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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to mcsweeneysmail@yahoo.com. Letters received will be added to this page in chronological order, largely unedited. Thank you.] - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Jun 2000 From: Stephany Aulenback Subject: oh! Dear McSweeney's, Hi. You don't publish poetry. But you like poetry. So here is a poem: Some people could
Oh! That would be it. And other people
But not me. I mean I'm not
other. That's it. Thanks for reading!
- - - - Date: Mon, 12 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Intrepid folk are exploring the vast reaches of modern life in order to bring better, swifter and more ironic oxymorons to our nation... ....and you can be one of them! All it takes is a little stick-to-it-iveness and careful scenario studies. Here are some fertile veins in the oxymoron mineshaft that might help you on the road to a pithier, more sardonic wit. 1. Visit any doctor participating in an HMO, explain to them that you cannot afford the kind of treatment necessary to maintain a decent quality of life, then wait for compassion. Please bring along a hefty novel during this experiment. 2. Visit a local fast-food restaurant and request your beverage without
ice.
"Shooooka - shooka - shooka",
"Splashy - splashy - splosh",
3. Argue with your neighborhood magazine merchant over the declining quality of his pornography. 4. Wash. Rinse. Do not repeat. From these meager social experiments, I am confident you will discover all sorts of previously unheard oxymorons as well as several new storage ideas involving the rectum. Good luck, future farmers!
- - - - From: "Pascover, Alexander W."
Dear McSweeney's, Dear Luke O'Neil-- Don't worry. I was in a very situation very similar to yours a few years ago (living with my parents, far from my girlfriend, in my early twenties). Now, I live in a real city, away from my parents and with my girlfriend, I have an interesting and well-paying job, and my prospects are bright. So just hang in there. Alex Pascover P.S. That thing with your name in lowercase? Not as nonconformist as you think it is. I'd drop it. - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Please tell Sarah M. Balcomb that smoking is really, really bad for you. love whitney - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I don't even want any of these jobs they're not offering me. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: 13 Jun 00
Dear McSweeney's, a good friend of mine from the hazy crazy college days (Go Vassar! Beat State!) telephoned last night. I was out. This morning, I called back. She is a waitron at a swell lobster house on the coast of Maine. Could anything be better? No. Nothing could be better. Her employment there, at Cook's, has always proven quite the boon to me, Sandor Lefkowitz [not my real name, which is Tom, it just sounds better, in this case, to be a Hungarian Jew than what I am which is one who never gets into "scrapes"]. Several years ago [the past is an empire, ordered, precise, and finite] she had the opportunity to "wait" on Bob Elliot and his occasionally porky but always hilarious son, Chris. This news alone [I used to live in Maine, like David E. Kelley did, although I am not from there, like David E. Kelley is] sent me into "orbit." I grew up on Bob Elliot [strange for one so young, but there were books, tapes, my father's obsession] and his Radio Pal, Ray Goulding. Chris Elliot was once spotted, au enfants et femme et VSU, at, now what's it called?, the drive-in burger joint by the navy base? Fatboys? I think fatboys, while I was sitting impatiently at home, pondering my infidelities, and craving beer. Anyway, suffice it to say, I am a big fan--BIG FAN!--of junior's as well. She, in her capacity as server, got them drinks, booze, hooch, juice, the sauce, Dutch courage, Irish wit, liquor. Chris got "vodka tonic, absolut if you have it." She got an idea and Sandor Lefkowitz got a cocktail napkin. I keep it in a plastic bag, labelled. I had wished she had snagged Bob's, I would have given it to my father, but, well, come on, Lefkowitz, you scored big time anyway. The past, she shines, like bronz-ed bird, like bronz-ed bird. The future's shore is perilous, obscure. And evermore, for old Lenore, we seek the past's patin' and ancient reek. But now there's this. The preparation for baked stuffed lobster includes gutting a live lobster. This gives the preparer, or hangers-on (once a shocked couple who had demanded admittance to the kitchen to watch), a chance to hold a still-beating lobster heart in dey hand. Please also, to note: lobsters, evidently, do not wander into lobster traps and get stuck so's they can't get out. They wander in and out at leisure, picking here, picking there at the bait. Going out for a smoke, coming back in for more bait, which is usually Wait-n-See Pudding, the past is my only comfort and my constant pain, chat with hoodlums, etc.. At the same time lots of lobsters are hanging around outside. So when your lobsterman hauls in his trap, it's not that he got the first lobster to walk into the trap, it's just he got the one that happened to be there when he hauled it up. This was discovered by a lobster cam, according to her, whom I trust in this matter, and many others. I have cheated and lied and stolen and betrayed. My sins are small but they are total. TGGibbon ps- Mr Purcell, I don't mean to suggest that porky and hilarious are intuitively mutually exclusive, I am just using one of those modern tropes, let's call it...synchronic discord (synthetic apraxis?), in which two things not opposed are presented as though opposed. It's very funny. "Thoroughly French but still quite mangrove," that sort of thing. I am beefy and rotund. I would smack myself around if I could get my flippers raisied that high. I disgust myself. And others. And Others! - - - - From: "Robert Beier"
Dear McSweeney's, "Yes drink and drug, have a drugged drink", he said, whispering through the spaces in his yellowed teeth. The bar was long and narrow with just enough room for the glass that the bartender placed on it. He wouldn't have been surprised to see maggots crawling on it. "Yes, thank you. I will." He picked the oblong glass up and looked at its brownish contents and watched the debris swirl around and around like clouds on an endless day. He tilted back his head and let the liquid fall directly down his throat without swallowing or holding it in his mouth for an instant. Expecting a gag reflex, he closed his eyes and braced himself, spreading his feet wide, in the position he used to steady his body in a moving subway car. When the rush of the drug entered his bloodstream, he planted one hand on the bar, hoping to regain his sense of the third dimension without having to open his eyes. He was surprised when his hand easily wrapped around the entire width of the bar, the tip of his middle finger naturally finding the end of his thumb. The wood was warm and soft and he imagined wrapping his hand around his girlfriend's thin wrist. The bar suddenly moved and his eyes opened with a sound like a gunshot going off just inside his ears. A woman with a sour look on her face was staring at him, or rather down at his hand which was wrapped around her wrist which rested on the bar. "I'm not your girlfriend." She didn't say this he could just tell by the look on her face. His bones were picking up the vibration and broadcasting it to his brain. He quickly let go and placed his hand back and then let go and placed