's: I recently picked up your book Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans at my local library. It was in the travel section. Your fan, - - - - Date: Sun, 26 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I find myself increasingly confused and frightened by my new station as a full adult and member of society. There are so many decisions to be made and I sometimes feel as if everyone else is cooler and more sexually active than myself. I know your recommender seeks to guide young people in difficult life choices, but I feel that your advice is sometimes thin and easily ignored. For example, while I enjoy watching The Wire, I find it very easy to say "Fuck persimmons." I'm sure they would be delicious if I gave them a chance, but you're just recommending them, you offer no guarantee that I'll even find them satisfactory! I'm not asking you to change your recommendations, just make me believe that if I don't adhere to your edicts my friends and neighbors will all become more wealthy and sexually desirable because they listen to the simple truths that you offer. Simply changing to "McSweeney's Demands!" or "McSweeney's Declares!" would satisfy that need. Also, if you could offer some type of comprehensive guide to surviving your mid 20s, from how to dress to how to trick people into thinking you're more successful than you are, I would find that immensely helpful. Yours, S. Shawn Jessee - - - - Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I wish to express my extreme discomfort when trying to read Ben Greenman's "Fragments From If I Did It! The Musical." While I have no problems with the content or subject matter, I must take offense to the article's presentation. Mr. Greenman, how dare you open your piece with "Last night I had the strangest dream" if you do not intend to continue mimicking Matthew Wilder's '80s hit "Break My Stride." Do you realize how frustrating it is trying to reconcile your lyrics with the cadence and stanza length of Wilder's faux-reggae rhythm when they are not even remotely similar? In fact, the differences were so overwhelming that I was unable to finish reading your composition, as my head was filled with lines about getting my laundry clean. What does that mean? In the future, please try to limit references to addictively bad songs from my childhood to prose work only. While this won't necessarily keep the song from pulsating in my head for the entire day, it will prevent any confusion stemming from harmonic and rhythmic conflict. Thank you. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Sun, 19 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, What should I ask my lovely relatives to give me for Christmas this year? Thank you, and happy holidays, - - - - Date: Fri, 17 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I find Ben Pawlowski's review of In-N-Out horribly insufficient. Yes, he is new to the gloriousness that is In-N-Out, but someone with more experience should weigh in on the subject. While the simplicity of the menu might possess some banalitya banality that is erased by the quality of the tastethe underlying "hidden" menu speaks volumes about the beauty of the establishment. Of course, the menu is not that hidden, as it is brazenly displayed on their website. (Animal style [grilled onions, extra spread], protein style [for the carb-conscious], Neapolitan milkshakes [these are the items that fill men's (and women's) souls].) Also, you can easily order your french fries "well done" for an extra-crispy crunch. Also, animal-style french fries are gluttonously glorious with gobs of their spread under melted cheese topped with grilled onions. Heart attacks be damned. Sam Weaver - - - - Date: Fri, 17 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Do you know anything about those Internet mortgage banners with the dancing silhouettes? I am mesmerized and fascinated by them. One week, I saw two cowboy silhouettes doing what I guess is line-dancing, and next thing I know they're dancing on an enormous cartoon bicepand there's a tattoo gun in front of the bicep, as if these dancing men were just inked on! Then there's another one with a ribbon dancer, and another with a couple performing hypnotic hip swirls ... Is this what the future of technology will look like? Will we get holograms on our desk with these dancing enigmas? If so, I cannot wait. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, To be quite honest, I somewhat doubt the factual accuracy of Mr. Richardson-Bryan's five stages of grief recently attributed to Ann Coulter. Specifically, I take issue with stage four. Masturbation (that is, the stimulation of one's own genitals for pleasure) is certainly not something that a fine, upstanding conservative Christian such as Ms. Coulter would engage in. Indeed, such an act, to my ears, seems far more likely from one of the "corn-fed, no make-up, natural fiber, no-bra needing, sandal-wearing, hirsute, somewhat fragrant hippie chick pie wagons" that Ms. Coulter has so valiantly committed her pen and career to defending this country against. Now, McSweeney's seems to be a reasonably upstanding outfit, and I'm sure you have only the finest of unpaid intern fact-checkers in your employ, but, to be blunt, Ms. Coulter has never masturbated. Ever. Regards, P.S. I believe "fling feces" and "foam at the mouth" could both adequately stand on their own as separate stages in the grieving process. Give it some thought. - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Micah writes that "[f]or a while I enjoyed the novelty of it, how the red ones tasted different than the turquoise and pink ones, each one distinct and yet totally unconstrained by any similarity to any flavor of the natural world." However, as a former Trix enthusiast, I would be remiss in my duties as a one-time fan if I didn't remind Micah and the rest of the world that somewhere between my childhood and my adulthood (perhaps five to 10 years ago?) Trix changed from individually flavored cereal pieces to an unfortunate morass of one flavor for all pieces. Not only were there no longer unique flavor combinations from bite to bite, but the new combined flavor was significantly less tasty than one bite with an evenly distributed variety of pieces from Trix Version 1.0. So, unless Micah Nilsson happened upon a really old box of Trix, I suspect this purported experience of differently flavored Trix cereal pieces to be false, a clear example of synesthesia. Exasperatedly, P.S. I also remember Grape-Nuts tasting so much better when I had them as a kid than I think they taste now ... - - - - Date: Fri, 10 Nov 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I can understand why you would reject my list of porno films with literary themes but 10 months later publish Jonathan Shipley's strikingly similar "Phrases on the Marquee at the Local Strip Club to Cater to a More Literate Crowd." After all, he must have worked hard to find time to write the list while also performing his duties as an 18th-century Welsh bishop/treasonous Whig. I would, however, like to see just two of my titles published, as I cared for them like they were my own children, and it was awful to have to see them suffer the pain of rejection. Those titles:
I now realize the second title may only be appropriate for a porno film and not for a strip-club marquee (except in Rio). By the way, regarding the published list's "Tale of Two Titties": I would have gone with "Bright Lights, Big Titty." LOL? I thought so. Yours, - - - - Date: Fri, 10 Nov 2006 Dear Timothy McSweeney's Internet Tendency: I enjoyed "Rejected America's Funniest Home Videos Submissions, as Logged by Junior Production Assistant Intern Kenneth Polk" by Andrew Kiraly (11/10/06). I couldn't help but notice, however, that the first two submissions listedone involving a jet-ski accident and the other, an awkward moment between co-workers at an office birthday partyhad the same video code: AFV956382. Weird that two such disparate incidents should be part of the same video submission. So my questions are: Is the guy riding the exploding jet ski the same guy who punches his co-worker? Or is he the guy who was punched by his co-worker? Which event occurred first? And, if it was the jet-ski accident, did the guy show signs of permanent scarring at the birthday party? Sittin' here wonderin', - - - - Date: Thu, 09 Nov 2006 Dear Mr. Timothy McSweeney, For so long, I had been searching for that perfect accessory. My bathroom, although fully functional, lacked that chutzpah that would take it to the proverbial next level. I ran the gamut of options out there for a small to midsized bathroom such as mine, from nutmeg-scented candles to potpourri made of the finest mulches, even a "Hang in there!" kitten poster for added fuzziness. Nothing was oomphy enough until the day I discovered Mountain Man Dance Moves, by far the best-looking book on the market today. It contained all the chuckles one might want in a single sitting, and the unicorn cover is enough to make any passersby stop and wish they had thought of it first. So, to you I say thanks. My bathroom is now the envy of all my friends, not to mention the most hilarious one on the block. Please keep up the good work. Mostly sincerely, - - - - Date: Tue, 31 Oct 2006 Dear Mr. McSweeney, If I might quibble with your excellent (and timely! but more on that later) nod to Diane Rehm: her show is two hours long. The first hour, I want to assume, is the one you recommended as "good radio." The second hour, usually on culture, and sometimes even on Ellen Burstyn's memoir, maybe not so much. But now it is later and I promised a follow-up to an earlier comment. (Remember my introductory sentence?) And this was: Holy crank, did you hear her rip Limbaugh a new one last week? I thought she was reading an I remain, Benjamin R. Cohen - - - - Date: Fri, 27 Oct 2006 McSweeney's: I very much enjoyed Andy F. Bryan's "Back From Yet Another Globetrotting Adventure, Indiana Jones Checks His Mail and Discovers That His Bid for Tenure Has Been Denied." I wonder if Bryan knows an old bit of Vassar College legend. His fictitious Professor Stevens complains of Indiana Jones, "Moreover, no one on the committee can identify who or what instilled Dr. Jones with the belief that an archaeologist's tool kit should consist solely of a bullwhip and a revolver." I was a student at Vassar in the last years of the late Walter Fairservis's teaching career. I don't know how true campus tales were, but word had it that Fairservis had begun his distinguished career in archaeology by running off to India almost empty-handed when he was 19 years old, and that Steven Spielberg had phoned Fairservis while developing the idea for the first Indiana Jones film. What, Spielberg is said to have asked, were the three things Fairservis would have brought with him if he had it to do over again? A hat, a gun, and a whip, Fairservis is said to have replied. Is it true? I have no idea, but in the late 1980s and early 1990s, students would call him Indy Fairservis if they thought he wasn't listening. Sarah Avery - - - - Date: Thu, 19 Oct 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I'm writing to clarify a gross misunderstanding. Simply stated, rabies shots are not a big deal. Rabies has always gotten a bad rap. I can remember my parents warning me not to approach stray and/or wild animals. I always thought they were being overly protective. What's the big deal about rabies? What's the worse that can happen? I'll need, like, 20 shots in the stomach? Whatever. My stepmother apparently agreed with my reasoning and purchased a rabid cat. Sure enough, the cat bit me and I was informed that I needed rabies shots. Imagine my relief when I found out that I only needed 16 shots, four in each limb. Let me tell you, when you get 16 shots within an eight-week period, it's no big deal. It's completely routine after, like, week five. When I told my classmates, kids were initially afraid of me, but soon that fear turned to awe. I knew what they were thinking: "How could this seemingly regular kid stand all those shots?" I told them what I've been telling people for the last 18 years: Rabies shots are no big deal. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Thu, October 19, 2006 Dear McSweeney's: Oftentimes, I spend my lunch hour looking at websites to entertain me and aid in my procrastination from actually getting to work. Typically, I start with the trashy gossip sites, work my way through the trashy news sites (thank you, FoxNews.com), and end the hour with whatever goodies McSweeney's has to offer. Today was spent learning about Heather Mills and Paul McCartney's increasingly acrimonious divorce, a priest's "relationship" with ex-Rep. Foley (I myself am not certain which came from the "news" site and which came from the "gossip" site), then finally one woman's struggle to get her letter on menopause published on your site. Callahan's letter (I won't dare assume Ms. or Mrs., as she seems like the type that might take offense to such a presumption ...) was well written and thoughtful, and while I don't necessarily think you are discriminatory toward the older set, she raises some interesting points. However, I stopped reading the letter halfway through. Callahan says, "I can assure you the original story I wrote for those menopause-mongers really did suck." Her use of the word "monger" genuinely irks me. For a "monger," according to a generally accepted dictionary's definition, is one that peddles. I pose the question: Who peddles menopause? If there is, in fact, someone who peddles menopause, please let me know. They are selling far too much of it to my mother (I think she may be addicted) and it has to stop. With that said, please do not publish anything else menopause-related. I am a 22-year-old worried enough about my fertile uterus being impregnated that I don't want to have my carefree sex ruined by recognizing that I will be barren in 20 to 30 years. All best, - - - - Date: Sun, 15 Oct 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I have been doing a lot of thinking lately. Works written in a classical vein should be printed in serif fonts, don't you think? They will make your words seem more austere than usual, which should be the desired effect. Imagine if Charles Dickens's Great Expectations had been printed in Arial Narrow or Verdana. Could we have bought the stagnancy of Miss Havisham? Would her wedding cake have seemed quite so desperately uneaten if it were described using the anything-but-gothic font Franklin Gothic Book? Could her yellowed dress jump off the page in such a cool shade? I think not. Sans-serif fonts are entirely incapable of describing mustiness or dankness, and they fall short even in depicting scenes of impenetrable gloom. Desperation is a foreign concept to these metropolitan characters, which are better at illustrating the brash frivolity of Paris or the neon glow of Times Square during New Year's festivities. Impact, Vrinda, and Kartika are spectacular fonts for scenes of modernityskyscrapers, Scottish heroine junkies, pop-culture journalism, and new-wave populism. These sorts of fonts are far too open and inviting for the likes of Dickens, and the same goes for Mary Shelley. Furthermore, I think all World War I and II stories should be printed in fonts that attempt to approximate the appearance of a typewritten letter insomuch as it is very difficult for people who have not experienced war to write about it. Courier New is especially adept at creating a fraudulent authenticity that is sure to leave the reader vulnerable to hokey depictions of the storming of the Normandy beach. In fact, any written work dealing with life between 1900 and 1958 should be either typewritten or displayed in a similar font, if for no other reason than because I could not believe an account of the McCarthy trials if I saw it in Lucida Sans or Helvetica. I would feel rather as if I were reading a blatant anachronismdoomed the entire time to wallow in unforgiving awareness of the retrospective nature of the prose. Even the most popular default font of our time, Times New Roman, will not suffice despite its membership in a long and distinguished line of serifs ranging from Sylfaen to Perpetua. I mean no disrespect to modern-day serifs, of course. I only wish to convey the fact that even novelty fonts such as Edwardian Script more adequately portray both the whimsy and horror of yesteryear. I have yet to investigate the proper trappings for works written after 1958. As you know, the Vietnam War was a long and difficult period that presents many confusing conundrums. Society became a great deal more complicated after that, but the challenge of formulating a font-related template for contemporary literature is one that I am more than willing to undergo if you are willing to provide the proper funding. Please let me know if you are interested. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Mon 9 Oct 2006 Dear Open-Minded Folks at McSweeney's: I recently submitted something for your "Open Letters" section. It was titled: "An Open Letter to the Editor Who Rejected My Story About Menopause for a Book on the Same Topic Whose Title I Will Not Reveal, or The Mature Way in Which I Handled Said Rejection." Sadly, you passed on it. I hope it was not due to the length of the title. Because I am such a whore for seeing my material published on McSweeney's, this has caused me many a sleepless night. It has made me resort to my Pinot Grigio bottle (thank you for alerting me to the fact that "Pinot Grigio" should, indeed, be capitalized) for escape from the soul-crushing realization that anyone would not find the topic of menopause funny. What is causing this insomnia, alcohol abuse, and great consternation on my part is something that a friend of mine said, perhaps only to comfort me. He said that he thought McSweeney's would never publish something with the word "menopause" in it because that might alter the public's perception of what a hip, irreverent, youth-oriented website it is. He implied McSweeney's might be "squeamish" about publishing a piece with this word slapped all over it because of the implications therein: that McSweeney's actually might have a wider demographic than they thought. And they don't want it. Say it ain't so! Now, from years of experience, I have never known McSweeney's to be squeamish about any topic. Consider the lively debate spurred within this very section"Letters to McSweeney's"on such varied and disgusting topics as: the merits of combining personal hygiene (showering) with other necessary tasks (shaving, plucking, eating, reading) in the interest of saving time. Remember the spirited discussions on the proper forms of address for redheads ("ginger" OK"firecrotch" not OK). And who could forget spaghetticorn? Not me. So it is established that MsSweeney's does not shy away from controversial subjects. You seem to be an open-minded group. So I must conclude that my piece was not up to your impeccable standards, and that you just don't find menopause as hilarious as I do, especially when certain "editors" of certain "books" about certain "topics" want you to take it seriously. But that's OK. And that's another storyI can assure you the original story I wrote for those menopause-mongers really did suck. But just for the record: I am not now contemplating, nor have I ever contemplated, menopause. I do not advocate it for anyone. It is not even on my "to-do" list. I now use the word "menopause" interchangeably for anything that is fucked up, not working properly, or making me sad. As in, "My car is going through menopause this week: I must take it in to have its delicate internal parts probed." Or, "The editor who rejected my story must be going through menopause or something." See? It does work as a metaphor. Anyway, thanks for letting me get this off my chest. I still have faith in you. Still ovulating, - - - - Date: Fri, 6 Oct 2006 Dear McSweeney's: I would like to second your recommendation of Mr. Tate's poems. There is a special place in my heart for Mr. Tate, as he hails from my hometown, and I had the good fortune of interviewing him a few years ago when he gave a reading at my college. The man, while guarded, is damn near the most prolific and unassuming writer I have ever encountered, either in person (the only) or through his work (thousands), especially considering he made the big leagues at age 24 with The Lost Pilot. Return to the City of White Donkeys is a gem and is best coupled with a collection of his earlier, more concise work, Selected Poems, the volume that won him the Pulitzer Prize. Be well. - - - - Date: Wed, 4 Oct 2006 Dear Editors of Mountain Man Dance Moves: The McSweeney's Book of Lists, Allow me to reintroduce myself. For much of 2003, I was the puzzlemaster of McSweeney's Internet Tendency. Each week I produced a vexing "Brain Exploder" for the enjoyment of McSweeney's readers. I left the employ of McSweeney's in early 2004 after inventing a computer program that could automatically generate Sudoku number puzzlers at the rate of 11 per minute. These puzzles could then be sold to one of four newspaper syndicates at the rate of $900 per. To put it in puzzle terms, if Sally is riding on a train from Boston to Chicago at a speed of 70 miles per hour, and Franklin is traveling from Phoenix to Chicago at a speed of 90 miles per hour, and every person on both trains is doing one of Carlton Doby's Sudokus, then Carlton can afford Ann-Margret's former Hamptons estate at a fixed-rate mortgage of 3.7 percent. On December 2 of last year George Clooney handed me a message from you at my villa in Côte d'Ivoire. This was not just a friendly greeting but a plea for help. You were preparing your new book, Mountain Man Dance Moves: The McSweeney's Book of Lists, but the manuscript did not have enough lists involving unicorns. You asked me (and talented others) if I could produce some. I said I could. The following day I delivered to your electronic inbox not one but two such lists. They were titled "Punch Lines to Jokes Unicorns Like to Tell About the Irish" and "Your Recurring Dreams About Unicorns Explained, 1970s Baseball Edition." I did not hear back from you right away, but this was no blow to my self-esteem. I knew my entries were to comical list anthologies what nonfatal snowmobile accidents were to America's Funniest Home Videos. On June 6, 2006, I received a contract asking my permission to reprint only "Punch Lines to Jokes Unicorns Like to Tell About the Irish." You offered $25 and a copy of the finished book. I thought you were fools to reject "Your Recurring Dreams About Unicorns Explained, 1970s Baseball Edition," but I not only consented, I insisted that you donate the $25 to your storefront PBS show, the San Franciscobased 826 Valencia. And while this might seem exceedingly generous on my part, let me explain something about my frame of mind at the time. Between June 6 through June 8 of this year I was intermittently engaged in a fragrantly oiled threesome with a pair of beautiful models who shall remain nameless until my memoirs (although for fans of both crosswords and Deal or No Deal I will say only that the experience has given me a vivid new understanding of the terms "17 Across" and "23 Down"). I never received my copy of the book, but I hoped it had been donated to the children of 826 as well. So, while browsing in my local bookstore last week, I purchased Mountain Man Dance Moves: The McSweeney's Book of Lists and brought it home. I had not even turned to Page 30, however, before I received a shock. McSweeney's had published my property, "Your Recurring Dreams About Unicorns Explained, 1970s Baseball Edition," without offering appropriate compensation for me to subsequently refuse. This is not just an outrage but a betrayal. I demand restitution. Specifically, I demand that McSweeney's pay itself an additional $25, and mail itself a second copy of Mountain Man Dance Moves: The McSweeney's Book of Lists. If these demands are not met within 10 business days, I will have to insist that you cease distribution of this book. My attorneys are preparing the necessary motions as we speak, and if you don't think I have the resources to see this through, I should point out that perhaps my most famous (and lucrative) Sudoku, "Sudoku No. 471," was created by a fun-sized Snickers bar I had placed on the return key of my laptop while I was upstairs receiving a "Johnson & Johnson" (street lingo for a soapy bathtub handjob) from a popular television actress whose name is an anagram for "a sky-hi margarita." My representatives await your reply. Sincerely, P.S. Adding insult to injury, you edited one of my Irish-joke punch lines in order to make it grammatically correct, but now the joke makes as much sense as MapQuest directions written by Mark Danielewski. I'm sorry, what part of "Aye laddie, and they're boat for sale" do you not find hilarious? Even a barely conscious Tara Reid laughed at that one when I told it to her at the Vanity Fair party. I won't sue you for it but Jeepus Crow it annoys. - - - - Date: Tue, 3 Oct 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Amelia, World, Amelia Gray's wonderful review of Ronald Reagan's boyhood home was chockablock with wonderful observations, but unfortunately also included one glaring mistake. All American presidents, sitting, dead, impeached or otherwise, are still considered "president," as opposed to "former president." This quirk of U.S.ian etiquette even applies to asshats like Reagan. Regards, Matt Baker P.S. This is an unofficial prescript only, like the Flag Code, and will not result in jackboots kicking in your door at 3 a.m. for infringement. P.P.S. Yet. - - - - Date: Mon, 2 Oct 2006 Dear McSweeney's: I totally agree with Pasha Malla that Toronto fans have the worst hair in professional sport. It is not easy speaking truth to power, and P. Malla deserves our praise, support, and gratitude. Slugger O'Toole - - - - Date: Fri, 29 Sep 2006 Dear McSweeney's: These FreeDarko folks do some of my favourite writing about basketball, anywhere, and Dr. Lawyer Indianchief's look at the New York Knicks' fall from grace is spot-on awesome. I pledged allegiance to the Knicks until Toronto got a team back in '95; at a game in Detroit, I once patted the top of Kenny "Sky" Walker's hightop fade as he made his way out of the tunnel. The Knicks feel now to me like that ex-girlfriend you hear about through friends who let her life go down the shitteryou've moved on, but still feel sad, sort of, and wonder if you could have done something to help. I'm assuming Indianchief wrote this little missive before Isiah went and hired his old buddy Glen Grunwald to head things in the front office. Aside from consistently having the worst hair in professional sport (Steve Nash at his worst doesn't even come close), Toronto fans are all too familiar with Grunwald's baffling managerial tactics and empty promises. When Grunwald was the Raptors' GM, a "Fire Grunwald" movement in the city gained momentum with each questionable trade, signing, and staffing decision. From keeping Vince over Tracy to picking up a near-geriatric Hakeem Olaujuwon (ever see a 7-footer airball a breakaway dunk?), the guy seemed more intent on sabotage than on creating a winning franchise. When he was finally canned in 2004, he left a club in shambles, with what remains a bleak future. (I don't care what anyone saysthat we're banking our next season on a point guard who spends half his time on a spinal board doesn't bode well for the win column.) For Zeke to hire Grunwald now feels a bit like the captain of a sinking ship inviting a giant squid on board to help save passengers. And that squid is hungry. And it has a mullet. And it thinks paying Antonio Davis a billion dollars a year, or whatever it was, is a smart move. That said, Grunwald was the one who saw a future in Chris Bosh. And who knows, maybe his last two years away from basketball have given him time to reflect. Maybe he'll get a totally amazing haircut. And maybe, just maybe, he'll be the one to turn things around for the Knicks, after all. Yeah, maybe. Pasha Malla - - - - Date: Thu, 28 Sep 2006 Dear Horse Enthusiast, Equestrian Directory 5,000 Members Our Mission Best regards, - - - - Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2006 Dearest McSweeney, Before I tell you how gut-bustingly funny Jason Roeper's and Brendan Lloyd's features were today, I have a confession to make. I was two hours late to work. I was late because my next-door neighbor, who is just a wonder to look at, had a birthday last night and no one to drink with. I am, though, the proverbial "trooper." I don't care that I've drunk every night this month that doesn't have an M in itwhen it's someone's birthday, you never let them drink alone. Never. (Remember this; you'll be quizzed on it later.) Plus, I could look at this man all night long. His looks are more than just reminiscent of a Thelma and Louiseera Brad Pitt (without the uncomfortable rape scene). People notice you when you're drinking with a Brad Pitt look-alike. They also tend to notice that you're really not in his league at all and that's fine! I'm really working on trying to become this guy's pimp. It's going to start with a staged crashing of a Girls' Night Out and it will end with him giving me 10 percent of his earnings from turning tricks. I told him this last night, and he just laughed. Anyway, I came to work two hours late, and decided that, since I was in no mood to actually do work, I would send people funny letters composed entirely of hyperlinked words. As I was about to link your website to the word "explain," I decided to pull the link up so as not to inadvertently send people hurtling to the pornographic outposts of the World Wide Web. And that is when I read Brendon Lloyd's fine piece "The Recording Industry Will Destroy You." I chortled in my office, somewhat uncomfortably because chortling is a noise that doesn't go well with a hangover. I thought to myself that this Brendon Lloyd would be a fine recipient of a funny, hyperlinked letter or some peanut-butter cups (who doesn't like peanut butter cups? And don't tell me people with peanut allergies. Just because you cannot eat something doesn't mean that you don't like it), but there was no e-mail address. My heart broke. Completely distracted from my original purpose for visiting your site, I clicked away to the "Short Imagined Monologues," billed as "New today." Jason Roeper's "I'm Beginning to Think No One's Coming to My Cinco de Mayo Party" had me snickering, especially the Evite part. I had that uncomfortable moment of recognition: here I am, wasting away in an office job, on the worst type of welfare (incompetence and laziness in a corporate white-collar job), spending hours writing Evites for parties and events that will probably only be sparsely attended by my many acquaintances in this city. Yes, when I read that bit about Evites, I gazed into the darkness. And snickered. I hope it snickered back. I would tell Mr. Roeper this myself (and offer him peanut-butter cups, too!), but I find myself fatiguing and will probably have to close my door and take a long nap very soon. It is for this reason that I will have to scrimp on the sycophantic stylings that seem to get letters posted to the page. (Actually, brevity might have been a better way to let the world read this. And avoidance of parenthetical remarks.) In all honesty, though, I love you, Timothy McSweeney, in a completely platonic way. You're one of the few bright spots in my otherwise banal existence. Cheers! P.S. Quiz time: What must you never let someone do on her birthday? (Mine's tax day, if you're curious. Start training now.) - - - - Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2006 Hello! I heard a slightly interesting fact. I heard that G.I. Joe is not available in stores during times of war. I heard this fact from a reliable source, Jon at my work. I wonder if the perpetual war on terror will rob an entire generation of the joys of the kung-fu grip, making Destro and Snake-Eyes kiss, and the popular breaking off of the small crotch bit and making a floppy-legged Joe. Best regards, Templeton Dink - - - - Date: Thu, 7 Sep 2006 Dear McSweeney's, First off, congratulations on having two capital letters in one name. I think you'll find, like I have, there is no end of fun telling people, "... that's capital M and capital S." Meghann Marco did such a great job on the Midwest. I was hoping she might clear up a question that just came to my attention. Route 41 starts at 95th in Chicago, and wends its way slowly north. Unlike North Avenue (which is Route 64 all the way), it becomes different things at different points. Sometimes it's Skokie Boulevard, sometimes it's Lincoln Avenue. Here is my question: 41 is Lake Shore Drive all the way along the city of Chicago until it hits Foster, then 41 becomes Foster. But Lake Shore Drive continues onward to Hollywood, where it turns left and then north to Sheridan Road. What is Lake Shore Drive north of Foster? Is it still 41? Why do these crucial yards of Lake Shore Drive not get the Route 41 designation? Can I still tell people to take 41 north to Sheridan Road and hope they don't end up in Wisconsin before they've realized their mistake? Regards, - - - - Date: Wed, 6 Sept. 2006 Dear fellow winethusiasts at McSweeney's: Glad to hear you've come to your senses about Pinot Grigio. I too used to be a bit of a red-wine snob, but recently I've been enthusiastically recommending this spectacular beverage to any who will listen. But beware, all Pinot Grigios are not created equally: Santa Margaritanow that's the stuff! Pinot Grigio has often taken a back seat to the more pedestrian Chardonnay, but as any true wine connoisseur knows (as McSweeney's surely does), Pinot Grigio is to Chardonnay as crack is to coffee. It cannot be beat for the Prozac-like lift it gives you. Drinking Pinot Grigio does for the wallflower's personality what Viagra does for the, well, you know. This "idea fuel," as I like to call it, truly has inhibition-inhibiting qualities, as experience has taught me. For example, consumption of one-half to two-thirds of a bottle induces in me the desire to do standup comedy. Note that I did not say it makes me funny. It merely makes me bold. This is the only drawback as far as I have noticed. That and offering to show people my yellow bra, which I pronounced "Lellow" for added comedic effect. Blessedly, it allows only the vaguest of memories the next day of what I said or did under its influence. So drink up. Did I mention Pinot Grigio gives you no hangover? Only regrets. A fellow white wino, - - - - Date: Thu, 31 Aug 2006 Hello, I simply must add to the fine suggestions of what tastes good on corn already submitted by my fellow McSweeney's lovers. Up until about a year ago, the only things that ever touched my corn (on the cob, that is) were butter and salt. Then, through a general lack of foresight coupled with incredibly good luck and friends, I found myself crashing at a mostly empty house with a good friend for most of last summerin Santa Cruz, no less! Neither of us had a job at the moment, or the desire to pursue one, so we spent most of our time sleeping, drinking ice coffee, eating coconut popsicles, and hosting barbeques. It was during the preparations for the first of these events that my friend introduced me to elote. I understand that this is simply "corn" in Spanish, but it just sounds so exotic (especially if you don't know how to spell it!)! Anyway, elote simply entails slathering a grilled cob of corn with sour cream and then sprinkling this whole mess with queso fresco. I know, I know, sounds unlikely, and it's messy as hell, but I will never eat my corn any other way. Try it! Much love, - - - - Date: Fri, 18 Aug 2006 Dear Sirs, I have to take issue with Dan Kennedy's son's interpretation of atomic reality (August 18). He claims matter is held in its for-all-intents-and-purposes solid form because the particles give in to their desire for movement and that "Daddy" is an aberration for resisting and struggling with his urge to move. I think this toddler is not nearly so goddamned clever as he thinks he is. It is, in fact, little boy, the ambivalent (literally!) desire of electrons to rush inward ("don't want to") and to fly outward off into space ("but I have to") that keeps the universe functioning properly for you and me and our Lunchables. Without this tensionthe very emotion Daddy is feeling, or pretending to feelreplicated on the subatomic scale billions of trillions of dozens of times a nanosecond, Junior would not have his happy home, his free food, or his Music Television. Good luck in science class, you baby! Best wishes, TG Gibbon - - - - Date: Fri, 18 Aug 2006 Hello, While reading one of Kevin Dolgin's excellent updates on places in Europe worth visiting, I noticed an unfortunate error. In the article "Les Frites de la Liberté," Mr. Dolgin describes the types of sauces one might enjoy on french fries. I understand that errors were inevitable due to "hastily scribbled notes," but I feel obliged to correct. "Stoofvlessaus" should be "stoofvleessaus"it's a brown meat sauce that looks disgusting (just do a Google image search on "stoofvlees") but tastes greatand "loohcaus" should be "looksaus" (garlic sauce). I know this might sound pedantic, and I would normally never mail anyone for such a trivial matter, but both these sauces rank among my personal top three favorite sauces, so I hope you will understand my concern. Sincerely. M. Pawlowski - - - - Date: Mon, 7 Aug 2006 Dearest McSweeney's, From a basil plant on the back patio to Jenna Fischer's blog, your recommendations routinely hit the proverbial nail on the head. (Although I can't vouch for the whole shaving-after-showering routine, being female and not predisposed to facial hair. But that's another letter.) However, I do take issue with your recommendation of the band Lettuce. The recommendation itself may be sound, but the analysis of its namesake"the nutrient-free vegetable"is not. Unless your idea of lettuce stops at a leaf of iceberg atop a Big Mac, I beg to differ. Have you heard of romaine? Green leaf? Red leaf? In a regular serving (about two cups), all contain a few grams of fiber, plus more than 100 percent of the RDA of vitamin A. Add in a little vitamin C, some protein, and a touch of iron and calcium, and lettuce is a pretty well-rounded little veggie. Plus, if you don't cover it in bacon and Gorgonzola (both of which I heartily recommend), it's extremely low in calories. Thank you for your attention to this matter, and I look forward to your next set of recommendations. Your nutrient-rich friend, - - - - Date: Fri, 04 Aug 2006 To the fine folks at McSweeney's, Someone in your fact-checking department has screwed up. According to Mr. Shipley's list of David Blaine's newest stunts, he will take the lead in "the Houston Opera's production of Eugene Onegin." This is obviously false for two compelling and, dare I say, grand reasons. First of all, it's the Houston GRAND Opera. Why? Because it's grand, obviously. Secondly, this past season's opener was a fine production of Boris Godunov, which is widely regarded as the best of Russian operas. Why would we go with something less grand? It just doesn't make sense. That being said, I would welcome Mr. Blaine to audition for the HGO's upcoming season. Though I have absolutely no affiliation with the Grand whatsoever, it sure couldn't hurt business. Besides, nothing could spice up The Magic Flute more than Tamino removing the Queen of the Night's head and then reattaching it with an air of apathetic panache. Now that's grand! Nick - - - - Date: Thu, 27 Jul 2006 McSweeney's: Meghann is right! It's about time somebody told those states which way is up. I went to school in Wisconsin (decidedly Midwestern) and I'm sick and tired of hearing people talk about other places (especially Kansas, damn it) as if they were Midwestern. I'm not saying that Wisconsin is the only state in the Midwest. There's Ohio, Illinois, and a few others. Meghann knows which ones. Anyway, I'm just glad someone finally set the record straight. Hear! Hear! Tom Lingner - - - - Date: Thu, 27 Jul 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Could you please inform Meghann Marco that she is my newest hero? I have been attempting to explain to peoplemostly coastal transplantswhat the Midwest really is (and, more importantly, what it isn't) for years. I find myself feeling much more vindicated than the issue probably warrants. I like it. Excitedly, - - - - Date: Thu, 27 Jul 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Meghann Marco had some interesting observations today about the mythical "Midwest" and which states are actually part of it. I wonder where she lives. It must be on one of the coasts or in Chicago; definitely not in any of the so-called "flyover" states. I've been to all of the states mentioned except North Dakota, and I don't plan to fill in that gap in my travels anytime soon. Some gut reactions, though, to Meghann's musings: KansasI live there now (not my fault). It's not the Wild West, not even Dodge City. There is no Wild West anymore, except maybe the West Village. I don't know how far west the "Midwest" is supposed to extend, but I do know that Kansas is the geographic center of the contiguous 48. That's its claim to fame now. KentuckyI've never heard anyone from Kentucky claim they were Midwesterners. They'd pee in your mint julep if they heard you say that. NebraskaThey grow corn there, lots of it. Just like in Illinois. Sounds "Midwestern" to me. West VirginiaThis doesn't even dignify a response. Moving on ... PennsylvaniaSee above. OklahomaI'm originally from Texas. Oklahoma is not Texas Lite or anything even resembling Texas. Oklahoma is Baja Kansas. North DakotaYou may have a point here. South DakotaDeadwood is practically in Wyoming, it's not really part of South Dakota. Weak criterion for classification. MissouriIt's what historians call a "border" state, kinda like Kentucky. The northern part is like Iowa, so it's pretty Midwestern. Likewise the east, around St. Louis, which is basically Illinois west of the Mississippi. The south is an extension of Arkansas via the Ozarks, and the west is, well, like Kansas. I honestly don't know what to call it. I just work here. Adrian - - - - Date: Sun, 23 Jul 2006 McSweeney's: Regarding your recommendation of the serendipitous combination of spaghetti sauce on corn on the cob: I feel compelled to applaud you on this find (never before have I allowed anything other than butter, kosher salt, and coarsely ground black pepper to coat this summertime treat) and to remind you of a slightly different yet equally serendipitous version of this delightful pairing: corn in spaghetti sauce (or any pasta-oriented red sauce, really) on top of pasta. While cutting the corn direct from the cob into the sauce may be the more rustic and seemingly gourmet method, the frozen kind works just as well, and has potential to make even the most culinarily obtuse appear as a bona-fide Epicurean. (If using uncooked corn, be sure to simmer the sauce on the stove until the sauce is warm and the corn is cooked.) I will take it one step further and suggest the addition of pepperoni chunks (not that disgusting presliced kind that comes in the greasy package, but actual pepperoni sticks cut into small chunks. These too must have some cook time in the simmering sauce). With these two items as a start, anyone can make Prego taste homemade in under 10 minutes. Best regards from a lifelong lover of all things edible, - - - - Date: Fri, 14 July 2006 Dearest McSweeney's, I may be prone to flights of hyperbole, but that will not stop me from saying that this time you promise to cement your reputation for genius like never before. My congratulations to George Viebranz for undertaking an utterly fascinating experiment that promises to be of incalculable benefit to the struggling astronaut minorityand for transmuting the leaden physical inactivity involved into the gold of pure intellectual achievement. You, sir, are living the dream. You may well be instrumental in saving the world. Congrats as well for not letting phrases like "muscle atrophy" and "bone loss" scare you away from an experience guaranteed to both educate and entertain the lazy, voyeuristic masses of which I count myself a member. I look forward to reading what will surely be the Recherche du Temps Perdu for the Internet set. All my love, - - - - Date: Fri, 14 Jul 2006 McSweeney's: Blinks bill themselves as "The First Cereal You Can Eat Like a Chip"? Have we forgotten Fingos? As an advertising major in the mid '90s, I was told to find a new product on the shelves and develop a campaign for it. I chose Fingos, "the cereal made to eat with your fingers." No milk, no bowl necessaryyou ate them right out of the bag like, ahem, chips. My headline, "Give Your Family the Fingo," was dismissed by my classmates as a joke. Best, - - - - Date: Fri, 07 Jul 2006 Dear McSweeney's: This letter is in response to Sam Kean's review of Ikea's Swedish Fish. While I agree with Mr. Kean that salt licorice is a shock to the uninitiated palate, it has a draw that is difficult for some to ignore. I had never heard of salmiak (one of the Scandinavian names for the product) until I met my Swedish friend Rebecka in junior high. She gave me some little gumdrop-shaped candies, and only knowing they would be salty, I took the entire endeavor as a challenge. These days, whenever Becka writes, she sends a little box of black, salty encouragement along with the letter. See, salmiak possesses a sick cleansing-product flavor beloved by Scandinavian children, who were introduced to it as babies, practically. Sure, it's rough on our foreign tongues. The salt used to flavor salmiak is ammonium chloride, of which the Wikipedia says: In nature, the [ammonium chloride] occurs in volcanic regions, forming on volcanic rocks near fume-releasing vents. The crystals deposit directly from the gaseous state, and tend to be short-lived, as they dissolve easily in water. Of course this shit is intense! It's ephemeral! It's licorice and volcanic fumes! Mr. Kean touched on a hot issue. Salt licorice is either loved or hated. It kills your tongue, and there is a salt-licorice-flavored alcoholic beverage that's even been rumored to kill whole people. It's exactly the kind of thing a 12-year-old can double-dog-dare their best friend into eating an entire bag of. A dare for good kids, causing no property damage (excepting black vomit) or arrests. The experience of salmiak leaves you craving exotic foods. You might travel the globe in pursuit of gastronomic challenges and learn to appreciate the cultures that produce them. You might grow up to be an ambassador of good will. Salt licorice can open you up to a life of glory and praise. I, for one, love salt licorice and just can't wait to save the world. Also, it actually starts tasting good, once you get over the numb tongue. Pussies. Love, - - - - Date: Thu, 6 Jul 2006 McSwy's: This is also the best time to pluck one's eyebrows. Just thought I'd let the ladies know. Maranda Harold - - - - Date: Wed, 5 Jul 2006 Tim, Thinly "veiled" self-referential inside joke; zany take on words you printed. Slavish fawning and literary pretensions. Stretched metaphor (maybe) pertaining to personal observation(s). Irony. Not Postmodern or post modern but postmodern, clarification for personal satisfaction, gamy catchphrase. Very Truly Deeply, P.S. Unnecessary witticism. Post post scriptum: I would SO count this as "being (published)." Winks. - - - - Date: Mon, 26 Jun 2006 McSweeney's: I've read a couple of your books, magazines, things that you do, and I've laughed, thought about things differently, had good conversations, as I'm guessing you hope. But none of your output, as much as I admire, enjoy, and look forward to it, has really changed my life. With the exception, of course, of your recommendation of shaving right after taking a shower, without shaving cream. I thought you were mad, but I will never go back. The technique should be taught in health classes across the country. If anything deserves a re-recommendation, it would be this. Jeremy Wang-Iverson - - - - Date: Sun, 25 Jun 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I would like to say, first and foremost, that I love your website. I think you do an outstanding job providing outrageously wonderful material, and I look forward each and every day to reading what you put up. However, while reading the food reviews, I was very disappointed. Upon seeing the review for Campbell's "Soup at Hand," I was shocked. They are not that good! The taste is mediocre at best, and let's not forget the safety hazard! One time, I accidentally overcooked the soup, and when I took it out, it scalded my entire hand! I had no choice but to fling the entire can across my living room! What a mess! It took me forever to clean, and I still have the smell of Creamy Tomato in my carpet. On another note, I think your open letters are marvelous. I loved the letter to Taco Bell's Crunch Wrap Supreme. Enough to actually try one. It was delicious! I could not have been more satisfied. I have been a reader of McSweeney's for about three weeks, and you are already beginning to control what I do and do not eat. That is quite the responsibility. Don't ruin it. