- - - -
Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
- - - -
L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to mcsweeneysmail@yahoo.com. Letters received will be added to this page in reverse chronological order, largely unedited. Thank you.] - - - - Date: Thu, 23 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Who is Colleen Werthmann? Does she come from the same place as Lucy Thomas? I think you catch my meaning. I reset my clock to encourage creative function, later and later and now I am delirious. Sometimes it is very difficult for me to understand your dense and densely joked and eso-something e-mails. Now I understand why the others complained. My head hurts. I am so sleepy I am hyper. If I were at a slumber party, it would be time to dip a slumbering child's hand in ice water and wait for him to pee (never worked) can I say pee? I hope I can say pee here. Best, Tom Stanley
- - - - From: "Dallas P. Dickinson, Jr."
Dear McSweeney's, I would like to respond to a bit of correspondence published on your letters page (Date: Feb 02, as if we need that extra '0' to understand that this date was the second day within the first ten). The author of said letter is my brother, and he has misrepresented himself, and by extension our family, in a number of ways. Firstly, he uses the word 'userous', which does not exist. I can only assume he means A) 'usurious' or B) 'uxorious', as he is writing about a rebate check from his Visa provider (definition A) which he then spends on a lavish dinner for the wife (definition B). Secondly, he claims that "Amazon says it 'Ships Same Day'", when in fact Amazon's site makes no such promise. They state "Usually ships in 24 hours." Amazon probably MEANS "Usually ships WITHIN 24 hours", which at least means something close to 'Ships Same Day', provided that you make your order at or near 12:01AM, and apparently they are using 'ship' to refer only to the book actually leaving their warehouse and not the actual shipping time. This sort of thing bothers me. I can understand the confusion. I am forced to wonder if the most terrbile events in history - the Holocaust, the Inquisition, etc - were inspired, caused, fomented, incited by just such an imprecise use of language. Thirdly, he claims that to describe him and said wife as "Mr. and Mrs. Suit-Wearing Internet-Bookstore Yuppie [who] like to go around acting superior and flashing their big Visa refund all over town" would be a gross misrepresentation of fact. To refute this, he offers as evidence his wife's printing of articles about vibrators in her own alternative publication. I do not mean to question his (my brother's) manhood in asking this, but I must: What sort of God-fearing woman would ever use a vibrator? Answer: A Suit-Wearing Internet-Bookstore Yuppie who likes to go around acting superior and flashing her big Visa refund all over town. I believe my point has been made and I thank you for your time. Dallas Dickinson
- - - - Date: Thu, 23 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, In response to Kiersten Conner-Sax's letter [Fri, 17 Mar 2000] in which she said I was her hero: There's this woman, Dianna, who has no interest in dating me. And I mean none. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I don't know who told Christopher Butler that version of the "ten-foot-weenie" rhyme. The real version is "Mussolini," not "Mary Beth Feeney." In other words, the protagonist is a fascist, not a transsexual. Sam Stark P.S. Interestingly, Mr. Christopher is not the first to make precisely this mistake. Iona and Peter Opie (1959, p. 116) cite the only slightly more explicit, "Sonja Henie / Wore a peenie...," attributed simply to "Girls, 13, Aberdeen, 1952." In italics, they add, "for playing balls." - - - - Subject: Childhood Chants
Dear McSweeney's, The letters on the McSweeney's website! They're more literate and entertaining than the CONTENT of any other magazine. I noticed that someone wrote in about playground chants. I just wrote yesterday about puppets, but since I've been reciting some of my own childhood chants lately, much to the confusion of my significant other, I wanted to share the best and most unique one. (You don't mind, do you? Is there a limit on the number of letters I can write?) I believe McSweeney's #5 would benefit enormously from collection of these playground poems, and an article which analyzes them and what they reveal about something or other. Here's the weirdest one I know, called "Eenie Meanie Pepsi-dini". "Eenie Meanie Pepsi-dini It was always chanted by two people, who competed to see how many of the "verses" they could recall. For the record, the long and unwieldy "cheerleader" line was most often forgotten. The chant is meant to be accompanied by a series of pattycake-like hand gestures between the two people. (Each verse also had its own gestures, for instance, wiggling the fingers in front of the mouth for "greedy, greedy".) On the repetition of the "chorus", the recitation and accompanying gestures speed up and the chant becomes a race to see who can complete the cycle of clapping and be the first to point the "gun" and say "Bang bang you're dead." This chant alone offers a wealth of material for analysis, from the ripe implications of "I love you tutti-frutti bang bang you're dead!" to the commodification of private life-- notice that Pepsi's brand name made it into the chant's chorus and title, albeit pronounced rather lazily, the final "i" becoming a vague schwa sound. And what's the deal with the abandoned baby "down by the roller coaster"? I've discovered that most of