his hand back and then let go again caught in a loop in and out of the moment coming and going letting go and coming back again her face changing from distaste to disdain. The motion of moving back and forth made his mind roll in waves and he was calmed and eventually forgot that he was in a bar. He stepped outside of the loop and saw the whole scene from above. He noticed that the girl had a knife clutched behind her back. All of the colors of the room shimmered back and forth like blinking Christmas lights and then they all ran together to blur and mix to an ugly brown. "I'm not your girlfriend." He tasted lemon on his tongue but it was not the girl's mouth. Closing his eyes to savor the sourness, he seemed to slip again. Then he was on the ground and he couldn't see her. The ground was hard, hard like concrete, not like the parquet floor of the bar. Although he was sure his eyes were open now, everything was dark. A hand embraced his shoulder and he reached up to touch it. Caressing the soft skin, he said, "Yes, yes, I know," but then the skin wasn't soft; it was rough as if covered with scales and so thin that he feared pieces would fall off and crumble between his fingers. He pulled the hand down, feeling the need to gaze into a soft pink palm, but when his eyes focused on the palm, it was yellowish, hard and lined like a bruised banana. He gazed up into the face of an old homeless man. "I know," said the man softly. "I know what it's like to wander in an endless progression of streets, searching for the something that I'll know when I find it. I know what it's like to search for a ghost without a picture." He reached up to touch the old man's face. He wanted to let him know that he understood. When he touched his skin the old man began to cry. The old man's skin became wet and as thin as paper. His fingers broke through the thin layer of skin. The old man sighed "yes" and he kept crumpling his head until it was a small wet ball in his hands. He threw it against the back wall. After wiping his hands clean of the old man's remains, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His cigarette wasn't lit properly and was burning in the middle on only one side, slowly hallowing itself out like a canoe. A couple puffs later the canoe was large enough to sit it. He set his new boat down in the murky stream that ran through the alley behind the bar and climbed in. It was a tight fit and he had to turn his feet out sideways, like a duck, but the conveyance seemed seaworthy. The current was a lot stronger than he'd suspected, but his reflexes were also quicker than usual. He grabbed a wooden post to stop his movement and a hundred splinters lodged into his palms. The post lost its grip on the ground and the canoe was off again. "At least I have an oar," he said aloud. The splinters in his hand amplified his vocalization to 49 times the magnitude and burst his eardrum. A small trickle of blood ran down his ear. The post caught fire and he began to smoke it falling into the blue haze tumbling until he stood on a cliff listening to the echoes cutting through the fog. "At least I have an oar," surrounded him in the white, slippery tightness. Wait a minute, he thought. I'm deaf. How could I hear the echoes? The fog lifted and before him was a bird, naked but for one red feather on its left wing. It was trying to fly. Holding the oar, now burned down to a stick the size of Misty Menthol 120, between two fingers he snapped it cleanly in two and handed the pieces to the bird. The pathetic creature stretched out its grotesque upper limbs, no longer resembling wings although looking nothing like arms, to receive the gift, but since he had no hands, they fell limply to the ground, then rolled to the edge of the cliff and down, out of sight. "Now neither of us has an oar," he wanted to say, but feared the backlash of the echo. The echo came on anyway, blasting his hair back with the single word, "Oar." The bird's solitary red feather, undisturbed by the wallop of sound, enraged him, so he plucked it off and stuck it in his shirt pocket. The bird, incredibly angry at his violent gesture, squawked as loud as its little body could muster. The sound was an atomic blast that blew the bird into tiny bits all over the cliff wall. The man was untouched. Oh, he thought, remembering the bird was undisturbed by the echo, the feather is my protection. He took the red feather out and held it in his hands. He glanced at the remains of the bird on the wall and screamed. "Remember thou art dust Bird and to dust thou shalt return!" The echoes reduced the cliff to rubble. Caught in an avalanche of rubble, he tumbled down the mountain with the rest of the cliff. At the bottom he landed on his back in soft pile of red feathers. He heard waves crashing somewhere to his right and let the rumbling sound lull him to sleep. After such a journey, he deserved a good rest. Just before drifting off, he dug both hands deep into the feathers and filled his fists with their downy softness. When he awoke, no birds were singing but his mouth was full of sand. He leapt up to discover that the previous night he'd landed on a pile of sand, not feathers. Shit, he thought, I need that one little feather. Diving down to his knees, he furiously clawed through the sand in search of anything red. In desperation he thrust both of his arms deep into the sand. He felt something grasp his wrist and dig in. In panic, he pulled up and out came a skeleton the sand spilling through the bones. "Thank you very much for saving me," she said. "I've been down there a long time." She bent down and picked up one of the rocks and cracked it on top of her skull. She reached in and pulled out a red feather. "I believe you were looking for this?" He reached for the feather, but misjudged the distance, his depth perception still altered from the drugged drink, and wrapped his hand around the skeleton's wrist. His thumb and middle finger met around the back of her wrist and he knew: it was the girl from the bar. He pulled her close and whispered, "What the fuck happened to you?" The echo was gone; there was no need to whisper now. Regards,
- - - - From: "Keith Crouse"
Dear McSweeney's, I hope the world ends, or that I at least hit the gym a few times before the apocalypse. I want to be pretty buff while leading the survivors through the tunnels, torch aloft. I hope that girl upstairs is one of the survivors, too. Damn, she is fine. Wan, KC - - - - From: "Newhart, Bryson"
Dear McSweeney's, It's called an ollie Whitney. Tay, GULP, scared me. Sure got me good with the horns. I think he'd get the joke though, don't you? We've been getting some of your junk mail here on the north side. Don't know why. Jesus, I didn't even know your name. Nice to finally meet you, sort of. That is, if you are indeed who I think you are .... Gibbon, you guffing jackeen. Allow me to shake your fipper. At first I thought: a fousty funk. A grumpus. I was all set to bostoon. But now I am aninst myself with flinders of mauzy joy. After all, old Newfoundland is a place at once old and new, land and found. A place to yarry with yaffle, slinge away the duckish, indulge in vang and crubeen after dark. Morning into day into night is a suent concept, a cycle we can all twig. But now I must go spend my lunch twacking at a squabby rames vandue. Yoi, anon, Bryce Newhart - - - - Date: 13 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Gosh, this is so much fun. Here's my whitney pastorek v. Bryce C. Newhart/Sarah M. Balcomb play. p.s. Bryce: Which Jeff did you think I was? If for a moment you though I was the Jeff who was a LeRoy, you might be right! Do you still have my Paul Simon's "The Caveman" jean jacket? I'd love to get it back sometime. yr pal, Jeff WAITING FOR PERNOD