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Tue, 20 Jun 2006 Now you've done it, McSweeney's. I officially have a swoonish crush on you. You recently recommended the culinary combination of spaghetti sauce and corn. Even on a planet of over 6 billion people, I still thought I was the only person to indulge in this seemingly unexpected yet glaringly obvious pairing. I just wanted to thank you for that inadvertent warm hug of shared tastes and also to humbly note that a dash of cheesewhether shaved pecorino Romano or melted mozzarellaadds a deliciously salty kick. Hoping to have your babies, - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Jun 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I respectfully completely disagree with Mr. Cappel's assessment of the new Tropicana FruitWise Fruit Bars. I love them! Imagine you are 7 years old (if you, like myself, were born in 1980) and you have taken the Fruit Roll-Up your father packed in your lunchbox and smushed the whole thing up to make one delicious lump of Fruit Roll-Up product. Now, if you could take that memory and eat it, you would have the new Tropicana FruitWise Fruit Bar. Again: I love them! You might, too, if you have a nostalgia for '80s fake fruit-snack foods. Sincerely, P.S. To be fair to Mr. Cappel, I have only tried the Cherry Berry flavor. The others may indeed be suitable for fixing a flat. - - - - Date: Mon, 12 Jun 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I so often read your letters but rarely have anything of interest to add. Today, however, my semester's worth of Hebrew 101 proves useful once again. In response to Miss (Jessica) Voelker's question about redheads and the use of the word "ginger," I would advise her that in Hebrew the word for redhead is "gingi," taken from the English word "ginger." For whatever it's worth, that's the one I'd use. Carolyn Bramble - - - - Date: Thu, 8 Jun 2006 McSweeney's: Every word of this review is true. Beverly tastes like death, Imodium ADflavored death. But do not be mislead by Ms. Roy's words of warning; when you are in that great big room of sodas, you absolutely have to try Beverly. Even though you know it will only end in tears, you have to try it. You must stare carbonated death in the face, embrace it, and only then will you emerge victorious. I've done it every time I've been in Atlanta (and a couple times when they had a satellite museum in Vegas), and I assure you it is an extremely life-affirming experience. M.K. Rowley - - - - Date: Fri, 02 Jun 2006 McSweeney's, In light of recent events, I thought I'd touch base with you regarding my previous (Dec. 13, 2005) letter's assertion that it takes one about two months to ascertain the various problems and negative qualities relating to a new dating partner. She just broke up with me, after six months, but I think the rule still holds. The problem is I forgot to factor in some distractions: she spent a lot of time applying to graduate schools and looking for an apartmentthis while I mostly drank beer and made witty comments about whatever happened to be on TV. Plus, the winter here in Montreal is a complete fucking write-off, in terms of being motivated to make any life-changing decisions. The point is The Two Month Rule, like many unfounded and unproven rules, requires a little finessing and an understanding of the larger factors at work in order for it to remain sound. It's a good rule: you just have to remember to personalize it to your own particular situation, dig? Shane Sinnott - - - - Date: Thu, 25 May 2006 Dear McSweeney's: I am aware that "firecrotch" is unacceptable, but what about "ginger"? Yours, - - - - Date: Wed, 24 May 2006 Dear McSy's, You ever find yourselves over-brushing in a feeble attempt at last-minute amends for months of piss-poor dental hygiene before a dental checkup or cleaning? I bet you do. And don't think the hygienist isn't onto you. Your gorgeous friend, - - - - Date: Mon, 22 May 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Rosie's sharp observation about the simultaneity of the having and eating of cake really strikes a chord with me, as I have only recently begun to appreciate the truth of this previously incomprehensible cliché here in the philosophical conundrum that is my late twenties. I would add that although you continue to have the cake after you have eaten it, because matter is neither created nor destroyed in this universe, the cake will experience "phase shifts." It is completely within the realm of possibility to keep the cake with you even after it has reached its next evolutionary step, although at some point you may decide you finally possess the fortitude to go ahead and let that cake go. This is a decision that may require the counsel of a therapist, spiritual advisor, or someone close to you. A support group can be extremely helpful in the cake-release process. It might be helpful to realize that you never really "had" the cake in the first place, that you and the cake chose to be together, and could just as reasonably choose to separate when you are no longer experiencing satisfaction with the relationship. I mean, it's pretty arrogant to assert that you "have" the cake, just like that, without offering the cake anything in return. What have you done for the cake lately? The thing is, you are better off without the cake. When you met the cake, he had a Confederate flag hanging on his wall, and when you asked about it, the cake just gave you some high-school-civics-class "states' rights" argument. The cake likes Steely Dan just a little too much. The cake argues with you about how much to tip. The cake is no good for you. My advice to you is to go ahead and let someone else take the cake. That cake is like pie in the sky at this point. You just have to walk away. It's a piece of cake. Yours in Solidarity and Confectionery, - - - - Date: Mon, 22 May 2006 Dear McSweeney's, No disrespect to Rosie Sharp, but I think she's missing the point with regard to "having your cake and eating it too." The idea is that you can't do both at the same time. Allow me to elaborate: Suppose you buy a cake. The cake looks absolutely splendid in every way. The very thought of it makes you giddy. This, in essence, is the joy of having cake. But you dare not eat it! For if you do, the cake will be gone. And then, of course, you will no longer have it. Perhaps a more accurate phrase would be "You can't have your cake and eat it too because, due to the nature of the space-time continuum, an object cannot exist in two different states at the same time, unless of course it's really, really small (which cake is not)." Still, Rosie and I aren't so very different. The phrase in question bothers me too, albeit for a different reason. Consider this: I buy a cake, but I eat only half. Thus, I've eaten my cake, and yet it appears that I've somehow defied the laws of physics ... because I still have my cake! (Sorry if I just blew your mind.) I imagine some smart aleck will chime in and point out that "you can't have your whole cake and eat the whole thing too." But frankly, that sounds pretty stupid. It just doesn't roll off the tongue. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Mon, 15 May 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I take issue with the review of Herbal Colgate I recently stumbled upon using your fancy "hyperlinks." Were I you, I would refrain from further publication of such glittering reviews of toothpaste in your "Reviews of New Food" section, lest someone get the idea that it would make for good afterschool snacking or pre-workout noshing or other prepositional-activity eating. After all, you wouldn't want any loyal McSweeney's readers contracting dental fluorosis and losing their teeth, thus rendering your oral-care advice pointless. Or would you? If you would, then you're out of luck because dental fluorosis really only strikes the young and I'm assuming a product like "Herbal Colgate" probably contains minimal amounts of fluoride anyway. But still, eating toothpaste is just gross. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Mon, 15 May 2006 Dear McSweeney's, The discussion about "fan" vs. "fanatic" brings to mind a turn of phrase that has always bothered me: "You can't have your cake and eat it too." While I understand the subtext of the statement, it is entirely possible to have your cake and eat it too. In point of fact, it would be impossible to eat your cake without having it. Today I discovered that the first (written) use of the phrase is credited to a dramatist named John Heywood in "A Dialogue Conteinyng the Nomber in Effect of All the Prouerbes in the Englishe Tongue," published in 1546. In this original context, the exact phrasing is, "Wolde you bothe eate your cake, and haue your cake?" Yes! This makes sense. I have no investment in maintaining strict adherence to Olde or Middle Sincerely, - - - - Date: Mon, 8 May 2006 Howdy, Issue 19 of the quarterly is brutal. Yours, - - - - Date: Mon, 8 May 2006 Mr. Bowlin's claim to redundancy regarding "fan" being the abbreviated form of "fanatic" may have some merit; however, his argument flared my nostrils in return. Yes, "fan" is derived from the word "fanatic" and may mean the same thing, but the fact that it was coined in 1682, in my estimation, does not necessarily support his beef; it could even discredit it. 1682 was a long time ago. Words change over time. Could it be that originally, yes, "fan" was merely the shortened word for "fanatic" but over time it has come to mean something less, "fanatic" being the stronger usage to describe an ardent enthusiast? If Mr. Bowlin's argument that the word "fan" was short for "fanatic" in 1682 so therefore must mean the same today is true, then by that same logic wouldn't we still be speaking Olde or Middle English? Or, at the very least, "nostalgia" would still only mean "homesickness" instead of "a longing for the past," and "slut" would still mean "a serving girl" instead of, um, you know, what it means today. Looking for the newest OED edition, - - - - Date: Mon, 8 May 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Barrett Bowlin suggested you consult his favorite, the 11th edition of the OED. Since they only began the third edition in 1990 (immediately after they finished the second in 1989), I wonder where he got an 11th edition. Since they have only made it to the third edition since they started in 1884, I figure that the 11th should be published starting around 2400. It's a Future Dictionary of England! Barrett, will you share with us? Anti-snootily, - - - - Date: Mon, 8 May 2006 Hey, I just wanted to let you guys know that my Issue 19 arrived in the mail last week, and it was really just a total delight. My entire family pored over its contents with pretty big smiles. And the box! My Godit's so simplethe box is amazing. I was impressed enough that I thought I'd e-mail you guys and just remind you that you're doing a bang-up job, and I hope you can keep it up, because it's refreshing. And just so goodlike driftwood good, which is almost as good as it gets. And also, more importantly/interestingly, one of the photographs: "Costumed children photogaph; Workmen's Circle School, Winnipeg 1930. Courtesy of the Yivo Institue for Jewish Research." I happen to be Jewish and also from/live in Winnipeg. And I feel like there are pretty decent odds that one of the kids in that photograph is a friend of mine's grandfather (it's a big Jewish community, but not that huge). Do you guys know anything else about that photographor maybe you could provide me with a jumping point to learn a little more? Sincerely, - - - - Date: Fri, 5 May 2006 Hey there, I know it's been a week and all, but this is bugging me. Since Colbert was appearing at the White House Correspondents' Dinner in his ironic cable-news-pundit character, wasn't he technically just implying truth to power? Matthew Simmons - - - - Date: Tue, 2 May 2006 Dearest Those-in-the-Know, I, too, enjoy the soothing vibrations of the Flaming Lips. They're quite the musical band. Always curious about the group's biography and mechanics, I was pleased to find that McSweeney's had recommended Staring at Sound: The True Story of Oklahoma's Fabulous Flaming Lips (by Jim DeRogatis). What set my Flaring Nostrils off, though, was the sheer redundancy contained within the recommendation: "Really just recommended for fans (or maybe fanatics) of the Lips ..." Drink your Guatemalan Antigua before you toss these suggestions off, folks. The term "fan" is short for "fanatic," and it's been like this since 1682. (Check your favorite edition of the OED for proof; mine is the 11th!) Snootily, - - - - Date: Mon, 1 May 2006 I thought you would be amused by this. I certainly was. This afternoon I was pleasantly surprised to receive a package from McSweeney's. Inside said package was a copy of The Better of McSweeney's. I was confused at first, having not gotten around to ordering a copy. But I eventually remembered that this book was a free gift for subscribing to the quarterly. Tonight, I was in a bar reading from my free gift (that's right, I read in bars) when a complete and utter stranger approached me and asked what I was reading. I showed him. He was intrigued by the photograph on the cover and asked if he could see it. He perused the contents page and mentioned several authors therein that were "favorites" of his. This stranger and I chatted briefly about some of those authors. He asked about McSweeney's. I told him about it, not only directing him to your website, where he could subscribe himself, but telling him of several bookstores in the area that sell your publications. Eventually, the stranger introduced himself as "Paul" and left me alone. While I read, I noticed that he was at a nearby pool table. The point here is ... and there is a point ... I went to the bar to get a refill on my beer. I left unmanned on the table my cell phone, a laptop computer, a trade paperback of David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, and my copy of The Better of McSweeney's. I stopped on the way back to my table to chat with an old friend. I imagine that I had left my table unattended for 15 minutes. Tops. Well, it turns out that 15 minutes is more than enough time for someone to steal books. That's right. My cell phone was still on the table. My laptop was still in its bag, propped up against one of the table's legs. But my books had been stolen. Incidentally, "Paul" (if that was his real name) was nowhere to be found. I just thought you would be pleased to see that there are thieves in the world who think two books are more valuable than a brand-new cell phone and a laptop computer. I cussed a bit about it at first, but eventually I had to chortle to myself. Best, - - - - Date: Wed, 26 Apr 2006 Hi there, Hopefully some other astute reader has pointed this out by now, but in Scott Domansky's 4.26.06 list, "Diseases I'm Glad Aren't Sexually Transmitted," he has included a disease that is often transmitted sexually. To wit: scabies. Now, I don't know if that's the kind of thing you'd want to correct or not, seeing as how the lists are humorous pieces and not intended to be taken seriously. The error does seem somewhat conspicuous, though. Whatever you choose to do, please forward the following link to Mr. Domansky: http://cliniquelactuel.com/home/page/std/crabs While there are more comprehensive scabies-related sites out there, this one has the best picture. Cheers! - - - - Date: Wed, 12 Apr 2006 Dear Sir/Madam/Whoever, Regarding Mr. Callan's suggestion that shove may come to push in the Southern Hemisphere, I feel obliged to remark that this is not so. Push does indeed come to shove, the shove being more forceful than the push and therefore placed after it during the escalation of fisticuffs. Escalating processes occur in the same order in both hemispheresfor instance, one would also look before leaping in the Antipodes. Non-Escalating Processes, or "ungradiated processes," do not have their own momentum and therefore can be influenced by the magnetical currents that, in the Southern Hemisphere, are ... Oh, forget it, you wouldn't understand. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Tue, 11 Apr 2006 Dear McSweeney's, For shame. By printing the letter of G Callan on your site you are implying that it is an acceptable thing to sell your sporting soul. Like any religious experience, support of a sports team involves moments of transcendent joy, but also requires significant suffering before the ecstatic feelings of winning and declaring your friends (who are fans of other teams) to be fools living in service of a false god. Perhaps being an Eagles fan (it makes me even sadder to know that Callan used to be a member of my own sect) can be compared to Judaism, with our pre-Super-Bowl-era championship the equivalent of escaping Egypt, followed by decades of oppression, and finally leading to a modern time of prosperity, only to be attacked by rockets launched from Palestinian states in the form of T.O. Regardless, the way that Callan suggests playing fantasy football (and rooting for Tiki Barber, or "Ronde without a ring") is like becoming an agnostic religious scholar. The Passion leaves along with the pain, leaving those who make the switch empty husks buying Daunte Culpepper Dolphins jerseys and wondering if Shaun Alexander will continue to produce TDs without an All-Pro guard. This isn't to say that one shouldn't play fantasy football, but it should involve the same sacrifices already being made. You should never draft a player for a division rival, turning down T.O. in much the same way you would punch a fire station after a particularly tough NFC championship loss. The point is, we shouldn't be encouraging the youth who find so much inspiration in the works of Timothy McSweeney to forsake their sporting soul. Please make them understand that once you draft Tiki Barber on your fantasy team, you are starting on a path that eventually leads to condemnation and a 6-10 season in which your team fails to win a division game. Hamilton Falk P.S. Go, BIRDS! - - - - Date: Fri, 7 Apr 2006 Dear McSweeney's, You should stop making sports picks under the influence of alcohol. Seriously. It's just no good for anyone. Except, maybe, your local beer-production company. Daylight-saving time always makes me feel this way. That is all, - - - - Date: Mon, 03 Apr 2006 To Whom It May Concern: I am writing in response to the list titled "Perks No Longer Allowed to Congress Under the New Proposed Ethics Code" by Mr. Hynes. It is my first day on the job here in Congress, but already I have noticed that the representative I work for does in fact have an autographed football in his case of "political trophies." I cannot ascertain the provenance of this football, but it might have Terry Bradshaw's signature on it. The only rebuttal to this argument would be that it is common knowledge that Mr. Bradshaw is incapable of carrying anything smaller than a football in that big mitt of his, such as a pen, nor anything larger, for that matter, such as a network TV talk show. But I digress. I have yet to espy the Congressional Slip 'N Slide or the sundae bar, but I shall keep you posted as these come to my attention. Adverbially, - - - - Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank competitive fantasy football (and by "competitive" you know what I mean$) for once and for all opening this young man's eyes to the reality of sports. When push came to shoveor shove to push, if you are from south of the equator (for I imagine everything is like the reverse toilet down there)I sincerely and happily rooted for Tiki Barber to run rampant over my beloved Eagles and felt not the slightest bit of remorse about it. I grew up, like many other young boys (and even girls these days), living and breathing with the rare rise but all-too-often collapse of my sports teams. It kept me up at night, stole my appetite for hours, and caused me more anxious moments than I would like to admit, but I have found the antidote and fantasy football is thy name. After providing me with the mindset to rationalize with ease, rooting for a player on a hated rival, you have unlocked the bonds that had previously shackled me to a life of quiet despair. Despair, of course, because I am from Philadelphia, but that is neither here nor there. Because the reality is this: most, if not almost all, professional athletes are perfectly content with not winning as long as the checks are rolling in. If this were not true, then the train of thought that allows me to root for Tiki Barber would never leave the station, let alone glide into its destination with ease. So thank you, fantasy football, for restoring my appetite and curing my insomnia. Now only if I didn't spend all hours of the night doing player research and scouring the FA market, I might actually get some sleep during football season next year. Good luck and Godspeed, P.S. GO, BIRDS! ;) - - - - Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2006 Dear McSweeney's, There are reports of bird flu in chickens in Mandalay, so we're going poultry-free. I run the library at the American Center here in Burma, and people are paying closer attention to the problem than they were before, but they're also still reading Lucky and Cosmo. We get a lot of monks coming to the Center, so they like to read Tricycle and Shambhala Sun, but not only. Even a monk needs to read Cargo from time to time. Anyway, I just wanted to say we order McSweeney's regularly and people like it, even if they don't always get the references. Then again, I don't always get the references, either. People are coming in to read and also watch the news (CNN and Democratic Voice of Burma) and to get cool. It's about 100 degrees outside. The power is off most of the day in buildings without generators. Fortunately, it's not that humid yet, but the heat fixes a bead on you if you're outside and all you can do is stare at the street. Todd Pierce - - - - Date: Wed, 8 Mar 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I too once owned an Israeli paratrooper bag. Its strap broke as well. Rather than criticizing the poor craftsmanship of said bags, I am simply writing to share an additional remark that could be made in the situation with which Mr. Boose and I were faced (Note: This could be said regardless of the outcome of whichever war the bag was used in): "Good thing they didn't use these straps for the actual parachutes." Regards, - - - - Editor's Note: The following letter is a response to this announcement: Maria Vasquez has received a coded post card (PDF). Help us unlock the message. If you figure out what it says, please let us know. The message in question is written in pigpen code, wherein: the letters A through I each correspond to a section of a tic-tac-toe board, starting from the top and going from right to left; the letters J throught M each correspond to a section of an "X," starting from the top and going counterclockwise; the letters N through V follow the same tic-tac-toe pattern, only with a dot in each section; and the letters W through Z follow the "X" pattern, with a dot in each section. Further complicating this case, the message is written upside-down on the postcard, clearly the work of a crafty correspondent. But not as crafty as I. The decoded message reads: IWISHIWAS I am not in the habit of intruding upon strangers' correspondence, but perhaps you should quit wishing, apply yourself, and stop spending so much time and effort on amateur spycraft. Best, - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Feb 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I was at the local coffeehouse two weeks ago and ordered a regular hot chocolatesomething warm and familiar, you know? When I went up to the counter to take it, the girl put no whipped cream on top; that was OK, I figured. Usually they ask if I want any, and if they ask I'll say yes, but I don't like to be a bother, so I just took it when she handed it to me. But it had a sort of ... dreadful peppermint aftertaste. Do you believe it, I took the wrong drink. I sipped and sippedperhaps it was just that I had brushed my teeth before leaving. You know how that is (especially with milk). My friend tried it and told me that it was chai tea. I took someone's chai tea. I don't really know what chai tea is, but I don't hope to ever have it again. I have an issue with tea. I'd like to drink it, but ... I had some green tea once and that made me gag, and then I took someone's chai tea by mistake and it caught me completely unawares, and now I wonder if I'll ever drink tea and enjoy it. My bigger dilemma, however, is a moral one. Should I have returned the drink? Whose did I take? Did they settle for hot chocolate the way I settled for chai? Do they hate me? Did they watch me take their drink out of the woman's hand and walk away with it and then make a face at it, and did they then question their own tastes? I weighed these questions with my friend; she said the workers there dealt with this sort of mix-up all the time, it wouldn't be a problem to ask for the correct drink. But I didn't do it. I forced it down because I'd already ruined someone's night and now this is what I deserved: a disgusting drink. What does this say about me? Yours, - - - - Date: Tue, 14 Feb 2006 Dear McSweeney's, I just made up this hilarious joke. It requires, however, that British singer/songwriter/producer Brian Eno have a son named Philip. Philip is in a job interview, or something. Philip: "Hi, I'm Philip Eno." Interviewer: "That's funny, I could have sworn that you were of European descent on account of the color of your skin and the manner in which you speak." That's it. Yours truly, P.S. Do you get it? P.P.S. I like his ambient albums just as much as his pop albums. - - - - Date: Fri, 3 Feb 2006 I love McSweeney's. I think it's a cliched "breath of fresh air." But I must say, I was really taken aback by the declaration that Timothy McSweeney's Joe Cocker impression is better than that other guy's. Have you ever really seen "that other guy's" impression? I mean, have you seen it being performed from the head of the dining room while eating tuna noodle casserole? Have you ever conversed with the pastor's family on Thanksgiving while being serenaded by a mean Joe Cocker impersonator? Because I have. "That other guy," being mocked by McSweeney's, is my father. Since I was a little girl, he has dazzled the crowds with his Joe Cocker impression. He has taken it public at numerous karaoke bars and work parties. He has consistently embarrassed my mom with his act. And now Timothy McSweeney dares to say his own impression is better? Where are the fact-checkers at McSweeney's? I call a duel! But seriously, what are the chances of me having a father who does a great Joe Cocker impression and that particular statement being made on the McSweeney's website. You guys must have been at karaoke night at the Windhaven Bar in Cranberry, Pennsylvania, on July 12, 2002. Yeah, I agree, that was my dad's best performance yet. Lindsey McGuirk - - - - Date: Tue, 31 Jan 2006 As Poe or any of those 19th-century writers might observe: Is est unus rex-abyssus imbroglio. but while they would never dream of translating their little quotes, I will do so: This is one king-hell imbroglio. I admit that Mr. Hewitt makes a good point. If, in fact, knocking on wood implies a response to pre-existing adversity, then I hope I never have to knock on wood, either. Mr. Hewitt also had the drinks to back him up. All I have is a photo of myself in front of the stage, taken with a disposable camera, at the Vans Warped Tour while the Bosstones played. Typically, the photographer was too far away and we all look small, inconsequential, and virtually unrecognizable. Had I but made the acquaintance of Mr. Long sooner, and taken his advice, I might have found friends who know how to take better pictures. You know, like ones in magazines. Mr. Mayer is on to something when he substitutes one phrase for another. I prefer to replace "knock on wood" with "thank my lucky stars." I might say, "I've never had to face crushing adversitythank my lucky stars," or, having been asked the question, I might simply say, "No, I've never had tothank my lucky stars." If someone walked in on the conversation without hearing the question, they might think I was saying that I've never had to thank my lucky stars at all for anything. They might even be offended by such an obviously haughty boast. Let he who brags take heed lest he fall. Mr. Cassels is quite right that these lyrics need further dissection before we can possibly hope to settle the matter. Yes, I placed a comma in there. If the band can't put a comma between Mighty and Mighty, as Mr. Hewitt so astutely observed, then someone with a cool head and leadership ability needed to tromp in and alter their terrain without permission. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Tue, 31 Jan 2006 As an employee of McSweeney's, I try not to interfere with this free exchange of ideas on the letters page. But at this moment of crisis I feel I can make a contribution, and it would be unjust to keep my voice silent. I am of course speaking of the current lyrical debate, which should be a debate no longer. The key thing is not what comes before, but what comes after. If we assume, as Bill E.'s friends do, that the dude is actually knocking on wood, then what sense can be made of the lines that follow the wood-knocking? Specifically, "I've never had to knock on wood ... it makes me wonder if I could." I can't see any plausible way to interpret this under that theory. He is wondering whether he is capable of knocking on wood? Nohe's clearly wondering if he could endure through heartbreak, suffering, etc. ("I've never had to [feel pain so powerful] ... it makes me wonder if I could [endure].") "Knock on wood" is just a parenthetical aside. The Eddie Floyd song, however, really is talking about wood and knocking. I will now return to my busy day of falling behind on the next issue. Sorry about that. Eli Horowitz - - - - Date: Wed, 25 Jan 2006 Dear Sirs and Madams, I must say I was fascinated by Mr. Ectric's thoughts on the nature of the Mighty Mighty Bosstones' "Knock on Wood." Admittedly, I, too, have always taken the phrase to mean the verbal action of knocking on woodnot, as Mr. Ectric so glibly suggested, by its expressionistic meaning. Nevertheless, I feel there are a few lines that must be examined more closely before putting the matter to rest. To start, it should be pointed out that the clause "I never had to ...," if it is indeed not directly related to "... knock on wood," must then be related to the trio of questions in the preceding verse: Have you ever been close to tragedy, However, if this is the case, then the aforementioned clause is in something of a disagreement with the verse, and should instead be "I've never knocked on wood ..." Secondly, the singer says, in the chorus, that although he has never had to (be close to tragedy, etc.), he does know someone who has; yet only a few lines previous he claims that "No" he has never had to do any of the things listed in the verse, including knowing someone who has been close to tragedy. So which is it, gentlemen, do you or do you not know someone who has been in the immediate vicinity of tragedy? Finally, on an editorial note, it seems to me that by placing a comma between "I've never had to" and "knock on wood," Mr. Ectric is presupposing that he is correct, and that "knock on wood" is a separate clause. And though he may very well be correct, the matter is far from closed. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Wed, 25 Jan 2006 Dear McSweeney's: I am writing in support of Bill Ectric (Linguist, Hero, Patriot) and in condemnation of his shortsighted, illiterate, unremarkable friends. I too have debated the Bosstones KOW reference and I too have been mocked by my disloyal and ungrateful personal network as a result. In fact, I had this very debate with my wife three years ago over Texas-sized pancakes at the Texas-sized Texas restaurant the Big Texan, while on a cross-country road trip and it nearly resulted in her having to walk her ass back to Ohio. "Knock on wood" is clearly being used as an interjection, an interruption, a clarification, a superstitiousit's too dangerous for me to even finish this sentence so I better "knock on wood" RIGHT NOWdeclaration. The COMMA in the lyrics clearly indicates such and I submit that the KOW, in fact, replaces the word "EITHER." Therefore ... the song reads ... THE IMPRESSION THAT I GET Have you ever been close to tragedy, Read this way ... the line "Which makes me wonder if I could" refers to the fact that knowing someone who has suffered tragedy makes the singer wonder if he too may one day suffer tragedy. It is a careless wonder andlike all careless wondersit requires the aforementioned wood knocking. Vive you, Bill Ectric. Vive you. Literally, - - - - Date: Wed, 25 Jan 2006 Dear McSweeney's, Please let Bill know that he is right. The Mighty Mighty Bosstones are in fact saying that they've never been so close to tragedy, but now that they mention it, they really should knock on wood. Also, please let him know he needs to get new friends, because his current ones are obviously idiots. Jeff Long - - - - Date: Wed, 25 Jan 2006 Regarding Bill Ectric's confusion over the lyrics to the song "The Impression That I Get" by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, I have to relate the real meaning of the song, as was revealed to me once in a pub by my sister after a few drinks. Apparently she'd heard it off someone else, who'd heard it on the radio, or off another friend, or a dog or a small insect or something. The singer is indeed saying (sorry, Bill) that he has never had to knock on wood, as it is a song about a friend having to take an AIDS test. The person who took the test said to the writer of the song that he was going for the test, and that he would get the all-clear, "knock on wood." The songwriter was then hoping that he would never have to be in the same position where he had to rely on the knocking of wood to remain AIDS free. That said, I still don't trust the band as they could do with a comma in their name. Yours sincerely, - - - - Date: Fri, 20 Jan 2006 Dear McSweeney's: I'm hoping you can clear up a raging debate between me and several of my friends, who just don't understand. I say "between" and not "among" friends, because it is all of them against me. Right, then. Are you familiar with the lyrics to "The Impression That I Get" by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones? All my friends think that the singer is saying that he has never had to knock on wood. "We hear him saying it!" they cry. "How can you say he isn't saying it?! He's never had to knock on wood!" But I maintain that he is really saying, "I've never been close to a tragedy or pain that was so heavy I collapsed, knock on wood." My friends' interpretation makes no sense, anyway. Here is the actual verse. Please tell my friends that, while you understand their confusion, I am, in fact, right. THE IMPRESSION THAT I GET Have you ever been close to tragedy, Sincerely, - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Dec 2005 The other day I was telling my friend how I had started dating someone new, and wondered aloud how long it takes a person to put various small details together and conclude that someone's life is a joke. I myself had no idea, and neither did my friend, but my roommate overheard us from a faraway part of the house, perhaps aided by the thin hallway and wood floors. He yelled, with authority: "Two months." Thought you should know, P.S. He added the caveat that in the summer it takes a bit longer. - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Dec 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Season's greetings! For those of you used to receiving our Christmas cards and who may be a little confused, we'd like you to welcome our new neighbors, the Schwartzfelds. They joined our little community in May and are very nice. And don't worry, we haven't told them anything bad about our family (except for you, Uncle Robjust kidding!). It's been a year of losses and gains. After the sad passing of our beloved cat, Sprinkles, the Lewallen family welcomed a new member, Charcoal. She's mostly black with gray paws. And despite what you might think, she's been nothing but good luckso far! Little Ryan has been busy with hockey practice, and his coach thinks that next year he might be the team's starting center! We're so proud of him. He's worked so hard. The twins have begun the college search, and so far it has been a mixed bag. They want to stay together, but that might not be possible. Maybe if Sarah can keep her grades up they'll get lucky. All we can do is try to find the best situations for both of them. We want so much to see them succeed, and if that means having them attend school halfway across the country, then so be it! With all of these extracurricular activities, it's been hard finding time to get to the mall to do our Christmassorry, Schwartzfelds!holiday shopping. And those crowds! Joyce says she's going to do all of our shopping on the Internet next year. Of course, she said that last year, too! Sometimes I think we spoil our kids, but we do love them. We've been so busy this holiday season that Joyce hasn't even had time to bake her famous gingerbread-raisin cookies. Just kidding! They're delicious. We hope that you have all had as good a year as our family, and in this season of joy and thanksgiving we ask that your thoughts and prayers be with our soldiers overseas. All the best, - - - - Date: Thu, 8 Dec 2005 Dear McSweeney's, There comes a point in every man's life where the siren call of Lou Diamond Phillips reaches his ear.* His stoic face and manly attitude are sheer brilliance. The other night, I had a choice: I could either work on a 10-page paper (of which I have about half a page) concerning the region of Russia known as Kabardino-Balkaria, or I could watch The Triangle, a Sci-Fi Channel miniseries about the Bermuda Triangle. It's directed by Bryan Singer of X-Men and Usual Suspects fame, which I think was a very good call. (I wonder how they got him. Probably lots of money. Or maybe it's the fact that Singer lost his entire family to the Bermuda Triangle.