Date: Fri, 1 Sep 2000
From: Derik
Subject: S.F. walking
Dear McSweeney’s,
I started reading the McSweeney’s website after a recommendation from readerville.com, and decided to track down a print copy. As I happened to be vacationing in San Francisco, I wrote down the names of the bookstores listed on the website as carrying McSweeney’s. I ended up spending most of my vacationing walking around the city in search of bookstores and issue #4. I found a copy. It is eminently readable and a pleasure to look at.
I don’t have a crazy story, just a letter of appreciation.
Thanks.
derik.
Date: Fri, 1 Sep 2000
From: Jim P. Walsh
Subject: Whitney Pastorek’s Bugs
Dear McSweeney’s,
I recently moved into a new apartment and have occasionally found large , many-legged wormlike monstrosities on the floor. For no good reason other than it sounded sinister, I assumed they were silverfish. Once I found one in my sink, behind a coffee mug. I could only see its antennae waving behind the rim of the cup. It was hiding. It is unsettling to think a many-legged invertebrate has the mental capacity to lie cunningly in wait.
Orkin has a fascinating guide to household vermin, complete with pictures, fun facts, and Latin names. They have a virtual insect zoo and a frightening graphic of a man with an outrageously pronounced chin threatening an ominous spider, in a jar. There is also a suggestion that you eat termites, because “they do in central Africa.”
I asked my sole Nigerian friend about this. She told me Nigeria is in West Africa. Her treatment of me seems to have cooled since I asked that unfortunate question. I digress.
Their website did identify my unwanted neighbors. They are centipedes. They can live for five to six years and their “large jaws can inject a poison [which] is not life-threatening.”
Jim Walsh
Chicago, Illinois
Date: Fri, 1 Sep 2000
From: learn lesson
Subject: I’ll stop now
Dear McSweeney’s,
Hey, that’s a really funny part in Ghostbusters when Bill Murray makes fun of is it Annie Potts? And he walks back into his office and then he comes back out and says, “Sorry about the whole bug-eyes thing”.
Sincerely,
Winston Zedmore
Date: Sat, Sep 2 2000
From: Blair Pritchard
Subject: Excuse Me
Dear McSweeney’s,
Someone had better explain to PAUL MALISZEWSKI that Chinese gooseberries, or “kiwi” fruit, are not tropical at all, and thrive only at 37.5 degrees latitude or thereabouts, approximately the distance from the equator of Richmond, VA. The only really decent place in the world to grow this fruit is in Te Puke, Bay of Plenty, New Zealand. (Although “Te” is a Maori word meaning “the”, “Puke” is a Maori word not meaning puke, and is in fact pronounced “pookie”). Any Third World agriculturist readers of this organ, perhaps seeing Mr. MALISZEWSKI as somewhat of an ally after his trenchant expose of dodgy business journalism in The Baffler, who rush out to blow the last of their IMF-sanctioned credit on expensive trellising equipment for the purpose of growing Chinese gooseberries, will surely be disappointed.
Blair Pritchard
Date: Sun, 3 Sep 2000
From: Karl Tobias Steel
Subject: Suicide, Special Bundy Request
Dear McSweeney’s:
J. Robert Lennon’s [would you rather be John or Vladimir Ilyich?] piece on suicide reminds me: high school was a good time for that. One incident involved my friend, an ex, standing on the railing of a bridge, waiting in the empty air while paramedics stomped and scurried towards her, undoubtedly speaking a compressed, numerically-encoded English into whatever the mid-80’s provided in the way of wireless communications.
My friend didn’t jump. She waited, and the paramedics took her from the railing. They asked her why didn’t she jump.
“It was an important decision. I didn’t want to rush it.”
Also, this, an invitation for McSweeney’s readers to share their Ted Bundy stories. Here is mine. In 1991, I worked at the Washington State Emergency Management Division, and Ted Bundy, too, worked there, albeit 20 years before me. Once the radio described a Volkswagen Beetle suspected in connection with a few seemingly random murders. His co-workers, in the manner of bored State Workers, needled poor Ted. They suggested the suspected Beetle might be his.
It was, of course, his, but I imagine Ted just shrugged and smiled and continued writing Evacuation Procedure manuals, smiling and saying, “Oh, you guys. Geez.”
In all sincerity, thank you,
Karl Steel
New York City
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000
From: Karl Tobias Steel
Subject: Is your daddy rich like me?
Dear Michael Kurhajetz:
Babies, like bridges, like roads, like trousers, like, indeed, all horizontal things incapable of mounting the y-axis without assistance, are measured by length, not heighth. Or tallth. Um, heighth.
Dear McSweeney’s:
I had a student once named “Tom Looms.” I said, “Your name, it’s a complete sentence.” He wasn’t amused.
Neal Pollack’s name is also a complete sentence. Try it: “Neal, Pollack!” An imperative, delivered by a cruel Teutonic overlord. Or a cruel Slavic overlord. Oh, hell, as delivered by everything and everyone Chopin, the Polish ex-pat, howled against in the crashing A-major of his Marche Militaire.