the other chants from my childhood are common around the nation, such as "Not last night but the night before, twenty-seven robbers came knockin' at my door" and "Do your ears hang low" which of course originated from a bawdier Army tune. But I've never met anyone who recognized "Eenie Meanie Pepsi-dini". Perhaps this is for the best. Amanda Summers - - - - Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I am a female commodities broker on the trading floor of an exchange in Chicago. I am surrounded by a lot of cranky old men who fart all day. To make matters worse I work with them at the center of a trading pit, eight steps into the floor where the farts hang and create a hot fog. They think this is funny and great. I make a lot of faces, cover my nose and mouth with the lapel of my jacket or just run up and out of the pit in disgust. Short of wearing a gas mask, which is prohibited according to exchange decorum, what can I do to deter the "old farts"? REALLY no pun intended there. I'm sorry to pose this lurid question in your erudite forum, however it got so bad today that I yelled out "who fucking died in here?" and ran from the pit, their cackling and coughing behind me. signed, choking in chi-town
- - - - Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I'd love a lifetime subscription. I really would. And it seems like such a bargain! But here's my concern: The ink from the pen in which I signed my signature on the check for my 2 (or maybe it was 3) year subscription to Might was barely dry when I received an issue of said magazine letting me know it would be my last. To tell you the truth, the money was well spent even though I only received one or two issues (okay I exaggerate - maybe it was three or four), and I wouldn't have dreamed of asking for a partial refund. It was my favorite magazine of all time, and I was crushed that there would be no further issues. However, with that said, I've got to tell you that if I send you $120 and that Dave Eggers guy decides he's going to move on to another venture and this McSweeney's thing shuts down, I may not be so understanding. Don't get me wrong. I love the guy. Loved his book. He described patrons of a club as having messy Westerbergian hair. Genius! He's a genius, I say! But $120 is a lot for me to spend given my previous history, which is, to review: 1. me writing a check, and 2. Dave Eggers finding new work upon receipt of my check. Can you just assure me that McSweeney's will be functional for a year? Affectionately yours, Kelly Dulin PS Are the cinnamon raisins still available for my choosing? - - - - Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, What follows is an e-mail, sent by me, under the subject heading "My Last E-Mail Before the Apocalyse." Yes, that's right, "Apocalyse." The date today is March 22, 2000. Clearly, e-mail is working just fine, because someone has finally sent me a message alerting me to the fact that I spelled apocalypse wrong in front of upwards of 50 people. I also spelled "millennium" wrong, but no one's caught that yet. All that aside, I thought perhaps McSweeney's and the readers thereof might enjoy what had the potential to be my last words on this earth. It all seems so far away and small now, like the lights of London as you "fly" off to Neverland on the Peter Pan ride at Disneyworld. thanks so much, w
Well, kids, here we are. We've come to the end of the line. I just wanted to let every last one of you know how much you've touched my life. It's so sad that these global-- nay, universal-- events are cutting me off in my prime, but I suppose that could be said for all of us. Don't be mad at the universe, kids. After all, we humans made the clock. It is we who decided when the fateful millenium would occur, WE who set this ball a-rollin' oh so many years ago when we created that blasted calendar. If only we'd had the sense of the Aztecs, or the Chinese, we could have skipped all this nonsense and kept right on going. Ah well. A few notes on what may have happened in my life, had it not been snuffed out like a brief candle: I would have spent the next semester working at the theater school, continuing to shape and mold young minds, building from scratch (almost single-handedly) the next generation of theater artists. Alas, that is not to be. I would have been accepted into a myriad of graduate schools for the fall, to study my own craft and fulfill my destiny as a brilliant director. Once again, a tragedy. My parents would have welcomed me back to their new home, deep in the ghetto of Houston, TX, with open arms. Sadly, all the work my poor mother just did to whip the house into shape for the holidays will end in a blaze of sorrow and lost dreams. Perhaps the kids who stole my bike out of the garage last week will be spared, riding like the wind on a mode of transportation that is Y2K-compliant. Won't that be nice. My basement apartment in Queens will survive intact, bomb shelter that it is, to stand as testament to what might have been. The archeologists and anthropologists who dig it up thousands of years from now (assuming that the human race as we know it somehow survives the apocalypse) will shake their heads in dismay that-- like the great city of Pompeii-- so much talent, so many riches, were destroyed forever in one fateful night. In a perfect world, I would have seen you all, my friends, one last time. We would have greeted each other fondly and with a warm handshake, said our goodbyes. Should any of you wish that privilege, I will be spending the last night of our existence on the beach in Galveston, TX-- face to