**) I was about to turn it off, until I saw the opening credits. In the film wasyou guessed itLou Diamond Phillips. He plays Meeno, a former Greenpeace activist who, after a mysterious incident in the Triangle, is a changed man. And not for the better. Certain parts of his memory are gone. Vital parts, like the very existence of his second son. Can you imagine how frightened his wife was? Unfortunately, the whole film doesn't revolve around Meeno. It focuses on a group of people from different walks of life (a star/hunky meteorology professor, an oceanic expert, a skeptical news reporter, a psychic, etc.) who are brought together by an admittedly eccentric billionaire who wants to know "Why are all my ships missing?" Part 2 is tonight, I believe. Just wanted to let you in on the momentous moment in my life. Lou has called, and I have answered. Yours, * I wonder what this experience was like before February 17, 1962, when Lou was born. I also wonder what this moment was like for Lou himself. One can only imagine. ** This is a lie. - - - - Date: Wed, 30 Nov 2005 Dear McSweeney's: You really should have come with us to the Cornish Fair this summer, but I understand why you couldn't make it. It was pretty fun. Owen had his first funnel cake, was dazzled by the lights and rides and animals, but he's still a little young to really appreciate it fully. Salinger was there, which was one of the highlights for me. I almost didn't recognize him at first with his arm shoulder-deep in the vagina of a heifer during an artificial-insemination demonstration. He was picked out of the crowd at random. He grumbled all the way up to the front, but you could tell he kind of liked the attention. The strangest thing, though, was that it seemed like he may have done it before. He was just that good at it, requiring only the briefest instructions from the farmer who was (1) oblivious (or at least indifferent) of the fact that one of the country's literary treasures was about to fist his bovine, and (2) a little disturbed when Salinger refused to wear a glove. He just rolled up his sleeve, waiving the glove away, and said, "Either I go in natural, or I don't go in at all. Now, where's the lube?" I have yet to hear whether or not the insemination was a success, but, really, that's hardly the point. I think all of us learned something special that day. I know I did. Again, sorry you couldn't make it. Let us know when you'll be in New Hampshire in the near future and we'll think of something else to do. Matt - - - - Date: Tue, 29 Nov 2005 Hello, I've completed three-fourths of the work necessary to demolish a wall in my house separating two smallish bedrooms. I throw away the plaster and use the lath to make a toasty fire in my parlor. Good day to you, sirs. Douglas - - - - Date: Wed, 16 Nov 2005 I'm not here to piss on anyone's parade, but it's the Steak FANATIC Pizza from Domino's. I'm also not a Domino's sales rep, but for the love of Papa John, get the name right. A) The commercials for this godforsaken grease trap are on 700 times a weekend, easy. Not only do they say the name of the pizza 10 times a commercial, they spell it out for you as well, usually during the ubiquitous "Raise the Slice and Watch the Cheese Elongate" shot. B) This woman said herself she's on the Domino's e-mail list, which, while inexcusable, means she had to have seen the name of the pizza, properly named, in the e-mail that interested her in the first place. I shouldn't be surprised at this, since it came from someone who likes Domino's Ranch sauce. Even the guy who invented Ranch sauce hates what they've done to it. Point being, if we don't put a stop to this type of gross malapropism, then the next thing you know, some guy's telling you Quentin Churchill used to be the Prime Minister of New England, and they loved the part in Scarface when Al Pashmina said, "Say hello to my little buddy." Marc - - - - Date: Thu, 20 Oct 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Uh-oh. What have you done? I've heard about love at first sight, but love at first read? Perhaps it's not an unusual condition (in fact, I'm sure I felt this over certain writers at other times, but it hasn't happened for me in a long time, no, not like this), but after reading Kevin Dolgin's piece on his visit to the Dalmore Distillery, I literally feel love-struck for him! I am no alcoholic (and I say this not as a lady who doth protest too muchreally, I am no alcoholic!), but the physical act of reading Mr. Dolgin's whiskey descriptions made me feel dizzy and buzzed: a.k.a. drunk. And in this state, I indulged in something I find particularly pervy: I Googled Mr. Dolgin to find out more about him. I knowtotally creepy, right? And I swear: I'm not a creep (there goes that protesting lady again). Wait: is it creepy to be this self-conscious? Ah, one is vulnerable when one is in love! I mean, I am vulnerable when I am in love! I know you might be skeptical. But what if it's real? Here's why it could be ... When I was 20 years old I went with my older brother on a trip to Scotland. We heard seals bark on the Isle of Skye, we ate vegetarian haggis and deep-fried Snickers bars in Edinburgh, we saw giant hairy coos urinate in the sunlight, but my favorite memory is of our visit to the Edrouder Distillery. What 20-year-old girl enjoys not only drinking single-malt whiskey but also learning all about it? This one did. And the smell! The scent of single-malt whiskey fermenting and cooking is so delicious that I want to put on a fancy dress and high heels and then splash it behind my ears and on my wrists. And I really am not the perfume type. So what I'm getting at is that Mr. Dolgin brought me back to that day in the Edrouder Distillery, only it was a different day, a better day, and how can you improve on someone's memory? I don't know, but Mr. Dolgin did. I don't want to be forward, but may I start calling him Kevin now? That's his name, too. So Kevin just hit me right between the ribs, and honestly: it felt good. Kevin. I never thought I'd be in love with someone named Kevin, let alone someone 15 years my senior. (I found out Kevin's age in the aforementioned unfortunate Googling. I also found out that he's pretty much a Paris local, and I live in the American Paris: a.k.a. New York City.) I guess what I'm doing in this letter, McSweeney's, is asking Kevin Dolgin out! I would really like to learn how to do that water trick he mentioned, and I'm a better student in person. I will buy the whiskey, and I'll even spring for the good stuff. Sincerely (and utterly embarrassed), - - - - Date: Mon, 17 Oct 2005 Dear McSweeney's: Usually I try not to be too critical. I make it a point not to write hate mail or blast people on blogs or chat rooms just to impose my superior opinion. But please, McSweeney's staff, who is hacking into your Recommends list? It used to be authentic. It used to be real. I'd find rare gems, real recommendations that I loved but never had the courage to pay forward to someone else. Recommendations like The sound a large book makes when snapped shut and Ice Fishing are classic. Who ice-fishes? Nobody! Which is why it makes such a good recommendation! I'll try it now. But I Can't Believe It's Not Butter? I can't believe you list that. Everyone has tried that stuff. Hence its popularity. It's not a diamond in the rough. It's not flying under the radar. Everyone has tried it. It has no underground fan base or unexpected ingredient that makes it unique. It is internationally recognized as a good substitute for butter! Which is exactly why it is not in need of a Recommendation. Your game is slipping. Your aim should be to highlight the overlooked, the taken for granted. The Recommendation should solicit a reminiscent "Oh yeah, I forgot about that" or a "Mmm ... tacos." Every idiot in California watches Laguna Beach, myself included (step No.1, admitting it). It is in no way overlooked or underappreciated. TV spots for Jarhead? What the hell, man?! I hate Jake Gyllenhaal and the oh-so-ambiguous you-think-you're-so-much-better-than-me guess-what-you're-NOT Sarsgaard. It's getting plenty of MTV, Young Hot Hollywood exposure as it is. I hope someone's paying you for your ass-kissing. Please, wait. I didn't mean that. I don't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry. Come back. You got to understand that I love you guys. I really do. But my love is waning with each step you take wading into mainstream. Refrigerating Fresh Grapes I give you. That is a true Recommendation. Cold, crisp grapes bursting in your mouth are great. And Roman Holiday, that's also a headliner. But Punching It In? I feel sorry for whoever thinks that is exciting enough to list. I can only picture a bunch of poseur nerds at McDonald's eating BigMacs with their pinkies up, cocking their head like parrots, and "Punching It In" cheering, "Mickey D's! All right!" Holding a Soft Baby Chick. What's with the patronization! Everyone wants to hold a soft baby chick! The desire is innate. It's like listing Riding a Unicorn. Everyone wants to do it but only a selected few have access, primarily princesses. Please keep in mind that the majority of your readers are from metropolitan areas where baby chicks are scarce and usually in marshmallow form and those just don't feel the same and they melt. Root Beer is great, so are Binder Clips. But I'll be damned if I eat Wolfgang Puck Canned Soup while listening to Nina Simone and telling my sister to hit up Triple Dub.McSweeneys.net. And I'm probably not going to read The Real Life of Sebastian Knight by Vladimir Nabokov solely because of your description of it being a "tour de force." Everything is a "tour de force" nowadays. Please have your writers stop trying to write like writers and write like real writers. Day-yum, Gina! OK, I think I'm done. Bye. Ajah Editor's Note: Ajah later offered an addendum. I just found out that Nina Simone and Nina Sky are two separate entities, the former of which is cool and the latter of which is not. I would like to retract any statement made on October 17, 2005, that might have reflected negatively on whichever Nina is not a reggaeton bumping bordiqua duo. Thank you, - - - - Date: Tue, 4 Oct 2005 McSweeney's: One day, on one of my frequent nostalgia trips to a place I can only call Nellyville, while at the same time perusing the McSweeney's New Foods section, I found myself serenaded by the dulcet tones of "Pimp Juice," leading me to a startling revelation: Pimp Juice, if at all possible, should be canned, labeled, and sold in stores. I wanted to submit a New Food review on it but I suspected that your editorial process probably favored foods that actually existed rather than ones I made up in my head. Little did I know that Nelly was already at work making my fantasies into reality. What is it they say about great minds? For the uninitiated, Nelly goes to the trouble of defining, midsong, what Pimp Juice actually is: Uh, hear me out now After lamenting about how juice is frequently used in vain and expounding once again on how the girl in question seems to have a strong desire for foot-rug contact, the song ends with a final, gleeful chorus. Where the purple nerd flavor comes in, I don't know. But I could not be more excited. This is easily my favorite rap-referencing energy drink, and should be yours too. Let it loose, - - - - Date: Tue, 04 Oct 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Do you think I'm pretty? No, really, I know I've gained a couple of kilograms over the past few months. Does it show? Please be honest, - - - - Date: Mon, 03 Oct 2005 Dear McSweeney's, You and I are on the same page. I've been singing the praises of the lyric "I've got soul but I'm not a soldier" for months (no, not that sort of singingif you heard how off-key I am you'd understand why I don't do that). Perhaps this make us childlike and easily amused, but that means we're the sort who will ultimately live a happier life. Right? Nissa Cannon - - - - Date: Thu, 29 Sep 2005 Dear McSweeney's: I am trying to find out where I can buy these. I live in Houston, Texas. My sweet "Mama Jean" was babysitting at someone's home and came across these in her freezer. She took the wrapper and asked if I could find them on the Internet. When I tried pulling them up, I got 14,000 different places to look. I found an exact match on your website. I am going to keep looking; however, if you know, could you please respond to my e-mail? Thanks from a person longing for some really good spring rolls. Daune - - - - Date: Tue, 27 Sep 2005 Dear McSweeney's: WOW. No, really. Matthew D. - - - - Date: Tue, 27 Sep 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I must concur with Mr. Ufford and respectfully disagree with both you and Francis C. I have now tried your shaving-sans-shaving-cream recommendation. (It took me a while to remember to try it because my morning ritual is, well, sort of a ritual.) While it was not the unmitigated disaster that I expected, I cut myself thrice and got a bad shave. I note that this technique is only possible as a result of modern shaving technology, with its lubricating strips and its microfins, and I certainly would not want to try it with a single-blade disposable. If I may, I'd like to make another recommendation, which will result in both a better shave and the eventual crippling of Big Shaving Cream. Shaving brushes. This sounds quaint to many now, but I have been using one for many years and wholeheartedly endorse them. You can use them with either a special shaving cream (not made by BSC) or a regular bar of soap. The swirling action of the brush massages the face and lifts the whiskers, leading to a closer shave. Plus, it's cool! Look for badger bristles; they're the best. And to Mr. Ufford I say, the trick to not fogging the mirror is to leave the window and door in the bathroom open while you shower. Charlton A. Rugg - - - - Date: Tue, 27 Sep 2005 Matt, Though for several years I have maintained a closely trimmed beard, and so do not suffer from the trials and tribulations of daily razor-shaving, I do recall my solution for the post-shower mirror fog. Blow dryer. Point a blow dryer, on its highest heat and speed settings, at the place in the mirror where you expect to see your face. The fog will clear up in a few moments, during which you can stand uncomfortably still in the presence of your own nudity. Secondarily, your recommendation of Sharps' Kid Glove Shave Gel reminds me of a general soap-product complaint that has been brewing within me for some time. Used to be, shaving cream was foamy and lotion soap was gel-ly. Now, it's all the rage for shaving cream to be in gel form, and lotion soap to be delivered in foam by a prefoaming pump. Have scientists recently determined that facial skin prefers gel, while nonfacial prefers foam? If this is the case, it disturbs me that the human race has had to suffer through inefficient skin-soaping technology for so many years. Couldn't this have been remedied earlier? Please write your senators and demand that there be an investigation into the failurenay, gross negligence and incompetenceof soap science regarding this matter. Patiently awaiting the enormous fork, - - - - Date: Tue, 27 Sep 2005 Dear McSweeney's, While I agree with the overall thesis of Ed James's letter of September 21, 2005insofar as the lyric he quoted you quoting is not a good oneI am dismayed by some inaccurate word choice on his part. Chief among my complaints is his use of the word "alliteration." In modern usage, "alliteration" describes the repetition of a consonant sound. As the "soul/soldier" lyric quite pointedly repeats an entire syllable, "alliteration" does not sufficiently describe what the lyric does, technically. While Mr. James does well to criticize a positive review of something bad, his technical inaccuracy somewhat compromises his critical credibility. If Mr. James wanted to make his point thoroughly, he might have referred to the "soul/soldier" lyric as a "pun." The lyric makes a play on words with similar sounds, which is a type of pun. Unfortunately, had Mr. James complained of a "meaningless and contrived pun," he still would have come far short of an effective analysis. "Contrived" is a word that is bandied about all too often, these days, by critical types. Rather than adding any actual meaning, the term seems to be used primarily to establish a very general tone of highfalutin criticism. When something is properly called "contrived," the term is understood to mean something like "obviously intentional," perhaps with the undertstanding that it is meant to appear not so. A pun, generally, likes to call attention to itself; if nobody notices a pun, it doesn't exist. And behind every pun is the person who wrote it, who wants you to notice. Therefore, an air of contrivance seems unlikely in the context of punning. Last, the alleged "alliteration" is further modified by the word "meaningless," another word whose actual meaning is often subverted in order to express a vague sense of disapproval. Does Mr. James actually mean to imply that the lyric's wordplay has no meaning at all, or does he merely mean he does not care for its meaning? I suspect the latter. Had his own usage been more precise elsewhere, I might have given Mr. James the benefit of the doubt for having performed a bit of wordplay of his own, by self-consciously using "meaningless" in a such a manner as to render itself, in fact, meaningless. However, in light of the words that surround it, I am forced to conclude that the word's placement here amounts to another example of carelessness; in other words, it strikes me as rather unfortunately uncontrived. I hope I don't seem excessively critical. It is only because what Mr. James does is vitally important that I would hold him to the highest standards of clarity and effectiveness. Mr. James, you are responding to a literary quarterly's website's recommendation of a very popular song; if we cannot be precise in such circumstances, what can we expect of our culture? Love, Ray Olson - - - - Date: Tue, 27 Sep 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I know how worried you are about my future, and I am writing to let you know that everything is going to be OK. As proof, accept these events: 1. My neglected beta fish has been adopted by my roommate and now has both food and fresh water to look forward to. 2. I bought the Beach Boys album Pet Sounds and it's the greatest thing I've heard in years. 3. My college has lowered my scholarship requirements from a cumulative GPA of 3.5 and 40 hours of community service annually to a cumulative GPA of 3.25 and 0 hours of community service annually. Here's hoping your recent outbreak of gray hairs and worry lines subsides. Sincerely, P.S. I can't resist adding postscripts to personal correspondences, regardless of circumstances. - - - - Date: Wed, 21 Sep 2005 To The Faceless Purveyors of Questionable Taste, "I've got soul / but I'm not a soldier." An incredible lyric. With regards to the recommendation of The Killers' song "All These Things That I've Done," I would like to express my disbelief. "Incredible" is an apt description of the aforementioned lyric, if only to describe newfound depths of banality. The meaningless and contrived alliteration therein seems to be the most unlikely origin of the "happy household" that spawned this recommendation. It's enough to cause me minor heart palpatations, which prevents me from operating heavy machinery. To ease my concern, I tried imagining the state of mind of a previous correspondent, the underage Italian from Milan, but kept wondering whether he'll be selling his old scooter. I might be needing it. Yours Disagreeably, - - - - Date: Tue, 20 Sep 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I believe that in these fickle times, the word "genius" gets thrown around so liberally, the word has almost lost all meaning. This seems to be particularly rampant in music reviews and perhaps Dick Enberg's U.S. Open tennis coverage. However, the recent recommendation to shave after a hot shower, sans shaving cream, is true genius. It is so simple yet its results will amaze. Fellas, do yourself a favor and give it a tryif only to take down "Big Shaving Cream," which in my opinion needs to be taken down a notch. For example, I like to imagine, with every shave, that I am slowly taking down the Gillette company. By this logic I am also undermining a certain NFL team that plays in Gillette Stadium and who has recently run through the league like the Nazis through the Maginot Line ... but that's just me. This natural shaving technique will catch on, and then, look out. I started shaving this way over the weekend and the Patriots lost to Carolina. Coincidence or a very powerful recommendation? Sincerely, - - - - Date: Mon, 19 Sep 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Allow me to preface this letter by saying that yes, I'm disappointed in my own passion about this matter. Certainly I could have found a subject of greater gravity in The New Republic, but I've never read The New Republic, andlet's face itI care more about shaving habits than politics. (Wait, The New Republic is about politics, right? I honestly don't know.) Anyway, regarding your recommendation of shaving sans shaving cream immediately upon exiting the shower, I had the following thoughts: 1. Although shaving post-shower is a good idea, is no one else's mirror totally fogged up for several minutes following a shower? Can I get a recommendation for what to do while I wait for my mirror to clear up? Nothing snarky, pleaseI'm being sincere. 2. Who says I have to put a towel on my waist? What does that have to do with the quality of my shave? Does McSweeney's not want my genitals to touch the sink, or is it bothered by the notion of its readers shaving nude? 3. People (and by "people" I mean "men and steroid-using women"), do NOT shave without some sort of gel/cream/lubricant on your face unless you enjoy facial bleeding and/or toilet-papering your face. The best product out there is Sharps' Kid Glove Shave Gel, which goes on clear for that McSweeney's-approved whiskers-disclosure and also has a nice tingly feel, like your face is suddenly six years old and has just won its first spelling bee. 4. No, I'm totally straight, but flattered, thank you. Sincerely well-groomed, - - - - Date: Mon, 12 Sep 2005 Dear Sweenster, I am a little confused concerning your recommendation of David Patrick Kelly. Are you in fact recommending his performance in The Warriors? Or are you recommending him in The Longest Yard? For the sake of your dignity, I do hope it is the former. I am also surprised that you did not recognize him and his outstanding performance in other blockbusters such as Commando, starring the ever-formidable current governor of your home state, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or perhaps his role in 48 Hours. Eerily enough, his character in that film was named Luther as well, and bore a similar resemblance in scumminess to Luther in The Warriors. And you can't tell me you missed him in The Crow as T-Bird; a stellar performance. Anyhoo, just thought your recommendation of David Patrick Kelly should be a little more ... how you say it ... robust? DPK Forever, Kiren Valjee - - - - Date: Mon, 12 Sep 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I would also like to remind readers of David Patrick Kelly's memorable performance as Jerry Horne, brother and partner in crime of Benjamin Horne, owner of the Great Northern Hotel, in Twin Peaks. The scene in which he returns from a European jaunt and rhapsodizes to his brother about the deliciousness of a Brie sandwich is not to be missed. Neither is the sandwich. Regards, - - - - Date: Wed, 24 Aug 2005 Dear McSweeney's artists, I'm writing this letter because I would like that you try to imagine my state of mind. Don't worry, I can help you. Think about a seventeen years boy (in Italy, where I live, we are overage at eighteen) that is looking at his group of friends going somewhere with their new cars and their new girlfriends. He could think to follow them with his old scooter, but surely, it could be the same; so he will decide to go home and maybe he will watch an old movie. Now, if you think how Stanislavsky said, you can easily imagine my state of mind. Thank you. Cast overview: BOY: me Francesco Gallo - - - - Date: Tue, 23 Aug 2005 To the readers of, and, more specifically, to any frequent heeders of, McSweeney's Reviews of New Food: I wholly reject Ellia Bisker's positive review of canned salmon. Unless you find yourself obsessively pining for your "preciousss" as you sulk in your dark cave dwelling, or are the type of person who would feel no squeamishness while inspecting warm roadkill with your fingers, avoid this nastiness. I opened a can not six months ago to a blast of stench, and looked in to see a macabre fish mashspine, scale, fin, bone, and this unrecognizable white gunk (guts?) polluting the pale, opaque, and utterly discombobulated pink flesh. It looked as if some grizzly bear, maddened by hatred, had abused the corpse of the boniest salmon he could snatch from the stream and canned the results. In the hierarchy of fish, fresh tuna reigns supreme, while canned tuna is a notch above cat food. The relationship to salmon is parallel. Fresh salmon takes perhaps sixth or seventh place. I'd say canned salmon is best suited for massive agribusiness applications. To suggest that one might eat this abomination cold, straight from the can, is pure, cruel absurdity. I wouldn't stock it in my nuclear-holocaust-survival shelter. Consider yourselves warned, Michael Close - - - - Date: Tue, 23 Aug 2005 Good morning, McSweeney's folk, I just read the recommendation about having your own washer and dryer, and I found it nice to have someone else think of the dryer background noise as comforting. Personally, I like it when it's going and I'm lying in bed getting ready to go to sleep. It works almost as well as a good storm. Cheers, - - - - (Editor's Note: Instead of our usual reverse chronological order, the following three letters are displayed in chronological order so that they may be enjoyed in their proper sequence.) - - - - Hello, esteemed editors, In McSweeney's Quarterly Issue No. 16 I found a strange incongruity in the story titled "The Doctor of Mental Health," by Miranda Mellis. First let me say that I have the utmost faith in the writers and editors of McSweeney's. Once, sometime not long ago, I even subscribed, until money ran out like so much single-ply toilet paper that never lasts as long as you would have liked it to. In fact, I may or may not love you allthis is not to say I am in love with you all, because that could end only in polygamy and I am from Massachusetts and not Utah, although, sadly, we do have a Mormon governor, somehow or other. I digress. At the opening of Ms. Mellis's story, the narrator states that he has no pets, and this is a cause of worry for his sole friend, that there is no "pizzazz" in the narrator's life. I commend you for the use of this word, by the by. On the final page, though, there is a cat, a cat to which the narrator is emotionally attached, and which may or may not be his reincarnated mother. From whence yonder cat? Is it the fabled Gato sans Nombre of Guatemalan legend that is actually an evil spirit taking residence in a man's home and cursing his lineage meanwhile? Was the narrator lonely, and bought the cat, or maybe saved it from the MSPCA? Is the cat considered family and therefore unlisted as a "pet" per se? Is the narrator God, and created a cat with emotional attachment ex nihilo, and are you then saying that God needs therapy? I agree then. But simply it perplexes me, and as I feel myself a not uneducated sort, I desire, oh you Aristotelians, to know. Thankfully and with much pizzazz, Daniel E. Pritchard - - - - Dear Mr. Pritchard, Time passes, and people get rid of cats? If you love something, set it free. If it never explains why it disappears, there is no God? Esp. when said cats appear to be reincarnated mothers. Elision? Withholding? A ravish in the warp and woof? Yes, a continuity problem exists in that I did not explicitly state how and when said cat was gotten rid of: through that void of information, friend, throw your faith in hermetically sealed narrative, and see if it comes back to you. If it doesn't, it was never yours. Miranda Mellis, - - - - Mr. Pritchard, Sorry if my e-mail was ornery and clipped, but I was living in New York that week. It was 106 degrees. My dog was angry and wouldn't get out of the bathtub. Anyway, I wrote a sequel and had me some fun doing it; perhaps this will help provide some clarity. Miranda THE FAMILIAR. At my former residence there was a party, a block party, and I was, presumably, ipso facto, invited, as I lived on the block. I went to the block party, which is to say, I descended my stairs and went to the stoop. This was my first block party. One of the neighbors, Larry, with whom I was acquainted, was there, along with his sister, a thick woman endowed with a horse mane of dry hair and, despite three children, the manners of a delinquent. Today she wore chartreuse plastic sandals and a purple barrette with a sort of flowery piece of cloth hanging from it. The heels of her feet hung over the ledge of her sandals. She had a marijuana leaf tattooed on her sternum. On her back a cadre of muscular barbarians stood menacingly about a girl, prone on a slab. An elf seemed to flee the scene. Her low-cut T-shirt read "Sacred Vine" and pictured a sinuous naked woman entwined in a cluster of grapes. The three of us watched the party. The revelers hoisted babies, fried "weenahs," drank and drank, dropped cigarette ashes into plants, danced "mano a mano," and hurtled raucous bellows and cries with enviable morale. I was anomalous, sans tattoos and offspring. A group of children were playing tag. I must have been staring, because Larry's sister said, "Don't ya wish ya had kids?" Larry's immediate Pah! Pah!and then again, much louder, PAH! PAH!did not offend. For Larry was an unhappy man, an addict of methamphetamines. His face was a twitching mask of ressentiment. One could not take him personally: he suffered the unnatural erosion of his person, by way of his flesh. His sister, however, took offense on my behalf. "Whyncha go eat glass, Larry," she croaked, in her voice like an ancient raider. "Whyncha go streakin' in a knife stawm." She patted my shoulder. "Ya know," she went on, "youse could at least have an animal friend, a familiah, like a cat." Larry, himself a family man, often suggested I get a pet, but no one had ever suggested I get a familiar. It occurred to me as I considered the noun familiar that my lifelong non-engagement with the familial sprang from my incapacity to become familiar. I was not without sorrow, not without loneliness as a result. And yet, over time, I had become habituated to the lunar angst of solitude and avoided even the occasional bout of "mano a mano." (It must be said that such boutstraumatically, mysteriously refulgent though they may beare not at all required.) In any event, I wondered if this notion of the familiar might be some kind of key into understanding, and perhaps even someday managing to become part of a "family life." Soon after the block party, Larry's sister demanded he take over the care of her family's cat; her youngest had developed a disabling allergy to dander. He told me as much one afternoon, just as I happened to be en route to the main branch of the library to seek knowledge of the familiar. Larry's face was purple (he is choleric) at being thus importuned by his sister, but he feared her too much to say no. Thinking to further my understanding of the familiar in praxis, I volunteered right then and there to take the cat temporarily, until a long-term solution could be found. Larry suddenly became unfamiliarfor he smiledand I witnessed, all at once, his gristly teeth. Discomfited by his change of aspect and his craven, wheedling cries of appreciation, I quickly made an arrangement to receive the cat, Grainy Fieldso named by Larry's niece Julie, for her wheat-colored, variegated coatthat very evening. Instead of taking out books on the habits of witches, I took out books on the care of pets. Larry arrived on my doorstep that nightthree hours past the appointed timewith various paraphernalia: a litter box, a bag of generic cat food (which I threw away; I would cook for Grainy), and two small tin bowls. The first day was spent observing the cat. Although old and, in reality, mild, Grainy was thin and somewhat ravaged. She hissed to communicate her needs, and arched her back in the classic "Halloween cat" fashion. On our first walk together, people responded variously to her. To be sure, she was not used to wearing a harness and writhed and leapt about. But I would not have her running loose in the streets. On more than one occasion, a person crossed the street to avoid us. Grainy ended up staying with me for the rest of her life and grew plump and contemplative. We became very intimate, sleeping together every night, eating meals together. Indeed, she became my familiar. We were living in a very nice location, across from a girls' school, the year she died. I had recently undergone counseling, on my friend Carolette's advice. The therapist had, toward the end of my tenure with her, indicated repeatedly her feeling that Grainy was the reincarnation of my mother. This intimation, unlikely as it seemedI had become vulnerable, in the course of therapy, to suggestioncreated tension between Grainy and myself. In what was to be our third-to-last session, my therapist brought in a sheet of paper on which she claimed to have "trance-channeled" a message from my mother, who had, she said, possessed Grainy's body in order to give me the following message: not unwownerse ownert owners not that OWNER wownerll hownerde or do hownerde the truth of how OWNER feel ownert owners that OWNER strategownerze measure contaownern because not for some pay-off cash cow because ownern the moment OWNER am tryownerng to learn what owners don't go travelownerng the world wownerth you mownerserowneres creatownerng pathways of sufferownerng just look at how you've decownerded rattle sorrow owners shameful when ownert owners not shameful at all ownert owners sownermply. What ownert owners; could be a kownernd of evownerdence or understpownerstonownerng there, of condownertowneronownerng of how one owners both afraownerd of relyownerng pownerston also too closely watchownerng for sownergns of unrelownerabownerlownerty. OWNERts not faownerr to say that OWNER'm because you still have a mother-owners that really ownert? arealOWNER wownerll not be replacownerng that relatowneronshownerp. Pownerston there owners no dad ownern your pownercture pownerston no mom ownern mownerneowner would lownerke to stop judgownerng my dad pownerston sayownerng that he owners lackownerng that he owners so much less what he should be cash cow he just owners what he owners, he owners my parent, you have so much you have everythownerng. OWNER have so much OWNER have everythownerng. OWNER want to stop tryownerng to show pownerston hownerde myself at the same hush-to present RATTLE pownerston hownerde THAT-to present OWNER pownerston hownerde VULNERABOWNERLOWNERTY. Angels all around me OWNER guess protectownerng me pownerston sayownerng OWNER have the knowledge that OWNER need owners my son, everythownerng owners ownermpermanent. Why hascat become so ownermportant to you. She has become. She occupowneres a lot of space ownern me. OWNER kownernd of need her to take up a lownerttle bownert less space. IOWNER. Not long after, this therapist disappeared, only to reappear later as a meat saleswoman. In the interim, Grainy developed a blood clot and shucked off this mortal coil. - - - - Date: Fri, 22 Jul 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Please note that Leah Strauss does nothing to warn potential consumers about the actual effects of SoyNut Butter. While it looks like peanut butter, and smells like a mix of peanut butter and dried lentils, it should, under no circumstances, be consumed. It tastes like guano, has the gritty consistency of bad hummus, and coats the inside of your mouth in a putrid goo that instantly causes you to gag and hack it up into the sink. Sincerely, Dave Simison (who found the shit in his mom's pantry and ate a spoonful after mistaking it for its delicious, more well-respected cousin, Jif) - - - - Date: Thu, 21 Jul 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Regarding Sean Wilsey's ambivalence toward items made by inmates in the Maine State Penitentiary system, I'd like to offer the following brief personal anecdote. My folks scored me a cutting board with the same legend stamped on it, only no identifying number. Let me state that they're from Gardiner, Maine, and know how to get there from here without asking, if you catch my drift. At first my response was like Mr. Wilsey's: I was leery of using it, a little put off. I'd like to say that its eventual inclusion into the rotation with my other functional cutting boards was motivated by altruism, or the recognition of some broader truth about the value of work and our criminal justice system. The fact is that I needed a good cutting board, and the others were all dirty or in use. It's a fine cutting board. It's rectangular, about 12 inches by 6 inches, with a cut-out handle at one end. The side with the stamped "certificate of origin" sports four hemispherical rubber feet. These are key: they perform the traditional anti-slip role, and warn the less observant not to use that side. I have kind of a thing about that, so that's a bonus. Sometimes a helpful guest, washing, stowing, or preparing to employ this cutting board, will remark upon the little printed legend. I am free to employ a number of responses, from a straightforward explanation to a simple, mysterious shrug and raising of the eyebrows, as I turn away to my next culinary task. Matt Cole - - - - Date: Wed, 6 Jul 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Have you seen the five-part saga that is "Trapped in the Closet" by R. Kelly? It's, like, totally the best thing ever. Who knew that a gun, a gay pastor, and a cigarette-smoking cop could come together in such a dramatic fashion? Despite his predisposition towards peein' on teenagers, the man knows how to hype an album. Perhaps this sort of lesson can be passed on to other wayward celebrities: come up with the most melodramatic storyline in the world and people will forget all about your statutory rape charges. Think of what this could do for Roman Polanski! Love, Mike Jansen - - - - Date: Tue, 5 Jul 2005 Don't want to rain on the parade, but as far as I know, you needn't type in www, mention www, or verbally abbreviate www in order to access a Web page. You just type in the address and move on with more important things in your lifeas follows: I devoured four pounds of cotton candy in Coney Island yesterday, then regressed to a form of iridescent molecular energy. Because life is for the living. How do I get down from here, Tony Antoniadis - - - - Date: Fri, 1 Jul 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Almost, but not quite. The proper way to pronounce WWW is, in fact, "tri dub." My friend Nick, who lives in an apartment complex with its own bowling alley, was the first to use it in a sentence: "I can look up the number of any restaurant in the country while driving from Akron to Youngstown because my new T-Mobile gets the tri dub." I wept a little bit the first time I heard him say that because I realized how much of my life I had wasted on unnecessary syllables. But then we prank-called a Taco Bell in Anaheim and everything was better. You can see (and hear!) that "tri dub" is a full 33 percent more efficient than your clunky, awkward "triple dub." That's a savings every household in the country can use. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Thu, 30 Jun 2005 Dear Earwax Removal Drops Users, After reading John Langdon's letter of June 23rd, I feel compelled to respond. Those earwax removal drops provided me with a similar experience a number of years ago. The difference was this: I was in a grocery store, not a clothing establishment, and when my ball of wax freed itself and emerged, it dropped directly onto the floor in the middle of the aisle. I don't remember if anyone saw or commented on the size of the thing, but I do remember this: The feeling of having that dried-grape-sized obstruction OUT OF THERE allowed me to enthusiastically utter the disappointingly underused term "eargasm." Going deaf the electric-guitar way. Larry Hirshberg - - - - Date: Tue, 28 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's and Bill McKechnie, Much like Mr. McKechnie's recurring exposure to the GUILT MUSEUM sign, I am daily affronted with a sign that means nothing to me and yet occupies my mind for hours. The only word on this vintage poster large enough to read while walking by is "ORPHELINAT." I know the poster is a plea to the public of France in the 1920s to support a charity for orphans, and that's plenty well and good and I should be satisfied with it, yes, but my upbringing in the American South and my single academic year of French apparently do not supply me with the flexibility of palate to accurately pronounce ORPHELINAT, and it drives me crazy. The sign is the first thing I see when I walk into my office each morning, and I walk directly at it each time I leave my desk to use the restroom. I could linger longer, but what's the point? I still can't pronounce it. In my head, I hear "OR-FUH-LEE-NAHHT," and then I vary the speed with which it would be said: "ORFL'NAT!" or a very deliberate "OR. FUH. LEE. NAT!" with a defiant French accent. In my head, as I hear it, there is always an exclamation point. No matter how I hear it, it always sounds plodding and clumpy, a veritable horse's ballet of pronunciation. I have always considered myself an excellent prounouncer, and this poster, this ORPHELINAT, is my undoing. As the poster's creators envisioned a public racked with compassion for the shabbily clothed orphans in the drawing below ORPHELINAT, I am similarly distraught, but in a vain pursuit of pronunciation. Incapably yours, - - - - Date: Tue, 28 Jun 2005 Dear Rick, Baseball knowledge will not help you pick up girls? Depends on the girl. Wow, was this night a surprise. You're like this year's version of Brian Roberts and the Nationals rolled into one. You've got the staying power of Julio Franco, the patience of Frank Thomas at the plate, the might of David Ortiz, and the quickness of Jose Reyes. I wonder if there's anything you CAN'T do; are you sure your name's not Ichiro? Hell, I'd go so far as to call you one of the season's most underrated kissers, as if Brady Clark inhabited your lips. Et cetera. Show me a guy who can talk baseball and reads McSweeney's, and I'll show you a deliriously happy dame. Bonus points if he doesn't flinch at subtitles in the offseason. Juliana Verdone - - - - Date: Fri, 24 Jun 2005 Dear John Whitehead, Great open letter! So, where can I find a Sonicare replacement brush head for 10 bucks? They're normally $14, or maybe $12.99 on sale, and a two-pack is about $24.99. How about hooking a sister up? Thanks! P.S. Sorry to hear about your rotting teeth. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Fri, 24 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's and Mr. Whitehead, I feel obliged to leap to the defense of the Sonicare toothbrush as an employee of its creators. I would like to suggest that this is perhaps a case of the bad workman blaming his tools. I empathize entirely with the pain and anxiety that two cavities can cause and wish Mr. Whitehead a speedy recovery. That said, we must control ourselves and avoid lashing out at the most convenient target. Why, what kind of world would we live in if people or countries simply lashed out blindly in anger, without taking the time to consider cause and effect and their own possible guilt and/or complicity? I would like to point out that cavities take years to form and when the initial decay has set in it is very hard to remedy the situation. Even the Sonicare Elite might struggle to reconstitute the decayed organic matter. No, I'm afraid that the Sonicare is intended for upkeep and prevention and not, unfortunately, regeneration. Your father himself gave the Sonicare a glowing report. I also am the proud owner of a Sonicare and while it can work wonders on grout, I find it is most effective at preventing dental decay. I urge you to give a deserved chance to this fine dental utensil and feel sure that once anger and fear have subsided, you will find great worth in such a fine gift. Sincerely, Pete McGinty - - - - Date: Thu, 23 Jun 2005 Dear Mr. McSweeney & his constituents, I went deaf. I'm 23 and, naturally, I like plenty of music. A great amount of it is better appreciated at ear-shattering decibels, but due to strained circumstances between myself and my strikingly intolerant and out-of-touch neighbor, I have not been able to enjoy music above a whisper without worrying that a slight increase in volume will prompt angry phone calls from said neighbor, followed by the condo-board president, and, finally, my landlord. I am sonically unfulfilled. Anyway, half deaf. I spent a few days in NYC visiting my brother. Almost immediately upon my arrival, all hearing in my right ear abruptly ceased. It's an odd sensation that is quickly replaced by frustration and embarrassment. Bar conversations turn into guessing games that result in confusion and offense, not sex. Needless to say, my relatively short-lived disability stymied a good time in the Big Apple. Upon serious medical consultation (read: the third-shift stock boy in a D.C. CVS), I picked up some eardrops that supposedly dissolved a potential wax buildup. I used them for days, each time giving me the audible sensation of Pop Rocks. Still, progress appeared slow, and each time I doused my ear I was awarded only a greasy trickle of dissolved refuse. I applied the drops on the fourth morning, resolving to stop if there were no effects. There were no effects. I gave up, reluctantly resigning myself to a life in which stereo headphones had no meaning. Much later that day, as I was doing some very necessary clothes shopping, my ear began to feel wet. I figured it was just the final droplets of my failed attempts. Five minutes passed, and like a large pea in a small water slide, a plug of earwax slid onto the unsuspecting shelf above my earlobe. I'd venture to state that there is no comparison superior in size, appearance, and consistency than an oversize raisin made of, well, earwax. I was simultaneously disgusted and ecstatic. I could finally hear the appalled reactions of onlookers to the right of myself. I figured I'd share the story because I'm sure it has some sort of metaphorical application to life. Actually, I'm not so sure, but I really had to tell someone just how awe-inspiring that volume of wax really is. I was going to sign out with "Finally hearing you loud & clear," but the following seemed more appropriate. Still trying to get laid, - - - - Date: Tue, 21 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's and Mike, Yes, I have just let something rot for the heck of it. My item was a drink from Dairy Queen. At first, it was laziness that inspired my inaction, then it was pure science. Eventually, the drink filled with fruit-fly maggots. I tried to keep them in the cup using cellophane wrap, but it didn't work. When my room filled with fruit flies, I had to abandon my research in favor of common sense. Hoping your girlfriend doesn't have to, - - - - Date: Tue, 21 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I realize I'm a little late on this one, but I just wanted to send some praise for the McSweeney's Recommended "Askew Chair Placement." I recently began a summer internship at a fancy-pants office, and as an intern it is my primary responsibility to look busy. The other day, as I was leaving my desk to go to the bathroom for the 57th time, I tucked my chair in. But somewhere in the back of my mind a light bulb went off, and I thought, "Askew Chair Placement!" I angled my chair slightly and wandered off through the maze of cubicles, confident that if my boss were to walk by he'd think, "Oh, Sarah must be photocopying something," instead of, "Where the hell is that damn intern when I need her?" I returned half an hour later, unnoticed, and proceeded to check my e-mail for the remainder of the afternoon. Only temporarily absent, Sarah Dell'Orto - - - - Date: Mon, 20 Jun 2005 Sirs, I was just browsing your "McSweeney's Recommends" section when I stumbled across your thumbs-up for Penny Hardaway. Was that a joke? The only time I recall him adding something for the Knicks this past year was when he went on IR, thereby freeing up a roster spot for someone more deserving. Same with your recommending Stephen A. Smith, a man who single-handedly has managed to keep me from watching any NBA pre-, halftime, or post-game shows on ESPN. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Fri, 17 Jun 2005 Dear Those Reading, Some years agomebbe 20, 25I had occasion to drive past a sign here in what they call North Central Florida, which is primarily rural, and to drive past it fairly often ... and for several years, as well. It was rustic-looking, partly by choice and partly by accident, and all it said was (to me) GUILT MUSEUM. Now, I knew it really said QUILT MUSEUM, but the alternative reading was much more piquant. That a "Q" turned "G" could be so disruptive I found intriguing. I'd always drive on down the road thinking of Woody Allen or Richard Nixon or perhaps Albert Speer and then I'd see something else that would carom my thoughts into a different vector. Just thought I'd give that to the world; GUILT MUSEUM. I'd planned to do something with it, but maybe someone else can. You're welcome. Go, Devil Rays! Bill (Rex Scotorum) - - - - Date: Fri, 17 Jun 2005 Dear Shawn, I might have been a bit misleading in my last letter. The bowline knot of interest was actually tied by a nice, shirtless man in the Home Depot parking lot. Hell, I didn't have even a ballpark guess (nor guesstimate) as to how many trees or holes or rabbits there were supposed to be. Also, "Fucking damn it fucketty fuck fuck!!" might have been ringing throughout the lot, garnering me some handy sympathy. Were these expletives in frustration, or in amusement at making my rope rabbits mate? You decide. Lastly, I'm sure you got to practice on shoelaces when you were a kid; I only had safety velcro. Thanks for the tip, - - - - Date: Fri, 17 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Have you ever just let something rot for the heck of it? Two days ago my girlfriend left her half-drunk carton of peach juice behind the TV. Today when I pointed it out, she said she didn't like the juice. Still, she refuses to throw it away. No particular reason was given for this. I'll keep you posted. Best, - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I find it distressing, and a symptom of our times, that the authors of the List "How Other School Subjects Would Be Spelled by People Who Refer to the Three R's As 'Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmetic'" have completely neglected the vital subject of 'Rt. Affectionately Yours, - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I very much enjoyed Nico Vreeland's thoughts on what might compose the other half of the battle. It seems to me, however, that Nico has overlooked a fundamental truth about the battle. That is, if Knowing is half the battle, the other half is Not Knowing. I think it is only fair to give due credit to Not Knowing. It does, after all, compose half of all battles. Very Truly Yours, - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Jun 2005 I should have won an uncirculated Dave Eggers novella during the Philadelphia stop on Salvador's book tour. This is what guest correspondent Matt Schwartz says about my supposed roller-coaster naïveté on McSweeneys.net: "Kevin Moffett read his story from the issue, and later shut down some know-it-all who claimed an amusement-park ride needn't complete a loop to be a roller coaster. This is not the case, and Moffett let him know it." I am that know-it-all, and proudly so, relative to the arrogant bastard Moffet, who nearly shares the same name with inglorious Canadian pop stars the Moffats. In two years McSweeney's will publish my novel, statedly an allegory for gruesome love. It will be about a rabbit lost in an Arizona supermarket and a two-headed alligator who has no ass and therefore cannot shit or eat. The unfortunate alligator will starve to death in 14 days. An Internet rumor spreads, revealing that read backwards, the novel lambastes all forms of premarital sex, homosexuality, and godlessness. Offending 82 percent of their readership, McSweeney's goes under. A line from the book goes as follows: "Surely, Eli hates God. The things he wants bad are sex and drugs." Read backwards: "Drugs and sex are bad. Wants he, things the god hates. Eli, surely." I will have my revenge. Meanwhile, I will continue to celebrate every word published. Enjoy, - - - - Date: Mon, 13 Jun 2005 Lest someone lose a mattress: The rabbit comes out of the hole, goes around the tree, and then back into the hole. He does not come out of the hole two times in a row. This not only makes a better knot, it also jives with rabbit physics. Shawn - - - - Date: Thu, 9 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's, This morning I passed a door with a flyer taped onto it. I thought it read "Cadaver Club." It didn't. The first word was in Latin, something I was not acquainted with. I thought it a shame; if there was a Cadaver Club here I would probably join. Continue swimming naked, - - - - Date: Thu, 09 Jun 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Two months ago, T.G. Gibbon called Ford Madox Ford the "20th century's greatest author." This is an unforgivable lie. While valid arguments exist for F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, I think we can all agree that the best author of the last century is Stephen King. Also, it's not right to judge Mary Shelley on her sexual practices. Only God and Dr. Phil can do that. Keep on keepin' on, - - - - Date: Mon, 30 May 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I had recently come to realize that I was master of an enormous old house. It was built of dark, wet wood, from the outside imposing, yet also repulsive, as organic decay often is. The many rooms inside the house seemed to yield to swamp and forest and back to house again. Having forgotten I owned the house, I had also neglected it. The brown syrup of guilt mixed with my blood, and my arms and hands grew heavy. The next-door neighbor, a middle-aged woman with a head of thick auburn hair, met me on the porch and opened wide the front door. It was a ceremony of my irresponsibility: none of the doors fit properly against their jambs, so locks and keys were useless. A damp paper of dark paisleys, or, possibly, large paramecia, covered the walls of the foyer. I coughed, and a rhythmic banging pulsed behind the undulating wallpaper. My neighbor stood still a moment, then sighed and beat the wall several times with the base of her palm until the sound ceased. "The pipes," she explained, as if I were a child. "You have to knock them back or they will burst." My neighbor led me around the house, opening doors, tying back curtains, shaking dusty moisture off the cloths covering the deciduous furniture. I assumed she was to thank that the house hadn't fallen down entirely. I felt her awaiting my gratitude. But I wanted so much to be alone, and I knew that my room on the top floor would be emptythough never safe, no, never apart from the rest of the houseand there were certain rituals I wished to perform. She opened another door. "Your sons," she gestured. "And your Busters," she continued, for I had not one son but two, and not one dog but two. My sons were dancing together in the parlor. How had I forgotten them? I nearly knelt to offer my hand to Buster, who approached cautiously, but the Buster that sat looking at me from under the grand piano made me step back. "They have also missed you," my neighbor said, her gray teeth smiling behind clumpy pink lipstick. "I will ...," I sputtered, "just give me ... Just let me" And I fled up the stairs, which were slippery beneath my feet. I passed dozens of people on the landings and in the hallway of the top floor, and they all had something or other to say, but I simply had to be alone. Alone with my rituals. It was not right, it was not good, but I reached my room and closed the door. It did not close all the way, but it would have to do. There were fancy European cigarettes, and I lit one. Would I begin the ritual? I looked out the window. Down below, wet woods pressed a throng of people against the house. Sincerely, Paul G. McCurdy - - - - Date: Thu, 26 May 2005 Dear Road Trippers, A friend and I drove from San Diego to Portland in a low-riding station wagon over the weekend. Though my advice may be more hurtful than helpful, I feel I should answer your tips call regardless. I can't say these will work for you, or even be remotely applicable, yet here goes. Please pack your car carefully. Remember, the spatially-challenged should not be accountable for making two station-wagon loads of crap fit into one '92 Subaru. Perhaps you're like us and are traveling with a mattress on the roof of your '92 Subaru. To securely lash your mattress, you should use bungee chords and rope. Rope should be tied with what is called a Bowline knot. Other sailing knots might work, but the Bowline has a fun rhyme. It goes like this: "The rabbit comes out of the hole, goes around the tree, and then back up through the hole." I would recommend not bothering to cover the mattress in hopes of protecting it from bugs and dust. We used garbage bags and essentially created a sail. Sadly, other vehicles don't appreciate the Glad Drawstring Odor Shield spinnaker. Music is especially important because it comprises your entertainment once you run out of things to say to each other. Remember, the road is hot, lonely, and prone to funny smells without a good supply of music. My co-road tripper brought about 80 mix CDs that had titles like "Super clubtacular party hip-hop dance mix HEYYY to the window to the wall remix!!" I had room for only one CD in my bag. It was "The best of This American Life." I recommend more diversity in your road-tripping entertainment. Sure, you might find an assortment of novelty tapes stashed under the seat, but keep in mind that these will get old after five hours or so. Up until that point, I enjoyed disco, Mariah Carey, Fiddler on the Roof (Side A)/Digable Planets (Side B), and TLC and Coolio demos. Even though it may seem like a good idea, I assure you that listening to the instrumental side for extended periods of time is anything but. I'll end with some to-the-point advice: snacks, water, frequent bathroom breaks. Best of luck, - - - - Date: Wed, 25 May 2005 1. When playing the alphabet game, make sure to conduct the game to ensure you don't get the hard letters, i.e., K or Q. Not a lot of words begin with K or Q. For instance, if there are two of you, make sure you go secondthen you don't get K or Q; if there are three of you, go first; etc. 2. Don't eat at any restaurants with misspelled or mispunctuated names, e.g., Kountry Kitchen, Sal's Burger's, etc. Trust me on this. 3. Remember not to eat foods that are certain to make you sick. Don't eat those pickles in the sealed plastic bags, pigs' feet in those big gallon jars, pickled eggs with beets, or anything with boiled eggs. 4. Either drive or sit in the backseat on the passenger side. Both places allow for maximum view of either the road or the driver, respectively. This means you'll be in control of the car or the driver, which is almost as good. 5. If you're driving through Kentucky, DON'T believe the signs that greet you at the border which read "Kentucky: it's that friendly." It's NOT that friendly. It's not even a little bit friendly. The roads are all "parkways" and the directional signs at interchanges of these parkways don't say helpful things like "Paduca, left exit; Frankfort, right exit." No, they say things like "Cowpie City, left exit; Other Cowpie City, right exit." By the time you figure out which exit to take, you're on the wrong parkway and, inevitably, you'll end up in some Cowpie City and you'll be lost. Lost in Kentucky. They make movies about people who are lost in Kentucky, and these movies are not happy movies. Kentucky is NOT that friendly. Bon Voyage, - - - - Date: Tue, 24 May 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Though I appreciate the groundbreaking, trailblazing endeavours of your new-food reviewers, I feel the British food recently reviewed by Ori Fienberg deserves a revisionist perspective. I have been British for 22 years, nearly long enough to earn a clock, but have never heard of 'mutton sog' or 'head cheese.' Sausages baked in batter are 'Toad in the hole,' and blood pudding is usually known as 'black pudding.' Haggis and fried Mars Bars are both Scottish delicacies, and don't constitute staples of the 'British' dietary canonin the same way that bratwurst is indeed a 'European food,' but not one you'd expect to find in, say, Greece. I also took exception to the observation that the mushrooms in a canned breakfast were canned, rather than fresh. It is ontologically difficult for them to be anything but canned. Yours, - - - - Date: Wed, 18 May 2005 Dear McSweeney's: You should reconsider Cream of Wheat. I chose "reconsider" because I'm pretty sure most of us at one time considered it. (Didn't you?) Then again, it's possible that I speak only for myself here. All I really know is that about, oh, 19 years ago I ate the stuff routinely for breakfast. What turned me on to it? Well, at the age of 9, my parents, of course. I think I ate it plain back then, but these days I take it with mixed berries and brown sugar. Should you pick up a box, note (recall?) that it does not require the added sweetness; turns out wheat farina and partially defatted wheat germ pack their very own flavor-punch. In sum, if you're looking for a good hot breakfast, visit aisle 6, halfway down on the right, one shelf up from the Quaker Quick Oats. (If you don't live in Seattle's Ballard neighborhood, I can't provide a specific location. Ask a stockperson; he/she will probably be able to tell you.) Thinking of you, - - - - Date: Mon, 16 May 2005 Dear McSweeney's, My friend frequently greets me online with the word "Boo." This leads me to believe that she is heckling me. She claims she is trying to surprise me. Tell mewere you surprised, or hurt? Be honest. Your friend, - - - - Date: Fri, 13 May 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I work in scholarly publishing and, like Ruth Martin, am frequently creeped out by the invented words of academia. However, "liminality" is indeed a legitimate derivation of "liminal" (see Concise OED, 11th ed.). Regards, - - - - Date: Fri, 13 May 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I feel compelled to offer a rebuttal to the bad review Goya Jamaican Style Ginger Beer received on your website. While it's true that this is not a beverage for the weak of palateor, I might add, the faint of heartthis is the very reason to seek it out. The perfect antidote to the kind of bland, flavorless pap that makes you wonder why you even bother with food anymore, this fizzy soft drink makes it impossible for your mouth to be bored: its spicy yet sweetly delicious bite penetrates your entire taste-olfactory system, tingling satisfyingly in the back of your throat in a way that suggests it just might cure minor respiratory ailments (and possibly put hair on your chest, if this is something you like). There are many brands of ginger beer on the market, but this is the only one that compels my father, otherwise a reasonable man, to drive several towns away in order to buy it by the case at the only supermarket in our area that carries it. Fanatical? Perhaps. Justifiable? Absolutely. If you like spicy food, this drink was made for you. If you don't like it, well, to quote my freshman-year creative-writing professor, "I guess it's just a matter of taste ... not that you don't have any." Sincerely, - - - - Date: Tue, 10 May 2005 Hello, McSweeney's, I understand the importance of Mary Shelley to Romanticism and the Gothic novel, but I think we should all remember that she liked to have sex on her mother's grave. She may have even conceived her first son in the graveyard. No matter how she has affected our lives, she remains icky. Warmest Regards, - - - - Date: Tue, 10 May 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Is "liminality" a word, because it's not in the OED (at least not the online version). Has academia mass-hallucinated this term? Thank you, P.S. Seriously, I'm creeped out. - - - - Date: Thu, 05 May 2005 Hello, McSweeney's, I just wanted to comment on the negative review this soda has received on your website. While the name is a bit long, the new Dr. Pepper concoction is quite tasty to this tongue. I prefer the regular, but my wife prefers the diet, which isn't that bad either. The problem with regular Dr. Pepper is that it is really only good when it's ice cold. Once it gets a little warm, it starts to get a cough-syrupy aftertaste to it. The new Dr. Pepper somehow avoids this. Is it the cherry? The vanilla? I'm guessing it's the genius combination. Also, since regular Dr. Pepper tends to not taste too great out of a soda fountain, I'm eagerly awaiting the new flavor to get in there and defeat the old again. Here's to the wily chemist who concocted this new brew. Have a swell one, - - - - Date: Fri, 15 Apr 2005 Hola, dudes, You know, being as I am a Philadelphian and an enjoyer of good things, "The Philadelphia Flyers Have a Time Machine" is one of my favorite serials of all time, way ahead of William Langewiesche's "American Ground" series in the Atlantic Monthly. But I have to say I was really disappointed with the latest installment. Mary Shelley is a particularly famous little girl from a particularly famous family, the broadest details of which are readily available even to Wikipedia users. Why then all the inaccuracies? She grew up in London. Her mother was dead. She was not blond. Normally I don't nitpick such historical inaccuracies. I realize that for most the past is an undifferentiated blob of fairy tales and Masterpiece Theatre and not the intricate and delicate crystal of human interaction I know it to be. But from a site nominated for a Webby I expect more. Where is your world-famous fact-checking department? Mary Shelley is not a mythic figure. She touches us all today. Not necessarily directly through her work but through the example of her life and her relationships with others. She was, as you know, friends of the doctor and second-rate author John Polidori, who was the uncle of critic William Rossetti, who married Lucy Brown and was the uncle of the 20th century's greatest author, Ford Madox Ford, who was the mentor of Robert Lowell (and rumored by some to be responsible for Lowell's conversion), who was arrested with William Sloane Coffin, who was a friend and Bonesmate of George H.W. Bush, who is the father of traitorous failed politician George W. Bush, who is cousins with Billy Bush, who hosted Access Hollywood with Pat O'Brien, who was mocked by traitorous failed comedian Jimmy Fallon on Saturday Night Live, which was once hosted by Wayne Gretzky, who was on the New York Rangers with Brian Leetch, who was on the Rangers with the totally awesome Eric Lindros, who was on the Flyers with Chris Therien. Such a close and intimate connection between the two protagonists, if in any way hinted at by the author, would have given the story comic, and indeed human, depth. Precision and accuracy is, therefore, not just a matter of persnickety schoolmarms but an essential artistic tool. By the way, anyone see Mike Tyson at that press conference? He was practically fucking lucid. Good for him. All the best, - - - - Date: Fri, 8 Apr 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I have just read Mr. Schweiger's "realistic assessment" of how many 12-year-olds he could beat up before they overcame him. I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. Mr. Schweiger obviously has very little experience with groups of 12-year-old boys. The average 12-year-old boy is a much more formidable opponent than Mr. Schweiger gives him credit to be. Against a group of them, I believe that Mr. Schweiger (or his friend) would be lucky to take out one before the rest of them pummeled him to bits. As a seventh-grade teacher who instructs P.E., let me inform Mr. Schweiger of a couple of points. First, the average 12-year-old may be small, but he is in much better shape than the average 21-year-old man. Due to years of afterschool sports (Little League, basketball, football, etc.) and at least 250 minutes of required physical activity a week, the average 12-year-old boy has built up quite a bit of muscle mass. Plus, Mr. Schweiger does not take into account just how quick they are and how much endurance they have. Most of my 12-year-old boys can sprint a quarter mile in less than two minutes and can play a full hour of basketball without a single break. The average adult in this country can barely get 30 minutes of exercise a week. Even if the rest of the boys didn't fight back, Mr. Schweiger would be too tired to continue after taking on two or three boys. Second, Mr. Schweiger seems to think that the average 12-year-old boy would be timid and hesitant in a fight, that only a couple of "brave" ones would even dare to attack him. It's a statement so naive that it seems hardly worth refuting. Nowadays, the second a boy enters into the public school system, he starts learning how to defend himself from older, bigger, and stronger boys. By the time he's 12, he's got a whole arsenal of methods for inflicting damage in a fight. Mr. Schweiger admits that he hasn't been in a fight in a while. Mr. Schweiger may be bigger, but he's strategically outmatched. Third, from observing my students play "Bombardment Dodge Ball,"* I have noticed that 12-year-old boys are full of organized strategies of attack. It also doesn't take long for a group of boys who don't even know each other to silently organize themselves into a lethal attack force. It's actually fascinating and almost beautiful to watch a group of boys, who may not even speak the same language, come together and ruthlessly pick off their opponents, one by one. Realistically, this is how the fight would go. Mr. Schweiger was correct in assuming that the boys would surround him. The weakest of the group would distract Mr. Schweiger while the other boys rushed him from the side and pushed him over to the ground. A few would quickly pin him to the ground while the rest started hitting and kicking Mr. Schweiger at his sides. If he's lucky, none of the boys will have picked up any implements (such as bats, sticks, or heavy backpacks) to beat him with. I'm sorry to shatter Mr. Schweiger's dream, but if he took on a group of average 12-year-old boys, it would be over in less than a minute. Maybe he would have had a chance to start beating on the boys who distracted him, but he'd be down on the ground before he could cause much damage. It's a good thing he's a pacifist. Sincerely, * "Bombardment Dodge Ball" is played just like regular dodge ball, where players who are hit must leave the court. The two main differences are that Bombardment Dodge Ball is played with five balls and when there are few players left on each team (or when there is not a lot of time left in the class), the referee blows the whistle. Players may then cross the line that separates the teams to run up and attack their opponents. This allows for quick resolutions to games that are dragging along. - - - - Date: Mon, 14 Mar 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I was delighted to see today in the McSweeney's Reccomends column your appreciation of the italicized Garamond ampersand. I have been singing its praises to uninterested parties for months. When you get a chance, check out the italicized Garamond lowercase zyou won't be disappointed. Notch the page zoom on Word up to 500 percent and stare in awe as you would in a gallery in front of a breathtaking painting. Best, - - - - Date: Mon, 14 Mar 2005 Dear McSweeney's, When I was a kid, my family used large binder clips to close bags of chips, that is, in place of so-called "Chip Clips," except that we called the binder clips "chip clips." Having never seen one of those cheap fluorescent green plastic things labeled in big black letters "CHIP CLIP," and having never seen binder clips holding papers together, I believed binder clips were chip clips, that they had been designed and manufactured to keep bags of chips closed. I was in my teens before I saw binder clips used with paper, and I thought to myself, "Isn't it interesting how well chip clips work to keep papers together? How crazy!" Having now used both binder clips and Chip Clips on bags of chips, I believe I can firmly state: Chip Clips suck. Binder clips rock. And so, this new home that I have made with my husband has taken a cue from that lovely aspect of my childhood, and there are no Chips Clips to be found in my house. Thank you, - - - - Date: Mon, 14 Mar 2005 McSweeney's: A perfect harmony of power & elegance my arse. Monotype Corsiva does it with style & no need for the fancy italics. I suspect you only went with Garamond because of a happy accident. While stumbling upon all the necessary elements must have been an awesome experience, the journey should never outdo the destination. No way. Never. Kind regards & best wishes - - - - Date: Tue, 1 Mar 2005 Dear McSweeney's: I apologize for the lapse in my correspondence regarding the building of my House in the Suburbs, and thank Ms. Christine Latrielle/Barrett for her letter of Feb. 22 seeking further comment on it. We did indeed close on the House in the Suburbs and have lived in it for some 15 months now. Signing the stacks of papers involved in purchasing a House in the Suburbs, I repeated a phrase quietly in my head: "It's not where you live, but how you live." I repeated this phrase over and over until it became to my mind a kind of commodity, a product I could purchase and take home in a plastic sack much like those at any of the several nearby super center/stores where I regularly purchase things of varying weights that get put in the many spaces in and around the House in the Suburbs. I have struggled to decide what I want to tell you of the 15 months we have lived in the House in the Suburbs. Do I detail the minor repairs that are made as the house gets used to its own sense of weight, and begins to settle in on itself? Of the eight bags of candy we distributed to trick-or-treaters? About the casual wave I give to my neighbors Jeff and Kathy (whose last name I do not know) and Brandon and Sarah (whose last name I know only because their People magazine once mistakenly showed up in my mailbox). Should I share how my wife and I kept an almost obsessive tally of the yard signs in our development during the last election (which suggested that the development, like the rest of Ohio, went for Bush, 13 yard signs to Kerry's nine). Do I articulate how the general malaise of having betrayed political, intellectual, and environmental ideals to build the House in the Suburbs is overwhelmingly salved, if not trumped entirely, by convenience and vague bromides about safety and schools? How I found myself thinking one day as I watched my children, now 4 and 2, playing on the swing set their grandfather laboriously constructed in our backyard, that while building a House in the Suburbs was for me a form of betrayal, not doing so certainly would seem a type of neglect? What I really want to do, McSweeney's and Ms. Latrielle/Barrett, is to find one true and certain thing I can tell you about the House in the Suburbs, one pure, simple, concrete thing that, even if I did not like it, would be honest to the furthest extent of my experience. I struggle mightily with this because in the suburbs, all of these thingstruth, honesty, politics, idealism, convenience, betrayal, neglectthey all seem somehow keyed to the exact same frequency, a low, dull-sounding hum that hardly seems a significant presence in my life the longer I live in and around it. It masks itself innocuously, and it is difficult to tell if I have made peace with it, or simply grown used to it being around. Fuck it, McSweeney's: I think it's where you live after all. With regards, Peter Ward Brown - - - - Date: Mon, 28 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's: It was with great joy that I read your recommendation for The Philadelphia Independent. The incredible seasonal periodical is a mammoth production ("too big to read on the subway") and I am always impressed with the amazing articles and graphics. It is everything a newspaper ought to be: unbiased, informative, cheap, and enjoyable. As a young suburbanite living outside of the city, I feel clued-in reading "The Periodic Journal of Urban Particulars." But, alas, all good things do come to an end. And so is the case with the Independent. Yes, it's true! What you've so aptly described as "Perhaps the best local newspaper in the country" is taking a break. In their 21st and final issue, their reasons were explained in "A Note to the Reader": "We need a break. We may start up again one day, and if we do, we promise our second volume will be even better than our first. But the first volume may turn out to be it for the Independent, in which case we ask only that you keep a place for us, in your desk or on your shelf." You can find the entire article here. Thanks for recognizing such a fantastic publication. Josh Kramer - - - - Date: Mon, 28 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's: Sometimes life has really weird coincidences. Like today when I signed on to view your web page and saw that you recommend drinking root beer. I concur! It is quite possibly the best drink in the world, in my humble opinion. However, it is equally interesting because you state "Caffeine free" at the end. While on vacation the past two weeks, my husband and I had a debate over just that very fact! You see, one day my husband said, "I've not had any caffeine today," to which I replied, "Yes you did! You had a root beer!" And that started the entire debate. I won the debate, thank you very much, because we had shared a Barq's Root Beer, which is caffeinatedjust check the label. But my victory dance didn't last long, because yesterday, while at our local grocery store, my husband pointed at the IBC bottles and turned one toward me to show me the "Caffeine Free" statement printed on it. So we agreed to call it a tie. Some root beer is caffeine free and some is not. And for the record, how can you not recommend Barq's as the best root beer ever? It has bite, you know! Maybe it is the caffeine ... A fellow root beer fan, Stacey Schwier - - - - Date: Mon, 28 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I'm 41 years old, I live in Seattle, and I do a bit of freelance writing. When I was younger I briefly considered a career in journalism, but instead I went to law school. I've lived in Seattle for seven years, but I recently applied for a job in New York City. Recently I read your letter from Amy Bergen, 22, who has grown tired of New York and thinks she might like to move to Seattle. Ironically, in connection with my possible move from Seattle to New York, I have myself been pondering a similar dilemma. Any relocation involves a hundred questions with only vague hints for answers. What do I want to do with my life? Why can't I be happy where I am? Will changing places solve all, or even any, of my problems? These questions are, of course, too weighty and personal to be addressed on the McSweeney's letters page, so for Ms. Bergen I have in mind a few questions of a more practical nature. Where's your apartment? Is it rent-controlled? It's not in the West Village, is it? Can I have it? Sincerely, Sean Carman - - - - Date: Wed, 23 Feb 2005 Hey McSweeney's Ms. Bergan's dilemma is one that all too many 22-year-olds face, and fortunately I found this oracle thing outside my window that seems to answer all questions in a direct and nonpartisan way. Unprecedented! So I asked about Sarah's situation, and here's what it said: In the soul of your heart's bosom why assume a job they provide the nourishment for you the pandas would be caring, (And upon this realization) You shoot up from your wholesome nap, "Would you like to go to the zoo today? "I'm going to die soon," she says to you. "Let yourself out!" you exclaim, Craig Webster - - - - Date: Wed, 23 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's/Amy Bergen, Being 24, financially unstable and familiar with opportunities to work at local nonprofits, I must warn you against a move to Seattle. I love Seattle and have been a long-term resident, but I do so with the aid and usage of my driver's license and car. We, the people of Seattle, love our cars, frequently use them, and will accept no substitute. There is no good mass-transportation system in this city (unless you define the word "good" as riding around on a urine-soaked tin can on wheels or being shuttled the two miles between Seattle's two major tourist attractions on the aboveground, fire-prone monorail). After three years at the University of Washington, I finally had to break down and beg my parents to let me take their car to school. I am still paying their lofty price two years later. In short, trying to navigate Seattle or any of its surrounding areas is very difficult without the ability to own and operate a motor vehicle. My advice is to stick to a city like New York with a subway or even San Francisco with its neat little trolley thing. My warmest regards and admiration for your work, - - - - Date: Tue, 22 Feb 2005 I'm sitting here with a painful urinary-tract infection, having blown off work (thank God), and have just gotten off the bathroom floor after two hours of lying there wrapped in the horrid wolf-face-printed blanket that I love to loathe but secretly love. It reminds me of my boyfriend and cocoons me in wolfy warmness. The fever is setting in, I forget what I'm doing here. Oh yes. So I was reading a book, then came to this website, started reading letters, and came across Peter Ward Brown's letters and his tale of suburban house/home building. Letter after letter filled with funny anecdotes and stories, reminding me of my own suburban oasis, and then ... Nothing! Did he finish the house? Is he bankrupt? Has he thrown caution to the wind and painted the house magenta and tangerine? All I envision is a sad little house that no one writes about anymore. Poor house. I have to pee now. Christine Barrett - - - - Date: Mon, 21 Feb 2005 Dearest McSweeney's, Here's my deal. I am 22 and unattached. I did some journalism in college and I work for a nonprofit (I'm leaving in August, having made a one-year commitment). Like such luminaries as Gore Vidal and Sarah Vowell, I have no driver's license. And you have assumed by now my financial situation. Other than that all things are equal. Although I hear Seattle's nice. Where would you go if you were me? Love, - - - - Date: Wed, 16 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I'm sorry, but I have to object. Mr. Cipriani has it all wrong. Hitmen ice people. Politicians frost people. That is the difference. Your pal, - - - - Date: Fri, 18 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's: In reading Mr. Sam Mean's February 18th List "Things That Paper Could Be Replaced With to Make Rock, Paper Scissors More Believable," I was reminded of the following addition my father made to the game: The Laser Gun. Made by shaping thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun, pointing it at your opponent and making laserlike sounds, the Laser Gun was trump because, as everyone knows, a laser can blow up anything. Of course, as soon as Dear Old Dad brought out the Gun, so did we. And, as everyone knows, one Laser Gun shooting another results in both Laser Guns blowing up, which ends the game. More recently, now that I'm almost-grown and discovering things to which I was oblivious as a child, I wondered, and confirmed, that his creative twist was merely a way to get out of playing the game with us for too long. Thanks, Daddy. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Tuesday, 15 February 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I am a recent college graduate who has recently found employment in the library of a Chicago law school. As a consequence of my position, I am constantly around law students, a rare breed indeed. Lately, however, I am perplexed by the fashion/accessory choices of my patrons. My relative youth, in tandem with my recent departure from a collegiate setting, should be able to provide me with a decent awareness of what's hip and fashionable for the young academe on the go. As has been my experience, generally, books are carried in one of the following: (A) a backpack or (B) a shoulder bag (or satchel, if you will). I am confused, however, because as of late it seems that many of the patrons at the law library at which I work seem to have opted for some bizarre sort of carryon-luggage-type bag, complete with a telescoping arm and wheels. They're like small suitcases. I tell you, I never saw anything like it in my four years of undergraduate studies. I thought, for a moment, that maybe law students carry more and heavier books than I ever did as an undergrad, but it occurs to me that I hung out with grad students of all varieties in my four years as an undergrad, and all of them hoisted their books on their shoulder(s) in some sort of conventional book bag. Moreover, this trend toward the carryon-luggage-style book bag makes for a colossal pain in the ass, a lot of the time. It inhibits the user's ability to navigate revolving doors, takes up precious elevator space, and, worst of all, constantly makes me feel grumpy and hurried, because it reminds me of being in an airport (and when I'm in an airport, I'm generally grumpy and hurried). Plus, these bag users are constantly banging into things with their unwieldy bags of junk. What gives? Can this new wave of young academics no longer bear the weight of their own literacy? Sincerely, - - - - Date: Mon, 14 Feb 2005 Mickey Pemulis Sweeney: The Gates were raised today and I went after work to check it out. It was about to start getting dark so I took the train up from Times Square to 57th and walked the two or so blocks. You could see the pieces of orange from at least a block away. I had one more street to cross, then one more block and one more street to the park, and I had that feeling you get in the huge parking lot of an amusement park when you finally get to where you can see the spine of the rollercoasters sticking out into the sky. It was still under construction, with big crates of beams and boxes of fabric everywhere. Volunteers were using the same golf carts they sent to bust us during the croquet party. I guess they were just going to leave everything there overnight. All the feet seem to be in place. They're some kind of metal that's the color of slate. Some of the feet have rusted a bit, but all of them are a long horizontal rectangle, with one or two brick-sized pieces supporting them. Between those pieces and the ground are either rubber or what looked and felt like a fat slap of cardboard. On top of the feet are the orange squares that the vertical beams lock into. Those squares are level, but the beams are tweaked in different ways, I noticed. The crossbeams to all of the gates look level. You can just tell, walking around, the weird patterns and trails they make when partially lined up that they're perfectly level. Dead balls plumb, as Brian at the building company used to say. DBP. So I guess where they cheated it was around the base. The difference is inside the squares, is my guess. However they did it, those fuckers are rock solid. Anyways, it's really well done. The fabric is that ductile tarp kind, and the pieces have a kind of pull cord sticking out at the side made of the same material. They're not really cocoons like I'd (we'd?) hoped. The color of the fabric is, I think, different than the paint on the beams. I wonder if that was on purpose. Maybe it's the same paint, just on different stuff. They're all different sizes. Some are at least 20 feet wide at the top, almost square, and others are as wide as the narrowest walkway but maybe 30 feet high. It was probably 5:30 when I got there, and it had been clear all day. The gates were a dull orange, the fabric a little brighter. Offsetting it all, I thought, were these radiant high triangles sticking up at both ends of every single foot. They were like these little skeletal tripods and they were that construction color orange that is brightest when there's the least bit of light left in the day. I'm not sure road cones are the same color, but some cyclone fences are exactly this color. And the reflectors that were stored in the long flat tacklebox underneath the front seat on the schoolbusexactly the same color. It all felt under construction, just like a building project that's a nice project but still in the making. I wonder if they'll drop the flags all at one time? Like, maybe, the man himself lights one of those fat, short cannons from the Civil War at first light on the 12th to signal everybody. That would kick fucking ass. I don't know what's happening Friday night, but I might get up early Saturday and go in just so I can see the first banners drop. Cole - - - - Date: Sun, 13 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's: You ice a kicker. You frost a windshield. There you go. Glad to be of help, Peter Cipriani - - - - Date: Sun, 13 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, It is with great consternation that I write this letter. One Patrick Morris recently wrote, "Anyone that drinks no pulp is, sorry to say, a baby. What, you can't take little bits of orange? Well then you don't really like oranges. You're just a fake orange-juice drinker." I most respectfully say that Patrick Morris is a punk. If one wishes to eat little bits of orange, then one should go eat an orange. If one wishes to drink juice, then one must drink juicenot chucks of pulp and orange. However, I will agree with said punk that orange juice is the best juice to drink. Unfortunately, he should take a step back from his position on pulp vs. no pulp. Orange juice isn't meant to be divisive. We orange-juice drinkers must unite. Otherwise, the Cranberry Juice Council will win. And we all know that wouldn't be a good thing. Respectfully yours, Elizabeth Fullerton - - - - Date: Sat, 12 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I have a jar of tartar sauce in my refrigerator. It is good tartar sauce; I like it very much. The label puzzles me, though, because the label contains four "suggested uses." The suggested usesthough not meant to be comprehensiveare as follows: FISH, SHELL FISH, FISH STICKS, AND SALMON. I know the difference between FISH and SHELL FISH; I can even understand separating out FISH STICKSyou wouldn't put sour cream, bacon bits, and chives on french friesbut do you happen to know the difference between FISH and SALMON? Also, if it isn't too much trouble, could you please pass the ketchup? Andrew Cavette - - - - Date: Wed, 9 Feb 2005 Dear McSwys, Although Mr. Cassels' solution to the The Clash's "Stay or Go" controversy is certainly logical and reasonable, I feel compelled to object that the situation is not as clear as Mr. Cassels' reductionist argument would have you believe. First, it is not clear that the speaker, however much he would like to avoid trouble, is the ultimate decision maker. The Clash state that his "Darling [must] let me know" whether staying or going is the correct choice. The trouble that the speaker sees coming in the future is not dispositive: his decision alone will not resolve the situation. Rather, the unknown darling of the song may disagree with The Clash's assessment of the situation or even be ultimately unmoved by the double trouble The Clash invokes. Thus, "stay" remains a viable option. In addition, it is not clear that The Clash look upon trouble as a negative. Though both I and Mr. Cassels have been raised in upstanding homes to regard trouble as something to be avoided, The Clash as a nonconformist band with roots in the early punk-rock movement may have quite different views on the relative merits of trouble vs. twice as much trouble. Thus, I argue that the question of whether "stay or go" is the correct decision is still open for debate, and worthy of consideration in a long, perplexed song which reflects the confusion of The Clash at finding themselves in a situation not of their own making and incapable of resolution on their own initiative, caught as their lingering desire to conform to societal norms and avoid trouble inevitably conflicts with their desire to break out of the closeted social strata that human society has trammeled them in. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Wed, 9 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I am not Canadian but I wanted to respond to some of Michelle Orange's lucid observations about American cities. Once, in New York, I slapped the ass of a Canadian gal. This put me in the company of such esteemed men as Mick Jagger and my friend Jeremy's dad. In my defense I did not know she was Canadian at the time. When I found out I apologized for the slapping. I felt like maybe I was giving Americans a bad name. I offered to buy her a drink. She said, "Eh," just like Michelle Orange said in her letter. I didn't blush, though. It seemed like overkill after the apology and the drink. I walk around on the street as well, but I don't have dreams of picking up coins and things. Instead, I think of all the ears in the world. What are the chances that if you devoted your life to the pursuit that you could stick your finger in every single one of them? Slim to none. By "you" I mean me. By "ears" I mean ears. Anyway, thank you again for promoting amity between two large nations that happen to sit one atop the other like children's blocks or people doing it. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Wed, 9 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I was gonna weigh in on the frosting-icing debacle but instead I totally have to agree with you guys on the clementine recommendation. Goddamn, those things are good. Here in Scotland, where all the clementines are imported from Spain, the season is long goneit was probably six weeks shorter than in the U.S., unfortunately. But man, you should have seen the crates stacked up in the grocery stores while we had 'em. "Wall-to-wall treetop-tall," someone might call it. And they would be right. At one point back in November I used a clementine in a poem (which of course made the poem instantly awesome)and when I read it to my flatmates, well, guess what happened? By week's end three more clementine poems were floating around the flat. It's not like I was jealous or anything, because I like poems as much as I like clementines and think there should be more of both of them in the worldI'm just saying, they really are the awesomest thing in the history of things or awesomeness. But don't ever let me catch you hanging around with satsumas, cause they ain't nothing but poseur bitches. In other news, there's this place near my flat that sells nothing but window blinds, but they don't have any installed in their own windows. What's up with that? Take it easy, - - - - Date: Mon, 7 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's: In the episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Data has a dream about cutting Troi up like a cake, one of the dream images involves Worf eating a piece of TroiCake. Two times he mentions the "mint frosting." You will remember, of course, that Data is an android capable of performing 60 trillion calculations per second and whose vast memory banks contain the sum of all human knowledge. It is hardly possible that Data's flawless mind would employ an incorrect syntactical usage. We have no choice but to conclude that frosting is what goes on a proper cake, whether that cake is a half-human, half-Betazoid woman or not. Furthermore, I have spent many nights dreaming of frosting Deanna Troi, and the one time I tried icing her, it just changed the mood of the whole thing. Carry on, - - - - Date: Mon, 07 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's: Some kid last night tried to tell me that apple juice was the best juice ever. I almost spit out my orange juice onto his face. I'm serious, it was close to coming out. It would have ended up on his face had I not calmed myself before realizing his ignorance and preparing my battle. Orange juice cannot be touched as the pinnacle of all juices. While the other two mainstays (grape and apple) follow not far behind, orange juice will never be touched. There is nothing to debate. All these new, fake juices give real juice a bad name. I mean, who drinks cran-straw-grape-mango-mellon juice? Who can take the sweetness of cran-pineapple juice? Orange juice is in its best form with lots of pulp. Anyone that drinks no pulp is, sorry to say, a baby. What, you can't take little bits of orange? Well then you don't really like oranges. You're just a fake orange-juice drinker. You give us die-hards a bad name. We like the pulp because it's real, it's from the orange. I mean, if you're going to cut up an orange to make juice, I'm pretty sure you're going to leave the pulp in and not take hours trying to pick out the little bits. That's how juice is supposed to be. Orange juice is also best paired with a big bowl of cereal, preferably dry cereal, straight out of the box. If you're eating cereal with milk, along with the grape juice, that's a little too much liquid and you end up not being able to finish the juice and you also have to urinate every 12 minutes. It best goes with dry Cheerios. This is quite possiby the best snack combination ever. I insist that you try it sometime. Patrick Morris - - - - Date: Fri, 4 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I wonder if you've seen a certain commercial. Probably not. I fear it's been relegated to the wastelands of basic-cable daytime programming. I saw it at the end of a Cosby Show rerun on TBS. Today, Friday, about Which seems appropriate, given its forgettable nature: A man, nondescript, middle-aged, next in line at a Wendy's. He approaches the counter and orders some standardized combo/value meal, nothing special. One of countless such orders placed every day. (Aside: Is convenience always tantamount to homogeneity? Must we all revel in selecting the same easy subset of food already preselected for our ease and convenience?) But then comes the shocker: He asks to replace the french fries with a baked potato. We immediately cut to the adjacent room of assembled diners, booth after booth, table after table, a frozen portrait of awestruck patrons. They stop chewing midchew; they look on with googly eyes; they drop their jaws and inhale with deep trepidation, just like in a horror movie. It's almost as if someone had completely changed the balance of their lives, reordered their fail-safe natural world, taken the values and priorities they depend upon and thrown them in a blender set to liquefy. A baked potato. Then a quick cut back to the guy at the counter, with his ho-hum expression, as if to say, "What? What's the big deal?" And then it happens. A small, fleeting, throwaway moment that brings everything into clarity for me. We cut back to the dining area, where a riotous pandemonium seems ablazepeople running for the exits, mothers grasping for their childrenand someone jumps across the screen. Literally. That's right, he's flying. There must be a trampoline off camera, because he hurtles across the frame at a dizzying speed, several feet above the tabletops, almost at eye level with standing patrons, so, what, he's 6 feet airborne? If you blink, you'll miss it, but this is the essence of the commercial. They want us to believe that this exaggerated leap is but another entertaining example of the flight impulse at work inside the Wendy's. A clear expression of the way we might feelecstatic, otherworldly, capable of inhuman delightswith a more flexible value menu. The pure joy of finding that rare combination of convenience and variety. But come now, it's something much, much bigger than that, isn't it? Would you want to be this man? I would. I would love to fly with fantastic abandon in the face of every challenge to my static and comfortable way of life. I would love to leave my body for the sky at the very next sign of our diminished sense of progress. I would love the option of a baked potato instead of french fries. Earthbound and yours, Marc Peacock Brush - - - - Date: Fri, 04 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I have noticed a lot of things since moving from Toronto to New York. Sometimes, even with my eyes shut tight, like newborn fists, I notice them. But that's not what I want to tell you about. I'm here to accentuate the positive. Because it's February, the month of Black History, White Presidents, Big Red Hearts, and Catacomb-Gray Complexions. When better? I would like to talk about the fact that: American passports last for 10 years. That's twice as many as mine. I imagine that, aside from the reduction in fees and paperwork, the 34-year-old who renewed his passport at 25 feels the full appreciation for this interval. Mail delivery on Saturdays. I don't know why this is not more celebrated. Sure I've had countless things lost in the mail and been treated like an orphaned street sock at the post office, but one card from grandma or Spin magazine delivered on a Saturday morning and America is the Greatest Country on Earth. You can make an American boy blush just by saying "eh." I've known the ones who have to get angry to feel alive and the ones who can't feel anything unless you're mad at them and both will turn to Jell-O when one of those slips out. The other day I found 20 dollars in the street. Earlier that day I had spent over an hour in a bank trying to convince a teller that neither my home country nor city were part of the United States. I failed and left in a Pigpen-esque cloud of filthy sentiments. Then I spent three more hours working with the engaging, adorable children of Brooklyn, who have Canadian kids beat in the personality department. Then I walked into the street and found 20 bucks in my path, folded up like an origami flower. Sometimes New York is my abusive boyfriend, but mostly it's just the place I live. The place where I have determined that on average you can pick up a penny for every block you walk. You have to keep your eyes open, of course, and be willing to weather the inexplicably withering looks of the people who apparently don't care for common cents. Someday, McSweeney's, I will walk every block and become a wealthy woman. Someday before that day I will attempt to calculate how many blocks there are. It's beautiful to me, it's rich, that the sidewalks of New Yorkpossibly the greediest city in the worldare littered with, yes, socks, but also cash, coins and the coffee cups to collect them with, should you be tacky enough to bother. Michelle Orange - - - - Date: Thu, 3 Feb 2005 Dear McS, Why did The Clash feel the need to write such a perplexed and long-winded song for such a simple question? If I go there will be trouble Clearly, to go is the better option, as it will cause half the trouble as staying. It's pure logic. I'm as embarrassed for them as you are, Patrick Cassels - - - - Date: Wed, 2 Feb 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Please loan me three hundred thousand dollars so that I may purchase the house of my dreams. It is located in a suburb of Atlanta, GA, and is quite charming for a ranch. I never liked ranch houses. But I do like this ranch house. It has three bedrooms (but the full daylight basement will have three moreincluding a monster game room!when it is finished) and has been renovated with pretty cherry-stained hardwood floors. There is also a kitchen with stainless-steel appliances and a wine cooler! In the back of the house there is a concrete storage room that would be the perfect space for my darkroom. But, most importantly, there is the backyard. It is a dangerously steep and moderately wooded slope that leads down to the bank of a rippling brook. The property line, I am told, extends to the middle of the stream. Honestly, you cannot put a price on the peace of mind afforded by a moving body of water in your backyard. I am plagued with daydreams of me sitting on a cushion of dry leaves, listening to the whisper of water flowing over stones, writing in my Moleskine. I promisecross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye or whateverto repay you with a modest interest within ten years. In return, my door will always be open to you. Anytime you are in Georgia (which has a bad rep but I've come to love it since moving down from New York), you can stay in my house and play pingpong. I will cook you dinner and make you crème brûlée. Then you can go out back, sit by the stream, and know that you will go to heaven because you gave me the gift of a dream come true. Seriously, - - - - Date: Tue, 01 Feb 2005 Yesterday I was on my way homestopped for a few hours in the Washington D.C. airport on the way from Munich to Portland, Oregon. There were two marines sitting nearby, decked out in their dress uniforms, all shiny black leather and handsome blue creases. They looked smart, like nice guys, calmly having a conversation. Later a younger guy with big arms bulging out of a gray USMC T-shirt and with the Marine logo stitched on his carryon bags comes bursting in to our aisle of seats and down. The Marines don't talk to each other, though they notice each other. I figure they must be traveling together and perhaps the brass doesn't mix with the young bucks. Later the two officers are escorted by the gate agent to the Jetway. The young Marine calls a friend on his cell and asks what that many stripes signifyseems they are master sergeantsand tells his friend with a giggle that he ended up right next to these two officers. His next call is to his parents and he tells them of his recent graduationhow he excelled in his classes and how his instructors were so proud of him and how they hadn't had anyone do that well on all the tests in many years. So, it occurs on me that the uniformed Marines are escorting dead soldiers back to Portland. That they went to the tarmac early to supervise the loading of the caskets. And, indeed, before we land the pilot comes on the intercom and haltingly tells us to stay seated so the Marines can get off the plane early and attend to their business ... of getting the coffins of these fallen heroes home. I was seated on the right side of the plane, just over the rear hatch and saw the 8 or 10 Marines waiting below to ceremoniously move the coffins. I saw, too, one soldier's parents, not young, perhaps 50, coming to the plane in all their shocked grief. Couldn't watch for too long. I saw the young Marine downstairs at baggage claim talking with his dad, who went out to go pull the car around while the bags were starting to come out on the carousel. The young Marine shouldered his two heavy duffel bags and moved like a big halfback through the crowd out to the street. Joe Guth - - - - Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I'm not sure what you were trying to pull in calling it "frosting." You don't put frosting on a cake. Frosting goes on cupcakes and brownies and whatnot. It is most definitely icing. While they do refer to the same substance, the important part is the amount and the manner by which they are applied. Thus, icing is a much more involved process than simple frosting. Any idiot can frost something. It takes a trained professional to know how to ice a cake. You must ration the icing accordingly so that the icing is evenly distributed around the cake, and you must make decisions that really can only be made properly from the instincts of a seasoned pro. Icing a cake is a very, very delicate process and I don't think whoever iced your chocolate cake with the vanilla butter-cream icing would appreciate that insult to his or her work. Jealous of your delicious-sounding cake, Lawrence Denes p.s. Punks. - - - - Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2005 Icing, as a general rule, is thinner and more, for lack of a better term, drippy than frosting. Icing cannot be swirled into short sugary waves of fluff on the top of a homemade fudge cake. Icing is what you dip cookies in, or drizzle over cinnamon buns, probably because their pearlescent trails on the side of the foodstuff end up looking like icicles. Icing can be made with powdered sugar, milk, or water and vanilla. Frosting, on the other hand, can be a meal unto itself. It is thick, and if it's RIGHT, it's butter-based, or, in the case of God's Gift To The World, cream cheese-based. Frosting can be in a bowl over your head, turned upside down, and it won't embarrass you. They are both delicious, but vastly different. Jessica McCartney - - - - Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2005 Dear, dear McSweeney's, Frosting = Thick, creamy, often piped into shapes on cakes and pies (i.e., rosettes, shells, genitalia). Icing = Thin, aqueous, dries hard and smooth. Regularly found on Christmas sugar cookies (Christmas trees, stars, angels, genitalia). I understand the question was more than likely rhetorical, but I was bored. And now, admittedly, a bit embarrassed by my knowledge of sweet dessert toppings/fillings/accoutrements. Yours abashedly, J.K. - - - - Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Blowing gently on the face of a baby is hit or miss. Blowing gently on the face of a dog is guaranteed to make the canine sneeze, snarl, and get very defensive. With my Ezekiel, I blow and then recoil before he can bite my face. It's our favorite game. He gets very pissy this way. Then we get in a car and he whines until I roll down the window, at which point he sticks his head out into the 40 mph gusts. Fickle son of a bitch. Truly, Ben Herendeen - - - - Date: Fri, 28 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, It is very cold in our apartment. I don't think our heater is working right. Also, our neighbor, Doug Watson, keeps coming over and saying how warm his apartment is. Would you ask him to stop? Thanks, Kyle Minor - - - - Date: Fri, 28 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I'm writing from New York, which is where you used to be before moving to San Francisco. I live in San Francisco, which is where I know you from, but I'm in New York this week promoting a book, one that you originally published in hardcover but is now out in paperback. But that's not why I'm writing. I'm writing because I'm on a train and last night I asked a woman to marry me. She's a member of the Bloomberg administration, an actual appointed official. We've been flirting since we met at the Democratic Convention, because everybody in the Bloomberg administration is actually a Democrat, even Bloomberg. Chloe was wearing pink pants, a pink sweater, and a purple vest. She looked like she was going skiing. We were at Andy's Tavern and she was having just one more drink, though she should have left an hour earlier. There was a snow emergency. It was a Sunday. The F train wasn't running. The city had been buried. The bar was practically empty, people were staying inside. I couldn't blame them at all. It was so cold out it went straight to your bones and stayed there. Chloe was telling me how much she liked children, how that was the most important thing to her. She told me a story of a woman who'd had a child and was so in love with her child she couldn't see anything else. She was in love for the first time in her life. Chloe would be like that. Anyway, we had already eaten at one of those trendy New York restaurants, the type with a steel dish of olives and smoked almonds on your table, the kind where you sit on a stool instead of a normal chair with a back. It was rumored Bill Clinton went there, and that he was still cheating on his wife. At some point during my third drink, fueled by Chloe's passion and charisma, her clean cheeks and full lips and her hair which is like silk, I said, "Why don't we get married and have children together." She kind of laughed. Partly, I think, because she knows I don't actually want children. I don't even like children. I've never been good with kids. Children are loud, and selfish. But I was having visions, there was a moment where it all made sense. Chloe and I would have this nice home in New York, a small place like the rest of them, but nice. Our sexual problems would dissipate over time, the way they do, and we'd become comfortable. I would love her, her political connections would help my career, and I'd enter into this period of normalcy that would end one day when I woke up in a panic, shared a nervous breakfast in the nook with my wife and two children (a third on the way), got dressed, left for work, and never returned. After that I would stumble around the Midwest. I'd stay in cheap hotel rooms, the kind Richard Ford writes about. I'd live with a view of truck stops, step over potholes filled with pools of oil reflecting the street lights in orange-tinged rainbows like a liquid TV tuned to the channel of static. At some point I'd arrive in Chicago, where I grew up and saw my hard times. I'd look up old friends; find out who was in and who was out. No doubt a few of them would be dead, but the ones who weren't, the ones who hadn't succumbed to a drug addiction, would have settled into a routine. I would arrive at the realization that most of us end up in the same placea spot to live, a means to survive, a spouse, a child. Most of us, but not me. Maybe I'd have a rapprochement with my father. All of this was interrupted by Chloe reminding me of the time she came to visit in San Francisco. "We didn't see each other the first night," she said. That was true, but it wasn't my fault. I had flown in early in the morning and had been on a television show. I walked right on to the morning news carrying a venti cup of Starbucks coffee, then I tried to get up and leave before the commercial break. The whole thing was a disaster. Then I went to my friend's house and watched football for six hours and drank some beer. She was at a hot springs on the other side of the Golden Gate with a friend and was stuck in traffic coming back to the city. By the time she returned, after nine o'clock, I was headed to sleep and said I would see her the next day. Which I did. "You should have seen me that night," she said now. I looked at her quizzically. I was on my third drink and she was on her fourth. We weren't coming from the same place. I wasn't dressed warm enough for the weather, and it would take me an hour to get back to where I was staying. "And you didn't hang out the next night either, after the reading. Where did you go?" I didn't know where I had gone. I don't have that kind of memory. My dreams of what I would call The Comfortable Years were replaced by a vision of a woman who kept tabs on my whereabouts, questioned my motives. A person who was going to demand being treated well, whatever that means, and who had the confidence to demand respect. Someone with a long memory, capable of sustaining a grudge. I can't stand it when people are mad at me. Chloe would be mad at me all the time. Then, of course, there was the whole birthing process. Sure, I would love the children, and in later years I would sleep on a lonely, guilt-lined bed with nothing but their pictures in my wallet to remind me, but she would love them more. She would love them with a love that burned. She wouldn't need me. A relationship can survive anything except contempt. "Where did I go that night?" I pondered. We were finally leaving the bar. I was going to catch the A train into Brooklyn, no sense in trying to find a cab in that kind of weather, with the streets as slick as ice rinks. I almost made it to the train without incident, except Chloe needed help taking off her boots so I went inside with her. In her living room, her roommate stood at the window, speaking on a cell phone. She assured us over her shoulder that she would help Chloe with her boots; I wasn't going to be needed. I returned to the pavement, slipped underground into the subway. And I was gone. Yours, Stephen Elliott - - - - Date: Fri, 28 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, When I first read your recommendation of Rachael Ray, I swear I said to myself that instant, "Alton Brown would be a better fit for the regular readers of this site." Now that some writers of "Letters to McSweeney's" have begun debating over the wisdom of this endorsement, I'm saying it again out loud. Rachael Ray was in FHM or Maxim or Stuff or one of those mags, for Chrissakes. Borderline eye-candy. I mean, she's no dummy, speaks well, and makes a nice TV presence, but isn't McSweeney's generally a destination for the educated? Alton's Good Eats, while perhaps skewing a bit nerdy with its attempts at humor, gets down to the basic science of cooking. It's Food TV for the mind as well as the appetite. I highly recommend it. Yours, - - - - Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Is everyone as busy as they look? Is it important to appear busy while doing nothing at all? I look very busy right now. I am typing furiously. Papers are scattered all over my desk. Drawers are open. Folders are stacked sky-high. My boss walks by and says, "Kate, you look swamped." And I say, "Oh, not at all." He thinks this is sarcasm. It is the truth. I have been playing on the internet and picking my nose for 5 hours. Kate - - - - Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, Don't listen to the clamoring naysayer(s?). Rachael Ray is a darling, culinary ingénue more than worthy of your praise and recommendations. Despite the fact that she misspells her own name, she's a whiz where it counts and does things with warm Brie that most men only dream of. Besides, if it weren't for Rachael's ubiquitous Food Network presence, we'd all be forced to endure more Bobby Flay and no one (not even Mrs. Flay) could bear that. Chow, - - - - Date: Thu, 20 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, I have a question. My Uncle Don, used to the heat of South Carolina, was being visited by my sister from Indiana, who is always cold. She had been looking forward to going down in August and being hot. But Uncle Don cranked up the air conditioning while she was there, and finally one day she was so cold she put on a sweatshirt. "You can tell you're a Northerner," said Uncle Don, disparagingly. The question: Does that remark make sense or is it insane? Yours, - - - - Date: Mon, 17 Jan 2005 Dear McSweeney's, You're recommending Rachael Ray to your unsuspecting readers? She sucks. I can't believe you'd recommend Rachael Ray over oh, say, a delicious toasted egg bagel with butter and hummus, or evenI'm just sayingElizabeth David, or M.F.K. Fisher. Rachael Ray. You guys suck. I used to love you, but now you suck. Suck, - - - - Date: Mon, 13 Dec 2004 Dear McSweeney's, I've read through your website some more since my last letter. There are so many nice things there from your readers. They seem to be witty, well educated, and adventurous. The ongoing travel accounts, the short stories in installments, the open letters, and so on, are all marvelous. I wonder, though, whether the common man with no future or imagination has a voice on your website. So far, it seems to be free from that. How would you feel about an account, in installments, of a simple peon's voyage from couch to chair, and from chair to refrigerator, and back again? This commoner would necessarily have no higher education, and no prospects for breaking out of dead-end careers. I'd nominate myself if I had the ambition to keep you updated on just how feral the Girls Gone Wild have gotten on late-night paid TV programming. Girls Gone Feral, the companion cassette to Girls Gone Wild, features women who've abandoned civilization for a life of degraded uncertainty in the Alaskan wilderness, sleeping in fresh malamute carcasses, eating dung, and howling infernal discourses that even Professor Chomsky might concede have no human precedent. In the second and third volumes, the Girls steal firearms from a kindly unsuspecting trapper on location for a Disney film about a personable anteater on its long journey back to Africa. This allows them to move from dung to an elk diet. Of course, the first step in the business of hunting elk is to shoot at them. Elk tend to get awfully big in middle age. With this bigness comes confidence. An adult elk in Alaska, in open hunting season, stands before the feral huntress unmolested out of luck alone. Felling them with the fantastic laser-guided arsenal at a feral huntress's disposal takes less effort than felling a sapling fir on a concrete island in the middle of a busy metropolitan thoroughfare. In felling the tree, you need only mind where it lands. In felling an elk, you need only take care that you don't deposit your laser-guided pellets into another feral huntress. I myself have gone elk hunting in Alaska on two separate occasions. The first wasn't in Alaska at all, but in the wilderness outside of Red Bluff, California, and was conducted against birds with a .32-caliber sidearm. But firing blindly into the sky whenever a flock of something-or-other took wing overhead was a suitable introduction to the business of shooting at game. The elk hunt came later, after formal training with rifle-shaped toys that had built-in clacking mechanisms. It was with my grandfather, somewhere around the Little Big Horn battlefield, whichbeing in Yellowstone National Parkis outside of Alaska proper, but for brevity's sake Canada has been excised from the geography of this remembrance. The elk were away on vacation. The site we chose was already littered with lead debris of dubious originbullets of every make, every shade of decay. We were squarely in the middle of what would have been, over a century earlier, violent anarchy. Perhaps the elk sensed the spiritual torture of the ground we were on and saw fit to meet execution in some other prospector's backyard. This was, after all, mining country. The dominant theme of a drive out to the Great Plains from California is the number of dead mining towns that crowd up the highways. Even the tiny enclave we landed at outside of Butte had a dozen ghost towns between the local cemetery and the water pumpan arid jungle of tourist shops and condemned cottonwood brothels. The high desert that runs through Nevada and Utah, and even up into eastern Washington, preserves its past nearly as well as the ice in Alaska, except for all the deterioration and rotting. Like ghost towns on the Great Plains, there are perhaps thousands of abandoned sailing vessels lodged in the ice of the north Atlantic; ill-fated expeditions for a fabled gap above North America called the Northwest Passage, but better known as Greenland. One such expedition, as recounted on TV during one of my trips from the couch to a chair and back again, still boasts a store of food perfectly preserved in the cabins belowcanned foodsin lead cans. The personal notes made by the residents of this mass grave record the slow and ugly process of an entire ship's crew going mad from lead poisoning. In this way, I believe I may be going mad from life poisoning here in this tiny closet in this rundown apartment in Oakland. This vessel is lodged in right alongside hundreds of other ill-fated cubicles, the doomed crews all mad on the noxious vapors of life. Here is my log book, and just like everyone else's, our childrenthose of us that manage to fashion anywill study in the great universities to become eminent historians so that they can read the insane jottings of life-poisoning victims. As they slowly go mad on life themselves. My sons! My daughters! I sometimes wonder how archeologists of the future, if that discipline survives the future, will go about reading the data on the computers they pull out of the ground. Assuming of course that these delicate hard drives can take a few centuries of abuse from the elements and looting from the feral huntresses that our inevitable technological attrition will produce. How will the scientists holed up in monasteries dedicated to preserving civilization in places like Manitoba unlock the secrets held in our ephemeral databases? I ask you! Until then, I leave you with this small legacy, and am Your disobedient servant, &c., Jason Thomas Novak - - - - Date: Sat, 4 Dec 2004 Dear McSweeney's, As I'm sure you're aware, winter is closing in on us, its icy arm drawing ever closer, and although December has just began, I've already developed a rather severe head cold. This morning it was at its worst, my temples throbbed, my throat was sore, my left nostril gurgled and clogged itself with every inhale I tookI needed fast relief. Still in my pajamas, I stepped into the bathroom and pulled open the medicine cabinet for some Vicks DayQuil. There was none to be found. There was, however, a fresh, unopened bottle of its nocturnal counterpart, NyQuil. I pondered deeply in front of the open cabinet, weighing the consequences of drowsy side effects with the symptoms of my current illness. In the end, I needed the fixI tore off the cellophane safety seal with my thumbnail, opened the bottle, and gave myself a dose of the strictly nighttime formula. So I ask: Does this make me a vampire? Signed, Pat Cassels, Lord of the Nightwalkers. (P.S. I politely request that you not share this information with the usual band of vampire hunters who hang out Saturday nights at the 7-Eleven off Route 9-D in Wappingers Falls, NY. For they are the chosen ones, whose power I cannot match.) - - - - Date: Wed, 10 Nov 2004 Dear McSweeney's: There's a trick to reading the political articles in Victoria's Secret catalogs. (I know that's why I subscribe.) Simply pretend that the supermodels modeling the brassieres and panties in all those pictures aren't wearing brassieres and panties. That really changes the way you think about the world. Sincerely, Brian Beatty P.S. Keep on keeping on. I mean it. - - - - Date: Tue, 09 Nov 2004 Dear McSweeney's, My qualifying exam went great! "Flying colors," as they say. Sure, I mean, they had me a little upset (sobbing uncontrollably) at a couple points, but in the end they said I exhibited progress like a sloth moving out of sunlight. I guess they mean I know which direction I'm heading, and I certainly do ... onward and upward! Dr. Winzeler was so sure of my drive that she said the research I was proposing would require an army of well-trained post-docs to complete within a decade. Sometimes I'm not sure if I match up to even half a post-doc, but she has a way of making me feel like I can do just about anything! For the most part, my committee really tried to keep the exam upbeat with all their funny jokes, like when Dr. Wittenberg said that his poodle could set up a cleaner assay plate than me. He's hilarious! Can you imagine a poodle holding a pipet?!? Now that's a silly image! At one point Dr. Schmid asked me if I was high when she was lecturing about vesicular transport in class, which made everyone else laugh, but I just said no because I don't think illicit drugs are very healthy. I guess the professors here are pretty liberal, if you know what I mean! I'm so glad that's all behind me now ... and to think I was so nervous! I thought it was kind of strange that they never said congratulations or that I officially "passed" or whatever, but I guess that's how it works in academics. Hard work for such little rewards, but I can't help it, I love academia! Anyway, I got a call from my dean saying he wanted to discuss an "exit strategy" for me (whatever that means!), so I'm going to head up to his office to see what the heck he's talking about. Thanks so much for putting up with me being such a stressball these past few weeks! Jeff - - - - Date: Tue, 26 Oct 2004 Dear McSweeney's, How can you, in good conscience, endorse the parking-spot pull-through? I can't tell you the number of times I've spotted a parking place at the end of a row, only to have it taken before I arrive by an unseen pull-througher. Not to mention the near-head-on-collisions I've encountered while actually pulling in to parking spots at the same time as a PT'er. Good karma? I beg to differ. Your recommendation of pumpkin muffins, though, somehow manages to offset this gaffe. Sincerely, Jake Piehl - - - - Date: Fri, 01 Oct 2004 Dear McSweeney's, Recently while eating a piece of Hershey's Pie at Burger King, I flipped the pie-shaped container over and uncovered that Hershey's Pie is made at none other than Edwards Baking Company, One Lemon Lane, Atlanta, GA 30307. This is a subsidiary of Edwards Fine Foods. They have a helpful "pie finder" which will help you locate any of their other fine varieties of pie carried at your local supermarkets nationwide. The pie finder can be found here. If you click on the "indulge yourself" button it gives you a list of ways to "indulge" other than eating pie and it reads like a Cosmo article. Nowhere on any of the sites do they list the Hershey Pie. It must be an exclusive-rights issue, perhaps. However, upon closer inspection, if you visit the "products and whole pies" section, there it lists the "chocolate sundae pie," which is described as "rich chocolate blended with vanilla for a taste you'd expect from an ice cream parlor" and "prepared in a chocolate cookie crust and topped with stripes of chocolate syrup." DOES THIS SOUND LIKE ANYONE WE KNOW? Further information about the corporation and their pie and baked-good distribution as well as retail brands, which also include Heidi's Gourmet Desserts, can be found here. Sincerely, S.L. Reiter - - - - Date: Wed, 22 Sep 2004 Hello, McSweeney's! Here is a list of items I purchased at the corner store in Mayo Beach, MD last Saturday. I needed all of them immediately, if not immediater: Tampax multi-pack of tampons (cardboard applicator) The woman behind the counter said: "I hope you know what this looks like." I responded, "Yeah, it looks like you shouldn't fuck with me." (But I only said it in my head.) Regards, PS: You should know that I was working a catering job, involving two barrel grills, one pit barbecue, and a complete lack of lighter fluid. - - - - Date: Fri, 27 Aug 2004 Only one response is adequate enough to pay homage to Evan Thies suggestion that Cable News Organizations have Renée Z. sacrificed for a ratings bonanza: "Dare I say, Genius!!" Let's not forget we can pull in the not quite avant-garde MTV crowd, with the White Stripes connection. Imagine the youth market reached by Gideon Yago as he ponders the song with which Jack will honor Renée's untimely demise. You just reached the under-18 market with a bullet. Pun intended? Damn right!! Of course, as Bob Goen reports on Entertainment Tonight, what the public really wantsnay, deservesto know is, "Was it Jack White's baby?" Or was it that jackass from the Von Bondies? Wasn't Zeta-Jones seen at a Bondies concert in the weeks prior to the killing? This could go on for weeks. It's perfect. For Entertainment Tonight, MTV News, CNN, and the Weather Channel, I am ever so hopeful. Skip Cronin - - - - Date: Fri, 27 Aug 2004 This guy who sits in front of me is in the engineering department of the university at which I work. He often meets with sales reps for various things such as pumps and filters for the on-campus plant. About five minutes ago he asked me if I wanted a pen since he's been receiving so many from these supply companies. Never one to refuse something free, I accepted, and he passed me a brand-new shiny red pen with "BE WELL HUNG" emblazoned across it. At this point I chuckled, and when he looked perplexed I told him he gave me a pen with a penile reference. With a horrified look, he exclaimed, "I received it from an industrial-hanger supplier! See?" (as he showed me the brochure). I maintained that it was probably still a penile reference that related also to their business, and that it was most likely a marketing tactic. He threw the pen in the garbage. Tiana Dargent - - - - Date: Tue, 24 Aug 2004 Dear McSweeney's, This is in response to Mr. Tony Moore's recent letter defending the handling of the war in Iraq. He argued that that war is more justifiable than the NATO bombing campaign carried out under President Clinton in the late 1990s, because while only 4,000 Baghdad civilians died as a result of U.S. operations, more were killed by NATO's bombing raids. He offered no statistical evidence to support this claim, but simply offered the number of sorties flown on a particular day, without bothering to mention how many were regularly flown during the heaviest periods of fighting in Iraq, or even what is a typical number to be flown in any modern conflict. After noting those 697 sorties, he said, "Hmm, I wonder how many human lives were lost in those 309 strikes, those 68 days." Mr. Moore, I can tell you. In 10 minutes of Internet research, I learned that while roughly 11,000 Iraqi civilians have been confirmed killed (according to a website that is unprofessional-looking but whose sources are bona fide: iraqbodycount.net), only about 500 Yugoslav civilians died in all of the Kosovo bombings put together (hrw.org). It should be noted that even the Yugoslav state-run media outlets did not bother quoting figures higher than 1,200, significantly less even than the number you gave for those who died in Baghdad. Putting numbers aside, it should also be remembered that while NATO operations in Kosovo were supported by the United Nations (nato.int), the campaign of the U.S.-led coalition in Iraq has not been, which denies it any shred of validity as an act of international justice. Yours, William Akers - - - - Date: Sat, 21 Aug 2004 Dear McSweeney's, So, they changed the rules to Olympic archery a little. No big dealthey do that, right? Because maybe they were a little skewed before, or some rules are redundant or obsolete now, right? I thought so. Until the sportscaster said to her partner something to this effect: "Gee, this year's new rules make Olympic archery a lot more suspenseful to watch on TV, don't they?" LAME. Lame I say. Now I am certain that no other result was desired due to such a change in procedure. Not surprising. I'm not even appalled. They need to do that. They need to cater to the youth of America, with their short attention spans, the ones who watch MTV and explosions, who read Dan Brown. The seats in the Olympic arenas this year are next to empty. Have you noticed? They need to fix that. Advertising companies might stop paying so much for spots during the Olympics. Then TV companies will get more money playing the Olympics for a smaller amount of time. Then the Olympics will dematerialize. Like this: POOF! I'm not disgusted at all. I'm excited. All of this merely promises a thrilling destiny for the Olympic Games. I can't wait. Do you know? Tell me you won't be enthralled when the athletes enter the arena on Harley-Davidsons and perform ridiculous, scripted monologues taunting their opponents, all to a background of metal music. Or when they announce new Olympic sports, like Laser-Tag, or Doom 3. They will all have Pro-Wresteling/American-Gladiator-esque names like "The Thorpedo." I can't wait. Listen: if you are not excited when just after the men's 400-meter comes the robots' pommel horse, I will kick you in the teeth and call you a rotten liar. Because you would be. Andrew Holman - - - - Date: Fri, 20 Aug 2004 W/r/t "any of the Various Flavored Potato Chips Available in Canada and Not in the U.S." Great recommendation! I would suggest that you wander into an Irish pub or import storeyou can usually pick them up there. Or there's always online shopping. I usually buy in bulk. That way, I only need to reorder every two to three days or so. I know you're probably talking about Walkers (what with the raving about Pickled Onion flavor) but you really cannot beat Tayto (the Irish brand). Their Cheese and Onion just melts in your mouth. Although if I persuaded some young vixen to plant one on me, I'm sure she'd tell me my breath was rank. Good thing that's not a problem. (I guess.) Now I'm depressed and hungryI think I'll just pour this bag of Tayto on my chest and have at it ... ASM - - - - Date: Wed, 18 Aug 2004 Dear McSweeney's, I have been answering phones for our local paper's help line. My ear was sore from the receiver so now I have a headset. The headset makes my ear sweaty, and I keep accidentally picking the receiver up anyway, putting it up to the earpiece. People don't have power or water, but it is on the way. They have more volunteers than they know what to do with, I have heard. North Lakeland Little League practices will be canceled until further notice. Your friend, - - - - Date: Wed, 18 Aug 2004 Dear McSweeney's, I was a little confused by Matthew James Olah's letter requesting a "return" to giving the bone. I can tell him, categorically,that there is no need for such a "return";I recently spent four days hiking in the woods with 20 other gay men. We were able to both give and get the bone numerous times. I trust this information will allay Mr. Olah's anxiety. Regards, - - - - Date: Mon, 16 Aug 2004 Dear McSweeney's, Under Bill Clinton, the U.S. used about 330 Tomahawk cruise missiles and 90 ALCMs against Iraq (just) during Operation Desert Fox. But let's not forget about the 230 laser-guided bombs that also were used and about 250 dumb bombs. That's 900 bombs. Keep in mind, that's just one of the U.S. operations in Iraq at the time under Clinton. Now, here's a snip from CNN on the situation regarding the Bosnians, the Serbs, and the rest of the Yugoslavs during former President Clinton's regime: "Air power again hammered away at Yugoslavia Saturday night into Sunday morning, flying 697 sorties and scoring 309 strikes during the 68th day of attacks, according to NATO." Hm, I wonder how many human lives were lost in those 309 strikes, those 68 days. At least Bush got rid of two fascistic dictatorships with these current "wars" (the Baathists and the Taliban, as a reminder), and, in Baghdad, a city of about 4 million, under 2,000 Iraqi lives were lost [and about 25 million were freed nationwide]). Some decisions, many of the greatest in history, in fact, often lead to the loss of human life. Sometimes adult decisions have to be made, and progress comes at a price. (Just ask the 15 to 20 thousand French killed in WWII before the Allies ever had a single man on the ground there [from the over 590,000 tons of bombs we eventually dropped on them].) To slip off to a tangent, another popular complaint about the way the Iraq (and Afghanistan) conflicts have been handled is that the postwar situation is sloppy. Here's the thing about this. In terms of what was accomplished, you'd almost have to consider what happened a civil war (by proxy). Sure, it was externally initiated and executed (let me put it this way, if the people of Iraq could have, they would have done it themselves, hence my civil-war-by-proxy analogy), but in the end the results were the same. So, looking at it in those terms, what do you think the U.S. was like after our own civil war? I'll tell you. Years of what you're seeing in Iraq right now. Years and years. Hell, the South is still steamed over it. Heading back to Bosnia for a moment, as it might be vaguely fresh in some readers' minds (but I doubt it), look what happened there after Yugoslavia disintegrated. Bedlam. As we've seen time and time again, and which much of our population seems to forget, the vanquished in these conflicts usually don't just shrug it off and integrate into a new and wonderful society created by the victors. Why does this come as a shock every time it happens? And does the unrest, like a chaotic postictal reaction, make the initial actions unwarranted? I don't think so.If the old (and sort of vulgar) adage "you have to break some eggs to make an omelet" has ever had relevance, it's now. As always, Tony Moore - - - - Date: Thu, 12 Aug 2004 In a letter to McSweeney's dated 8/5/04, Cameron Wicks wrote: "Superfund expired in 1995, during Clinton's first term. Yet, it's Bush's fault for not renewing it. It really sickens me how Democrats/liberals accuse Bush and his administration (along with most other Republicans) of lying, when you guys can't even present truths. You rely on lies and the stretching of the truth to make your cases." Superfund (the Comprehensive Environmental Response, Compensation, and Liability Act in conjunction with the Superfund Amendments and Reauthorizations Act) did not expire in 1995. The Superfund program has received appropriations during all fiscal years between 1996 and 2004. Historically, a tax on crude oil and certain chemicals and an environmental tax on corporations were the primary revenues for Superfund. These taxes represented a fundamental component of the "polluter pays" principle upon which Superfund was founded. The law authorizing this tax on industrial polluters expired in 1995. The Clinton administration routinely requested reinstatement of the taxes in its budget proposals. However, every effort to reauthorize the taxes failed. The Bush administration dropped the reauthorization request from its proposed budget altogether. (Sources: McSweeney's Letters; Charles Smith, "Not-So-Superfund: Growing Needs vs. Declining Dollars," Environmental Health Perspectives Volume 3, Number 3, March 2003: ehp.niehs.nih.gov; General Accounting Office, "Superfund Program: Updated Appropriation and Expenditure Data, February 18, 2004: gao.gov [PDF].) - - - - Date: Wed, 11 Aug 2004 Dear McSweeney's, Who was in charge of changing "The Bone" to "Punching it in"? I hope they were fired for coming up with such a pansy name. Can we please change it back to "The Bone"? The proper way to do this is to invite a friend or co-worker to "Give me some bone" and then bang knuckles (some prefer to do this gently). The best is when you get to introduce someone to "The Bone," because at first they think that you are going to hump their leg or worse ("Do you mind if I give you some bone?"). Their apprehension will soon turn to glee as knuckle grinds knuckle. Cordially, - - - - Date: Thursday, 05 Aug 2004 Dear McSweeney's, First of all, I am almost certain you won't publish this, as I am a Republican, writing in defense of George W. Bush and the war in Iraq. Most liberals and Democrats blab their heads off, then do what they accuse Bush of doing: oppressing people and their right to speak. I want you all to know that I think you are wrong. George W. Bush is the right man for this country. I think the war in Iraq was justified by the fact that Saddam Hussein was an oppressive, murderous man, who slaughtered, robbed, and raped millions. Most liberals and Democrats also tend to ignore the fact that Hussein defied the U.N. something like 10 times. But hey, who cares about that? Stopping a maniacal dictator isn't as important as calling the president a tyrant and a murderer, right? If you had done your research (or maybe just acknowledged the truth), you'd also know that Superfund expired in 1995, during Clinton's first term. Yet, it's Bush's fault for not renewing it. It really sickens me how Democrats/liberals accuse Bush and his administration (along with most other Republicans) of lying, when you guys can't even present truths. You rely on lies and the stretching of the truth to make your cases. And, whether or not Cheney registered in Wyoming right before he was picked as the V.P. candidate doesn't matter. He was still registered in Wyoming when he was picked. In fact, I'll bet every single one of your anti-Bush facts can be reputed. Hell, I just might start sending you repudiations for each one. I really can't believe the hypocrisy of the liberals/Democrats. You call Bush a liar and un-American, but, to me and to many other people, you have proven yourselves to be both those things. Look for more e-mails disputing your anti-Bush propaganda, 'cause I'm gonna send a few. Good night. Regards, - - - - Date: Thursday, 05 August 2004 Dear letters@mcsweeneys.net, This printable correspondence is in response to Nancee Reeves's review of vegan gummi bears. I appreciated her introduction to the difficulties inherent in a lifestyle choice such as veganism, but I'm left wondering: Is there an even higher-minded lifestyle choice, the exponents of which forbid consumption not only of products containing animal bits, but also of products made in the image of animals? Not really looking for a fight, - - - - Date: Fri, 30 Jul 2004 Dear McSweeney's, Why did you do it? By "it" I mean respond to KEVIN'S QUESTION regarding the ultimate band name? Now, EVERY IDIOT IN AMERICA will be writing you, suggesting various band names. Well, I won't do it. Sure there's a STRONG TEMPTATION to do so, but why HUDDLE WITH THE MASSES? It's too easy. I once considered creating a list for McSweeney's of possible band names, but thought, "No, it's BEEN DONE BEFORE." Band names these days are so ESOTERIC, BASTARDS with philosophy degrees alone can understand them. I mean, Blink-182, Beastie Boys, Coldplay ... what do they mean? And why is it that everyone seems to be in a band? You're in a band, Kevin's in a band, my DICKHEAD BOSS is even in a band. I realize the desire to not be a CLIPBOARD NAZI or CUBICLE HERMIT, but we can't all be drawing FIFTY THOUSAND SCREAMING fans at Madison SQUARE GARDEN. Let's be realistic, people. Regards, - - - - Date: Tue, 27 July 2004 My daughter, a devout McSweeney's reader, kept calling me over to the computer the other day to read something she had up on the screen. I was packing for a trip and fairly distracted, so, in exasperation, she printed the piece out and handed it to me as I rushed out the door. Two hours into the ride to Maine, I read the story about Nathan, the tragically late, erstwhile Flaming Lips fan, and his father. I cried. I tried to read it out to my husband. I cried again, choking the words out at a very slow pace. My son played Yoshimi for me last year as part of his ongoing, and frequently successful, effort to reach out to me through music. I've been humming bits of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots ever since. I can't say that I completely grasp the concept of the CD, but I do enjoy it quite a bit. When my son hears me singing it, he kind of lights up, and we casually acknowledge how cool we are that we both know and like this music. We don't always communicate so easily. The story of Nathan and his father, and their connection through somewhat obscure music like the Flaming Lips, was intensely personal for our family. After reading it, I reminded myself to treasure these connections my children make with me through things that mean so much to them but are completely unknown to me. My brother and I tried to get through to our dad with Cream (you know that extended drum solo?) and the Beatles, but succeeded only in deepening the chasm between us. I will always think of Nathan now when I hear Yoshimi, when we make family jokes about pink robots and who is going to save us from them. And I promise to listen each and every time my kids say, "Hey, Mom, listen to this CD, these guys are so cool ..." Joan Deely - - - - Dear Mr. Smith, Thanks for asking. Here are some possible names for your band: The Baby Animals Great Caesar's Ghost, Eli Horowitz - - - - Date: Thu 22 Jul, 2004 Dear Mr. McSweeney, Being a big fan of yours, I am writing to you with a very important question. What should I call my band? Thanks, - - - - Date: Fri, 16 Jul 2004 Dear McSweeney's, I'm curious about the "A1 sauce, Tabasco, and vegan Parmesan on aglio olio" recipe in the "McSweeney's Recommends" section (about a quarter of the way down). Specifically, I'm wondering about the proportions of the ingredients. I tried to make it yesterday and I'm pretty sure I used too much Tabasco. Or maybe A1 sauce is spicier than I remember. Whichever, please adjust the listing in the "Recommends" section to reflect suggested quantities of each sauce ingredient, or maybe my fellow readers can respond with proportions they've found friendly. I'd experiment with different ratios but I don't want to buy more A1 than is absolutely necessary. Sincerely, - - - - Date: Wed, 7 July 2004From: Goldowsky, Joshua Subject: Some Concerns Dear McSweeney's, Your coverage of why we should dispatch President Bush clearly illustrates why this man should not be re-elected. I feel, though, in interest of equal time, that you fail to bring to light a similarly disturbing fact about Mr. Bush's main opponent, John Kerry of Massachusetts. While both McSweeney's and, especially, Michael Moore's film Fahrenheit 9/11 are quick to point out Bush and his cohorts' connections to big businesses such as oil, military contractors, and the like, there is rarely any mention of Mr. Kerry's dubious relationship with another big industry; specifically, a company that is, as its own website describes, "the most global U.S.