Warriors, come out and play,
Karl Steel
New York City
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000
From: Jim Crocamo
Subject: haircuts and, not of, chinese warriors
Dear McSweeney’s,
Luke O’Neil’s letter of last week casually referred to me in a dismissing manner by saying “anyone with sideburns gets compared to Elvis, my friend.” See? This is exactly my point- I don’t even have sideburns! What I have is something different entirely, wherein the hair from the side of my head, just above where sideburns would grow, is allowed to grow extravagantly long. I call them Jimmy-wings. It looks rather like an elf’s haircut, to be perfectly honest.
Sincerely,
Jim Crocamo
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000
From: Hartsough, Eevin
Subject: Bugs
O McSweeney’s!
I am very much heartened to have read more than one letter about other people’s bug problems. I had been feeling very much alone and frightened and had been loosing a good deal of sleep over my own.
A pledge: if Mr. Bryson should ever need to nap on my shoulder in an elevator, I will not look at him like he is crazy and may, in fact, indulge his request.
Eevin Hartsough
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000
From: Bryan Charles
Subject: My First Letter
Dear McSweeney’s,
You posted one of my letters once. It gave me a little taste for something. Fame, I think. But I have written you every week since then and nothing. Probably the quality of my recent letters has been inferior to that first brilliant one. My first letter really seemed to have that “oomph.”
Fondly,
Bryan Charles
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000
From: Chuck Easterling
Subject: Much like a World’s Fair yet horribly horribly sad
Dear McSweeney’s,
There they were standing in front of tri-fold cardboard exhibits perhaps adapted from their children’s science fair projects.
On the tables in front of them plastic pens with their companies logos sitting next to coozies (that how you spell “coozies”?) also adorned with their companies logos.
At the FedEx booth I snagged a Styrofoam DC-10 glider kit for Katy, my niece.
That night, I told her that none of the companies at the job fair seemed interested in me but admonished her to cheer up because I got her a DC-10 glider kit…thing.
She freakin’ loved it,
Chuck Easterling
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000
From: Alex Pascover
Subject:Thoughts on suicide and television
Dear McSweeney’s—
How have you been? Sorry I haven’t written for a while; I’ve been busy with the new job and the wedding plans. Here are a few thoughts of my own originated by the suicide topics in your letters pages.
1. Back when I lived in Ithaca, NY, someone attempted suicide by jumping off the bridge referenced by Mr. Lennon and landed (I am not making this up) on a raccoon. This saved the jumper’s life, although the raccoon was not so fortunate. A few months earlier, a drunk fellow fell into a sorority chimney and ultimately died of starvation or exposure. I believe he might have survived except he fell right before Christmas Break and therefore no one was around to hear his pleas for assistance.
2. I don’t know of anyone at my high school committing suicide while I was there, although there was one girl who attempted it. She was always very reserved and polite, but after the attempt I noticed that she often had enraged and profane diatribes against society or the school administration written on her shoes in very tiny handwriting. I wondered if she had always done this or if it was theraputic to publish her frustrations in a semi-public forum.
3. I was watching some football coverage (I think it was ESPN) this weekend in which a segment about all the injuries suffered in the preseason was accompanied by the theme to M*A*S*H. I guess it made sense, as that show was about a trauma unit in the trenches of the Korean War, but I thought it inappropriate. You see, I am much more familiar with the movie, in which that song (instrumental in the TV version) is an ode to killing oneself called “Suicide is Painless.” It seemed to me that the message conveyed was “OK, you’ve torn your ACL. Your career is over so you might as well knock yourself off, pal.”
4. Speaking of Chris Noth, is anyone else aware of a show that has survived despite its entire original cast leaving (in stages)? I personally haven’t watched much since the disappearance of Dann Florek and almost never since Baby Brah left.
Subscribe me,
Sincerely,
—Alex Pascover
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2000
From: Paul Griffiths
Subject: Little Altars Everywhere.
Dear McSweeney’s (if that is your real name),
I if I could change one thing about me, I would change my head. I think the head of Richard Grieco (21 Jump Street, Booker) would look very good on me. That hair, those arched eyebrows; I’d walk around saying, “Hey everyone, I have Richard Grieco’s head!” except it would be my voice, which would frighten and amuse children.
Sincerely,
Paul Griffiths
Date: Thu, 07 Sep 2000
From: Sommer Browning
Subject: I know one things
Dear McSweeney’s-
I know where Short Pump is.
Date: Thu, 7 Sep 2000
From: Chris Cotner
Subject: Another Week in Oklahoma
Dear McSweeney’s,
No numbered points this week. Nothing happened. The only highlight is that Tyler got a new scooter and we spent an afternoon having speed races down a long ramp. Of course I won, but that is because I outweigh him by about 150 pounds (he’s nine). Oh yeah, it’s not as hot. I hope the rest of the country had a more exciting week than I did.
Until next week…
Date: Thu, 7 Sep 2000
From: MS. ROSAURA
Subject: hubris again-affronting all over-heavy-starting afresh in blackness to find you.