the wind, arms outstretched, life jacket tightened firmly about my chest as I pray the tidal wave comes quickly. I'll never let go, Jack. I'll never let go. For now, though, let us use these last days to sit in quiet meditation and examine our lives that were. Let us look back over our last decades and wonder, whatever were we thinking with that Milli Vanilli? And why did we waste so much time watching old reruns of "Night Court"? Who decided that ANY of us looked good in parachute pants? And, most importantly, why did George Clooney never find me, take me in his arms and... Oh. I suppose that last thought was a little personal for a mass e-mail like this. At any rate, you get the idea. I regret me for the days gone by, the moments unappreciated. Perhaps somewhere, when the great wheel comes back around, I will get another opportunity to savor those moments-- albeit as some sort of amphibian, no doubt. And should YOU come back as some sort of even lesser creature, you have only to call out my name when we meet and I promise, upon my honor, I shall not eat you. Assuming, of course, that you are able to call out my name in frog-speak, and I understand you and remember this vow. Ah well. So here, dear reader, I leave you. It has been my pleasure to make each and every one of your acquaintance. To conclude, a quote from an artist who has carried me through those dark and stormy nights, when I feel so lost and small and alone I can hardly stand it. I hope it will be a candle on the water for you in your time of need as well... Tell me why much love and happiest of holidays whitney anne "don't ever say I didn't warn you" pastorek - - - - Date:
Wed, 22 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Now, don't get me wrong here. I like a pretty picture as much as the next guy. I remember seeing this Picasso thingy at the Pallazo-di-Arte-Nacionale-Beaux-Whatever and I just flipped. The girl in the painting looked like she was made of Legos. LEGOS. A girl made of Legos. It does not get any better than that. But Technology is also neat. In fact, I am writing this very email on a computer, believe it or not, and if I'm not mistaken you are reading it on a computer as well. I have an art program on my computer to draw pictures, but then again, I could draw a large portrait of my computer in oils, if I chose to undertake such a project. And some tech-people are really cool, like art people are supposed to be. Take Jerry Yang. That guy is so supercool. So in terms of cool, I call this one a draw. Maybe we should approach this decision 'fiscally.' Computers can make websites, which are all worth wheelbarrows of money, which can then be used to purchase works of art at auctions, where there is free champagne. Then again, masterworks of art can also be converted into money, which could then be used to purchase computers. Again, a stalemate. A German fellow once wrote that our highest goal is to make our lives into works of art. [RUB CHIN HERE, AS IF IN DEEP THOUGHT] But I've also heard we're like computers. If I'd actually taken the time to read the copy of Godel, Escher, Bach displayed on my windowsill, I'm sure I would have come to that conclusion. But even if we were more like technology or art, I don't know whether or not we ought to want something devoted to our Selves or Something Not Like Ourselves. Hmmmm. Anyone who can help me solve this little conundrum is welcome to contact me at mschwar1@swarthmore.edu. Regards, Mattathias Schwartz - - - - Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I am glad to hear that you felt that the event went well at Galapagos. However, for one person (other than the guy who got his books swiped), it didn't go so well. I got there really late, after the reading was over, but there were still plenty of people at the bar, most of whom I assume were McSweeney's types since they were clutching #4 issues and were wearing those black-framed glasses. At some point, I went into the bathroom, and just as I was going into a stall, another girl came in and grabbed my arm. "Is there something wrong with my nose?" she implored. "What?" (I don't know this girl, have never seen this girl before.) "Is there something wrong with my nose?" she asked again. "No. Why?" She looked like she was going to cry. "This girl that I don't know just walked up to me and said that I'd be really beautiful if it weren't for my nose. She said that I could be really pretty if I only had a nose job." I told this girl in the bathroom over and over again that there was nothing wrong with her nose. (There wasn't. In fact, she was very pretty.) But the girl just turned away, and I think that she started to cry. I am writing you this because I think when you posted the notice about the event you told everyone to come and to "be nice." Whatever girl walked up to this other girl and told her to get a nose job was not being nice. She was being very mean. She made a girl (whom she didn't even know!) cry. I don't know if this mean girl is a McSweeney's reader, but I hope that she is and that she's reading this in the letters section and that she's publicly recognized by other McSweeney's readers everywhere as a mean person. Sincerely,
- - - - From: George Booze
Dear McSweeney's, What is happening to McSweeney's? The last week has been awful! Unfunny! Stupid! You guys don't seem to be trying very hard; please do better. Regards, George Booze - - - - From: Liam Black