Characters:
Setting: Astoria on a Sunday afternoon in mid June. wp making taking tentative strides upon her bad-ass 'board (as the cool kids call it) and JB manages to keep to her side as he tries out the very hip Razor Rollerboard he is planning to give to his groomsmen at his upcoming wedding (to the most beautiful woman in the world, mind you (Hi, Alli!)). The two are wheeling precariously close to the new Starbucks on Ditmars Boulevard. wp: Jeff, can you feel it? Can you feel how the air fills with the choking aroma of Colombian blend as we approach the dreaded structure! JB: Yes, whitney! 'Tis a sorrowful day! Who would imagine that yet another is to open on our beloved Steinway Street! wp: I can think of nothing as horrendous...why, except for the recent slander I received at the hands of Sarah M. Balcomb and Bryce Newhart! JB: How true, my reasonably physiqued friend! wp: Why yes, my handsome and extremely intelligent, yet surprisingly egoless pal! They are quite dead, having been struck down in a great number of plays and emailed correspondences. Ne'er was such a deft ass-whupping and sanctioned slaughter to be had. JB: I had heard they were buried side by side in a lovely plot at Greenlawn Cemetery. wp: Yeah! Let's go and do despicable things to their gravesites! My ire is inextinguishable and mighty! (The two hop into the Black Rider, JB's black 1998 Jeep Cherokee (a company car, no less), and speed towards Greenpoint by way of Long Island City. As they pass beneath the Queensboro Bridge they spy Rick Lazio emceeing an illegal rodeo in an empty parking lot) BLACK RIDER: vrooom. vrooooooom. Rick Lazio: And next! We have, all the way from...oh no! Quick! Run for your lives! The bull, he has escaped! Bull: Snooort. Huff. rivverun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environ... NYPD's finest: BULL! FREEZE! Bull: Sir Tristram, violer d'amores... NYPD's finest weapon: BLAMMO! (the bull falls into the gutter and dies. JB and wp continue into Brooklyn and go to proceed to the Greenlawn Cemetery and to the freshly made grave of SMB and BCN.) wp: Rest in whatever would be a suitable opposite for 'peace,' motherfuckers. JB: whitney. That is not very nice of you. Now, perhaps Sarah and Bryce came off a little heady. Perhaps they rubbed you the wrong way and made some insensitive insinuation. And perhaps you've been a little too quick to call a vendetta upon them. The whole gang thing was a little over the top, I think. wp: But Jeff! What about the gang, man??? (whitney throws her hands to her chest. On her right hand, she hides her thumb and pinkie inside her palm, forming the standing fingers into a 'W.' On her left hand, the fingers and thumb form a circle and with the straightening of her wrist, the limb resembles a 'P.') wp: Jeff, you were down, hesse! JB: Yes, whitney, I AM down. But I just think enough is enough! (JB take a step back and pauses, looking down at the fresh graves) I just wish it could have all transpired differently. (A light shoots down from the heavens, illuminating the gravesite along with JB and wp. GOD, on a longboard, rides the light down to earth, pausing a few feet from the ground to pull a totally aggro Ollie, and then GOD pulls a sweet dismount and stands beside JB and wp) GOD: Jeff, man. Very strong words, dude. Do you really mean all of that about Sarah, Bryce and whitney? JB: Well, yeah. I think I do, GOD. I wish we could all get along. I wish Sarah and bryce had never made whitney feel they way they did, and I wish whitney hadn't rallied all of those people to murder Sarah and Bryce. I wish we had all gotten together at someplace really cool, like Moomba or Vong, and SMB: Hello GOD. Bryce, you look like shit. BCN: Yes, hi, God. Sarah, you should take a long look at yourself before you start with me, dear. It's good to see you. I missed you from the grave. SMB: Oh, Bryce! I too missed you, my love! Even though we reek of decomposition, hug me you sexy man, you. (SMB and BCN throw themselves into one another's arms. They smell like the once-dead) GOD: C'mon you two. Let's get you cleaned up. We've got reservations at Moomba! Glasses of Pernod for everyone! It's on me! JB: Yay! wp: Yay! SMB: Yay! BCN: Yay! (and they all lived happily after until SMB said something about whitney's singing voice and was soundly slain soon afterwards) THE END - - - - From: Joaquin Vargas
Dear McSweeney's, The (Power) Ballad of Donny, Heavy Metal Accountant Part One (in a an ongoing series of unspecified length) Donny is unsure of whether he should proceed with his plan to reduce the national debt. True, he believes wholeheartedly in the power of music, specifically the sub-genre known as "heavy metal", but can it really have a positive impact on the U.S. economy in the way he hopes? All of his extensive studies say yes. The "power chords" associated with this type of music, along with the traditional dress, which includes tight pants, long hair, and black t-shirts (surprisingly, this goes for both male and female adherents, pointing to the latent androgynous tendencies occurring within this subculture) have influenced crowds of up to 100,000 people to behave in manners most unbecoming in proper society. Such acts as "headbanging", "binge drinking" followed by "anonymous sex with skanky chicks one wouldn't normally give a second look" are common during heavy metal performances. However, budget balancing on a national scale has yet to be witnessed at one of these concerts. Donny is intent on changing all of that. J.D. Vargas - - - - From: "Erickson, Karl"
Dear McSweeney's, Hello, While I was eating lunch (pb&j, raisins, company coffee), I was thinking I remembered some people writing in and bemoaning and bewildered by the fact that fat or large people are not appreciated as much as thin beautiful people. Well, it is because fat large people are in the way. No one likes to have others in their way, not I, at least. If I am walking down a sidewalk, and I see a "chubber" ahead of me, I groan and inwardly know that my journey is going to take at least an additional five to 10 minutes as I plot to navigate my route around the lumbering flabbo. And sitting next to over weight people on the bus or train sucks. And if you have ever attempted to walk next to a fat person on the sidewalk, well, you know that it is not a successful endeavor. So, you can see that it is not that fat folks have unpleasant personalities or are stupid or in anyway mentally different than thin, beautiful people. It is just that they are inconvenient. I bought running shoes to help insure that I will not be inconvenient. Karl Erickson - - - - Date: Tue, 13 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, While listening to Thin Lizzy- the peel sessions and "Jailbreak" comes on, I am prone to laugh when Phil Lynott sings "Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak, SOMEWHERE in this town." I might laugh at that line but it does NOT diminish in any way my love for the music. Also, I too saw the Star tabloid with corner headline of "Mr. Ed was a Zebra!". Standing in the checkout line of a fine Chicagoland Dominick's, I also was tempted to buy that outstanding newspaper but thought better of it. I decided to read my parents' Enquirer which they have subscribed to since I was in grade school. It's a fact. All the love in my 100% pure beef heart.
- - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, I have no idea what, but something is making my throat feel really sharp pain. I guess it could be the Ginger Ale I'm drinking right now, I don't know. Not trying to be a downer or dramatic , but it just reminds me that once everything finally seems to start working out for me, it probably turns out that something about ginger ale is killing me. Like barbed wire pressed against the left side- Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, So now my job, and the Internet company that it was at, has been gone for ten business days now. Which, in light of the last month or two, seems fine with me. My little ..com job was starting to feel like being in a acapella-boy-band. And that behind our attempts to woo America's moms in shopping malls with our noon concerts, we we're really falling into the tour bus (van) every afternoon hating each other. Hating decisions made within the band by each other, and hating certain styles of certain members...even though we were aware that we needed this chorus of diverse styles to remain appealing. We needed the semi-cute computer geek. We needed the sleepier bad seed turned good. We needed the un-traditionally handsome Australian business-genius-boy-man-thing. Here is the truth: WE RARELY SANG OUR OWN SONGS. We were busy rallying ourselves to monitor mundane tasks that ultimately killed us... like creating documents that would outline strategies for people with talent to fuel our little show. And so we stood on our little stage day after day in the mall and I secretly steeped in hatred over the fact that the very thing that made us want to try this, was now something we didn't even do ourselves. I'm a little bit tired in a way that I can't really put a finger on. After three days by the ocean and getting burned by the sun, seven business days later my skin is shedding. Most of it. Maybe even all of it. As is if I'll slither from it in my sleep and leave it here. And somebody hiking through the building, seasons later, will find it and guess my size and my stature and my current whereabouts. It's a shedding that makes me think I should not take job interviews, because I am so obviously between skins. I sit in my apartment looking out at the city, drinking popular brands of bottled iced coffee drinks (2 left) and eating nutrition bars (4 left), convincing myself that when the peeling is done I will be something new. Somehow shinier and more ready for things I can't even imagine. Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, It sounds like the newscaster on the TV in the apartment on the other side of the wall is saying this: "Every single little session, and now every single lesson, and do I feel like I'm trying. The steel cannot display. Woof. Woof. Woof." "(looming music. Like a foghorn, almost.) The small church is stinging like needles. And when I Pay the world... sure, we can sail if we sail. Something is working. And feeling. The singing is jumping. (Dramatic music looming again)" "Every thirteen years the sensitive blue thing falls on Peter." "Now the main land is knowing wallpaper. You have no idea of the faculty that requires." In 4b, not 4a- Dan Kennedy
- - - - Date: Tue, 13 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I think Bryce Newhart's concerns about my bearings are valid; I went with Bones on the recommendation of the skate shop employee who graciously built my new board. For my purposes, they'll do. I'm currently only using an AVEC 1, due to my complete inability to ride a skateboard prior to two weeks ago, but as soon as my skills improve, I'll switch to a faster roll-- perhaps a 3?-- and I'll see how Pigs compare. I always thought the heart of rock'n'roll was in Cleveland. thanks so much whitney pastorek - - - - From: "Newhart, Bryson"
Dear McSweeney's, Back at ya big guy! Don't you hate when people talk like that? But seriously Paul, you should keep your bathroom window shut. People out for a morning hang-glide cannot help glancing. It's embarrassing to say it, but I saw you in the shower with a fake cellphone the other day: a bar of Lever 2000. The light was off and you were using a fake arm to hold the bar of soap, one of those glow in the dark kind. Rinkes, I thought, from Chicago, so that ... In a nearby tree was a zen soy nest with some small blue eggs in it. "Mmmm, Breakfast," I thought, heading over there. One last thing Paul, you're supposed to hold the phone next to your ear, not rub it all over your body. Cellular phones? In the future we'll have cellular bones. Bryce Newhart - - - - From: "Robert Beier"
Dear McSweeney's, I dreamt of a copier. A weighty copier that spanned the breadth of three men 40 cubits wide and 16 angels 500 cubits tall. It was silver and black, occupying at the least 30 dimensions and at the most 57. It folded in and out of these dimensions creating a field of gray as deep as the Atlantic Ridge is buried under the sea. There was a golden chain around my ankle, snaking (o.k. it wasn't a chain, it was a snake bitten into my ankle) back into the copier winding into and out of my current existence. Jeezel, the red butcher-demon, turned to me, his eyes two green start buttons, and bid me make him copies because he was the boss of me. He pointed his gnarled finger, the size of a tree, at a stone tablet that looked like it weighed 700 pounds. Yea, the weight was immense and the suffering sank upon my shoulders as the day sinks into night. Arash, up beyond where the sky levels the sea into an uneasy oneness, separate me from Jeezel. The demon laughed and it sounded like mountains avalanching. Copy, he said. 6, 000,000,000, I need. I knew that I was lower than the dust, cursed be the man who is named xerox. For each copy represented the days I have yet to spend in the office. Regards,
- - - - Date: Wed, 14 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I would like to state for the record that I was once again overlooked by the MacArthur Foundation selection committee. I'm tired of apologizing for the fact that I don't work at Cal Tech or smash atoms or perform progressive ballet. On the small chance that one of the committee's *anonymous* members might be lurking out there somewhere, this is my project for the forthcoming year (please take note): - "Sartre Trek": innovative situation comedy in which the world's favorite philosophers debate the merit of boldly going ANYwhere. I do not wish to reveal too much at this point but I have four words for you: First Mate - SOARIN KIERKEGAARD Thank You, John O'Keefe - - - - Date: Wed, 14 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, If my brain worked like those of your writers my body would instantaneously elongate, my skin would turn a lovely shade of violet and I would have really long hair, like a mermaid's, but not wet. Furthermore, my digestive system would begin to allow for subsistence on nothing but the sounds of people talking. And I would never get another mosquito bite. Love, Mary Fisher
- - - - From: Elise Allen
Dear McSweeney's, Okay, Okay, I must confess. Following the unsuccessful "The Helmut Story" and the successful "Priap's Prison" I dropped out of graduate school. After all...what can a writer do with a Ph.D. in Immunobiology? (except irritate fellow scientists with excessive anecdotal spew.) So, having recently departed the East Coast in a whirlwind liquidation of personal belongings and with three flavors of prescription meds in tow, I have set up camp in a new city, Dallas, TX. Not my first choice in cities but I could have done worse. My mother assures me to consider it an appropriate forum for growing one's "sea legs." Does anyone know what this really means? Am I a mermaid in need of physical therapy? Is she telling me to tan my legs as one does lying prone parallel to the sea? Please, fair McSweeneys readers, what does this matronly advice mean? Upon my arrival in New Haven with $500 and no personal belongings, save for a butterfly chair, I proceeded to utilize local "Tag Sales." Odd regional phenomenon. In the South these are known as "Garage Sales." So I boarded my fair clipper ship and went tag sailing. I guess now it is time to do it again, Gulf Coast Style. So I begin my garage sailing oddessy. I am mentally preparing myself for this event: reminding myself of the trials, perils and pitfalls of the garage sailor's life. Firstly, there are "Those who Paid." "Those who Paid" should be given the number of the nearest Salvation Army. They should NOT have garage sales. These individuals price their items sky high (a characteristic shared with "Those who do the Garage Sale Groove"), BUT they expect exactly what they ask for because, you guessed it, "they PAID." Ex:
Me #1: "What do you mean $2.00?!! This is tupperware lady - you obviously don't know the tacit rules of garage sailing. This piece of plastic could have been used to feed your dog or store biological samples. This is an item of borderline disposability. TWP#1: What?!!! Feed my daw...biological samples! We ONLY used this for the storage of odor free ICE !! It has this super-seal feature and... Me#2: "Let me explain to you the tacit law of garage sailing," I say as I jauntily tip my sailor's cap (I got it at astroworld in 1985 it has "Elise" written on it in cursive - people will bargain better with a crazy lady just to get you off their property). "You clearly have not traveled the garage sale circuit, or you would know that an item crashes in price upon purchase, especially (leaning in in a tilting sort of I am about to fall into your lap way and lifting my voice, simultaneously) TUPPERWARE! Me#1: "To put it simply: Traditionally, Tupperware is an item for the "freebie" box." To be continued.