Dear McSweeney’s,
The girl was all alone. She traced a heart and a bird in the dry gravel with the tip of her black shoe. In the distance crunching gravel announced a wanderer. The wanderer was a woman. The woman wore black pants and a blue jean jacket, hanging on her shoulder was a yellow knapsack. The woman came right up to the girl on the bench.
“Do you mind if I join you here?” asked the woman.
“No, go ahead. " said the girl.
“What are you doing here in the middle of Spain all alone? There won’t be another train for days.”
“I was just admiring how those mountains look like tan camels.”
“Oh, you’re right. They do look like tan camels. They look like a whole family of camels.”
…
“Do you want to hear about the journey?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
“And maybe those dreams about self-cannibalism you’ve been having all week will go away.”
“How did you know that I’ve been dreaming that?”
“The teeth marks on your hand.”
To be continued…
Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2000
From: Amanda.Gagliardi
Dear McSweeney’s,
I am an adult who owns a hamster. Recently the hamster has been plotting against me. I can tell.
In other food related news, I have twice found bugs in my food at a Chinese restaurant in “Shallow Alto” that is selected every year by the Palo Alto Weekly as best Chinese restaurant. First a fly, then, two gnats.
Amanda
Date: Fri, 08 Sep 2000 09:28:41 -0400
From: Weston Eguchi
Subject: Dave Eggers
Dear McSweeney’s,
I was at the Neal Pollack tour last night - the readings were hilarious and the latest issue of McSweeney’s very attractive. I work at a law firm, Richards Spears Kibbe & Orbe, if any of the attorneys can be of help, please let me know.
Weston Eguchi
Legal Assistant
Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2000
From: Steven Tomsik
Subject:galapagos
Dear McSweeney’s,
I didn’t go to the words reading last night. I did not make the hideous trek to William’s burg. If I had, though, you would have seen that I really am type-handsome, especially last night. For last night, I wore a sparkling clothes outfit, and my hair was just right. And I was so charming. And I smelled good, too, sort of a spicy musk, but not too much. If you had walked by me last night you would have maybe caught a pleasant, soothing whiff, maybe not.
So I’m sorry. Next time? Next time.
My shoes, too, were exquisite.
Steve.
Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2000
From: Monica
Subject: Brooklyn
Dear McSweeney’s,
I am not surprised to find no mention of the chocolate from last night. It was too much to hope for. Though, you must admit, it is (and was) fine fine chocolate. Overshadowed perhaps, by the unfortunate service of legal documents, which occurred in my proximity, and even more unlucky for me, directly before the MR would have been asked, by me, to sign his book. Oh well. It was a fun evening. Live MR is engaging and though possessed of an admitted eye-contact deficiency, detail-oriented and keen of memory. I was one of about a half dozen extant beings at G. over the age of forty. Sorry. The remainder of the room was filled to bursting with You People. Who are all firm of flesh, tall, and have astounding dentition. Who wear funny little eyeglasses now. Who have nonchalant tattoos and no visible piercings. Who think Lord of the Rings is still worthy of comment and parody. Cognitively dissonant with a group who laughs appreciatively at the name “Zola Budd”. I would too, if I were tall and young with good teeth.
So, thank you, again. For the inspiration. The intake, sometimes sharp and unheralded, of oxygen, though frequently accompanied, at least until the cease in the existence, by the exhale of carbon dioxide. Sigh.
Monica Sabia
Date: Fri, 08 Sep 2000
From: stacey lewis
Subject: a tiny cat & a bookmark
Dear McSweeney’s,
The extra long bookmark on Neal Pollack’s new anthology makes a great cat toy. Abigail loved playing with it while I read.
Thanks for the good times,
Abigail and Atacey Lewis
Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2000
From: Hustad, Megan
Subject: The woman sold me a used book, damnit.
Dear McSweeney’s,
I was at the reading at Galapagos last night. I had a nice time. On my way out the door, I decided to buy the Neal Pollack book, and McSweeney’s issue number five to boot. Flushed with cash and alcohol, I even gave the one dollar change from my twenty-nine dollar purchase to the author himself, who happened to be standing nearby. Here’s your tip, I said. He refused, but Mr. Eggers wisely, characteristically, told him to not say no. So Pollack kept the money, and I left. It was not until I saw his book under the glare of the streetlights that I realized the dust jacket was worn. Once home I noticed a pink smudge (makeup perhaps?) on the front. Then I opened the book and two folded pieces of paper fell out. One featured a long, and not entirely successful, thought piece about a bad dentist. The other was a printout of an e-mail sent to a boy named Jim Behrle. All of which led me to believe that the book I had just bought was not, in fact, intended for resale.
I think I want a new copy, is what I’m trying to say. I’m willing to trade.
M.