Dear McSweeney's, Thank you for your wonderful journal, though I've yet to see it in print as we in Ireland haven't yet attained the sophistry to stock literary journals. Well, I suppose that more accurately we lost it. Perhaps you stole it from us. Not you personally, as that would be absurd. Please do not feel beset upon by the preceding lines. This morning, just after my smoke break, I realised that I should probably have a breath mint before my meeting. The meeting was cancelled, so I forgot about the breath mint until just now, when I realised that I might have stumbled upon a lucrative marketing scheme for yourselves. I think that if you fastened a breath mint to every copy of McSweeneys, perhaps being coy and using those little ones that look a bit like shrunken bone donuts to replace the "o" in some word or other (look at how many words have "o" in just this sentence), you'd see your circulation rise accordingly. Perhaps it would rise to the point at which your magazine would begin to be stocked in Ireland. I would personally stock your magazine and sell it to interested parties, but unfortunately I have no encounters with such people. It is possible that a concern such as your own coupled with a breath mint would open new doors for me. It is likewise quite possible that it would not, which would be depressing after the amount of daydreaming I have invested (3 minutes) in the thought of wearing chic clothing and offering a mint to some tattered soul in whatever sort of place that tattered souls tend to congregate. Not purgatory, though. That would frighten me. Please send my love to all of your staff, friends and family. If you wish, I can have a fruitcake sent to your offices (Do you have offices? I always picture you on a boat.), so as to bring about a feeling of festive holiday cheer. My aunt sent me the fruitcake, and I suspect it contains mangoes. I cannot eat mangoes, and consider this to be the gripping tragedy of the twentieth century. Can everybody there eat mangoes? The fruitcake wouldn't be very good if not everybody were able to have a piece. I don't want to upset the balance. I'm just a man with a fruitcake, and I'd like to share it with the world. My sincerest apologies for the overuse of parentheses. Please do not allow this letter to fall into the hands of the Washington Post, as I am given to understand that they carry a vendetta against all who make spurious use of luscious parenthetical curves. Kindest Regards,
- - - - Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, A topic you have often overlooked is the shortage of young men in high school musicals. This is a really troubling occurance, especially for the poor girl that has to dance with the French maid in one of the numbers (i.e.: Me). Maybe you should take a break from the normal things and devote a disgustingly long time to the problem of dancing with French maids. Or the French in general. Oh yeah, ads are available in the program, as well as boosters. If anyone buys one, I will scream out the company's or person's name in my loudest voice for the duration of intermission. Thank you. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Before opening my fourth beer of the evening, I decided to search eBay for all listed items that included your last name in the description. Of course, I first looked for all items that included my last name, but "Genrich" is very rarely used as an adjective (and I've heard rumors that my people weren't much for producing the sort of trinkets that are sold on this particular site, hence no "Limited Edition Platinum Genrich"s or "One-of-a-kind 1945 Genrich"). This sort of activity works best if one's last name is "Cruise" or "Rodman." Or "X-Men." Point being, I plugged in your name and was presented with a smallish list of items for sale, almost all of which were copies of books that you had written or edited. Jesus Christ on a Popsicle stick, someone sold one of your books for seventy-five clams. Leeches, all of them. All except one. One solitary listing, as out of place as Ted Kennedy in Utah: "PRODUCTION of 300-EGGERS-1923." Description follows: ==
Wraps, about 6" x 9", 415 pages. Good - condition (damp stains-very faint after first few pages, fragile front cover, chipped at spine). 300 eggs in a year, oh my! Please take a moment to look at our other early titles on farming and related subjects offered this week. http://cgi.ebay.com/aw-cgi/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=288017590
It's only $15. You've got until the 26th to get it. Put that fancy-pants book advance to work. Alone and shivering,
P.S. The Improper Bostonian, a Boston entertainment weekly, has listed the #1 local bestseller as "The Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius." Is that the title for the large-print edition? - - - - Subject: Puppets
Dear McSweeney's, Someone on the McSweeney's letter page mentioned the wonderfulness of puppets. I have to agree, and it reminded me of an idea I had a couple of years ago, when I was still in college and my dream job was working on the television show Mystery Science Theater 3000 (which has since been cancelled by the moronic bastards at The Sci-Fi Channel, I guess so they could show another ten or twelve hours of Sliders each week-- Sliders, the show that painfully stretches out a premise that Star Trek pretty much exhausted in one episode.) (By the way, some of the writers from MST3K are doing columns on IronMinds.com-- the site isn't set up too well, but their writing is funny with that great laidback Midwestern vibe, so it's certainly worth poking around the site for it. Their names are Michael J. Nelson, Kevin Murphy, and Paul Chaplin.) Well, since MST3K has been cancelled and my dreams have been crushed, I have no reason to keep