Elise
- - - - From: "Gillian Beebe"
Dear McSweeney's, Mercury behaves like that. When I was younger, my sister and I used to accidentally break thermometers and then grab bobby pins and jostle the mercury beadlets around the bathroom tile. It was fun! It behaved not like a liquid, not like a solid. It was so beautiful I wanted to eat some. I had self-control, though. I had been warned about going blind or something, which is the same reason I never touch my eyes after playing with a Wooly Bear caterpillar). Eventually we would have to dispose of our liquidy silver joy (for some reason my mother would act very angry when she discovered broken thermometers), so we would manipulate the mercury spherules onto a piece of paper (not easy as they tend to break apart and wobble all over as if being affected by some magnetic force), and then carefully dump it in the toilet. I think there is still a globule in the bottom of my father's. I haven't looked that closely, though. I won't! I refuse to. I just sort of know it's there, ominous. When my sister went away I used to rummage through her jewelry box and I discovered that she had saved a tiny stash of mercury in a plastic box inside another plastic box marked temptingly with a skull and crossbones (implying Poison, not Piracy). I haven't looked for it lately, but again, I'm sure it's still there. Does anyone know the symptoms of mercury poisoning? Fondly, Gillian Beebe - - - - From: "Sarah M. Balcomb"
Dear McSweeney's, Writing plays is more fun than Death Race 2000. Here's one more, then I retire. UNTITLED, THE SEQUEL A Play for McSweeney's by Sarah M. Balcomb Characters:
Setting: A wooden bench against a black backdrop. Conspicuously artificial sound of birds and a bubbling brook in the background, mixed with a fly techno beat. SMB: Give me one of those cigarettes. BMS: Fuck no. Get your own. (Laughs) Here, take 'em all. SMB: (Lights cigarette) Thanks, dude. BMS: So I bet you think you're hot shit now. SMB: What're you talking about? I've always been hot shit. BMS: Seriously. That's a lot of play you're gotten. SMB: Yeah, they say I have a gift. BMS: They also say you sleep with fried food. SMB: I prefer to focus on the positive. BMS: So make another prediction. For the record. SMB: OK, um .Whitney Pastorek will master the art of skateboarding. And stop referencing fast food chains in all her letters. BMS: She was just taunting you with that Taco Bell thing. SMB: Don't tell anyone, but I do like the Bell. BMS: Your secret's safe with me, pal. (SMB and BMS laugh robustly, then smoke more cigarettes.) FINIS. Did you get that? BMS was actually me, my initials reversed. I was just talking to myself. Endless fun, eh? Yeah right,
- - - - From: "Pascover, Alexander W."
Dear McSweeney's, I found Kevin Shay's piece (Pirate Riddles for Sophisticates) very funny. But what was with all the misspellings and capital letters? Subscribe me,
- - - - Date: Thu, 15 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, To the woman who watches the delivery people: Your story reminded me of a little game I used to play in the elevator of a large investment firm here in Boston, Mass. Being a temp, I was used to stuffy office environments, but even I had to adjust here. When I left my cubicle I had to wear my jacket, even when walking to the copier. Something had to give. Anyway, I made many deliveries between two buildings which required riding the elevator quite a bit. When the elevator was empty (and descending) I would jump up to catch "air" like I did as a boy. This is where the invention of "How Close Can I Come to Being Fired" came about. After several weeks, mere jumping turned into dancing, and dancing transformed itself with spastically shaking about (funny faces included) up until the point the elevator beeped upon arriving at the lobby. I became so successful at this game (you won every time you gained composure before the door opened and someone noticed what a spaz you were) that I knew I could count to four, slowly and calmly after the elevator beeped before the door opened. The company let me loose after 4 months. I retired the All Time Champion of "How Close Can I Come to Being Fired." To Dan Kennedy: But don't give yourself away. Sincerely, Barry Osborne - - - - Date: Fri, 16 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, This morning on my drive to work I saw a woman teetering on a skateboard. She was wearing canvas flats, her legs were bare and white, and her floral-print skirt was too flimsy for her ungainly hips. She was on the sidewalk, not the street. She leaned too far forward and, moments before losing herself in a stumbling fall, picked up her skateboard and stopped on the corner to allow me to pass. Seattle is a town that is famous for coffee, which is really just flavored water that leaves an acid taste on the tounge. And yet this is more than most cities can claim. Good fiction, I'm coming to believe, may represent nothing more than an aptitude and cleverness with words -- the quick puff of a magician's distracting smoke. The most authenticity its artifice may support is the writer's personal experience because the reader, despite desperately wanting to be entertained, is poised to detect even the faintest lie or exaggeration. Reading David Foster Wallace is like spending a few hours with the really entertaining party guest who is delightfully stoned. He's like John Irving on speed. At the other end of the room is David Sedaris, who is perhaps at war with his family and himself, but more likely is blessed in that both he and his relatives are too aware of the world's problems to care what it thinks of them. These thoughts lead me to wonder if journalism is a higher art form than fiction, because it embraces an authenticity external to the writer, that eclipses the storyteller and keeps its own comfortable distance from exploitation or self-indulgence. But then look at those photographs from Bosnia and tell me what you see. They are shot through with exploitation at angles too deep and numerous to fathom. I'm reading Gouveritch's book on Rwanda. It has scenes that only a true genius could imagine. No one could expect to write anything like it. I travel the country. I flash my ID and breeze past the guards and metal detectors at the doors of federal courthouses. I work with Ramsey Clark's son, who is unfailingly flattering and self-deprecating, and who drinks me under the table in a succession of cheap hotel bars. My family has been through some harrowing experiences recently, unrelated to the aforementioned. My desolate hometown is currently featured in an off-Broadway play. Some day I will write about these things. In this way I suspect that I am like you, Neil Pollack, Amie Barrodale and Zadie Smith. We all believe that we have one pitch-perfect novel in us that we just haven't written yet. Like you, I also suspect, I am haunted by the knowledge that we can't all be right. Sean Carman - - - - From: Jennifer Hoyt
Dear McSweeney's, Last night I had a dream that I am hoping you can help me with. I went to a party at the house of someone who is not my friend but a friend of a friend. As we walked into the house, there was a sheet spread out on the floor and on the sheet were a number of copies of the Jehovah's Witness bible (I don't know what it's called, I was raised catholic, they're all bibles to me). There was a variety of shapes and sizes, old and new, English and any other language you could want. I wanted one of these books very much, in fact, it seems I had been looking all over for the Jehovah's Witness bible and had been unable to find a single copy. Well, when I went closer to the ones spread about on the sheet, I saw they all had little hand written signs that read "sold". An incredibly attractive man came up behind me and told me that he had one more copy available but that it was very important that I tell no one about it. He brought me into the kitchen which was a disgusting mess of food-caked dishes and junk food wrappers on the counters. He handed me a martini that was actually just a glass of olives with a little bit of vodka in the bottom and pulled out an incredible mini sized version of the Jehovah's Witness bible. It had a black vinyl cover with white letters and pictures of skulls in various stages of screaming. I wanted to make out with this man. Not for giving me the book but for being extremely attractive. I took