-based food company" and "a $2.5 billion global icon." I, of course, speak of the Heinz ketchup cartel. Yes, it is well-known that Mr. Kerry's wife is an heiress to the Heinz family fortunes. But where are the op-eds about how this link may distort Mr. Kerry's policies once in office? Can't one imagine an even more grotesque school lunch program than the one from the Reagan administration? Ketchup would not only count as a vegetable, but as a carbohydrate, a fruit, and, somehow, even a protein. Where is the speculation that if, God forbid, there is a tomato famine in this country, President Kerry will invade Italy? With the price of condiments rising, who knows what kind of dastardly risks he is willing to take? I'm not sure if I am ready to support a candidate whose own personal fortune rests on the sale of a product whose very design produces torture and angst for even the most average citizen to operate, such as the ketchup bottle, especially when drunk at a diner at three in the morning. Would the populace not be shocked to learn of whatever deal the Heinz corporation has clearly made with the dead in the selling of their Linda McCartney's meat-free entrées in England or with some kind of sorcerer to concoct the unnatural UFC "banana" ketchup currently on the market in the Philippines? If he will secretly deal with the dead and mystical, who else is he capable of making covert deals with? Clearly, any person connected to a company that claims that Delimex Tacquitos offer an authentic taste of Mexico, surely cannot be trusted to come up with an acceptable foreign policy. And most disturbing to me is what will happen when we learn the full extent of Mr. Kerry's participation in the war against the Hunt family and their ketchup concern. It will be mass hysteria, to say the least. So now that there is no clear candidate, I would like for McSweeney's to consider for its endorsement for president of the United States, my father. He is a 59-year-old unemployed Air Force veteran who has no ties to big business; so using our military for financial gain is not an issue. The only grudges he holds are against his former employers, so we may have to invade the Hamptons at some point; but I'm sure most of the country would back that anyway. Also, since he is unemployed, I'm sure he would accept a salary well below the $400,000 the president currently makes; a savings he can pass on to the taxpayer. He is also quite handy around the house, so, for example, if the White House needed a new porch built, or if something went wrong with the plumbing, he could fix it himself, giving back more savings to the taxpayer. I know endorsing a candidate for president must be tougher than it seems. In return, we can offer the good people at McSweeney's unfettered access to a White House that would be unparalleled as far as wacky high jinks and fart jokes are concerned. So, please, sleep on it and let us know ASAP so we can get enough crepe paper for the banners. Thanks. Josh GoldowskyNew York, NY - - - - Date: Fri, 07 May 2004
Dear McSweeney's: You think that being followed by an ambulance is weird? I agree, but I am followed by ice-cream trucks, which I regard to be slightly weirder. Between March and September (hey, this is Vancouver, okay? Ice-cream trucks mobilize on warm days in January around here), their banshee song dogs me through my days. I think I was probably twelve when I first noticed this, but it could have been going on for longer. Ever since I started riding my bike a lot, I found that wherever I went these gaily painted juggernauts would be waiting, on cross-streets, in alley-ways, and other hyphenated intersections. I have rarely seen them actually moving (perhaps it is a rest stop on some kind of southerly migration to the other hemisphere where it is summer in November, and they are waiting for the flock), but they pervaded my adolescence with the same tenacity as grunge music, drugs, and virginal despondency. To my horror, in March, I glimpsed a Good Times (ha!) ice-cream truck circling one of the residential complexes at the university where I now work, circling like a lone vulture waiting for a slowly starving and dehydrated desert wanderer to finally give up in exhaustion and fork over five bucks for a half-melted, overly sugary factory-refining-byproduct of a snack. Its loudspeakers had some kind of digital playback, rather than the traditional bells and whistles (or whatever), which had developed some form of machine asthma, and its sound grated like gravel in my sinuses. I can only take comfort that since I have been made forcibly aware of the Doppler effect—via the ever increasing pitch as they bear down on me like black helicopters (and yet, so much more menacing in their false joyful innocence)—I can now detect one at a distance of 1.3 kilometers, and know which direction to run. That is, if there is not one waiting in ambush by an otherwise safe and peaceful roadside. Regards, Daniel Silverman - - - - Date: Mon, 3 May 2004
Dear good folk at McSweeney's, Being the subject of a recent essay published in your relatively respected publication, I'd like to address a couple inaccuracies that I believe were perpetrated by the author. It seems Greg Bellerose, while ruminating on the brilliance of "Death or Glory," recalled my car as being uncool. Well, that probably was fairly accurate as it had Bondo spots over one side and at times had wheels of differing sizes and assorted unsightly dents due to the occasional neo-operational miscalculations. Okay ... but about the porn. I never took porn from my older brother. Well, not a whole lot of it anyway ... and he sure did have a lot of it in a surprising number of mediums considering the years in question here. As for the six-pack! Am I the only one in this lovely land who has ever lost track of a six-pack of beer on the floor of the back seat? I think not. And as for my skipping class and Greg only skipping gym ... has he no respect for the physical-education arts? Is the importance of spending approximately thirty-five minutes walking slowly around a scenic quarter-mile track and pondering the mystery of what really happened to the last six-pack on Friday night utterly lost on my old friend? The part about the life-changing properties of the Clash was positively spot-on anyway. Greg was kind enough to soothe my hurt feelings regarding my car by assuring me he believed it was likely the only vehicle ever to make it to both a Jesus and Mary Chain show and a bunch of Dead shows. Thanks, Greg. Well, I suppose upon further reflection, the essay was not so very inaccurate. Just forget I said anything... Colin - - - - Date: Wed, 21 Apr 2004
To Whom It May Concern
Dear To (if I may be so informal ... I'm Bill), Yesterday, as a birthday gift (#64 ... Hitler was 115) from an old army buddy, I received word of your terrific website. I ended up spending far too long reading letters and archives but enjoyed the vast majority of them ... or I'd have stopped, right? Kevin Dolgin's "useful foreign phrases" triggered a couple of thoughts which I'll leave with you and let you handle as you please. My first contact with foreign phrases was with those taught to me by Larry Christy my freshman year in college, Miami University, Oxford, Ohio. His contribution was a very Russian-sounding string of noises which more or less resemble "Yahn-ye gah-va-roo pa rosski strahs-veechee baba." It is supposed to mean, Larry told me, "Good day. I am a prostitute. I do not speak Russian." Later, I traveled in Russia, but the opportunity to use that particular phraseology never came up, likely for the best. The following two bits came out of my stint as a German linguist stationed in Berlin in 1963 and 1964. Not long after I'd arrived, one of the short-timers was using his last leave to travel in Italy. I asked if he knew any Italian, and he said he knew one phrase, translated as "The time has come for me to leave the ship!" Flourishes were almost demanded in the utterance of such a grandiose statement, although on his return, he sheepishly said he, too, had had no occasion to use it. Dommage. Those of us who had attended the Army Language School in Monterey (now, I understand, the Defense Language Institute) were given a pretty good grounding in the language and had access to many places there not usually frequented by regular soldiers. We were often complimented on our German and were able in many cases to avoid being fingered as Americans. (Adam Fisher, my above-referenced birthday friend, and I were once taken to be Danish by the proprietor of a very local and intimate neighborhood bar, much to our great glee.) One of our colleagues there was a whimsical guy named Meeks, I believe, who put a real spin on the whole compliment scenario. When someone would say, "Oh, your German is very good," he would humbly shrug and casually say, "Ach, danke ... aber es ist nur eine umfassende strengwissenschaftliche Darstellung des Wortschatzes der Neuzeit und der Gegenwart, mit besonderer Beruecksichtigung der Syntax, des Stils und idiomatischen Brauches." Let me put it this way. Let's say you ran into a German whose English was quite good, for which you rendered a kind word. His response, comparable to the above, would be, "Oh, thank you ... but it's just a comprehensive and strictly scientific representation of the vocabulary of the modern and present-day languages, with special regard to syntax, style, and idiomatic usage." He had memorized, verbatim, the explanatory title-page intro in the Wildhagen-Héraucourt German-English dictionary, which I have in front of me. To see the look on others' faces as he rattled it off was truly awe-inspiring, although once you knew the gag, it was difficult to suppress a giggle. He could really pull it off, too. Very impressive. Anyway, thought I'd share these with you, triggered as they have been by Kevin's remarks. They're now yours ... or his ... or somebody's. Enjoy ... and keep up the good work. Bill McKechnie - - - - Date: Wed, 21 Apr 2004
Dearest McSwy's, At the risk (ha-ha) of encouraging a deluge of letters on the subject (and being part of that deluge myself), I must take issue with Kyle McGivney's strategy for global conquest in Risk. Beginning in the Americas is a good option—true—but John Warner's strategy of beginning in Australia is more universal. The odds are not in your favor if American territories do not fall your way. If, say, you only get one North American card and one South American card, while an opponent draws three of each, you are screwed. In Australia, with its four territories, you are much more likely to have an even share. (You could even start in Siam!) Of course, now that the cat's out of the bag (thanks, John), the Australia strategy is almost as bad as a land war in Asia. I remain, Michael Degnan - - - - Date: Wed, 21 Apr 2004
Dearest McSweeney's, I write to inform you that, unfortunately, you, Mr. McPharlin and Mr. Muhl, are misguided in your independent views of They Live. It is not "good" nor is it "bad." They Live happens to be a great movie, invaluable for its filmic teachings. Listen closely and I will tell you how. Firstly, it incorporates thoroughly horrible acting on the part of Mr. Piper, something so rare, it's a shame he has not made a career out of it like Kevin Pollak. There are great dramatic performances (see Hopkins, Anthony), and mildly incompetent ones (see Seagal, Steven), but for truly bad acting that actually makes it to theater screens, Mr. Piper was at the top of his game. Secondly, nostalgia never gets old. Those who grew up in the avarice-tinged '80s would love this film for its sci-fi parody of American society's greed, its depiction of the isolation felt by a blue-collar man living day-to-day, its endless portrayal of Skeletor faces being blown away. Thirdly, it contains wretched dialogue. While the bubblegum line is the most widely known (I saw it once in a Dean Koontz novel, not attributed to They Live, which cemented my hatred for Mr. Koontz), my personal favorite is "Life's a bitch, and she's in heat." There's also "You look like your face fell in the cheese dip back in 1956." And more. This movie is practically a handbook of how not to write movie dialogue. For that alone, its value is priceless. Fourthly, it's dumb. Follow my reasoning here: the coveted eighteen- to thirty-five-year-old male wants to see action movies unencumbered by plot or character depth, and not requiring any actual thought process to entertain (see Independence Day, Demolition Man, or any non-Connery James Bond movie—except Diamonds Are Forever). They Live succeeds for the same reason that the Matrix sequels fail: there's no thinking required. Who goes to an action film to learn Kafka and Nietzsche? Would you go to a John Woo film to learn the fine art of origami, or to a Michael Bay movie to learn Colonial-era animal husbandry? Of course not. You want to see stuff explode; you want to see bullets, bodies, and vehicles of all types defy the laws of physics. You want mindless, desensitizing violence. They Live deserves a space on the shelf of any movie cognoscente. Mark my words, movie historians will heavily footnote this movie. Warmly, Matt Baker
- - - - Date: Mon, 20 April 2004
Dear McSweeney's, Sean McPharlin is, like most of us, both right and wrong. This surely applies to many aspects of his and our lives, but at the moment I am specifically referring to his letter concerning They Live. Sean is right: that the fistfight is totally awesome. Sean is wrong: that the movie is not actually good—that it is, in fact, bad. Sean's is an honest mistake; there are many reasons that the movie should be awful, beginning with the starring role of Rowdy Roddy Piper (no Andre the Giant or Mr. T, to be sure). Nevertheless, through strength of will, it rises above. It is glorious. It made me feel good. Felix Muhl
- - - - Date: Mon, 19 April 2004
Dear McSweeney's, In John Warner's letter to President Bush, et al., he claimed that the best way to win the game of Risk is to attack Australia first. This is a very common folly that is most often seen in inexperienced or idiotic players. It has been a long time since I have seen anyone win with that strategy. If you attempt it against me, I will roll over you like a cheap thing that gets rolled over on a regular basis. The best strategy in Risk is to try and seal up two continents: North and South America. I prefer to begin with North America, as I'm sure Bush would prefer this as well. Blitz the continent in the early moves and make sure that you seal it off at Greenland, Central America, and Alaska. That's five new pieces in your control. It might take you two or three moves to complete the take of the continent, but in the end, it will most likely be worth the effort. Yes, I know what you're saying: there are too many sides to defend! It's too risky! God, shut up. The name of the game is risk. And that's not even a clever pun or catch phrase, because that is quite literally the name of the game. You have to take some risks to win. Otherwise, not only do you get bored, rotting away in Australia, but you also ultimately lose. It might not be initially easy to crack your oyster, but trust me, you can be cracked. Especially if there's an experienced player around. Once I take North America, I will storm South America, and be left with only three borders and a seven-piece bonus. Australia? Australia who? In conclusion, Bush's absolute best option in his quest for world domination was to sack Canada. Kyle McGivney - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Apr 2004
Dear McSweeney's: I can only assume that your comments regarding this "Dave Kneebone" person and the Atari 2600 classic Warlords were directed squarely at me, because I am the One True Master of Warlords. I have not been beaten since 1996, when I first mastered the game. I have two copies (one backup) and four paddles (that require some warming up before each session) in my home, awaiting a formal challenge. I expect a response from Mr. Kneebone swiftly, and it had better be littered with trashtalk. I am only good at one thing, but at that one thing, I am the best. I will take on three Dave Kneebones at once! I am totally and completely serious. I would play people for money, but no one is foolhardy enough to take me on... Paul Coccoli P.S. Have you ever read the manual for that game? It's hilarious. - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Apr 2004
Dear McSweeney's, I write to you this evening concerning your recent recommendation of the 1985 John Carpenter film They Live, in which you incorrectly identify the two most notable attributes of said film to be: 1) The line involving bubble gum and ass-kicking; and 2) The proposition that the film is, in fact, "good." As to number 1, while this is a line often recalled, it is certainly not the most memorable aspect of the film. That honor goes to the fight scene. To recommend They Live without bringing up the fight scene is the equivalent of recommending Jurassic Park without mentioning the dinosaurs, of recommending Scanners without mentioning the exploding head, of recommending Being John Malkovich without mentioning the presence of John Malkovich. Listen: the film concerns the takeover of Earth by nefarious aliens posing as the heartless, Reagan-era yuppies infesting the bulk of the 1980s. Our hero, played by wrestler Rowdy Roddy Piper, happens upon a pair of sunglasses through which he is able to see the aliens for who they really are. This disturbs him. So he asks his friend, played by an actor of actual talent, Keith David, to put on the sunglasses to see for himself. Keith refuses. Rowdy asks again. But Keith is steadfast. So Rowdy punches him. I haven't personally timed the length of the fist-fight that follows, but it feels like half an hour. It is epic. It is stunning. It is without end, or to be more precise, it contains endless endings but ignores them all. It goes on and on and on and then, when finally it is truly over, it continues. It is the longest fist-fight in film history and therefore, I contend, the greatest. To further establish the scene's greatness, we need look no further than the episode of South Park featuring the cripple fight between Timmy and Jimmy. The fight is hilarious for its brutality and length. How was this accomplished? By copying the They Live fight frame for frame. There is no mention of bubble gum in this episode. As to number 2, despite the fight scene, and despite the brilliance of the film's overall conceit that what's really going on may only be seen through special sunglasses (revealing yuppies to be aliens, billboards to feature slogans such as OBEY, and all money to feature the legend THIS IS YOUR GOD), the movie is not, by any standard, "good." It is in fact rather bad. Certainly a nice try, but, in the end, bad. It stars a wrestler, for god's sake. You want a good John Carpenter flick, rent his 1982 remake of The Thing, also featuring Keith David (widescreen only, please). To sum up, my complaint is not that you recommended They Live, it's that you recommended it for the wrong reasons, and in overlooking the most obviously noteworthy aspect of the film—the fight scene—you've set me to wondering if you've even seen the damn thing at all, or are merely attempting to appear "cool" or "hip" by extolling the virtues of a largely forgotten relic of the '80s. As a final point, I've often used They Live as an example of a movie someone should remake. Why turn an acknowledged masterpiece like Dawn of the Dead into a piece of shit when one could take They Live, a great idea poorly executed, and turn it into something magnificent? Instead of turning great movies into mediocre dreck, we should only remake bad movies in order to improve them, and They Live should be first on the list. Nettled,
- - - - Date: Thu, 08 Apr 2004
Dear Sirs, I am nowhere near as well-travelled as Kevin Dolgin but I'd like to let everyone know I have been to the King of Spain on the Grand Place in Brussels. I want this to be known not for pure vanity but so that people realize the soundness of Mr. Dogin's recommendations. Write them down in your little Britney Spears notebooks and make sure to go wherever he tells you to when you happen to be in Constantinople or Laibach. I used to go to Brussels every now and then and always made sure to spend some quality time at the King of Spain (so named as the Hapsburg Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, the most powerful white man of his day, who gave it all up to become a monk, was born in Brussels). I'm an outdoor drinking sort of person so I can tell you that that market gets quite touristy; it is beautiful, central, and has a light show every night around ten or so. One of my evenings there was the night before a Belgium-Scotland soccer match. Each quarter-hour that passed crammed another couple thousand drunken Scots into the Place. The King of Spain and all its fellows were brimming, creaking even, with Pictish piss-ups. The upper windows of the King itself were stuffed with fans waving St Andrew's crosses, Stewart lions, giant inflatable penises, and an inflatable love doll sporting the ubiquitous "ginger wig-n-tam" so beloved by kilted footy enthusiasts. The Scot, as I believe Johnson first observed some time ago, does not believe in paying to urinate. Nor does he possess a highly developed capacity to interpret, ironically, pictographic bathroom gender designations. As such the King's loo attendant was highly put upon that evening. As were our unaccented ears! The Scotland fans, calling themselves the Tartan Army, have, in addition to what you might mistake for Flemish accents, a particularly odious and maddening anthem. It is, quite simply, "Doe, a Deer" from The Sound of Music repeated ad infinitum. Seriously. They just start all over and never ever stop. As eventually we retreated to another district of the city the sound of thousands of Sawnies singing what can be considered either a children's song or a show tune dogged our every step. To this day there is a voice within me, the ancient Lallands voice of my ancestors (who presumably moved to England for a reason), that insists "deer" is a two-syllable word. Doh' a dee'arr, a fe-male dee'arr. That's a full glottal stop on those apostrophes. I wish I could give a bar recommendation from when I lived in Scotland but of my two favorite bars one was bought out and yuppified and I forget the name of the other. Suffice it to say they were on the Cowgate. Vivat Imperator! TG Gibbon - - - - Date: Friday, 2 April 2004
Dear McSweeney's: I am happy to announce that Matt has accepted my proposal of marriage. He was most impressed with you guys for posting it. So now he is wearing his sweet little engagement ring, and I don't have mine yet, so all passersby must assume that I am an adulteress carrying on with a married man. Thank you guys for helping me out and also for giving me some mystique. Jennifer Keith - - - - Date: Fri, 20 Feb 2004
One day Matt Sanders journeyed to the mountain where God lives. Upon seeing a man walking on his mountain, God asked the man, "Why do you seek me out?" Matt Sanders replied, "I am on a quest, God." "What is it that you seek?" "I seek happiness, Lord." "Is that all? I will tell you, then. In order to be happy you will need: Underwear (clean, if possible) Various books to read Snacks Certain medications An umbrella A Modest Mouse CD And an ashtray." "Is that all, Lord?" "Yes. I have spoken. Go now and seek your bliss." Jennifer Keith: Take a shortcut, Matt. Marry me and I can get you those things. - - - - Date: Fri, 20 Feb 2004
While I'm certain that no one could have expected (or wanted) the list of "Major Hollywood Productions That Kill Off the Only, or Important Supporting, Black Character in the Film" be an exhaustive analysis, one unacceptable absence prompts this reply. The Shining: Scatman Crothers, who alone shares the tragic gift of our protagonist child, braves epic blizzard conditions in an effort to thwart Jack's mad dissolution, only to be killed by a single axe blow within seconds of (what we anticipate as) his heroic arrival. Made doubly tragic by the fact that his extrasensory clairvoyant abilities did not help him see this end... Many thanks,
- - - - Date: Mon, 9 Feb 2004
Dear McSweeney's, Today's feature on David Garnett's Lady Into Fox refers to Quentin Bell, writer of Bloomsbury Recalled, as the "cousin" of Angelica Garnett. He was, in fact, her half-brother. Both were children of Virginia Woolf's sister, Vanessa Bell. Quentin was the son of Clive Bell and Angelica was the daughter of Vanessa's longtime lover, Duncan Grant, a fact unknown to her until she was late in her teenage years. Her romance with Garnett was interpreted by Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant as a type of revenge for keeping her true paternity a secret. This interpretation is somewhat confirmed by Angelica's 1960s memoir, Deceived by Kindness. I know that I'm probably the 6000th person to write in, but, if not, then maybe this is helpful. Darren Kaminsky Paul Collins responds: Dear Darren, Ah!—you're right. I misremembered that in the conversation. I should have known better than to discuss the love affairs and family histories of Bloomsbury without a scorecard. Incredibly, an obituary one of the last surviving members of Bloomsbury appeared Monday morning, just hours after my and Tommy's conversation was posted. Frances Partridge, sister of Lady Into Fox-illustrator Ray Garnett, was 103 years old. ("No cause of death was reported," the obituary notes drily.) One of the last eyewitness accounts of Bloomsbury can be found in this 1999 interview with her in the Manchester Guardian. I should also add to my interview comments that, for all their ups and downs, Ray and David Garnett remained together at the end, through her final bout with cancer in 1940. She died in the same bed that both she and their children had been born in; David's description of those final days in his memoir The Familiar Faces (1962) is quite moving. Best regards,
- - - - Date: 5 Feb 2004
Dear McSweeney's: I've just received Issue #12 in my mail, and after enjoying the magic of the inner cover, I turned to the copyright page, where I read the first sentence: "This copyright page is being written in a bed & breakfast in Wales, in a town called Weston-Super-Mare." "But wait," my Inner Stickler (IS) said to me, "Weston-Super-Mare isn't in Wales, it's in Somerset." (For the curious, the only reason the IS knows that is because W-S-M is the hometown of one of my favorite actors, Rupert Graves. The IS cares not about the source of its facts, but only that they're available to use as stickles, to coin a term.) To which my Inner Stickler's Inner Stickler (ISIS) replied, "Well, actually, it's in North Somerset, which was set up as a 'unitary authority' carved out of the old county of Somerset in the latest round of local government reorganizations, of which the English seem to be so fond. However, that reminds of a website I once saw, belonging to the Association of British Counties, arguing that the creation of new local government authorities should not entail the extinguishing of the identity of good old historical counties, such as Somerset." At which point I hushed both the IS and the ISIS, and read to the end of the copyright notice, chuckling many times. Having finished the copyright notice, I said to the IS and the ISIS, "See, the point of this journal, and presumably of the copyright notice, isn't purity, or rigidity. The fact that Weston-Super-Mare lies across the Bristol Channel from Wales doesn't matter so much as the copyright-notice-writer's unpleasant experience there. Whether Weston is a Welsh Atlantic city or a (North) Somerset one doesn't affect the writer's horror at spending a night in a shrine to a demon-child. And his horror pales in comparison to the decay of what passes for representative democracy in this country, expressed in terms that would make Lewis Lapham's wry heart proud." "But of course," the IS said. "We understand perfectly, my IS and I. After all, the name 'Somerset' derives from 'Cymru,' which is what the Welsh call Wales. As is the case with the old county of Cumberland, to the northeast of Wales, which has been subsumed into the new county of Cumbria, which might well become a unitary council within the new North West Region, should that option pass in the coming referendum." "Stop, already," I cried. "Let's just sit back and enjoy all the new writers in this lovely new Issue #12." "Don't forget Roddy Doyle!" the IS pipped out as I pushed it back in the cupboard and locked the door. Yours in stickling, L.M. Saviers Editor's Note: Due to an editing error, the Issue #12's copyright-page note gave the impression that the editors of McSweeney's believed that Weston-Super-Mare was in Wales, not Somerset. In the original draft, there was a revelatory sentence when the author realized that said town was not in Wales—where he had intended to go—but in fact Somerset; this realization was then linked to the California gubernatorial election and given great symbolic resonance. Late in the editing process, many sentences were cut for space, including this revelatory sentence, leaving this wrong impression standing, uncorrected. We regret this error and beg forgiveness from casual readers and young people whose sense of geography might have been unfairly warped. - - - - Date: Sun, 25 Jan 2004
To Whomever, Please look at my work not because I am looking for work but rather my Unemployment Officer, Ms. Rose, requires me to contact at least two potential employers every week in order to keep receiving my unemployment check. Heck, you can probably stop reading here if you want because my job is done. I've contacted a potential employer: You. Little does Ms. Rose realize how difficult it would be to get at job at [insert agency name here]. Even less does Ms. Rose understand how much I don't want to ruin a good thing by getting a job offer and risk forfeiting my unemployment benefits. Anyway, here's what I have to deal with: Eligibility Requirements
Much to my chagrin, I am not exempted from these requirements. I had considered enrolling in Approved Commission Training but nixed that after I found the only job path offered involved having to wear protective eyewear and once I saw the protective eyewear, I couldn't keep a straight face. If anyone is still reading, allow me to proffer a few tips on how to obtain Unemployment Benefits. First, one must admit there is no shame being on the dole. I am proud to earn more money in one week doing nothing than an Iraqi soldier earns in an entire month doing the same thing. Second, you must insist that the agency getting rid of you use the phrase "laid off" and not "fired." If you are fired, you are not eligible to collect unemployment. I learned this the hard way. I also learned that if you just quit, you are not eligible, either. Thankfully, my Protestant work ethic would never allow me to quit. Third, if you are unfortunate enough to have to take a job, negotiate as much vacation time as you can. This way, when you get laid off you will not have to bother matriculating at the Unemployment Office until your PTO has been paid. The same holds true for severance. If possible, try to get as much severance as you can so you can take a trip or just sleep a lot. You see, you are not allowed to file for your Unemployment Benefits until all PTO and severance has been paid to you. You may be asking yourself or you may not—it depends on how interested you are in this sort of thing—how I know so much about obtaining Unemployment Benefits. Well, having been "fired!" once, "laid off" twice, and "quit" more than a few times (okay, so my Protestant work ethic is not working), I've learned to navigate the nuances of our excellent Unemployment System. I've sat in dumpy, paneled Unemployment Offices throughout the United States. I've impatiently listened to Career Counselors counsel my careening career. I've completed piles of paperwork only to be called back in to dot an i. I've discovered that freelancing does not affect your eligibility to obtain Unemployment Benefits, it simply prolongs them. (See Employment Security Commission, Section IV, on Ineligible Amount: Add the claimant's earning allowance to the claimant's weekly benefit amount. If, in a given week, the earnings reported by the claimant equal or exceed the ineligible amount, then the claimant cannot receive any unemployment benefits for that week.) Perhaps, above all else, I've learned to wear the system down before it wears me down. Indeed, the system is getting friendlier. You can now file for your Unemployment Benefits online. Thanking you in advance, since I seriously doubt I will be in touch—the ESC does not require a follow up—for your assistance and support regarding my Unemployment Benefits. God Bless America and me, Claimant, Tom Mullen
PS: Should Ms. Rose call, please tell her if her name was Mary, she would not be a Rose. - - - - Date: Thu, 22 Jan 2004
Dear McSweeney's: I write respectfully to correct an error made by you in your recent update of the "McSweeney's Recommends" section of the website. You erroneously cite The Office as being a TV show (so far so good, as this is exactly what The Office is) that is the product of one person's creative vision (problematic bit). In the interest of giving credit where credit is due, please allow me to trumpet the virtues of Mr. Stephen Merchant. Stephen Merchant makes only one appearance in the office, in season two, episode five (if you've not yet seen it you have my pity) as "The Ogg-Monster," one of Gareth's Territorial Army buddies. He is, quite simply, a master of his craft, and those two or so minutes of screen time are among the funniest in the whole show. Though he is not as visible in the series as the much acclaimed Mr. Gervais, he is its heart and soul, as well as the lungs. Mainly, he wrote the whole damn show while Ricky Gervais (to whom I assume you refer when you give sole accolades) was off sleeping with supermodels and driving his Aston Martin at top speeds through London streets, smoking a joint and giving the finger to the screaming policeman pursuing him vainly. It was during these times that Merchant slaved over a hot computer, developing the lock-knuckle and chronic eyesores that plague him to this day. In fact, if someone asks Mr. Merchant for an autograph (which happens at least twice monthly, usually at the Oxford Street branch of the Bank of England) he, despite his infirmities, will try vainly to grip the pen before choking back tears of shame—which, might I add, only further irritate the sores. Still, he soldiers bravely onwards. I respect the inclination to give someone full credit for a project—after all, is there anything more magnificent than seeing one person's dream realized fully? I have always maintained that what really made Citizen Kane an extraordinary movie, on top of the cinematic adventurism and finely wrought performances, was the fact that Orson Welles got to make exactly the movie he wanted to make, regardless of what anyone was going to think about it or how much it would cost. I know this is a simplification of a really quite drawn out struggle between Mr. Welles and the studio, but my point remains—he, for that movie, had a creative freedom that forever eluded him thereafter. Kane lives to this day as a monument and an inspiration. For what more can we hope in life than to see our dreams realized in their fullest, at least once? While I harbor no intention of trying to justify an industry that produces incredible amounts of commercially viable rubbish while denying resources to those who need them most desperately, I am a firm believer that we should all fight tooth and nail for our one shot at complete and total freedom, in any field we choose. In this vein, I'd like to recommend Ricky Gervais's recently released stand-up performance, "Animals," available on DVD at all fine shops in the United Kingdom. It is magnificent, and fans of The Office would do well to procure it for their enjoyment. If you haven't got a means of getting it, I'd gladly send you one in exchange for some of your books or something. I hope this has been enlightening or, failing that, readable. Regards,
- - - - Date: Tue, 20 Jan 2004
Dear McSweeney's, I thought maybe you'd like the chords to "Hey Ya" by Andre3000 so you can play it on the acoustic guitar. Play it when you're alone. Have a glass of wine first. Don't be afraid to sing. Don't be embarrassed. No one will hear you. My friend Pharaoh taught them to me. That's his name. I think. I met him on the Internet. Here goes: G C D Em Good luck,
- - - - Date: Wed, 13 Jan 2004
Dear McSweeney's, I take umbrage with the recent letter by David L. Steinhardt about his correspondence with Prof. Galbraith about the dealings of Robert McNamara, JFK, and the early-sixties Diem regime as understood through Errol Morris in his new documentary The Fog of War. Mr. Steinhardt refers to the "overreaction to poor airline security" known as the war on terrorism. Well, I did some right-clicking, and I found that maybe a better (superior, enhanced, healthier, well again, in good health) word than "poor" might be "pitiable." Plus, JFK's book about England was edging on boring there in the middle. But it had a good ending, right? My regards,
- - - - Date: Mon, 12 Jan 2004
Dear McSweeney's, I saw a commercial that said, "One in three of Americans living with AIDS doesn't even know they have it." My question is: how do they know that? You're the best! Stephanie Drury - - - - Date: Sun, 4 Jan 2004
Dear McSweeney's, I am writing you concerning your "GUIDELINES FOR WEB SUBMISSIONS," specifically your use of my name, William Williams, as the example. Whether it seemed simple or innocuous, I assure you, I am neither. It may have been seen as a slightly comical usage to match the rest of your piece entitled "GUIDELINES FOR WEB SUBMISSIONS." I must admit I am comical, even rather silly at times, and I too strive to be different in almost imperceptible ways. There was no need to stand out when my name did it for me. But three years ago, when a patch of skin on my forehead, my left eyebrow, and two-thirds of the eyelashes below turned white, it rather ruined my chances in a lineup. Still though, the name thing goes very deep. People who are looking straight into my eyes will completely ignore the colorless patches of skin and hair on my face and remark, "Your mama named you William, Williams?" To which I invariably reply, "The Third." Then we both have a chuckle. And that's just fine, except when I'm in a mood starting with the letter "A." Then I flash them a small look that says, "You know that I know that you know you want to ask about my face." But I'm not that mean, at least not often. But when you used willywill@internet.com, that hurt. How you could have possibly known that my cousins used to call me "Willywill" when I was much too young to have a sense of humor is beyond me. My name has been abused more than people called Dick for Richard. People should address me as William or Will, and most do. However scores and scores have addressed me as Wheel, Wheely, Willie, Free Willy, Wilma, Wilbur, Wilberforce, Wilbur in the voice of Mr. Ed, and Bill. The last of which I refuse to acknowledge. I know the only justice for me and others with unusual names is to be remembered forever, while the masses with commonly bland names like Brian Johnson, Robert Smith, and Tom Jones will fade into obliv... wait, never mind. Sincerely, William Hamilton Williams III - - - - Date: Wed, 7 Jan 2004
Dear McSweeney's: The Fog of War, Errol Morris's documentary drawn from interviews with former Defense Secretary Robert Strange McNamara, has a moment that left me jaw-droppingly confounded: McNamara says that when President Kennedy learned that South Vietnamese Premier Ngo Dinh Diem had been killed in a coup—a coup the United States had encouraged—that Kennedy "blanched" and that McNamara had never seen the president so angry. McNamara then says, obliquely, that the event was especially disturbing because he knew the U.S. Government was "somewhat responsible" for the coup. Wha-aa? How could Kennedy have been surprised by this murder if his own people were behind it? Was it, like the Bay of Pigs, a bad plan that went even worse than expected? Was Kennedy supporting a dangerous action, yet foolishly naive about its implications? To make this all even more complicated, Kennedy's own assassination occurred just weeks later, leaving his vice president, Lyndon B. Johnson, to clean up the mess. These questions trouble me so much because when you listen to recently released tapes of JFK from the Oval Office, he is utterly engaged, asking his aides and military leaders tough questions that cut to the heart of issues, especially the ones these advisers are ignoring. Yet Kennedy's blunder caused such chaos in South Vietnam that LBJ decided to escalate the war, which JFK had apparently planned to pull the United States out of. If these are the types of mistakes made by an intelligent leader who was a serious, lifetime student of foreign affairs—his Harvard thesis was about England's blunders that led to World War II—what hope do we have with a Texan who'd never even traveled abroad before he became president, and who now repeatedly suggests the United States should use "small nuclear weapons" in that after-the-fact overreaction to poor airline security known as the "war on terrorism"? I searched the Web for answers to the JFK question and learned that Howard Jones, in his book Death of a Generation: How the Assassinations of Diem and JFK Prolonged the Vietnam War, writes that CIA director James McCone and his deputies also could not fathom how it was that Diem's murder had not been anticipated. In a recent article, Jones adds, "America's ensuing war in Vietnam graphically demonstrated the complexities of foreign intervention, suggesting that well-meaning nations can seldom determine the course of history. Indeed, the United States found itself victimized by its good intentions, leaving millions of people from America and Southeast Asia to pay the ultimate cost." Taking advantage of a slight acquaintance with Prof. James K. Galbraith of the University of Texas at Austin, I asked him for his take on the Diem matter. Not only has he written on the subject, most recently for Salon and in a major article for the Boston Review (available online), but his father, John Kenneth Galbraith, was one of JFK's principal advisers on Vietnam at the time.