this idea a highly guarded secret any longer. My idea was to make a puppet from an old pair of hi-top sneakers-- preferably worn out by someone who was hard on the heels, pounding them to rounded nubs of their former selves. Naturally, these old shoes should be run through a washer and drier or something to remove any lingering odor or mildew. (Shoes can mildew. I had a beloved pair in middle school which after a puddle-plunge began to evidence moldy infestation deep in the cracks of the soles as well as between all the superfluous sewn-on stripes and such. I continued to wear them, oblivious, until at some ill-conceived weekend camping trip which was more or less mandatory for all students at our school, we played a stupid game which involved taking off shoes, shuffling them, and then putting on random shoes. During the putting-on-random-shoes part of the game, no one would put on my beloved but really kind of frightening-looking by this point shoes, and a teacher gingerly picked them up by the laces and removed them from the playing field. When I recovered them, I finally realized how nasty they looked, but it being a camping thing and those being the only shoes I had with me, I had no choice but to awkwardly and self-conciously wear them all weekend long. That was the same weekend that someone threw a wad of gum in my hair and I, by this point accustomed to random harassment from my classmates, casually tore out a small handful of my hair to get the gum out and threw it in the trash, prompting gasps and wary looks from the parties responsible. I was not messed with for the rest of the weekend, presumably because my peers thought that tearing out a bunch of my hair was a scary and badass thing to do. Actually my recently permed hair was brittle as spun sugar; the gesture hadn't hurt much and I did it without really thinking about it.) Once cleaned the high-top sneakers can be placed sole to sole. Cut a hole in the sole of each shoe, right under the foot-hole. You can see where this is going, I hope-- put your hand in the foot-hole of the bottom shoe and reach up into the top shoe. The mouth is formed by the juncture of the two shoes. A hinge-- literally a door hinge or similar-- can be placed between the shoes, just fore of the holes in the soles. You can imagine how the rounded heels of these worn-out shoes will handily facilitate the opening and closing of the "mouth". Assuming you liked these shoes and are content with their appearance, you have only to add a pair of eyes to turn the shoes into a friendly puppet. I like the effect of gluing a pair of small round light bulbs to the top shoe. Position the bulbs' screws forward as though the screws are the irises of the eyes. This is sort of unnerving at first, since it looks like the puppet is staring daggers at everyone, but once you get used to it it's very neat. Maybe you can explain the eerieness of the eyes by making the puppet crazy, or grouchy, or an alien from the planet Kobeer or Ekin or something cleverer than that, that's just a spur of the moment example. You should probably wear a black glove on your hand when you operate this shoe puppet. Otherwise when the puppet puts his head down (in embarrassment or simply to look at something below him), your hand will be disconcertingly visible through the foot-hole of the top shoe. Now you only have to come up with a personality for your puppet and give him something to say, something worthwhile, uplifting and meaningful. This is the point in puppetry when most people lay down their creations and hang themselves in their walk-in closets. Good luck! Amanda Summers - - - - Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's, When I was young, we (we being the students of Newcomb Elementary School) too sang the ten-foot weenie song. However, unlike Christopher Butler's Mary Beth Feeney, the Newcomb Variation started with "There once was a genie." While this may seem but a slight change, it actually makes the song more plausible. A ten-foot weenie may be entirely common for genies, and removes the gender-based questions that arise when pondering why Mary Beth Feeney has a weenie at all, let alone a ten-foot one. Such questions only take away from the impact of the song's focus: the weenie's hilarious resemblance to a snake, which leads to its subsequent, and equally hilarious, shortening with a rake. On further examination, though, the genie premise brings up issues of its own. For instance, is the woman next door also a genie? Is this genie living amongst us? Perhaps these questions, too, impede the hilarity of the final line, which also deviated in the Newcomb Variation. The weenie at the end of our version was only five-foot four, as opposed to Butler's six-foot four, and I think it's obvious that shorter is just plain funnier. Around this same time, I had a friend who thought "Too Much Time on My Hands" by Styx was called "Too Much Time in My Head." That isn't funny now, but it was hilarious then. He would also fill a pint glass with water and suck it to his face, creating a vacuum in which he would scream the lyrics to Laura Brannigan's (is it Laura Brannigan? I'm going with Laura Brannigan) "Gloria." This, even now, is funny. Ron Dulin - - - - Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
Please stop including unfunny letters. The following
types of letters are unfunny:
1) letters of too many words;
Thank you,
M.W. Hazy
- - - - From: "Mike Topp" Dear McSweeney's,
When I looked in the mirror I noticed that the letters on his shirt
were
backwards. "What a dope," I thought. "This interview should be a
cinch."