Date: Sat, 09 Sep 2000
From: Dan.Kennedy
Subject: WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMON AND OTHER NATURAL FLAVORS, YELL AT LIFE
Dear McSweeney’s-
Yesterday I was walking up 6th Avenue and I saw a large truck carrying a popular brand of bottled iced tea that the driver was delivering to the local corner store. On the side of the truck there was a picture of a man drinking the same kind of popular iced tea. The man in the picture on the side of the truck had his head tilted back and was taking a really big drink of this tea. Then I notice the headline, which said, “You feel good. Maybe too good.” Then I noticed that when the driver got out to make his delivery, he too was drinking a bottle of the iced tea. He tilted the bottle back and took really big drink. And when he was done he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then he yelled to the store owner, “How the hell am I supposed to get ten cases through with all of that crap in the way? I can’t even park here because you’ve got your God damned car double-parked out here all day! This is bullshit!”
I thought to myself, “He doesn’t feel good. Not too good at all.”
Dan Kennedy
New York, New York
Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000
From: M. Ryan Purdy
Subject: Just like a movie star.
Dear McSweeney’s,
Last week — a good week for me my co-workers say — I left work early one day, beaming like a fool for no other reason than I could layer my clothing, and wear a jacket that had inside pockets.
Walking downtown, sort of in “the Village,” I continued simply to glow, thinking of how good things were at the time. That morning I had seen someone who means very much to me, although he or she is really none of your business. Work had been fine, especially because I had left early in order to go downtown and buy the new compact disc by that songwriter who in many a publication has been called, “the Cole Porter of our Generation.”
Wonderful thoughts I had to be sure, while walking on Lafayette Avenue: that time I saw and heard Uma Thurman, from that boundary-breaking “Pulp Fiction,” pushing her baby in his stroller and singing to him; that other time that Julianna Margulies, formerly of “ER,” glided into the Starbucks near my office and I tried to catch her eye by that thing that has the stirrers and the napkins (I think I did and I think she smiled — she’s prettier in person!); and that day when I was sick but still met a friend at the CBS commissary for lunch and spied Andy Rooney, America’s favorite curmudgeon, sitting alone. Ah… Well, you can imagine the rest.
And then I looked down at the street before me, CD in hand and smile on face, and saw a pigeon eating broken glass.
Take care of yourselves.
Yours,
M. Ryan Purdy
Brooklyn, NY
Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000
From: Lara M. Zeises
Subject:Megan Hustad’s letter of Fri., 8 Sept.
Dear McSweeney’s,
Megan Hustad wrote complaining that the Galapagos person had sold her a used copy of the Neal Pollack Anthology. However, she doesn’t realize the hands that have made contact with her “used” copy. I cannot pretend to know the origin of the pink makeup smudge on your book’s cover, Megan, but I do know that Jim Behrle is in charge of organizing literary events for the Brookline Booksmith (the first stop on Neal’s world tour, which, by the way, was the quite the little hoe down).
Jim has what I believe to be the coolest day job ever, but that’s neither here nor there. Since the e-mail you found inside was addressed to Jim, the book could have been in possession of a great many people: Former literary agent John Hodgeman, Mr. Behrle, or Neal Pollack himself. At any rate, consider your copy special, woman!
Sincerely Yours,
Lara M. Zeises
P.S. Please feel free to use this information to beef up the book’s price on eBay.
Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000
From: Tim Durkin
Subject: complete names
Dear McSweeney’s and Karl Steel,
My favorite name-that-is-also-a-complete-sentence belongs to the author of The Screwtape Letters and the Narnia series:
Clive Staples Lewis.
Not many of these out there with direct objects, eh?
eh?
Tim Durkin
Date: Mon, Sep 11 2000
From: Ben Davis
Subject: RE: Kung poo poo
Dear McSweeney’s,
Oh my gosh! I can’t believe that you wrote that about that “Shallow Alto” place Ms. Gagliardi! Check this out though. A group of like six of my friends got together kind of last minute style for one their birthdays at this place in Chinatown called Full House. So we order and, you know, get a few beers too. And then our food comes. We’re all eating for a little while, and two among us who have recently gotten together are leaning in towards each other, heads touching at the hairline. And, you know every one just keeps eating, nothing is out of the ordinary. But then it turns out the lovebirds weren’t just nuzzling, they were examining… their kung pao chicken. As they proceeded to lazy susan it around, we all get a good, close look at a, maybe inch and a quarter long cockroach laboring in super slo mo through the kung pao scape. After the waiter came and held the offending plate in one hand while looking around the table and inquiring if this was the only one, he returned with two complimentary conciliatory beers.
It all happened so fast. My poor bewildered friends seemed ready to accept this deal looking around with raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders. I felt an exhilarating feeling welling in my bowels (I did eat some of the food), I drained both beers as well as my unfinished own. I walked slowly to the front area and looked all personal alternately in the eye while I said “This is unacceptable, we are not paying you one penny, there was a freaking roach in the food”. And then we took off and got some pie.
Yours,
Ben Davis
Date: Mon, Sep 11 2000
From: Jim Behrle
Subject: Re: The woman sold me a used book, damnit.
Dear McSweeney’s,
If Megan Husted sends me her address, I’ll send out a fresh new copy of The Neal Pollack Anthology to her door.