the book. Later in the evening, all the guests at the party gathered in a very large back room that looked like my 3rd grade classroom and prepared to have a little impromptu poetry reading. I have never written poetry but was feeling so good from the effects of my olive martini and the book find of a lifetime, I sat on the floor in back thinking up good rhymes for words like tangerine and penguin, just in case. Right then a good friend of mine went to the front of the room and everyone gasped. There, dangling from a chain attached at his belt loop (much like the very tough looking "wallet attached to a chain") was another mini version of the Jehovah's Witness Bible. Now, everyone knew that he hadn't come to the party with that! Where did he get it? There were none available; the little hand written signs said so. All eyes turned on me. Everyone, including the extremely attractive man, was under the impression that I had spilled the beans about there being other hidden copies somewhere in the house. I plead my case but as is common at Jehovah's Witness bible parties, no one was interested, they just wanted the little betraying bitch out of their house. They forcibly removed me as I cried. What do you think it all means? Any interpretations you may have, Jungian or otherwise, would be greatly appreciated. Thanks, Jen Hoyt - - - - From: "Kudirka, Catherine"
Dear McSweeney's, This whole day has been a blank, except for earlier, after the Skinny One left, I slept for a little while (that was part of the blank, but I'm talking about after I woke up). Skinny one put Bag of Forbidden Snacks on the floor by the sink. Serendipitous. I don't understand why these snacks are forbidden -- no one else eats them, but she tells me no I can't have them. I experimented a little with approaching the bag, to see if anyone would jump out from a hidden area and yell at me (this does happen sometimes, especially if I am absorbed in thought and not paying attention). No one jumped out so I removed the best snack which was actually not edible (how can this be so, I wonder, even though I have come across this phenomenon before, on the Cement especially) even though it smells very much like Dead Bird. It is lickable, however, and so I lick it for awhile, and when I tire of this, I bury the thing under the small cloth on the floor that belongs to me. No one should bother it there -- it would be rude. I think the best way to actually catch a rat would be to try hard to decide what one will do with it when one actually does catch it. It's pessimistic to think that one will never catch the rat. One must move, in one's imagination, past the image of grabbing the rat with one's teeth (impossible as this seems), and onward, to the potentially satisfying reward of biting down on the rat's body, and feeling the tiny bones crackle beneath one's molars, and the blood of the rat sliding down one's throat, warm and fragrant. We all make the mistake of being afraid that the rat cannot be caught, and I think this attitude hinders our success. There is mud caked on the fur above my tail. I am not able to do anything about this. When I move, the dried mud pulls hundreds of hairs from my skin, some of them all the way out. It is very irritating. I can't reach it with my tongue. I can't rub this area on the sofa. I am not that acrobatic. Sincerely, Lucy the dog - - - - From: Elise Allen
Dear McSweeney's, I can only assume that my garage sailing advice and adventure has brought you back to this site in hopes of more tales. But I will pause in my garage sailing adventures to tell the tale of Peggy Swindleford, a two-day a week secretary posing as a property manager. APEX Plumbing and Supply. The shady front for a landlord/lawyer who is rising to Wizard of Oz stature by his simple refusal to be present at anytime. I know he exists because Peggy, of Swindleford fame, will occasionally wave a laquered claw at the wood paneling on one side of her office, indicating a "presence," whenever issues of the landlord come up. It is MY lunch hour after all, not his. I have brought ole' Peg Leg 60 photographs of the duplex in disrepair, temporarily known as "The Shat-oh" until Whitney Pastorek can come up with a better name. I am signing a five page lease, which in true Texas style states that all my personal belongings are considered to be lein on my rent. Ha Ha, I think. Little good that will do them since most of my personal belongings were scattered willy-nilly around the city of New Haven or seized by my former landlord. Confiscating my up and coming salvation army scavenger collection of books will do them only $162 worth of good AND only if the book market compares to New Haven's AND they've got to know the bookstore owner. Fat chance. These kids can barely type a lease, I don't think they read much. The Hazy Eyebrow is winning! Winning, I tell you! After all the grand theft auto/landlord lawsuit/German boyfriend pitfalls that she has encountered! WINNING! Okay. I am calm. So I read the five page lease and find a section that reads "the tenant will pay all but the following checked utilities" Golden glory. Peggy has checked them all. Apparently she has a problem catching "buts." I wrestle with my cynical and bitter self and finally say "Oh! So we don't pay ANY of the utilities." This is the fun part. She uses her you are an idiot voice and says: "Nooooeeew, you pay ALL the utilities." in her buddah has spoken voice. I point out her fallacy. She quickly converts from Budda to a flustered hen (Quite a sight to see) and starts clucking around finding a fresh "page four" to type up. I read on. I feel a panic attack coming on so I go to take an ehem...asprin. I leave Peg's office and wander amongst a veritable forest of pedastle sinks, glistening hardware, polished and decorated tile, tubs, and toilets. I am looking for one that will give up a little water so I can take my ehem asprin. I have to ask. One of the green monkeys (see Clockwatchers) points out the bohemuth (sp?) of a watering fountain. There it is, right in the middle of the showroom. A huge, rusty, gray metallic, retro-elementary school water fountain. The only functional plumbing in this thicket of porcelain. I take my ehem asprin. I must go now. Some one ask Whitney Pastorek for a tale about the Caddos. She is quite the Native American history buff. Yours, elise allen (occasionally published as Guy Ives) - - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, Certainly you've heard about that book in which the author claims to be simply documenting his conversations with God. He says, "Oh, I just write down what he said in the conversations we had." I forget what it's called at the moment. SIMPLY DOCUMENTING, or something. HEY, IT'S GOD DO YOU HAVE A MINUTE TO TALK? Whatever. The title is not important right now. The important thing is that I got to thinking about what possibilities this opens up for me personally, in terms of writing. I have always felt that any writing endeavor longer than these letters I write would be beyond my grasp of discipline, talent, etc. So some friend of mine, when I was saying this, blurts out "Oh, you should read [GOD'S HERE AND HE WANTS TO HAVE A WORD WITH YOU(?)] because it changes all of that, blah, blah, blah..." So I actually read a few pages of this book, and I think I see exactly what my friend was talking about! Basically, if this author essentially sub-contracted half of his work out for God to write, and the American public did not so much as raise an eyebrow, then nobody is going to say one thing if I decide to get, say, Nabokov or any number of writers or celebrities who have passed on, to shoulder half of the burden of writing MY book. See, essentially, this type of arrangement makes it possible for me to start thinking about writing something a little longer than these letters to McSweeney's. Do you see what I'm saying? "Yes" What? "Yes, they see. And yes, we will get a novel finished this year...or my name's not Harriet Tubman." Oh my God- Dan Kennedy