Sincerely,
Mike Topp.
- - - - Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
Further to Suzanne Price's letter of March 16, 2000 on the subject of puppets...
I was at a friend's holiday cocktail party in the East Village a few months back which was attended by quite a
number of people in the puppeteering field. My friend's roommate works for the Henson folks, and so a lot of
her friends are in one way or another involved with puppets. There was heated discussion at one point about
the movie "Being John Malkovich" which has a puppeteer as its central character. These people were saying
things like: "That was so unrealistic. A puppeteer would never do that." or "That would never happen to a
puppeteer." These people were professionals and very serious about their craft.
Other puppet-oriented tidbits and thoughts:
One guy at the party was dressed in leather with a spiked collar. There were others dressed in various
incarnations of downtown NYC looks, and I couldn't help but think how amazing it is that all these
people are shaping the minds of children all around the world through the puppets they are building
and using to perform.
The guy in leather had to leave the party early because he was going to perform at a children's holiday
show.
Someone else at the party was doing various holiday-themed puppet work at some of the tonier
department stores in the city.
My friend's roommate once got flown to Germany to do some emergency repairs on the German
version of Henson's Big Bird character.
This apartment has hanging on its wall the original painting of Bert with a goatee and a beret that Ernie
painted in a classic 1970s Sesame Street routine.
Kimber VanRy
- - - - Dear McSweeney's,
Every morning when I buy my coffee from the man in the kiosk on the
street corner, he places an unusually thick stack of white napkins atop
the plastic lid of my coffee cup. This makes very little sense to me. If
he wishes to make a generous supply of napkins available to me so that I
might wipe drops of hot coffee from my hands and mouth, he would do
better than to place the napkins atop the coffee cup lid itself, where a
tiny aperture allows coffee to seep from the overflowing cup upwards
into the stack of napkins. As one attempts to remove coffee from your
face with a napkin soaked in coffee, one finds that the absorbent
quality of the napkin is compromised, and worse, the quantity of coffee
saturating the napkin may exceed the quantity of coffee upon one's
face (a relatively less absorbent medium), and an unprofitable
transaction of heat and moisture may ensue between the two.
Similarly, if the stack of napkins is intended to keep the hot coffee
from emerging from that aperture and burning my hand, the gesture is
stopgap at best, for the napkins prevent steam from emerging from the
aperture and thereby cooling the coffee. When I arrive at work, I am
forced to remove the lid of the cup in order to expedite the cooling of
the coffee, at which point drops of hot coffee fall onto my hands, and
the sodden napkins are of no use. Frankly, the evasiveness of this
strategy bothers me as well. Does this man believe he is doing me a
kindness by stopping up the aperture in my coffee cup, imagining me too
thickheaded to note its presence and respond accordingly? If so, his
kindness reeks of condescension, and I reject it forthwith.
I must confess, however, that my ultimate concern is for his own
well-being, for I cannot imagine that a man who lives in a tiny aluminum
house has many more napkins to spare.
Richard Allen
- - - - Dear McSweeney's,
As web technology is still "emerging," so to speak, I would like to give you
a few pointers which in the end will likely help you find your way. By way
of qualifications, I visit a lot of sites. A LOT. I also visit those many
site a lot, if you see what I mean.
I find that people who put up sites are sometimes eager to hear with
site-visitors think of their respective sites. If I had a site of my own, I
would be eager to hear those things which people say. Also, your editor is
named "Eggers," which reminds me of the word "eager."
O.K.
First, you need to have more things there. I enjoy the "drawings" at the top
of every "page" on your site. When I see them, I think they are gothic,
which I like. But I don't know what it is. I think it may be table with a
glass top, so people could see through it. Is it a votive candle holder,
which is a thought I just had. That's it, isn't it? Maybe, since computers
are in color, you could make the candle a different color. Maybe the
lifetime subscription "page" could be black, which is like it is now. And
the "page" asking if a particular site-visitor has not receive his or her
magazine yet could be in red maybe. But I would take down that "page" anyway
because it makes it sound like you have no intention to honor my subscription
should I send you money which I haven't for your magazine.