A boy named Jim Behrle.
Brookline Booksmith
279 Harvard St.
Brookline, MA 02446
Date: Mon, Sep 11 2000
From: randal cory walker
Subject: bear
Dear McSweeney’,
Is there any connection between David Eggers and “David,” the teddy bear advertised at members.iinet.net.au/~eggers/david.html? “David” is described as a “shy bear and never fights with the other bears. He never asks for honey, but we always ask him if he wants some and he always answers in a polite way. His heart is as golden as his fur. David is fully jointed, has glass eyes and leather paw and foot pads. He wears a home-sewn fabric bow.”
Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000
From: Jay Friesen
Subject: Camp Burdens
Dear McSweeney’s,
I was the web site upkeeper (webmaster simply implies too much) for a boys camp this summer, located in the middle of nowhere. I was one of the few who had access. The power of the net becomes clear in a place like this. I controlled the flow of information. I believe I wielded this power and responsibility with care. I did good things. I introduced a relatively harmless character to your website and he instantly fell in love. “How perverse” he said. We — well I — constructed an email (my first) and sent it to you. It was heartspoken and beautiful. We were both excited to be part of this, this… energy. Weeks passed. Nothing was posted. We were shunned. You should have seen the look on his face. My stomach rolled. How could this be?
There is still time. I ask you, please reconsider. For us. For everyone who has ever been turned away. We want to be part of this too.
Hoping,
Jay Friesen
Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000 19:22:55 -0700
From: Bob
Subject: Little to pass on
Dear McSweeney’s,
I’ve been meaning to write for some time now.
Bob
Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2000
From: Andy Albertson
Subject: fear of barbers, or the nature of deception
Dear McSweeney’s,
I’ve told, for many years now, a funny story. I tell this story to account for my tendency to go without haircuts for a month or so longer than ideal. I often have bushy hair while telling the aforementioned story.
It goes like this: I am, at the time, four years old. My hair is bushy yet wet, and I’m wearing Garanimals elastic waist band shorts. I’m in a barber’s chair, getting my hair cut. The barber snips off part of my left ear. Twenty-two years later, I shake in the presence of barbers.
I’ve been lying to everyone. Even the two class sections I taught yesterday. I’m just lazy about getting haircuts. I’m really, really sorry, and I’ll stop telling the story. It’s not even funny.
Sincerely,
Andy Albertson
Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2000 11:29:06 -0700 (PDT)
From: Julie Diana
Subject: TURF!
Dear McSweeney’s
I noticed today under the rubric I F Y O U W O R K A T A T R A D E M A G A Z I N E , that you subscribe to Turf: The Magazine for Turf Care Professionals. Though I do not work for a trade magazine, I want to share with you my experience one fine afternoon at TURF HQ.
In 1995, I was a recent college graduate living in the mountains of North Central Vermont. I was mostly unemployed, but it was so beautiful there, and you could hear the snow falling on the roof at night and when there was no snow there were such stars as you have never seen in your whole life! Sometimes I was lucky enough to get a temporary gig answering phones for a semiconductor equipment manufacturer near
Burlington, or for an insurance company typing up letters to very sick people or the parents of very sick children explaining (in a thoroughly unsatisfactory manner) why the insurance company refused to cover the treatment that the very sick person needed to get well again. (This last one I only did for a few days, because even though I was very broke, I could not do a job that made me feel like such a wretch. As for the “health care professionals” who do that job every day, I believe their souls to be writhing, writhing, writhing, regardless of how nice and healthy the Christmas cacti on their desks appear to be.)
I went on many job interviews during those first few, cold months in Vermont. One was for a job as an editorial assistant at Turf: The Magazine for Turf Care Professionals, in St. Johnsbury. I had a fresh, useless BFA in creative writing, with some magazine experience.
When I arrived at the TURF HQ, there was a slim man in a short sleeved shirt and skinny black knit tie smoking outside at a picnic bench. It was a glorious day in Vermont; one could stand around in one’s shirtsleeves without becoming cold. The man greeted me and guessing that I was the college graduate he had slated to interview that day, introduced himself as Neil Rouda. Mr. Rouda was a very nice man whom I believe to have ingested at least 9 quarts of coffee that day. He gave me a tour of the TURF headquarters, during which I was suitably impressed.
When we got to Mr. Rouda’s office, he asked me a few garden-variety interview questions about where I saw my career in five years and the like. We talked for maybe 40 minutes, during which Mr. Rouda gesticulated rather forcefully and periodically got up out of his chair to search around in the towering piles of trade magazines to show me examples of things he liked about one or another of them. He drank coffee from an oversized mug.
Occasionally I would remember that I was sitting there being earnest, grinning it up and nodding along, all in the hopes that I could secure a position editing text about The Best Mix of Toxic Chemicals to Dump on Golf Course Greens. When Neil asked me if I had any questions, I asked, “Yeah Neil, I’m wondering, how do you feel about grass? I mean, I used to work for a film magazine, and I really loved it, but I’m having kind of a hard time seeing myself getting worked up about grass.”