Dear Prof. Galbraith: I've just returned from seeing The Fog of War and one question leaps out: McNamara says he'd never seen JFK so angry—he also says he "blanched"—as upon hearing the news that Diem was dead. McNamara then says he knew the U.S. Government was "somewhat responsible" for that coup. You must be a very busy man, but I'm awfully curious how you would parse this data. I'm left grasping at straws: did the CIA get Diem without JFK's direct authorization? What in the world did McNamara mean by "somewhat responsible"? Yours sincerely, David L. Steinhardt
Dear David, Many thanks for this message. I've just come from Cambridge where I saw The Fog of War and also spent some time with Errol Morris. I think the mystery here is not so very deep. The Saigon coup was encouraged from Washington, though more aggressively by [presidential advisors Averell] Harriman, [Roger] Hilsman, and [Michael] Forrestal than by Kennedy himself. It was not, however, closely controlled from Washington, and not by the CIA either. You can hear, in the White House tapes around October 31 [1963], discussion of troop movements near Saigon, but in the National Security Council they do not know whether those units are pro- or anti-Diem. [Kind of like not knowing whether your football team is running toward their own or their opponents' end zone! — DLS] They certainly did not know, or anticipate, that Diem would be murdered. One can reproach them for not anticipating this, for not taking effective steps to prevent it—but you do have to ask, in honesty, what sort of steps they might have taken, short of betraying the coup itself (and therefore their own policy). In a word they gambled, and it turned out badly. Howard Jones is very good on the ins and outs of what happened in Saigon over those days, and I think you can take his account as fair and definitive. Best & happy holidays,
- - - - Date: Mon, 29 Dec, 2003
My Dear McSweeney's: I don't enjoy finding fault but we ought to be precise with our choice of words, no? If Chris Guthrie really does work at a bar that is in a tavern in CW then I believe he would be the first to know that those dressed in period garments are not "re-enactors" but "interpreters". Cheerios,
- - - - Date: Sat, 27 Dec, 2003
Dear McSweeneys, If the interior of your car smells bad, you can air it out quickly and efficiently by driving backwards at a high speed with the doors opened. When you think you are finished, simply slam on the brakes and the doors will close by themselves. Sincerely truly,
- - - - Date: Tue, 16 Dec 2003
Dear McSweeney's: The Container Store, on Sixth Avenue, sells nothing. Wire baskets full of nothing. Blank shadow boxes, apothecary jars of air, toothbrush caddies the color of vapor. Tubs of clean naught. Tiny leakproof frontiers. Vacant valet organizers, underbed drawers dreamless as cryogenic sleep. Emptiness! Bins and bins of it. And giant empty carts to wheel it all around. Forget even the pleasure of uncapping your lilac shampoo in a cold shower in Bangladesh. You could carry spinal fluid in their minutest jar, its plastic so awfully clear, its lid so tight and white and finely grooved! But never mind. So far I have bought empty space surrounded by woven pampas grass, wax-coated leopard-print cardboard, tinted acrylic, a violent-looking green mesh, corrugated plastic, galvanized aluminum, recycled fiberboard, and the thickest and most delicate glass. One slip of wilderness is carefully protected by a zippered case of aqua vinyl. I calculate that, so far, I have increased the cubic inchage of my apartment by eleven thousand three hundred. Joy Katz
- - - - Date: Sun, 14 Dec 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I work at a bar in Colonial Williamsburg. That's right, that vestigial American capitol has a bar. Actually, it has several bars, but they're called taverns and they serve ale in pewter steins and have gas lanterns and men singing traditional odes to the commonwealth and women churning butter out front and that sort of thing. I work at a bar on the edge of the colonial district next to all the shops that sell crappy historical trinkets to tourists. It's the place to go for people who realize that America two hundred years ago wasn't such great shakes after all and would prefer to cut their losses and start drinking. It's also the place where many Colonial Williamsburg employees go for a reality pit stop while on break or after work. It's not uncommon to see historical re-enactors dressed in traditional colonial garb belly up to the bar and it's further not uncommon to see the re-enactors who portray real life historical figures. In fact, three of the regulars are the men who portray Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin. They come in frequently enough to have regular seats at the end of the bar, although Franklin is often out of town on some kind of business. There, they sit wearing the full ensemble—woolen ascots and calf-length knickers and amber colored wigs flattened from the wearing of tri-cornered hats—while smoking menthols and drinking Happy Hour domestic beer. They're generally good for business. Tourists enjoy asking questions about the Continental Congress and the War for Independence and where to buy tickets for the ghost tours and they come off as very approachable, as far as historical figures go. Occasionally, Hancock and Adams come in but it's usually just the three of them. I've gotten to know them pretty well in the past year. Jefferson had my fiance and me over for dinner last month. Together we joined a fantasy football league run by some co-workers of mine. Franklin is the most agreeable of the three. Really, he's a great guy. He's a terrific raconteur and seems happiest when talking to large groups. He makes you sort of see how the strength of the union was in the greatness of its men, how such a concept could exist. The bar guests are naturally attracted to him. Jefferson is a little more low-key, but is still a good guy. He's a proud man and usually sits between Henry and Franklin, reading law books and sitting erectly and nursing his draft. He's also the best tipper. I'm growing concerned about Henry. He's the most spirited re-enactor of the three and rarely does he leave character, usually just under his breath to Jefferson when the tourists are out of sight. However, lately he seems equally determined to bring liberty to the colonies as he is fifty-cent drafts to his mouth. He's grown impetuous and easily agitated and by now would surely have approached recklessness were it not for Franklin, that great mediator and envoy of peace. Jefferson seems to think his common sense has been abraded by the arduous fight against British tyranny, and the long hours. Franklin just squints through his bifocals and flashes that ruddy-cheeked smile of his, as though it's all going to be okay. I'm the only person who thinks his losing fantasy football team is the cause of his stress. Franklin and Jefferson say the claim is nonsense. But he's struggled since getting off to a 4-0 start and now is in danger of missing the playoffs. Worse yet, he's behind on his weekly dues and the league commissioner has received complaints from other owners regarding his outstanding debt. Henry is a notoriously sore loser. He was bitter following the Stamp Act of '65 and a noted provocateur of the call to arms in '76. I almost felt badly for him when my team beat his in Week 7. He looks up to Franklin and he beat Jefferson in Week 3, so those guys don't notice. Only I heard him at the end of Happy Hour last week before the Monday night game when he stared into the mahogany finish of the bar top and said, 'I know not the course others may take; but as for me, give me two touchdowns from Brett Favre, or give me death.' That fantasy football is a bitch. Chris Guthrie - - - - Date: Thu, 11 Dec 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I have to intervene. Recent claims regarding time-saving multitasking opportunities while showering seems to me to have missed the point big time. In haggling over the merits or not of brushing, and I now note even flossing, in the cubicle, your correspondents are falling into a quite natural, but limiting, ontological trap. They assume that efficiency is only to be gained if, while standing beneath an immersive torrent of scalding H-two-O, they simultaneously carry out a second cleaning task. This is not so. Studies conducted in my bathroom have shown that these operations require concentrated hand activity and will, by necessity, confuse the body and spirit if combined with a simple, cleansing shower. So why limit ourselves to washing activities, just because this is a shower? Have we no other priorities in the morning? What about the dramatic last three pages of chapter 8 of that battered copy of "Girl in Landscape" you've been lugging about with you for days? Don't you want to finish it before you get to this office this morning? Yes, that's right. I'm talking about READING in the shower. I tell you, this is not just the future, but also the present, and a not inconsiderable portion of the past, as well. Are we followers of McSweeney's not by definition avid readers? If done properly, reading in the shower can be simple, pleasurable, and will cause no unnecessary page-wrinkling or spine-creasing to any but the most poorly-bound of volumes, the most porous of papers. With the book held firmly in the left hand, above the water jet, the right is free to explore soapily all the necessary areas, and believe me, one soon learns the knack of squeezing shampoo into the palm one-handed. You will, of course, require a conveniently-placed sponge or cloth to dry your wet right hand before shifting the book to it, and finishing any parts that cannot adequately be reached without using the left. But that is the only kink in an otherwise gentle and calming sequence of movements. By extending this technique, the book can remain in your hand throughout your morning ablutions, and you will find you can achieve an extra 30 or 40 pages during the course of the working week: a valuable gain in efficiency that all right-minded readers will learn to treasure. So let's leave off with the flossing, shall we? Yours ever,
PS Other activities that can be combined with reading include: . Bathing
- - - - Date: 11 December 2003
Dear McSweeney's, In regards to C.J. Feehan's report on Dunkin' Donuts new Apple Cider Donut: I regret to inform you, Mr Feehan, but the baked-goods war is far more extensive than you think. In my hometown of Hattiesburg, Mississippi, our very first Krispy Kreme Doughnuts shop has just gone up right in front of the largest Baptist church in the city. If Krispy Kreme Doughnuts has the audacity to challenge the Lord God Almighty, and win, then I wager your description of Dunkin' Donuts' new donut as "unstoppable" merits some reconsideration. May I offer "trifling" in its stead. Your most humble and obed't servant,
PS. A comrade of mine, Adam Bloomfield, is a native of Winston-Salem and has flown on the Krispy Kreme Jet. Yes, the Krispy Kreme Jet. We have taken to the skies, Mr Feehan. Consider this your only warning. - - - - Date: Wed, 10 Dec 2003
Dear McSweeney's and readers, I was pulling into the parking lot of a gas station/Mcdonald's yesterday and was almost killed. Another car was pulling out at the same time and the driver neglected to stop at the very obvious stop sign. I slammed on my breaks and laid on my horn, as is the custom, but was then shocked to find the other driver giving ME the finger! That was clearly my finger to give—not the other way around. If you are a bad driver, if you almost kill someone else, you are not allowed to flip off the victim simply because they honk at you. For the love of god, will everyone please slow the hell down and watch where you're going? Stop at the damn stop signs, and if you don't—keep your fingers to yourselves. Idiots. Yours Truly,
- - - - Date: Tue, 2 Dec 2003
Dear McSweeney's, In regards to Brian Minter's correspondence from a questionable medicinal supplier and its puzzling addendum, I would like to inform your readers that Mr. Minter's confusion about the quote appended to said email is entirely justified. The quote is an amalgam of passages from two books by L. Frank Baum, Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz and The Master Key. And, Mr. Minter, the gratitude expressed in the final sentence is not uttered by either Dorothy or the kitten, but is, in fact, spoken by the President of France to a clever little boy named Rob. Unfortunately, I am not able to shed any light on why this message appears, as I am as stumped as Mr. Minter in making a connection between manhood-enhancement and Dorothy, hungry kittens, or the French President (although the extent of my knowledge regarding the latter is clearly incomplete). Best wishes,
- - - - Date: Wed, 19 Nov. 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I went to a lecture today about drug testing. One of the reps from the lab bragged that they have never had a false positive ever. My question is: how do they know that? One of your fans,
- - - - Date: Tues, 18 Nov. 2003
Dear Editor, A spam email arrived tonight at the office where I work in Washington, DC. Knowing the fondness of your journal for the out-of-the-ordinary, I thought you should be made aware of it. The top portion of the email was an advertisement for a "penis enlargement" medication, accompanied by the usual slogans. In the event that you are unfamiliar with this sort of thing, I will say only that they comprise of a mixture of the bawdy and the faux-clinical, and do not merit further elaboration. But the lower portion of the email contained, with no explanation whatsoever, the following statements: Oh, Eureka! cried Dorothy, did you eat the bones? If it had any bones, I ate them, replied the kitten, composedly, as it washed its face after the meal. I regret my inability to reward you properly for the great service you have rendered my country; but you have my sincerest gratitude, and may command me in any way. Unfortunately, our system deletes these sorts of junk mail messages, so I am unable to send you the original. Like I said, the email gave no explanation at all for this, and no indication that it was anything unusual, which, if you are at all familiar with the sort of message I am referring to, you know is not so. Also, since there were no line breaks in that portion of the message, it is unclear, from a narrative point of view, whether the final sentence represents the kitten addressing Dorothy, or an anonymous omniscient narrator addressing the reader. If you can shed any light on this, I would appreciate it. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Thu, 13 Nov. 2003
McSweeney's, It's snowing in Toronto today, and it sure does suck. I just wanted to be first on the bitching-about-the-snow bandwagon. Thanks,
- - - - Date: Wed. 22, Oct. 2003
Dear McSweeney's, This week's brainbuster asks me to fill in names so that last names are first names and first names are also first names. The example, "Jessye ________ ________ Hawkins," is solved thusly: Jessye Norman Coleman Hawkins, which uses the names of the opera singer Jessye Norman, the Senator Norman Coleman, and the famed tenor saxophonist Coleman Hawkins. I should start by saying that I don't love this example because there aren't very many people named Jessye. In fact, there might only be one, and because of that, this particular puzzle half-solves itself, which isn't the point, now, is it? Because of that, I am mentally changing "Jessye" to "Jesse." Jesse Mallin, Jesse Owens, Jesse Colin Young. Much, much better. But I have saved the coup de nom for last. Here is my solution: Jesse Jamesetta Hawkins, which uses the names of Jesse James, the famous outlaw, and that of Jamesetta Hawkins, which is the real name of the singer Etta James. The middle section, which in your example is two words, is here only one word, but one perfect word: Jamesetta. Consider it an atom: split it at your own risk. Yours,
- - - - Date: Wed. 22, Oct. 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I can't hold back any longer. Not only do I agree that brushing one's teeth in the shower has many benefits, but I would like to recommend flossing in the shower. Think of all the reasons why you don't floss at the sink—mouth stuff splatters on the mirror, you don't like looking at your mouth that way, your fingers get all gooey... In the shower, those reasons disappear! Plus, for the conservationists out there, reusing floss in the shower is always a possibility. Just drape it over the showerhead and it's good to go for the next time. Your gums will thank you. Smilingly,
- - - - Date: Tue. 21, Oct. 2003
McSweeney's, It was with great delight that I recently found the list of "Grout-Related Phrases Written on the Grout in a Bathroom Stall (Most Likely Written while Sitting on the Toilet)" and I thought I might share my experiences with Grout-Related Phrases. On the second-floor men's bathroom in my former university's library (stall farthest from the door) a similar collection of Grout-Related Phrases can (I hope) still be found. Whenever the need arose to visit a bathroom while in the library, I would sprint up to the second floor and try my best to add to the grout collection (personal favorites include: "Grout balls of fire" and "Three strikes and you're grout"). When I transferred universities, my commitment to bathroom humor was temporarily forgotten in the chaos that life can sometimes resemble. But imagine my excitement when I discovered (this time in the basement bathroom, farthest stall from the door) a blank slate, clean grout for miles. However, few words can describe the ecstatic frame of mind I was plunged into weeks later, upon my return to the basement bathroom, farthest stall from the door, and found the grout not empty, nay, but covered in glorious grout jokes ("Don't grout about it"). It is the small things, friends. Groutfully,
- - - - Date: Sun. 19, Oct. 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Brushing your teeth in the shower is disgusting. Yuck! Yuck! Yuck! Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Sun. 19, Oct. 2003
Hello, McSweeney's! At the University of Chicago Press website, I found a list of poems from an anthology titled Surrealist Love Poems. At first, I thought I was reading short poems. Then I realized I was reading a list of poem titles. Found poetry, no? Andre Breton
Robert Desnos
Paul Eluard
Joyce Mansour
Benjamin Péret
Thanks to all at McSweeney's for the work you do. Greg Chapman - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Oct 2003
Dear McSweeney's, You seem to have created quite a stir amongst your readers by stating that Brushing Your Teeth in the Shower saves time and water if you do it right. Or at least you've created a stir with the two who wrote contentious letters. It is important to stress the qualifier in your recommendation, "if you do it right." Doing it right involves recognizing that many minutes in the shower are spent doing nothing more than letting the warm spray of showertime engulf us. These precious moments are not diminished by the simultaneous brushing of teeth, as the welcome downpour continues unabated, the teeth are being cleaned, and time formerly deemed lounging in the shower can now be deemed hygienically productive time. If I may be so bold as to offer a recommendation myself, take this concept further and try eating in the shower. It seems to me that all foods take on an additional savour when consumed in the shower; perhaps it has something to do with the humidity activating otherwise dormant tastes in the foodstuffs. Try a sandwich, chips, crackers and cheese, or a Pop Tart if it's breakfast time. In particular, a cold drink provides a stimulating contrast to the hot water. I have not found reading and/or office work to be compatible with showering. Thank you kindly, Robert S. Getzschman - - - - Date: Mon, 13 Oct 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I used to be "the friend," back in high school. My girlfriends were pretty and feminine, and I frumped around with skull-buckle boots, geometrically impossible hair, and a bad frown. It never bothered me much, to be "the friend," mostly because if boys talked to me at all, I could assume that either A.) they understood the creepy thing (highly unusual at Mullet Rock Central), or B.) they would soon be dating one of my friends and I would have to hang out with them anyway. Ten years later, after many painful and hideous confrontations between myself and I, and thanks in no small part to The Luck of The Draw (all things being equal, intention and mother nature have both had their say in this), I'm on the other side of the fence. The grass is somewhat greener, in that there are rides offered by mechanics instead of strangers screaming mean things at me from passing cars, and there are free drinks on a somewhat regular basis, depending on how I feel about eye contact on any given night. The thing is, when I walk in to a bar with my friend (who, yes, totally considers herself "the friend" when we go out together), and some bar-guy gives me the elevator and tells me I'm the best looking girl in the place, I turn to my friend and we wince. None of my girlfriends ever winced for me. Jennie Howard - - - - Date: Mon, 13 Oct 2003
My dear McSweeney's, I'm only going to say this once, and then I want all the uni-tasking nay sayers, most specifically Jeb Gleason-Allured (?) who recently attempted to make a case for "de-recommending" the brushing of one's teeth while showering to save time and water, to return their delicate daffodil necks (spittle! grody!)to the sun in cozy (de-)contemplation of problems more within their grasp. 1. Put toothpaste on the brush before entering the shower, stick it in your mouth, Popeye style, to the side, so you don't knock your teeth out while jerking uncontrollably toward the wall after catching your reflection in that mirror that, in a tour de force of unflattery, cuts you off at the knees. 2. Use your freed hands to turn on the faucet, and step into the shower, taking some water into your mouth and making a few warm up strokes against your teeth. 3. While the water is heating up and you are wetting your hair, brush a little more, then take a short break, leaving the brush in your mouth with the small little paste-storm you've managed to whip up, to set while you wash your hair. 4. Wash your hair. 5. (AND THIS IS WHERE THE SAVING PART COMES IN, SO LOOK SHARP, JEB!) In rinsing, jockey into a position under the shower head which directs maximum water pressure against your scalp. Use your dominant hand to resume the brushing—more thoughtful and invigorated now, after the brief hiatus—of your teeth. Use your non-dominant hand to reach back and assist in the rinsing of your hair. 6. You know, who can say whether you'll finish rinsing or brushing first? Some days are rinse-intensive, others you spend a few extra seconds on the chompers. In my experience, the more you do it, the better you get at timing completion in tandem. Dude! 7. Turn and rinse out your mouth and maybe some of the shampoo at the front. You dainties out there (and Jeb, I am again looking at you) will want to take this opportunity to spit over the drain so as to avoid introducing your yucky feet to something yucky from another part of your body. 8. Now is the time to either shampoo again (does anyone actually do that?) or condition. Use the minute or two while the conditioner is working its chemical magic (am I the only one who actually does that?) to wash your body. Depending on your technique and what you're hoping to get out of step 8, timing these two events to simultaneous completion may be more difficult than those in step 5. We're all friends here, no need to get into it. This is, I believe, what was meant by "if you do it right." I'm sorry that it came to this, but I've noticed this dissent circling the drain of obstreperousness for a while now, and felt it was my duty to come forward. You don't need to be a ambidexterous, double-jointed or even of a singular mind to do it right, you just have to want to, Jeb, you just have to want to. All yours,
- - - - Date: Tues, 07 October, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Among your recommendations I came across the following stunner: "Brushing Your Teeth in the Shower/Saves time and water if you do it right." OK, setting aside for a moment the yuck factor of standing in one's own spittle/food particles, I would like to point out that while one is brushing (perhaps two minutes?), untold liters of water are being wasted. Far better would be (before or after taking a shower) to wet one's brush under the sink faucet and then shut off the spigot while brushing. This would expend, along with rinsing, perhaps 1.5 liters of water, max. Dude! "Saves time and water if you do it right"? Maybe you're some latter day Meribeth Old or Krzysztof Rojek, but the average person likely can't shampoo, condition or soap-up while brushing. So, out the proverbial window goes your time-saving claim. What are we left with? Frothy paste gobs slowly drifting toward the drain. Lest you think me a know-it-all brow beater, I should say that I, too, am a committed shower brusher. I don't know why. Yours,
- - - - Date: Mon, 06 October, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Progress on the House in the Suburbs has been rapid in recent weeks, and I am told that in two weeks we will have a "walk through" followed by the closing at the end of the month, at which one can hope for some reasonable sense of closure. I have a friend from college who is a construction super, and he agrees to walk through the house with me for a look-see. He uses a red magic marker to make notes on various pieces of wood regarding their bow or squareness. On the short little wall at the top of the stairs (which he says is called a "knee wall,") he writes "Dead Man Through Floor?" and draws a big arrow pointing down. He assures me this is a common practice for stabilizing knee walls, and I nod as if in understanding. His degree was in elementary art education. With regards,
- - - - - - - - Date: Fri, 19 September, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, …a game called Pass the Pigs, by Milton Bradley. It comes in a small case and you roll the pigs (as you would, say, dice) and tally up points. Really much more fun than it sounds (like the Trump game… I mean, probably). Michael - - - - Date: Wed, 16 September, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Please tell your Jeff guy, the one who decides who wins what games during the NFL season that the Chiefs are a three-year team under Dick Vermiel, and this is the third year. The YUK Kansas City thing really confuses me. What's wrong with Kansas City? Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Fri, 15 August, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I was delighted to see my answer of "de kelp pot" posted for last week's Mc Sweeney's Brain Exploder, but was dismayed to find "anonymous" in place of my name and the certain fame that would accompany it's presence. So let it be known that "de kelp pot" was the product of, and should forever be associated with, the name Jessica Morrison. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Fri, 15 August, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I've noticed that the majority of the "letters" you post aren't really "letters" at all. They seem to be quick jabs at irreverent observationing, lacking in any real coorespondence-based bantery. I wrote one once, but my mind wasn't then what it is today. I leave you with that, and this: "You Showed Me" by the Turtles is an eeriely haunting song. Why are you closed on Mondays? Wonderful,
- - - - Date: Fri, 15 August, 2003
Dear Gabe Koplowitz, I'm writing to let you know how much I enjoyed your diary as a petitioner for the DICEOB, and I would have liked to take part in the political rally on Saturday. Unfortunately I live in Italy, which represents a sort of impediment for me. Nevertheless I am definitely a DICEOB supporter, and I do hope that one day Darrell Issa will officially become the supreme ruler of California. This is for several reasons, the main one regarding Mr. Berlusconi, supreme ruler of Italy (officially elected by a bunch of usually non-voters convinced that money brings money and that only poor people steal, while rich ones just play cool by a swimming pool, actually enjoying giving their money to others just for the sake of it and, hey! Who cares anyway?!). Before the elections more than two years ago, I felt that Mr. B was going to win without my help, otherwise — you can bet on that — I myself would have promoted a SBIEOB (a Silvio Berlusconi Italian Election Omnipotence Bill). I know you might find this not interesting at all, however I think it's part of my civil duties to inform you of how our life here in Italy turned from a jungle into a Paradise under our Supreme Ruler. In the pre-Mr. B era, everything was messed up, we had no proper rules, our governors were fighting all the time, we were poor and sad, and our TV was sad, providing us with news we didn't want to hear, and not paying enough attention to the weather forecast. A jungle, that is. Today you don't have to fight for anything. Mr. B and his colleagues/friends/lawyers/ starlets, will approve new laws everyday, sorting out all that chaos we had to deal with in the pre-Mr. B era. One of the first tough decisions he made in July 2001 in Genoa during the G8 — when fights were publicly announced, the atmosphere was tense, and the police was getting ready to hit — was that of forbidding clothes to be hung to dry out of the windows. Our laws now all go in one direction, finally! They all go forward, through any obstacle, fighting for our right to get one direction, one thought, one ruler, one TV, one newspaper. We are finally part of one world! We are finally free. Free in a free world. A tailor-made world. A world in good shape. The shape of a Bush. I believe that this is what democracy is all about. To have it all made clear for us, the people. One choice, without having to think about anything that doesn't have to do with fashion, money, and holidays. I wish you, in that dream-land of California, the same fortune we've got here. May the sun shine upon you, the sky always be cloudless, the streets be populated by smartly dressed people, the gardens surrounded by flowers, your teeth be whiter, your dogs happier. May you have a national ad, telling you to buy, because the mere act of buying stuff is good for your state economy. May you have to watch this ad tons of times in a day, listening to a funny tune, like the American happy '50s soundtrack, so that you can forget that actually somebody is stealing the money you work for, the same money you are supposed to use to increase your national economy with. May we all forget, and learn how to stare at things so that we are won't have to understand them anymore. May we all be spotless. I believe you're not interested in foreign politics, but this is a small world after all. The same world where an Austrian actor is staring at the governor of California's chair. From,
- - - - Date: Wed, 30 July, 2003
Dear McSweeney's: The house in the suburbs that I referenced in letters of February 24, March 3, and April 11 is now being framed by a crew of four carpenters (or possibly three carpenters and one apprentice). While visiting the site is ostensibly "exciting," there is, too, the unshakable feeling that framed walls all around you are very much like a wooden prison, the studs serving as iron bars. But I have learned that ignoring such symbolism is the essential challenge of building a house in the suburbs! It is simple coincidence, you see. Nothing more. For example, I was recently helping my two-year-old son out of the house and onto the pile of gravel rocks that sits where one day will be a small front porch. It is currently a steep drop, and it was difficult to be of much assistance because I was hampered by a broken arm. (An injury unrelated to the house in the suburbs, I assure you. Not directly related, anyhow, in any sort of provable way.) As I helped my son down this drop, I lost my balance and in regaining it, my left ankle (motto: susceptible to frequent sprains since 1989!) turned completely over and I started to tumble. In order not to tumble onto my son, I wrenched my body back the other direction and landed, most coincidentally, on my broken arm. It is fair to say, as I lay on the gravel pile in intense pain on both the top and bottom of my body, that I was arguably "writhing," and this immediately gave way to a fairly lengthy string of words, which while articulating my sensations at the moment, were of the variety that I prefer not to use in front of my two-year-old son. I am certainly glad that the houses of my new neighbors are also only in the framed/prison stage, and thus no one was around to witness this unfortunate episode. With regards,
- - - - Date: Wed, 30 July, 2003
Dear Elizabeth, My girlfriend laughs at me every time we walk down the frozen-treats aisles at the various grocery stores around town (Columbus, Ohio) because I always stop to see if, by some miracle, the store has suddenly started selling Jell-O Pudding Pops again. I'm always disappointed with what I find, but it's almost worth it because Emily (my girlfriend) gets so much delight out of my persistence in vain. Pudding Pops were indeed damn good. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Thurs, 24 July, 2003
Dear Amy, I was referring to Aple syrup, actually, which is in fact mined by autumnal bucket placement. There was a typo in the original. Signed,
P.S. You love pancakes. - - - - Date: Thurs, 24 July, 2003
Dear McSweeney's: I must say I was relieved when I read Emily Maloney's response to my response to her letter in your column. You must believe me when I say that I had a fair degree of anxiety about the possibility that my dead grandmother was continuing to write letters ex mortis, and to publications I read, no less. Considering how my grandmother felt about me, this ability could spell bigger trouble for me down the line as her supernatural powers increased. Letter-writing is fairly small potatoes on the scale of ghostly deeds, but you never know where practice might have got her. I'm figuring she might not have a whole lot to do in the afterlife, so this was cause for concern. In any event, I think I can cancel those extra therapy sessions. I'm also glad to report that I've never been to New Jersey, never so much as had a minor crush on a girl named Linda, nor am I an uncle to anyone over the age of seven, and regrettably have never made even one hundred thousand dollars in a single year, so I'm hoping this also means I'm not boring. Tim Maloney - - - - Date: Mon, 21 July, 2003
Dear Mr. Cohen, Thank you for your kind words about the Vermont quarter. I come from a long line of Vermonters and we Stenders have done our fair share of sugaring. You seem to be under the impression, though, that one simply attaches a bucket to a tree and maple syrup magically comes out. Actually, the sap that comes out of a maple tree has the look, consistency, and smell of water. This sap must be boiled down until it's reduced to a syrup; it takes roughly thirty-seven gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup. Also, this isn't an autumn scene on the quarter. Sugaring takes place in the springtime (sap runs best when you have nights below freezing and really warm days). That's why there are no leaves on the tree. One last thing: I do hate pancakes, but I don't mind drinking a little warm syrup right when it's come off the boiler. It's like liquid brown heaven in a Styrofoam cup. I hear the Canadians mix a little gin into theirs. Thanks again,
- - - - Date: Mon, 21 July, 2003
Dear Justin, I just read your ketchup story, and wanted to tell you a story that begins with a question: Have you ever made plum pudding? I made it one Thanksgiving and it took twelve hours. I started at noon and finished at midnight, in the first minutes of Thanksgiving Day. Anyway, I followed the instructions in I think it was the Joy of Cooking (unabridged) cookbook. There are two options, and I took the "Olde Fashioned" one. Justin, take a guess as to what's in plum pudding. No plums. You know those bright little pieces in fruitcake? There's like a cup of those. There's also a cup of suet — the kind woodpeckers like, also called animal fat. You melt the suet, but first you have to dice it up, which is a wierd job because your hands get sticky with fat oil and it's hard to rinse off. Next: hard liquor. There are I think three different types in plum pudding. A cup of whisky, a cup of bourbon, and one other one. My Dad was pissed. There's a dry mix of crushed nuts and flower and things, which gets mixed with the molten suet. This goes into the punch, and makes a gooey, creek-colored porridge that goes into the oven and five hours later comes out as PluPu. Cooking it: You don't cook it; you steam it. For five hours. We didn't have the right equipment, so my Dad bent a cookie-cooling wire rack so it held two bowls of the porridge into over a tray of water in the oven. Then he went to bed and at midnight got up and helped me get the plum pudding out of the molds. That's another thing: It's nothing like pudding. When it comes out, it comes out as a loaf, like head cheese or something, in the shape of whatever you steamed it in. It's jiggly, but bready looking, and really more or less vomit-colored. And not even plum vomit-colored. But it's amazing. Like cheesecake or my friend Tom's grandma's Heavy Pie, a thin piece will fill you up. We cut it like bread and had it with ice cream. It tastes of a cocktail snack, an appetizer, a meal, and a dessert, all at once. My Grandma gets a few catalogs in October that offer a gourmet, wrapped-up plum pudding for sale, but I've never ordered one. I would be curious if the color is any different. Well that's it. Thought you might like to know. Your friend,
- - - - Date: Mon, 14 July, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I have tried night-vision goggles and they are really neat. First, you can't see anything (because you aren't wearing the goggles yet), and then you put the goggles on and it's like a great green moon has risen — but only for you; everyone else still can't see. The first time I tried them I found this hard to believe, and I kept taking them off and putting them back on to check that the goggles themselves weren't somehow just shining green light on everything. If you can't get night-vision goggles, but you know someone with a really nice digital camera, the "night-shot" option on the camera is almost as good as the goggles. It comes with a zoom too, but it's not as good for running around. (We played hide and go seek with the night-vision goggles.) Michael McCarrin - - - - Date: Tues, 12 July, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Down at the Astor Place subway today, same dude, looking a little better, singing "Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore," and then bam!, parlays it right into "Riders on the Storm" again. Yours,
- - - - Date: Tues, 24 June, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, When I saw that Tim Maloney had written you, I just had to respond. I have an uncle named Tim Maloney, and he lives in New Jersey with his wife (and high-school sweetheart) Linda. He was a television and small electronics repairman until IBM swept him up in the mid-1980s. Now he makes a couple hundred grand a year. Not bad, when you think about the fact that he refused to go to college. He has two kids, Shawn and Shannon. Shawn became similarly technically inclined, and he lives in Boulder, Colorado. I met him once at a Japanese restaurant in Chicago. He was pretty boring, but my dad explained later that Tim, who is my dad's brother, was even more dull. My other cousin, Shannon, wears a blue vest and works at a Wal-Mart in Hackensack, New Jersey. To tell you the truth, she sounds much more interesting. Sincerely yours,