- - - - Date: Sat, 17 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I very much enjoyed Kevin Shay's pirate piece because I listen to someone at work do the "arrrrr" thing about two to three dozen times per day. I work on a trading floor at the Chicago Board of Trade where the options guys have to yell their conversions over to the futures guys. I am a futures guy (actually a futures gal), and the clerk that stands next to me is named Yair (pronounce Yah- eer which is Hebrew for light). The guy from the options pit can't pronounce his name and calls him Yar. When he needs Yair to do something for him he shouts "YARRRRRRRR" in a gruff pirate manor. I loved it the first thirty-five to forty times. Now it grates on my spine like a cheese grater. Also, last night I dreamt of the M.R. He wanted me to take a picture of a group of his friends including himself. He handed me the camera and proceeded to detail an elaborate process for how he wanted the picture taken and the settings on the camera that I should use. I don't remember if I botched the job or not because I woke up before he got the film developed. This is the second dream I have had in which the M.R. appears. I am now considering writing a book much like the one I have placed on top of the toilet in my bathroom and that is "I Dream of Madonna- Women's Dreams of the Goddess of Pop" (a birthday gift from a close friend). Although with only two dream entries in my book it would be a quick read. That's it. Kelly Ann King - - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, One question: Who is reviewing the June 20th memorial of Newsweek theater critic Jack Kroll? I hope the critic covering the event for you is every bit as firm, fair, but devilishly snide at times, as Mr. Kroll was throughout his career. I might suggest you send yours truly, being that we all know I'm between jobs at the moment. Did Kroll ever have anything to say about McSweeney's? If he did, this is the type of thing I should be briefed on before I head over to the Vivian Beaumont Theater at Lincoln Center, if in fact I'm covering this one for you guys. Some of the things I'll be considering in my coverage: -Pictures of Jack. Are they gratuitous? Size? What is his expression in the photographs? Do they seem to be calculated to keep critics like me from certain angles in a review of the memorial? -Speakers. Getting into the eulogies here. How is the writing? How are they presented? Was the writing barbed with little in-jokes that only an intimate mourner would appreciate, or was there the opportunity from someone like myself, who wasn't really close with Kroll or the majority of his work, to mourn and enjoy the writing? How was the comedy used here? We all know these things are laced with 'warm, thoughtful, and un-solicitous comedic musings', to paraphrase my understanding of Kroll's conversational comment regarding a show I was involved with, but more to the point ARE THE JOKES AND ANECDOTES APPROPRIATE TO THE SCALE AND SETTING OF THE MEMORIAL? If you want to arrange for a more formal pitch for my covering the memorial, telephone me at my apartment. If you think I'm going to outline the pitch so well that you find yourself with a free Dan Kennedy review on your hands, YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR HEAD! Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, AN EMOTIONAL (Hopefully) MONTAGE DEPICTING THE EVENTS IN OUR NATION ON THE DAY OF SATURDAY, JUNE 17TH, 2000. By Dan Kennedy IMAGE: Washington Monument. Wide shot on video tape, not film. A tourist uses a payphone near the sidewalk. A child looks on without amazement or any understanding of the significance of the monument. Absentmindedly chewing on some kind of pokemon toy or something. MUSIC: Instrumental version of any current hit single being played on the radio these days. [Fades into:] IMAGE: A late-eighties model of compact car is being parallel parked on a somewhat busy street in an average American city. Driver is probably going to go to the store or something. MUSIC: Cross-fade from last track into an Orchestral rendition of current MatchBox 20 song that is on MTV all the time. [Fades into:] IMAGE: A high School. Nothing happening, as it's Saturday. Maybe a group of 3-7 local kids playing an informal game of soccer way off in the distance. Camera is not stead at all. The camera's tiny built-in mic is picking up my breathing. MUSIC: Sudden cut to piano playing Louis Louis by The Kingsmen. [Jump cut:] IMAGE: One of those inexpensive small bottle rockets (From Mexico?) leaving a thin and spotty trail of white smoke against an off-white sky of high cloud cover. Video freezes for dramatic ending when bottle rocket "pops" like a firecracker at the end of its 71 ft journey into the sky. In the freeze-frame, in the background you can see a small plane, which isn't doing much. MUSIC: Piano playing Louis Louis stops suddenly. END Dan Kennedy - - - - From: "Marissa D. Madrigal"
Dear McSweeney's, An appropriate task on this fine Saturday. At work. Because they hate me. Useless items on my desk: Used post-it notes (various sizes)
My strategic plan to use each and every one of these items is as follows: I will cut and paste a collage of sorts out of used post-its, using the carpet as my canvas, fashion the purple cup into a visor/Frisbee/weapon, speak only in abbreviations " OCC BPF PREM AC EE NN GRF", read Wage and Hours Law, 1996, create a hanging mobile for the area above the desk with the Photo Ids, using the bobby pin as the vessel of insertion into the space left by the missing chunk of acoustic tile on my desk. I will affix the acoustic tile to the hood of my car, just for flare. As for the pink construction paper, I'll find something for it. I may just leave it pinned to my cubicle. I kind of like it. Marissa D. Madrigal - - - - From: "Timothy McWeeney"
Dear McSweeney's, It's not easy driving a 78 Lincoln filled with smoke down a crowded sidewalk in reverse, the disco ball spinning, your crotch soaked with urine. I guess that's why when I ended up in the gay bar I was still inside the car, the hood covered in brick and plaster. To make matters worse, my pet rats were sulking. I know you're not supposed to snap at loved ones -- I learned that in the brothel -- but confiscating their miniature drums and tubas had been necessary, regardless of how many rodent necks got snapped. Their rat-faced marching music was making me quite insane. Besides, rats are a dime a dozen. One thing I could feel good about, at least the Mexican had given me a free boot polish. Anything to bolster my confidence. "Lemons of steel," I thought. "That's what I need in this sodomy rumshop." The fruits were not even surprised by my entrance through the wall. I guess when you've been wearing a leather banana hammock and a dog collar for long enough, certain things just go right by you. I stumbled to the bar, hoping for a cool glass of urine, and immediately I was besieged by a flaming sissy. "Allen gives me robotic accuracy. He's my German programmer," the prissy nancy lisped in my face. "Oh please," I thought, "what kind of line is that?" The bearded fruit had removed his sailor's cap and was almost on my lap. Planted in the middle of his face was a large red clown's nose. Kind of hungry, I reached into my pocket for a few uncooked hotdogs -- left over from the afternoon -- and started to nibble. "Look fancy boy," I said. "I'm not your type." "Neither am I," said the fruit. "But as an almost fully functional AI-2000-BOT, I do have a sense of humor. Moreover, I can chop almost anything into 26 different sizes before you can blink. Never mind my beige flesh, inside I'm all black." I raised my eyebrows. "A real fruit-juicer, huh?" I said. "Black on the inside." I toasted him with my mug of urine. "No homey, I ain't sayin' whud you think I be saying." He did a sort of robotic laugh. "What I'm talking about is hardware. And not what your dirty homophobic mind thinks about that either. I mean wiring: a whole damn alphabet of circuitry and microchips. Nanotech. Quantum shit. It's got me floating somewhere between life and death. But my brain chip helps ease the social difficulties. It's not all bad. Not that I've known different." He seemed to forget what he was saying and slammed his fist on the bar. "Hey shit face! Some more battery acid over here!" "You are some piece of work," I said. "Some kind of robotic piece of work no doubt." I stood and brushed off some plaster, fully intending to knock the robot down. Either that or offer him a job in my noodle shop. Suddenly he was laughing his robot head off. "Ah ha ha ha," came the robot cackle. "I'm just kidding. Just being a goofball. Been that way ever since preschool when my mom gashed my face and carved it up with a razor. Old mom had weird idea of poetry. I