Neil said, “It isn’t any better or any worse than anything else.”
(He didn’t make me an offer.)
Julie Diana
Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2000
From: Mike Topp
Subject: Funnybones
Dear McSweeney’s:
What’s this neo-ironic “humor” I keep hearing about?
Sincerely,
Mike Topp
Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2000 22:45:29 EDT
From: George Long
Subject:Going Postal
Dear McSweeney’s,
I had to mail a package at my local post office. As I stood at the counter, I overheard the conversation of two postal employees.
“So what would they taste like?”
“Your toenails?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Probably taste like cheese.”
Avoiding the fondue,
George Long
Date: Wed, 13 Sep 2000
From: David C. Parker Jr.
Subject: swift on the heels of victory comes stinging defeat
Dear McSweeney’s
I was off-line for a couple of weeks, surfing and backpacking on the coast, and when I returned to my delightful grey cubicle here, I went straight back to your site. I read the Back to School story, I checked Neal Pollack’s tour dates once more to make sure he’s still coming, and I scoured the archives, looking to see if maybe possibly by some off-chance you published one of my letters while I was away. And… and… there it was! My letter! In black and white (pixels)!
I was stoked. Proud. Beaming. “There’s no stopping me now,” I thought. And then, to my great disappointment, I read my own letter.
It was not funny.
I thought it was funny when I wrote it, but it was not. Cute? Maybe. Quirky? Perhaps. But, oh, I remember so vividly how I chuckled as I sent that one off…
Thankful yet Broken-hearted,
David Parker
Date: Wed, 13 Sep 2000 22:33:42 -0400
From: richard lock
Subject: Not everything’s funny you know
Dear Timmy,
Not everything is funny you know. Why does everything have to be so funny? Not everything’s funny. I don’t know why we have to pretend everything’s funny all the time, when it so obviously isn’t. There’s not much you can do about it, but pretending things are funny when they’re not most certainly won’t help.
Sorry,
Adam Lock
Date: 14 Sep 00 11:38:44 -0500
From: Thomas Gibbon
Subject: A safe and clean use of cigarettes.
Dear McSweeney’s,
you have been asking me, for some time, to explain this sport that my people (Americans) play, which we call K****** Ball. It seems R**s** R****n and I were sitting around one day practicing how to throw a pack of cigarettes across a crowded party (because, god knows, when you’re gooned on PCP what the hell else are you going to do? Turn over police cars? Guess again, Bruce Banner). As time wore on, as it does, we became lazier and more methodical, efficient. The next year, in the library of D**** S**, the thing became codified and the official sport of America. Two players sit in easy chairs about eight feet apart, or ten or twelve, whatever, and toss a pack of cigarettes, swathed in masking tape, to each other. If a pitch goes wild or a catcher fumbles, a whiffle-ball bat, held at business end (thus transformed into a K****** Ball Bat), is used to pull back the K****** Ball within fingers reach. There is no score but the due and honest appreciation of a good toss and a good catch. Smoothness, naturally, is the K******lian ideal. The name I believe comes from the Latin for Stiper. While I have not played myself in years I remain a great patron of the sport and own several franchises including the world champion Arrowsic Tummelers.
Bye for now,
TGGibbon
Date: Thu, 14 Sep 2000
rom: Robert Beier
Subject: From your office correspondent
Dear McSweeney’s,
I am one of the few people in the world who can wield a baseball bat in the office and swing it menacingly without getting weird looks or fired. It is true that some men carry baseball bats to work. They work in ballparks and get paid millions of dollars. I am not one of those men. Since I work for those bat wielding men, I get to swing bats in the office as well. My office isn’t outside with thousands of screaming fans heaping glory upon my shoulders. My office is inside with three people telling me to do things I don’t want to do. They do not heap glory. They heap sadness. I can, however, walk around the office wearing a baseball helmet and swinging a bat. This is something.
Regards,
Bob
Date: Thu, 14 Sep 2000
From: Sarah M. Balcomb
Subject: Pumas
Dear McSweeney’s:
A homeless guy who works my block sported the same black Puma high-tops I favor. The first time I noticed him, I was filled with warmth, glad this poor man at least had a decent pair of shoes (they are the best shoes I’ve ever owned — so good that when I first bought them, I was tempted to sleep in them that night).
One sunny afternoon he was sleeping in a bit of shade in front of the Swatch store, his high-tops hanging off the ends of his bare feet. I wanted to wake him, warn him to be careful with his shoes. You have to watch what little you have when you’re homeless, right? He should know that better than I do, right?
A few days later, he was strutting down Bleecker wearing a ratty pair of flip-flops. “Easy come, easy go,” I thought, lamenting his loss.
Then again, days later, he was fitted out in the Pumas. “Hurray,” I thought, wanting to embrace him.
And today, sadly, in the gutter, I spotted one lonely black high-top Puma.