When people haven't received their magazine from you, they have to send
"e"mail to you at mailinghse@aol.com. mailinghse does not have a profile, so
I cannot learn about that person, but I can "buddylist" that person to see
what "rooms" that person enters, and I have been waiting. When does that
person "sign on"? But please, don't tell that person that I will be
watching, because then he or she might alter his or her behavior and then so
much for my experiement. If mailinghse@aol.com is actually the person
reading this, I guess I blew it. But there are only so many days I can sit
and wait, so I have to take a chance here. I do have more sites to visit
other than yours.
O.K.
Did you know that I am able to call information for your area and get your
editor's phone number?
That's all I have for you. It is 9:20 here. Maybe when I go back to your
site I will be able to help more. Then I will write again since you put your
"e"mail address for me to use. I love you. O.K.
- - - - Dear McSweeney's,
I fall somewhere between imbecile and ingenius. I was born in a
hospital with lots of beds. I am a native of Glasgow, Scotland but was
reared in Canberra, Austraila and Flushing, NY. As a result, my diet
consists soley of haggis, Vegemite and Lite Beer from Miller. I've been
told a I hold a strong resembIance to Coney Island's Steeple Chase Man.
I am employed as a media relations proctologist for a major men's
publication and currently finishing a screenplay for a musical comedy
based on the Franco-Prussian War. I am a resident of Los Angeles and
travel frequently to New York City on economy flights. I would like to
assist in the global proliferation of McSweeney's in any manner, way,
shape or form. Who am I? I am Frank Louis Thomas Marchesini. And I'm
bored.
Bouna Fortuna,
Frank Marchesini
- - - - Dear McSweeney's,
Sandi works in accounting. She hasn't many friends in the firm, and spends most of her time alone. I want to help, but I've got a job to do here. Perhaps if McSweeney's readers were to hold her in their hearts for a while, it might make a difference.
The following is an up-to-date biographical sketch:
Sandi - Monday, February 28, 2000
I hope this helps you help me help Sandi.
Thank you,
- - - - Dear McSweeney's,
It took me longer than I had hoped, and perhaps I am a bit rougher for the
wear, but I have now opened up a Romanian email account. I am tired, and it is
late here, but I thought of you first and wanted to assure you that I am fine.
I'll have more to tell you when I have used this account longer. My only
coherent thoughts now are for sleep--the train ride was treacherous. I'll
be fresher in the morning and will be able to tell you all about my new
surroundings. For now, here are three things I have managed to learn in the
short time sinced I opened my account.
--Situated at an important commercial cross-roads, the city Brasov was a
significant trade and kraft centre as early as the XIIth century. At the same
time it became a bridge between eastern and western Europe.
--The ancient *arms* of the city suggested that Brasov was subordinated to the
king.
--2500 years ago, as part of Greek colonisation in Pontus Euxinus (Black Sea),
was founded Tomis. Tomis sees great prosperity due to the commercial exchange
proceeded between Greek colonists and the native Gaeto-Dacians.
Be well, and remember me when you go to feed the cattle. You are in my
thoughts.
Your friend,
- - - - Dear McSweeney's,
So it was my first day at my new office. I am standing in my cubicle.
Peaking into the other cubicles. It is one hour into my first day and none
of the other kids have even glanced my way. Let alone complimented me on my
first day attire. New sneakers with the laces still bright white. Forest
green sweater with a collar like on a buttondown shirt expcept it's a
sweater. And my veryspecial brown pants with the yellow racing stripe. I
look like someone who can go fast. And yet, no one has even looked up.
I am standing in my cubicle reading McSweeney's. Just standing there. Just
reading. Suddenly a voice boomed, "It's older than you!" A mildly retarded
man is gesticulating towards a bicycle propped up against the wall.
"Built in the 60's." I openned my mouth to attempt a response. But I needn't
have.
"I'm deaf." He said. I closed my mouth. "I'm deaf so I know a lot about
bicycles." (I love that! I'm deaf so I know a lot about bicycles. I
thought, "Yes!") "I've been a bike messenger for longer than you've been
alive. 30 years."
Then he looked at me sadly through his big glasses. The lenses must have
been an inch thick. Easily an inch. He looked at me and touched his cheek.
I thought maybe I had a booger on my face, or something.
"Your face." He said. "Like a soap commercial. Don't need any make-up.
Perfect."
Is that a haiku or what? I couldn't write a better love poem. Thank you
McSweeney's!
Emily Krill
- - - - Dear McSweeney's,
Resolved, there are grave and urgent issues of justice of the rights of
peoples and nations which have to be resolved.