didn't let it bother me though. I took the opportunity to smear that blood all over. Then, with my face covered in blood, I pretended to be a clown. Still am one. Blood Clown. So you see, although I know I had you going, I'm not really a robot." He held out his filthy robot hand, expecting me to shake it. "Sure, Blood Clown." I handed him a wiener. "Hey," he continued, "when they really do replace us clowns with robotic clowns, do you think those bastards will be loud and clumsy like most clowns and robots? Or will they defy that stereotype and walk quietly on high-tech cat-like feet?" I didn't have an answer for Blood Clown so I pretended to ignore him. This seemed to make him angry. He leapt to his feet. "And another thing, tough guy. How many ounces of German Beer do you think my horny bitch wife can pour into her hot groin? Well? Answer me goddamnit! Do you think I can swing a bowling ball from my cock?" Blood Clown was swaying from side to side now. He'd become a real menace. "Huh? Do you think so? Well I can." I shrugged, unimpressed. He grinned and ran for my car. With the side of his face he smashed the back windshield. "What do you think of that?" he roared. The bartender had meanwhile produced a sawed-off shotgun. Evidently this was ordinary behavior for the Blood Clown. He came back, his face covered with glass and blood, and sat down. He seemed depressed now. "Hey buddy. Why won't you look at me?" he said. "You're face looks kinda scary. Are you upset to find out that I'm not really a robot? Your look makes my voice sound kinda scratchy in my ears." He then turned to the bar. "Jeez bartender, tough crowd tonight. How about a smile and a free drink for the non-robotic comedian known as Blood Clown. How about cutting Blood Clown some slack?" The bartender pulled out a knife and held it to the man's neck. "You want it cut thin or thick?" he said. "Thick," said Blood Clown. "You know the way I like it." I got up and hobbled to the car. "See you faggots another time," I called back. "This act is getting old." Your compatriot the general, Timothy McWeeney - - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, There are five, maybe ten, things I knew I would accomplish by the age of 25. 1) Release a record that would make the Replacements seem like even less of a brilliant footnote in the history of American music. 2) Have sex with Jill in Seattle. 3) See the world. 4) Stay off tour long enough to redefine twentieth century American literature. I forget the other one or five things. Doesn't matter, best I've done so far on the four listed above is record two songs to cassette with an out of tune acoustic guitar; say "Hi Joel" to Jill when I was drunk and nervous at a party in Seattle; travel to Austin to run out of money; and eight years later write a few letters to you guys. Oh, well... not too shabby when you consider that I'm 32! Wait a second... Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, Why is it that quotation marks appear around my name in the subject heading of my every letter ever posted by McSweeney's? I don't have the account information in my email software set up to display "Dan Kennedy", I have it set up to display: Dan Kennedy. Paranoia tells me that this is McSweeney's way of implying that I am not real. You know...that I'm a "Writer"... "Living" here in New York and "Writing". Of course since I'm between jobs right now, my worst fear is that there are people reading McSweeney's who have thought about getting in touch with me regarding a writing job, but are leaning back in their executive chairs and saying things like "Well, I think he would be a good fit over here, this "Dan Kennedy", but something tells me there is no "Dan Kennedy" and that the joke is on us." All records on file- (no quote) Dan Kennedy (No end quote) - - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, I feel like if I lived in a small town and my house caught on fire that the only firetruck to come would be one of those antique fire trucks, and it would have fifteen or twenty clowns hanging off of it, and they would be honking old fashioned bicycle horns, and making dramatic frowns at me while I stood on the front lawn watching my house burn down. They would run around frantically trying to put the fire out by spraying seltzer bottles on it and tossing creme pies at it, and then when they made no progress they would stand scratching their heads and putting their hands on their hips in exageratted disbelief. Then they would put me on the truck and 'kidnap' me off to some community pancake breakfast. Just fine in the city- Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: "Steven Tomsik"
Dear McSweeney's, Update on Clothing 6/19/00: Pants: Mustard, chocolate
I decided to try to be more careful while eating, and failed. In fact it was worse when I tried. I won't try anymore. Bibs don't work, either. Lunch in Bryant Park last week, the bib blew up in the wind JUST as I dribbled tomato innards. Very convenient? Or fate? I'm seriously considering attempts at making adult temper tantrums legitimate and possibly therapeutic. Screeching sobs and foot stamps, fists pumping, everything, in full public. Join me. Oh, plus my girlfriend informed me, nonchalantly, that I have ring around the collar. I am no longer allowed to wear her Guayabera shirt, which is white. But see I don't smell or anything. Once my friend Murrow went to work, smelling an awful urine-type aroma, thinking to himself that someone around him was filthy and foul... later he realized it was him. His cat was responsible. But I check, though, so it's mostly just a visual problem. Help, Steve. - - - - From: Jeremy Stone
Dear McSweeney's, The Letters to the Editor section seems largely composed of a series of narcissistic attempts by people to further their own literary careers without submitting actual pieces for publishing. They hide their stories and plays in what begin as genuine "letters" but which slowly degrade to a series of empty adjectival signifiers and some debased form of a plot. They're predictably off-beat and Nouveau Hip, but contain no real content aimed at the editor, staff, or even the readership at large. Usually, it seems to be a soapbox from whence these people can air their creative dirty laundry and hope that someone will see the genius underlying it all, and eventually give them a casting call for the next episode of "Writers Anonymous - Tales of Undiscovered Talent". For all it's sneaky disingenuousness, I like some of it. I like Whitney the skateboarding girl. I want to know if she has tattoos and cropped, spiky, bleach-blonde hair. I think that in this case, however, I am only intrigued by what I deem an interesting story, or possibly the fact that all I want in life is a spiky-blond-skater-girl with tattoos. In any event, the quality of the stories is not what annoys me (entirely)... it's the venue that these people are using to surreptitiously dispense their literary propaganda that makes me want to throw my monitor at small children just for the chilling sense of reality that it will produce. So do I think you really care? No. But if you give a damn at all about anyone other than your clique of wannabe Kafka's who can wax poetic about the unusual similarity of rubber-band balls and your quirky tenure as a human being, then quit hiding your memoirs and tragicomedies in such ridiculous places! Find some open URL like UnemployedNovelist.com or INeedPersonalRecognition.net and post your enthralling stories of cubicle life and prosaic disgruntlement there. Leave the Letters to the Editor section for people who are truly adept at bitching and moaning... Jeremy Stone - - - - From: "Keith Crouse"
Dear McSweeney's, Has anyone ever faked their own death by hanging as a spectacle for your surprise? Well, they did me. I opened the door and there's Gary hanging from the ceiling light, only a silhouette against the window, but I can tell it's not a dummy. It's his fat stomach and curly hair and everything. I lost all my breath. I made this croaking sound and probably said "Oh my God" and backed away spasmodically in terror. Actually it was a dummy, made of pillows, with a fake curly wig. He did it to prove to me that he was not insane, because he had overheard me say I thought he was a little fucked in the head. Now you know, KC - - - - Read Previous Letters: |
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