Just tired,
Sarah M. Balcomb
Date: Fri, 15 Aug 2000
From: Gregory Purcell
Subject: The cutest word in the OED
McSweeney’s, Readers, All,
Forget whatever aluminum-fogged affectations I might have picked up over the course of the summer—comic books, video games, making out behind the Zipper at the Illinois State Fair—I’m done with it. It is autumn, now, or nearly, and I have just received, in the mail, an item which I have coveted ever since I began thinking of words: The Condensed Oxford English Dictionary.
I went straight for the back, and centered my new, magnificent, clarifying eye on the wordfield. W. Wassail. OE meaning “be fortunate.” Okay. Wasp. Latinate or Germanic? Presumably Germanic, it says. In French: gueppe. Wops, woppes, wespe, etc. Lovely. Moving forward, past quotations from the King James, I find it. Something I didn’t know I was looking for.
The cutest word in the English language, it must be: Waspling, a baby wasp.
—Greg Purcell
Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000
From: David C. Parker Jr.
Subject: Neal Pollack ruined my life. Well, sort of.
Dear McSweeney’s,
I went to Neal Pollack’s reading last night at Politics and Prose. It was great. I laughed, I cried. I begged for more. Then I got into line with my girlfriend, and we waited for Neal Pollack to sign my copy of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature. My girlfriend is lovely, and not just because she actually PAID for my copy of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature, but because she’s… well, lovely.
So I get all the way through the line and I’m standing before Neal Pollack, and he says, “Who are you?”
“I’m Dave,” I say, blushing. I hand him my (his) book.
“Is this for both of you?” he says, eyeballing my lovely girlfriend.
In a generous spirit, I say, “Yes. Yes, it is. This is my girlfriend, Dolly.”
And then, clean out of the blue, Neal Pollack says, “So, are you two going to get married?”
Now Dolly and I have been together for like four years now, so of course we have had the long dreamy talks over candlelight about getting married and having babies in Spain where we’ll be forever drenched in golden light on the beach…
So I say proudly, romantically, without hesitation, “Um, well, ah, probably. You know, maybe. Something like that.”
Well, Neal Pollack thinks that answer is just fine. He smiles and nods his head and signs my (our)(his) book – “To Dave and Dolly” – and he says, “Right. Thanks for coming out.”
So I walk out of that bookstore beaming. I’m admiring that signature, that bold hand, that admirable name, that stroke of genius in the way he rolls his L’s. And then my lovely girlfriend says, “Um, ‘maybe’? ‘Maybe’ we’re going to get married?”
“Um, well, ah,” I begin to say.
“Um, well, ah – ‘maybe’ you can find another ride home…”
Blast you, Neal Pollack. Blast you.
Undone but well-read,
David Parker
Date: Sat, 16 Sep 2000 14:16:00 -0700 (PDT)
From: Frank Bures
Subject: Mars globe
Dear McSweeney’s
I apologize if you already know this, but I just saw a Mars globe that looks like it’s made by Sky & Telescope Magazine. Thought you’d want to know. But maybe you don’t. Or maybe you already do.
Frank
Date: Mon, 18 Sep 2000
From: Jessi Wilson
Dear McSweeney’s,
Hello there,
Several weeks ago, in response to Neal Pollack’s request for a dollar and a few words of encouragement in his (and McSweeney’s) quest to circumvent Big Publishing, I sent him both. In addition, I sent an envelope addressed to me, a note card and a request for some reciprocal positive vibes. To my surprise, (I apologize if this offends you Neal, but not knowing you, I had no idea you are so polite), Neal Pollack replied with some nice words about my handwriting and stationery selection.
In my letter to him, I also complained about the location of his tour stop in Baltimore, the International Gate of the airport, not the most convenient location seeing as how it is not even in Baltimore. However, because he did respond to my letter, and I was (and am) waiting patiently for my copy of his book to arrive via priority mail, and dude, I so wanted that poster, I was going to attend anyway.
Unfortunately, fate intervened and I had to go to Ocean City, New Jersey to move my seventy-something grandparents home to Charm City. Though I had fun at the beach, riding the pirate ship with my little munchkin of a cousin, I do regret missing Neal’s reading and the chance to thank him in person for his thoughtfulness. I wish him well on the future stops of his tour.
Somewhere in the Swamps of Jersey (and Baltimore)
Jessi Wilson
Date: Mon, 18 Sep 2000
From: Gillian Beebe
Subject: nfmdlc’s f
Dear McSweeney’s,
It has been a long time.
Is it my fault that News From Melissa de la Cruz’s Father no longer exists? Does it only no longer exist for me? Has it been discontinued and erased because I sought advice from Randy Cohen, The Ethicist, regarding the questionable morality of exposing another person’s correspondence to all of us without his knowledge? I was only being a busybody—sometimes it can’t be helped. Now of course I worry that I am being egocentric. Worried all around.