- - - - Date: Sat, 21 June, 2003
McSweeney's, I went to the beach today with my girlfriend and her new roommates. She's a nurse, and always obsesses about things like having enough to eat and making sure that everyone wears sunscreen. I think she's incredibly sexy when she's pissed off, so I purposely ignore her advice. Now I have these weird tan-lines where I wore my sunglasses while playing endless games of volleyball all day. Travis Overocker
- - - - Date: Mon, 9 June, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I got my wisdom teeth out last week, but now I've healed and I'm back in action, except I have big holes in my gums where teeth used to be. Nobody can notice though, except for me and my tongue. Dr. Parsons saw the holes; he told me they looked great. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Sun, 8 June, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I have recently become employed as a preschool teacher after my last employer said he'd clone me if he could, and once the local police said my fingerprints were, indeed, not linked to the stolen sand dollar scandal. The kids have taught me the "Hello" song in English, Spanish, Hungarian, Swedish, and ASL, in addition to "Baby Beluga" by Raffi, a touching song about a whale who lives in the ocean and apparently, for now, swims about happy and free. In exchange, I have taught them: that hitting, biting, and/or kicking someone because you want their tool belt actually doesn't solve anything; that school scissors are for cutting paper, not hair; and that crying because you forgot the sunglasses that match your outfit isn't going to make them appear. Betsy Bluey - - - - Date: Tues, 3 June, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Holy Cow! I was reading your letters section, which I do on occasion, when I spied the name of a contributor from April of this year: Emily Maloney. Which name, I shudder when I recall, was the name of my grandmother. Which grandmother upon my birth disowned me entirely because I was not named David William Maloney III, after my father, and apparently a name she quite liked, it also being her husband's name. About which husband I remember very little except this pipe that he smoked constantly, and that he had once worked for the Police Department in Springfield, Illinois. He had one of those organs like the Kimball Swinger (though not that brand, I think) that I used to love to beat on unmelodically until he asked me to stop. Anyway, this grandmother of mine was particularly unfriendly about my being named Tim, and found many ways to express this. She spoke to me very little while I was growing up, and was always "forgetting" to send me the gifts that she would remember to send my sisters. Needless to say, I did not grow up with particularly fond memories of her, though I would be a rather pathetic case now if I were still injured by the slight. My grandmother died last year before that letter was written, and unless I am prepared to believe that she has risen from the grave so that she can post an e-mail to a site that I visit in the equally creepy hopes that I will see it and then get to feeling all spooky about it, I must assume this is simply a coincidence. I wish Ms. Maloney well, and wonder only if she is a relation of some kind. Yr. pal,
- - - - Date: Fri, 30 May, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, After about three months without a job, it looks like I might actually be hired again! And by a highly regarded university, no less! I will in some ways miss unemployment. However, I might benefit from eating fewer peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which I would be too ashamed to bring to a real office. Wish me luck,
- - - - Date: Tues, 27 May, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, We have a tiny strip of grass between our building and our neighbour. It has the kind of tree that only grows at the hands of landscrapers- perky, pitiful. This spring, a pair of geese landed there and began raising a family. From my window, I can see them. I love them so, so, much. It makes me happy and that takes a lot here. I came back into work after a late meeting, just to type some ridiculous report that nobody would ever read. As I stepped out of the car, two geese came storming toward me and my body went hot and tight and thumpy. I dove back inside my car and slammed the door. And then I locked it. I was frightened for a long time. I made myself breathe deeply. As a little boy I had gone to feed the ducks and one had bitten my finger. Apparently, I wailed for hours. I have no memory of this event, but it is a Tibbetts family legend. I wonder if a part of me has a previously buried fear of waterfowl that has now been stirred up. Or am I just a chicken? I actually drove to the other side of the building and went in a different door. I think I could take those geese, but I didn't want to have to hurt them. I am thinking of quitting my job, but it's really, really, really not about the geese. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Sun, 11 May, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I asked an elderly customer last week if he needed a bag for his trade-paperback best-seller, and he replied indicating that he did desire a bag. I'd like to say that he did so in a particularly snide tone, and I do remember a certain sharpness to his syllables that may have bothered me. But, honestly, I had no inkling of what was to come. I just smiled and reached for his bag while he squinted at me and eventually added "Where do you think I'm going?!" Confused and somewhat shocked, I creased my brow and exclaimed "What?" There was a short and (I hope you'll forgive me for the following adjective because this is a true story and I really think anyone observing the situation would have used the same word) dramatic pause. He ended our transaction by shoving his palm within inches of my face and growling, "There is no communication between your generation and mine." Apparently not, sir. Faithfully yours,
- - - - Date: Sun, 11 May, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I am still looking for a roommate. Yes, still. If you know of anyone who is employed, neat but not a freak, and otherwise cool, tell them to drop me a line. Thanks guys,
- - - - Date: Sat, 10 May, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I think more children should play with elves, but that's out now. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Wed, 7 May, 2003
It was in front of my face the whole time for years. It was in front of everyone's face for years. And now, 10 years later, the thought of it turns my stomach. The cafeteria lunch ladies never wore gloves. Yours,
- - - - Date: Wed, 7 May, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Why is it that all of these fancy Harvard Business School graduates writing books on management techniques have all missed the obvious connection between amphetamines and increased productivity? Not productive, personally,
- - - - Date: Tues, 6 May, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Yesterday — or was it last week? — I made some guacamole. Only, I forgot to add lemon, and the guacamole turned black (because of the avocados). Thankfully, that didn't stop my girlfriend from dipping nachos in it. She even said my guacamole was "delicious" several times. While eating my guacamole, we were listening to a very old Cure album and drinking White Russians. All in all, we had a very nice evening. I believe my guacamole has something to do with it. Thank you,
- - - - Date: Sun, 4 May, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, It's the end of my first year at NYU Law School, and I'm desperately in need of a plane ticket to my married lover in Santa Monica. So, I scan the Times want ads for job possibilities. For some reason, "media estimator ad agency" attracts me. Of course, I don't have the foggiest notion what a media estimator is, and yet, I fill out the application and for experience write, "Grey Advertising, Wilshire Blvd.," having copied the address out of a phone book in the basement of Rockefeller Center. Most significantly, I never mention I'm a law school student looking for a measly three-week job. As it turns out, the work is easy, and I'm so pleased with my caper that I write married Alfredo a letter wherein I congratulate myself on my brilliance and refer to my employers as "gullible, Goy morons." Six days later, I'm summoned to personnel where a Muffie somebody gives me one of those "How the fuck did they ever let Jews in here?" looks and says, "So, you think we're a bunch of gullible, Goy morons?" Obviously, Alfredo's wife got hold of my letter and sent it on to B. & B. and they have me by the proverbial short hairs. Still, I find myself starting to feel indignant. As if I really was a media estimator (and a damn good one at that), and these anti-Semites were trying to ruin the start of a brilliant career. But before I can get into it, she says, "Just leave… and be grateful we don't report you to the character committee." Dazed, I start walking uptown and soon find myself on a bench at the square across from the Plaza Hotel daydreaming my next move when this sexy man of about forty starts talking to me. Before I can say, "I don't even know you," we're in his suite at the Regency Hotel making love. Everything is perfect until he hands me an envelope with a hundred bucks in it, and it dawns on me that he's mistaken me for a hooker. I phone Alfredo to tell him I have the money. Unfortunately, his wife answers. And so — in what I think is a well- disguised voice — I say, "I have a person-to-person phone call to Alfredo from Paul." She takes in a very long breath. Then she says, "Is this Deborah from New York?" I start to protest, but she interrupts. "I just gave birth" she says, "and my milk is drying up from all the aggravation." She adds, "You aren't the first he cheated with, and I can assure you, you won't be the last." Three months later, I get word that his wife also dumped him and I phone her. I thought she'd be pissed to hear from me, but she's delighted We talk, we compare notes and finally, we meet for lunch. It's weird, I know that, but the weirdest thing about it is that it feels as though we're the best of friends when the only thing we have in common is our distaste for a man we'd have killed for last week. Of course, I can see now how pathetic I was. But because I didn't know I was pathetic I felt okay, perhaps even better than I do now when I'm not so pathetic. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Sun, 27 April, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I just finished reading a number of interesting and stimulating letters on your website today. A watched printer never prints, so they say. So, as I am at work this quiet Sunday, waiting for a series of maps to print, I read letters from my fellow readers. This is not what I really wished to write about, but is intended as a bit of context and background. What I did wish to contribute to the McSweeney's canon, however is a statement of meteorological concern. What is happening? In the last 24 hours there has been an accumulation of greater than 50cm (20 inches) of snow. It is April 27. I do not live in Alaska or Siberia, but southern Canada. This is not generally expected to happen, even here. I hear people on the street begging for global warming. "Burn more fossil fuels!!" they exclaim. "To hell with the ozone layer!!" they chant. Well, that's all I have to say about that. Regards,
- - - - Date: Sun, 27 April, 2003
Dear McSweeney's: I bet if you get a job working in a pepper factory, pretending to sneeze gets old real fast. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Thurs, 24 April, 2003
Dear McSweeneys: It has come to my attention that I have, as of now, a great opening for a short story involving, but not limited to: a giraffe, Superwoman, two oranges, and a kiddie pool. It proceeds as follows: "They had met at a gallery opening at Fassbender. She stood in the corner by an open window, smoking a cigarette, looking debonair. He was asthmatic. They were an unlikely match." Regards,
- - - - Date: Thurs, 24 April, 2003
Dear McSweeney's Ever been a pool boy? That's what I thought, but you should know what you're getting into, especially if you're a pool boy at some second-cast country club, and especially if that country club is in the heart of a sprawling urban megatropolis with a 10 foot brick fence to keep the undesirables out. Being a pool boy is, in my opinion, an overrated job, fraught with difficulties other than the "Fetch towels to here, bring vomit skimmer there, rub suntan lotion on Mrs. Johnson's back" variety. I remember a bright day in 1973 walking around poolside with a jug of chlorine when Mike Douglas thrust a large hairy arm up from his lounge chaise and gestured for another gin and tonic, if by gestured I mean whistled and stuck up his middle finger, which I do. "I could have you deported to Bolivia and shot, and not necessarily in that order," he said as I returned with the glass brimming with Bombay and a lime. He measured me up as he took the top layer off the drink. "And another thing: what kind of man wears a paisley shirt and striped trunks?" he asked, his rheumy eyes starting to swim. I started to answer, but he cut me off. "Some hippie, that's who." He turned back to his paper and began to consciously ignore me. "Hippies," he murmured. "Hippies…" I think you can see what I mean when I say this job isn't all it's cracked up to be, especially when brushes with greatness lead to baseless accusations of bohemianism. Erica Jong once called me a "gutless flounder" when I gave her the "dirty" martini she asked for. Andy Warhol said that I deserved only 13 minutes of fame after he took a swig of a peach Schnapps I had put in a dirty highball glass. And Brandy Alexanders only earn you a punch in the face with Gore Vidal. Brandy Alexanders spiked with chlorine and "E-Z- pH-Test-R," anyway. Remarkably yours,
- - - - Date: Friday, 11 April, 2003
Dear McSweeney's: I was two years old, and the fish my grandfather had yanked through the small hole in the frozen lake was flipping, gyrating, gasping, gurgling and getting closer to me as I stood rigid with terror. The beast was huge with gaping jaws and perfectly round, piercing eyes. So I ran as fast and far as I could. My grandpa got a tasty fish dinner that night and I got my fish phobia. Thanks for listening.
- - - - Date: Friday, 11 April, 2003
Dear McSweeney's: I fully realize that this is going to sound awfully cheeky of me, but the house in the suburbs I referenced originally in my letter of Feb. 24, then indicated was not going to be built in my letter of March 03, is now, apparently, going to be built. What happened was that my wife got us a realtor who now goes with us to the meetings with the House Builders/Sellers. Somehow this has "made the numbers work" and while admittedly I don't understand much of it, I realize, too, that my main role right now is to not get fired from my job in the gray cubicle that is almost in the corner. How this effects the Ed Skoog sighting initially identified in my Feb. 24 letter, then reinterpreted as ominous in my March 03 letter, remains up for debate. The Skoog sighting seems torn between representing Closure (Feb. 24) and Doom (March 03), which seems to parallel my own feelings on building a house in the suburbs. Despite all the Good Reasons for doing so, I remain stuck between two certainties, as if in the very white space that comes between "Ed" and "Skoog," a tiny parcel of land, suitable for building, with great schools, and a Westerville mailing address. Regards,
- - - - Date: Tues, 8 April, 2003
Hello to you, Two things, not numbered, both true. My girlfriend and I found out that she was pregnant, and five months pregnant to boot, too. We were both surprised as we were doing all that you were supposed to do and she showed no signs. (Later on we realized she was showing signs, but we were too naïve to notice them.) So I drive her up to family health clinic the next day, and we find her blood pressure to be high enough that it was a concern. So off to the hospital it we go. Jesse has never had her teeth drilled, much less had to go to the hospital and is just going all over the place in panic. Her blood pressure at the hospital was high. Too, too high! They would tell us. I asked what we were in for. You shall rest! They would say. We sat in a dark room in silence for two days, before her parents had her transferred to a better hospital. The doctors at the better hospital explained to us that Jesse had a case of severe preeclampsia (formally known as toximia) which had stabilized to preeclampsia. Preeclampsia is dangerous as it stop blood from flowing into the uterus. The only cure for this is delivery. They decided to keep Jesse in the hospital, as long as they could, until they would have to do an early forced delivery. Much TV was watched and even more magazines read. Sunday morning. Jesse awakes to bad pains in the stomach. Liver failure! So on Sunday, March 2, Jacob Seybert was born and I became a dad. Baby and Mom are both healthy. Although Jacob was born at 2 lbs, 2 ounces, his vital signs and organs are all good. All he has to do is grow in his little incubator in the NICU. You can use a washcloth for his blanket. He's so tiny and perfect. This all happened in one week. I forget what the second thing was, but I'll let you know as soon as I remember. Yours,
- - - - Date: Mon, 3 March, 2003
Dear McSweeney's: As it turns out, we will not be building the house in the suburbs I referenced in my letter of Feb. 24. Once we "ran the numbers" my naïve belief in "great rates" and "creative financing" betrayed me, and in this, I reluctantly admit, there was some sadness. I am also forced to reinterpret the Ed Skoog sighting I discussed in my previous letter. While it seemed then that the Skoog sighting was a portent signaling the close of the period of my life spent pursuing the intellectual ideal and the opening of the period of my life involving deed restrictions and homeowners association fees, it now seems that the Skoog sighting was meant as more of a warning; as if a raven perched above the chamber door of my suburban house dreams. Quoth the Skoograven, "Nevermore." Regards,
- - - - Date: Mon, 3 March, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Like Peter Brown, I recently read some old letters to McSwy's, specifically the correspondence with Gary Pike in the late winter/early spring 1999 issue. And, like Peter, I was struck with a feeling of something "closing down" or "opening up." In one of his letters, Gary claimed to have been a one-time debate team coach at Fayetteville-Manlius High School in central New York. As I considered that my years at F-M unfortunately did not converge with his time there — that perhaps they might even have been pre-Pike, therefore making me feel old, trousers-rolled old — I felt something clang shut behind me while at the same time a soft new breeze drifted in from another place; a recurring sensation really that has less to do with Gary and Peter, I suppose, and more to do with the fact that my ten-year marriage is ending, that I recently read Dave Eggers' AHWOSG, and God help me I hope this is as much about beginnings as endings. I'd like to believe there are no coincidences, that we are connected, and I consciously, humbly share this cosmic and holy convergence. (Congratulations on your house in the suburbs, Peter — a closing, but an opening, too.) Affectionately,
- - - - Date: Sun, 2 March, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, I bought some invisible tape today, I think. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Sun, 2 March, 2003
Dear McSweeney's: When I was about six, my grandfather came inside from grocery shopping and I ran to greet him. As soon as I started to hug him, he cackled and spoke — "I am not Buddy! I am a monster who killed your grandfather and I'm living inside his body!" I started screaming and he felt terrible. Previous to this experience, I don't have clear memories of being afraid of much. Afterwards, I started thinking about monsters and killers, specifically Medusa, whenever I was in my room trying to sleep. I also began quizzing my mom regularly on details and quirks of my personality to make sure that she was still herself. I remember the instant trauma of her answering the question of my favorite ice cream flavor incorrectly (I had recently tried and started to prefer bubblegum ice cream to vanilla.) While my grandfather redeemed himself by waking me up to watch late-night TV movies about doctors, and also by inventing gardening tools for my grandmother, I'm not sure that I've ever fully recovered. Just so you will all be prepared, my favorite ice cream flavor these days is butter pecan. Yours,
- - - - Date: Sun, 2 March, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, Today was a fresh and sunny Sunday in London. I was walking along the boardwalk on the Southbank when two good-sized rats dashed out from a hedgerow at my left, through a crowd of tourists, around a stone planter, back through the same but rapidly dividing group of tourists and into the hedge. Because I am not scared of rats, I had the opportunity to note that these rats seemed to be really enjoying their mad dash. Playing chase is always fun but I think that these rats had an especially fantastic run because amidst the multi-lingual shouting was an almost visible depreciation of London in tourist dollars. Which is a fun kind of impact to have, in a mischievous sort of way. (Besides, they can't expect to make too much of an impact on anything, really. They're only rats.) From,
- - - - Date: Mon, 24 Feb, 2003
Dear McSweeneys: I thought it might be interesting to read the earliest letter on your earliest letter page (August 1999 and earlier). I thought perhaps it would offer words of good luck from a famous person or something. The letter is from J. Robert Lennon of Ithaca, New York, and a character that figures prominently in it is "Ed Skoog." The letter concludes, "If you doubt me, ask Ed. He is the only Ed Skoog in America, we think." I am writing you now because when I was in graduate school in the 1990s, I knew Ed Skoog, only not all that well. Insofar as he figures prominently in the earliest letter on your earliest letter page makes me wonder if in reading this letter, there is something in my life that is closing down; or perhaps something new is opening up. I suspect the former, however, because we are building a house in the suburbs. Regards,
- - - - Date: Mon, 24 Feb, 2003
Dearest McSweeney's, These are the boys that I have/had crushes on: 1. Eric Michener — This lasted for several years and ended in me confronting him and being rejected. We remain acquainted. 2. Justin Banta — For some reason I seemed to have more confidence during this time and confronted him within months of the initial realization of the crush. I was once again rejected. 3. Justin Eves — Whom I never told and moved to New York to play jazz guitar and I will never see again, except in my dreams. 4. Andrew McCown — (current) I am at a thorough loss as to what course of action to take. Victory or Death,
- - - - Date: Wed, 19 Feb, 2003
Dear McSweeney's, This afternoon I painted a couple of pictures. It was perhaps a decent session for someone who can't really paint. One painting was of an orange and two wine bottles and the other was of a lime, a lemon, and a plum. Plums are expensive these days, but I don't enjoy apples. If I can sell one of these paintings for $100, I'm going to quit writing for a spell. My wife would be glad to hear that. Tonight at drawing class I hope the model is hot. I hope at least it's not a guy. I don't really want to draw any more penises. They're boring to draw. So boring. Just little taped-up looking pieces of wood and cloth. Tomorrow morning I'll probably wake up again. I don't agree with that guy who said that the best thing is never to have been born and the second best thing is to have died right after birth. The day after tomorrow is my birthday. I hope it will be a sunny day and I won't have to wear too many layers. I hope they don't increase the terror color code to red by then because I have to take the subway over to Berkeley. Well, it'll be twilight soon and I should go. I wish it could be twilight all day long. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Sun, 16 Feb, 2003
Dear McSweeney's The other day I ate dinner at my friend's house. I went to the store to buy chips and beer and, because I was out of my own personal groceries, some other food including some raw jalapeno peppers. I like jalapenos, and I put them in a lot of things I eat, such as salads, chili, and omelettes. I even eat them raw, sometimes, with chips and beer. While he was cooking, my friend ate a jalapeno and then cut a couple up and put them on a hot frying pan. They live in a small apartment and within a few minutes we were all choking and coughing and rubbing our eyes and we had to open the door and windows even though it was a little cold out. A few years ago, while we visited some relatives in Alabama, my young found a can of pepper spray on my uncle Bill's dresser. He only sprayed it a little, but the air conditioning efficiently moved it throughout the house and soon all of us were breathing in the stinging air and coughing. My friend's apartment felt just like that. Scott Underwood
- - - - Date: Sat, 15 Feb, 2003
Dear McSweeney's Today I received this oddly disturbing message from Hotwire, an online travel site, and promptly thought of you. From : "Hotwire Deals" Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Tues, 11 Feb, 2003
Our wind chill factor hit -30 degrees today. Just thought I'd share that tidbit of weather information. Carla
- - - - Date: Tues, 11 Feb, 2003
Dear McSweeney's: I am not one to be at all unnerved by bugs, snakes, or any other small creature. But, as I have recently found out, house centipedes really give me the willies. I had never even heard of house centipedes before moving to the Northwest, but am now quite familiar with them and I wish that I were not. The first time I saw one I was on the phone with my mother, and this enormous bug with a million legs longer than Tina Turner's booked out from under my bed and ran like the wind across the floor and into a pile of clothes. I yelled, no, screamed, "Oh my god what the f-ck is that" and felt like a million of 'em were crawling across my shoulder blades. Usually I let any found bug run wild in my apartment with the exception of mosquitoes and cockroaches, but there was no way I was going to co-habitate with this thing. I told my mom to hold the phone, grabbed a shoe and holding it by the toe at an arms length, gingerly nudged the nearest shirt in the pile of clothes. Out it skittered faster than a striped-ass ape and I yelled "uhf!" and hopped and almost tripped trying to get away from the damn thing. I launched the shoe and winged it, upon whence it ran in tight frantic circles until I could steel myself to give it the fatal blow. It lay there twitching and I skeeved back to the bed and grabbed the phone. It took me a good twenty minutes after I got off the phone to get up the nerve to get a paper towel and collect its carcass. Ew ew ew I said all the way to the kitchen garbage. Then I took a shower and drank a glass of wine. I thought that it was an isolated incident, that obviously not more than one of these horrifying things could exist, you know, like the devil, or that big marine monster in Clash of the Titans, and that I had triumphed unscathed but for the occasional turning-out-the-light misgivings, but, alas, I saw more. I've gotten a little more used to them, but still find them utterly freaky and repulsive. Sometimes I find little tiny baby ones, which aren't scary at all, but I still slam a shoe down on those tiny suckers so hard that they are liquefied. The most recent one I encountered was the worst: I entered the bathroom, flipped on the light, and saw a gynormous one in the bathtub, futilely trying to scale the smooth, curved porcelain. God knows how long it had been in there, but I was grateful I had come across it when it was at a disadvantage. I started and swore, then headed for my trusty centipede shoe. I slammed the shoe down, but it took protection in the curved corner of the tub and merely flang itself, cleverly utilizing the momentum of the shoe wind, further away and began flailing its legs faster. I maneuvered carefully and popped it a good one. It literally exploded into a hundred little disgusting pieces, all of which twitched so wildly they hopped. I ran out of the bathroom, and when I went back to look at it about 30 seconds later, ridden by morbid curiosity, all the little pieces of legs were still twitching. Best,
- - - - Date: Tues, 11 Feb, 2003
Dear Sir or Ma'am, I would like to take issue with the first item in the "McSweeney's Recommends" section of your website: Brushing your teeth in the shower. While I sympathize with and encourage the underlying intent of the recommendation, that of conservation of the limited resources time and water, I feel that some clarification is necessary. Brushing your teeth in the shower only results in conservation when combined with other, normal shower activities, such as using a loofah, soaping one's body, or massaging shampoo into one's scalp. While I have never personally used a loofah, the other activities (and, I imagine, loofah-ing) either require the use of both hands, or one hand to be raised in the air or otherwise placed out of commission, thus rendering the brushing of teeth difficult or even impossible. Any unfortunate readers who unthinkingly heed this item of counsel might possibly find themselves brushing their teeth while performing no activity other than standing under the prickly tingle of the hot water, which, while soothing, conserves no time and, I would contend, uses more water than brushing one's teeth at the sink. Especially if one turns off the sink while performing the actual brushing. Please note that my disagreement is only with the first recommendation; the others are excellent and I will take them to heart. I remain Sincerely yours,
- - - - Date: Wed, 6 Nov 2002
Dear McSweeneys, My father was a carpenter up until I was about 14. Then he had a midlife crisis and decided to be a poet instead, publishing a magazine and doing editing work on the side. After that he divorced my mother and moved to the suburbs of Portland. In any case, that's one less carpenter. And he was obsessive about wood, man! Hope this is helpful. Maybe there's a hidden nation of former carpenters who turned to other work around the age of 45. Frankly I am not worried about losing carpenters though, it's the janitors I am worried about. Who wants to be a janitor? Best in Health,
- - - - Date: Wed, 6 Nov 2002
Hi, This is a note for Kevin Sampsell. It's about how he described the implications of the proliferation of bricks for the American character in "In My Humble Opinion, Part Two: Brick Buildings." Before I go on, I feel like I'm going to have to justify myself a bit just because the point I'm going to make has a couple of different aspects that could end up making me look like a jerk or a fool. One of them is that though I'm going to mention that I recently read War and Peace, I'm in no way interested in showing off about the fact that I actually read that book. Another is that while my observation may seem trivial or simplistic, may even seem to suggest that I missed the point, I'm actually writing this letter because I wonder if Kevin might enjoy a thought like this even given the lightness of the piece that it's a seemingly pedantic comment on. Another is that I have to swear off of any charge of extreme literal-mindedness that might follow on this observation. This I won't explain. So here it is. The passage reads, "Since when is it so cool to be in a brick house? Are we as a people that sad, that stoic, that . . . Russian?" But — here comes the Tolstoy — in the part of War and Peace that describes the burning of Moscow during Napoleon's ill-starred campaign of 1812, I learned that the Moscow of the day was a city made almost entirely of wood. I don't know if this was true again afterward, or if it has later ceased to be true. But in my mind, it seems to undermine the association between bricky cities and Russian sadness. At the least, it resists the suggestion that things run the opposite way, with more wood in the U.S. implying a less Russian sadness and stoicism. The Russians stayed sad and stoic in a whole city built of wood! That's all. Thanks,
- - - - [Note: These next two letters were received during the summer while the two correspondents were in Korea for the World Cup. We have a lot of letters. Sometimes it takes a while to read them all.] - - - - Date: Wed, 6 Nov 2002
We are in Taegu now. we spent the day in Gyung Ju after yesterday in busan. I can say that after the initial few days of exhaustion, I am having a great time. This is probably better than the cross country trips since there is less driving, more adventure and more Asians doing Asian stuff. The generation gap is so pronounced, with old ladies crouching on street corners with racks of fish to the young girls wearing designer clothes with surgically altered faces. It's a strange juxtaposition of old school and new materialism. The beach was something else. People just go in fully clothed, like wearing jeans and all that. Today we saw the famed Emilie Bell in Gyung Ju. As for brides, word on the street is you flash that blue passport and the ladies come running. We have yet to get our party on though, since we have been doing a lot of tourism stuff. I guess we'll probably have to check that stuff out when we return to Seoul. By the way, does anyone know what type of sea creature is about 12 inches long, looks like a living intestine and has no face? We saw a ton of those in Busan Jagalchi fish market. Dennis Kim
- - - - Date: Wed, 6 Nov 2002
Dear McSweeney's, To elaborate, there were Korean men in slacks and dress shoes. One guy had a suit on and drew no special attention. There were whole groups of boys and girls in school uniforms playing in the water. There were people burying each other, fully clothed, in the sand. There were butt-naked kids 3 and under. There was a huge ring of empty beach around the European guy in a thong. There were jetskiing maniacs about 3 feet from the (fully clothed) swimmers—sometimes pulling logs around on their jet skis. Dennis could be heard asking aloud, "What are The Rules?" These sea creatures were crawling all over each other, as if competing for top honors in a most-disgusting thing ever contest. In fact, I am going to go look for a picture of these mothers. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Wed, 6 Nov 2002
Dear McSweeney's, Yesterday was Election Day, and I am ashamed to say that I did not vote. The day is now lodged in my timeline. It's just like freshman year of college when I decided not to fast for Yom Kippur. I had no idea of the impact of such a small thing. It seemed like the year didn't turn over, and I was stuck in 1994 for twice as long. Then I failed a couple of classes. And yesterday, I didn't vote. Now, this year will drag itself on for another two. And this morning I woke up so tired. With head hanging low to the ground,
- - - - Date: Mon, 30 Aug 2002
Dear McSweeney's, Upon entering my local Blockbuster there erupted a greeting, with all the subtlety of a firing range target, from someone resembling the woman who on my last visit noted having "not seen you in a while" prompting me to note having 'never seen you before in my life'. Her hair—previously pylon orange, now bull's eye red—proved only a starter-startle to the cryptic "Hi Michelle!" that followed. I made straightaway for the far reaches of the store, mildly unsettled by this run-in. After protracted lingering in the hopes of another clerk surfacing I sulked toward the checkout. The placement of my selection and card on the counter was met with a deft yanking of the movie out from under the card, tablecloth-style. As my eyes settled on the unspilled card she said, with a cursory nod, "I don't need that. I already have your account up." Implicit in this is her facility with a) my first AND last name and b) accessing my records should the mood strike, or should I strike it for her by passing the store looking inconsistent and ill-advised, as I do twice daily. While my rental history is enough to bewitch most anyone ("What kind of enchantress rents Caddyshack and Belle de Jour together! On a Sunday of all days! In November of all embers!") I perish the thought of certain blemishes on a largely impeccable history falling into the wrong hands, without giving me the opportunity for rebuttal, recusal, or good old-fashioned selective recall. Moments of sheer madness recorded forever. Choices that Hugo himself would turn a piteous eye and ready pen toward. Why had I not faked a second user on my card? Why did I not say that Someone Like You was a clerical mix-up? Why, dear God, had I rented Head Over Heels on a Friday night? Clearly I had suffered enough. As she scanned in my movie, I saw no late charge where I knew a recently incurred late charge should be. And so it begins. Apparently, she is infatuated beyond all personal dignity and professional restraint, driven to stem the tide of her ardour with the knowledge that that obscure object of desire is somehow objectionable. How could I not have recognized the signs, which, if unchecked or not rewound, lead to obsessive monitoring of account activity, sussed out rental patterns, wild speculations on cyclical mood/movie corollaries, sexual blackmail, holds placed on movies she thinks I'll like, hoarsely whispered negotiation of erasing Most Valuable Primate from my files while crouched in the special interest section? As a Blockbuster veteran, I know too well that the held become the beholden: I wielded that scanner gun wherever my besotted heart or hearted underpants pointed me. I know all the tricks. I'm like Forest Whitaker in Panic Room only the panic room is my rental history and she's Forest Whitaker. Dollars to donuts there's a mohawk in our future,
- - - - Date: Fri, 9 Aug 2002
Dear McSweeney's, I had been staying with my pseudo cousins Timothy, Melissa, Devin (age 3) and Luka (age 0.3) in lovely Berthoud, CO. I went on what Devin calls "a nice long walk". He on his little 4 wheel scooterbike thing, and I on foot, we explored the neighborhood eventually reaching a big grassy field. We abandoned shoes and scooterbike and played in the field as I remember playing when I was small enough to be tossed around like a beach ball. I spun him in circles holding him by the hands, then by the ankles. He loved it and kept asking me to do it again and again. I told him I might puke because I was getting dizzy, he didn't seem to care. I don't get to spend a whole lot of time with 3 year olds. Yesterday morning, it came time to leave. The sun was shining and me and the boys (Timothy and Devin) took a ride to a field of sunflowers. I recognized the potential Kodak moments a couple days before, so I wanted to make a last minute trip. We loaded up the bike trailer, and set out for a morning ride. Back at home, I had to force my affections on Devin—he was reluctant to say goodbye. I picked him up, flipped him upside down and gave his raspberry jellied face a big kiss. He loved it. I made it to Omaha in one day thanks to a not so healthy diet of Dr. Pepper and Hershey's Special Dark. My body had that weak wobbly feeling of a post caffeine high when I finally set foot in Omaha. This morning I left early, landing here, somewhere in the city of Chicago in a little computer repair shop. The woman behind me has downloaded a Bollywood film, and the sounds of digitized sitars twang. Some advice if you have never been to Chicago: don't arrive at rush hour unless you know where you are going. David Politzer
- - - - Read Previous Letters:
|
Red dot denotes content that is new today.
Black dot denotes newish content.