[I did not come up with this on my own, though I did think of the
"resolved" part at the beginning, which makes the statement seem like
the beginning of a debate. And, according to Strunk and White's
ELEMENTS
OF STYLE, there should be a comma after "nations." Either that, or the
"which" should be a "that." Strunk and White call what I've just done
"which-hunting," which is a clever play on words on their part.]
Yours, I remain, &c.,
- - - - Dear McSweeney's,
I have gotten several e-mails from McSweeney's NFL readers asking what I think of the NCAA hoops
tournament. The only thing I can say is the Wisconsin Badgers are the math rock team of this spring gala. They
are like the patient scientists of Tortoise compared to Gonzaga's poor Toad the Wet Sprocket imitation (couple
of surprise hits, not a serious contender, a career built on lethargic sorority soliloquies), or Michigan State's
shoddy Too Short (Mateen Cleaves is tough, but he's like 4' 7").
Seton Hall could be the tournament's Pavement, but more likely they emulate the quick, ugly sulfur burn of
Letters to Cleo. Duke and North Carolina are like the Rolling Stones, Steve Miller Band or Jimmy Buffet (always
around) of the tournament. Iowa State is strictly Buck Owens, or even a novelty hillbilly act (someone singing
about the lubrication benefits of butter) like Ray Stevens. Purdue (just based on the wanton self-destruction and
comb-over of coach Gene Keady) is Steve Earle, while Indiana, who went down for the count early is either a)
Shannon Hoon of Blind Melon (early extinguishment) or b) George Jones (based on Bobby Knight's history of
tantrums, and serious scraps with everyone he's involved with. Think for a minute of Neil Reed as Tammy
Wynette. Actually think of Bobby Knight as Tommy Lee.)
Syracuse makes me think of John Lithgow. I know he's an actor, but that is the kind of career trajectory they're
shooting for. They look good on paper, but always shoot themselves in the foot, because like Lithgow shilling for
the Discover card, they always try to take the easy way out. Tulsa, I have no idea about. Although I once stayed
at a Holiday Inn in Tulsa that had an empty third-floor open-air swimming pool and it was 105 degrees out. It
was all being remodeled, and throughout the downtown the only sound you could hear was an air conditioner.
There was maybe a two-mile an hour breeze every fifteen minutes. The hotel had a new manager, fresh from
California, and it was Saturday afternoon. This to me is the essence of divorce and forced fresh starts.
I will leave you with this: In 1943, there was a group of lads from Duluth who played for the Maroon Pharmacy,
a traveling semi-pro basketball team. Their starters were called the Buttermilk Five. The term came from what
the coach, Hank Gomlichek, called "Buttermilk Defense," because he wanted the other team to curdle. In
reality he probably meant cottage cheese, but no one cared.
The Buttermilk Five also took wagers and wore fedoras. They often reminded their best gals to never sass them,
and they insisted on extra dinner rolls and those tan eggs at every roadhouse their bus stopped at. Once in
Muncie, Indiana there was a small boy named Vic Dufrane, who 86% of the time could hit a half-court shot
while wearing a blindfold. The Maroon Pharmacy arrived for a game against The Muncie School of Optometry
and signed Dufrane up for an 11-day contract. They were going on a special trip to Delaware at the special
invitation of the governor, and needed something special.
They arrived at the Governor's mansion, and were feted with a buffet of samosas, poi, lemon pie, London broil,
and oysters. The tea was crisp and minty. Vic Dufrane had a glass of whole milk, and the governor secretly
supplied him with a stack of risquŽ Japanese comic books. Dufrane remembered atrocities of Pearl Harbor and
thought, "No, I shouldn't accept." But the onset of puberty made him change his mind, and he retired for the
evening to a mammoth tree house in the backyard that had an electronic elevator and brass floors.
Speaking of floors, the Maroon Pharmacy took on the Dover Monks the next afternoon at a YMCA with a thick
glass floor. It was the Governor's secret trick. The Dover Monks were used to the floor, but the Maroon Pharmacy,
and more importantly the Buttermilk Five, were rattled. There was a marching band out front, four tons of
confetti, and mules were being shot out of cannons. The whole town held hands.
The Maroon Pharmacy fell hard that day, 64-26. Dufrane never made it out of the tree house, and several
members of the Buttermilk Five retired in shame to a life of lawn work and tuckpointing. One of the stars, Miller
Eisenelson opened a successful harbor steakhouse, but in 1983 was convicted of tax fraud.
In closing:
Respectfully,
Jeff Johnson
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