P.S. Does anyone know how I can get my hands on a 1-row 4-stop diatonic button accordion in C/G for less than what a brand new one custom made by Marc Savoy or Junior Martin would cost? I am only a novice and beginners do not deserve the best. (My mother taught me that.) I have a video tape by Evo Bluestein to teach me how to play but so far it has only been frustrating to mimic him on a cardboard box scrawled with buttons and stops. Yes yes my accordion lessons will disturb the neighbors but if I don’t get one soon I will have to resort to learning all of Steve Riley & the Mamou Playboys’ songs on the fife. Now there’s a loud instrument.
Scattered and fond as ever,
Gillian
Date: Tue, 19 Sep 2000
From: Shane Wilson
Subject: John Warner, no. No, John Warner.
Dear McSweeney’s,
In John Warner’s “Lesser Known Facts, Democratic Party Version,” he says that Richard Gephardt played with a plastic toy pony as a child while his mother prepared a “toasted cheese” sandwich for him. Toasted cheese sandwich? What exactly is this supposed to be? Toasted cheese? No, no, John Warner, you are so sadly, sadly misguided. The sandwich is a grilled cheese sandwich. There is no such thing as toasted cheese sandwich. Is there such a thing? No. That is because you do not toast the sandwich. You grill it, in a pan. Sandwiches do not work in the context of a conventional one-function toaster. Hence: no toasted cheese sandwich.
I would advise you, John Warner, to never, ever again make this grievous error. There will be consequences. Oh, the consequences!
—Shane Wilson
Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000
From: Mike Topp
Subject: Ankh!
Dear McSweeney’s:
I’m all chippper now. Seems my problem was not enough hematite. Now that my love muffin has bought me a hematite ankh, I should be ship-shape from here on out.
Thanks!
Mike Topp
Date: Wed, 20 Sept 2000
From: Matthew Mitchell
Subject: comprised of? COMPRISED OF?
Dear McSweeney’s,
“Many have been simple notes of encouragement, others have been desperate pleas for contributions to small, unimportant magazines, but most have been comprised of three basic questions.”
“Have been comprised of,” huh? So that’s how this Pollack plays the game.
Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000
From: Ann Loutry
Subject: Your Filthy Publishing Habits Give Me A Thrill
To: McSweeney’s
From: Ann Loutry
I see that there is a Neal Pollack book. Why is there not a Ben Greenman book? I mean, I have nothing against Neal Pollack. Neal Pollack is my cousin’s brother’s longtime cuckold. Maybe I am wrong about this: I’m not certain. All I know for sure is he loves me. He whispered in my ear, with sweet chocolaty breath. He said, “Love to the lover is air.” This was in a dream but it felt real. Sorry, I am getting off the point somehow. My point was that in some ways, I find Greenman to be funnier. I imagine that he is skinny and often angry. Pollack strikes me as a bearish, lovely thing. In some ways, I find Pollack to be funnier. Every girl needs a razor and also plush toys. Why is there not a Ben Greenman book? I will sing this refrain until I am captured. The enemy forces are massing along the border. I remain a devoted reader of both men. Every sentence in this letter has eight or nine words, except this one, which has sixteen. That was a sentence Ben Greenman would have written. Neal Pollack would not have written that sentence. He would have whispered in my ear, “Cara mia.”
I have not dreamt of Ben Greenman yet.
It is only a matter of time.
Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000
From: Steven Tomsik
Subject: crime
Dear McSweeney’s,
That Balcomb lady was talking about Pumas last time, right? Well, this:
I was 12 years old, and part of a break-dance crew called the “Ice Breakers.” Please, you know this name is glorious. We got done with our routine in the mall and I had to go home. I sat down in one of those areas in the mall designed for rest, fake plants and cushioned seats and brown brick walls and everything. I was removing my Pumas (blue suede, rotund laces) and was suddenly set upon by some older kids. They stuck me up, at knifepoint, for my shoes. One of them had a jheri curl. They were not laughing. I had to take the bus home in socks only. This is partly why I have so much moxie.
Peacefully,
Steve.
Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000
From: Brian Maker
Subject: Some people have gone too far.
Dear McSweeney’s,
The other day I was lying on the duvee eating queso from the jar and searching our internet. I discovered a piece of information, and I have something to say about it.
Some people have gone too far.
Gary Baum has printed a fond, perhaps keyed-up, love letter on his website. This letter was written by a young woman, intended for Dave Eggers, and mistakenly sent to Nic Mussolino. Mussolino sent it to Baum, &c. &c.
Before I comment on the behavior of these two boys, which I think is bad behavior, I want to make it clear that I believe there are writers who, for whatever reason, make you want to date them. Personality, I think it is. I am thinking Samuel Johnson. I am thinking Ford Maddox Ford. I am thinking Laurie Moore. No one should think badly of the young woman who wrote the letter in question.
What I really want to say is: Isn’t it a bit rich? Two men, each of whom has devoted a considerable amount of time to and some money to – well – let’s not shine a light into that one.
Heard it said before the best way to tell a man’s flaws is to watch him point to the flaws in others.
I guess that makes me an unscrupulous person with little manifest self-awareness who carelessly abuses my position within the media to deride others.
It is too true.
Bryan Maker
Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000
From: Bryan Charles
Dear McSweeney’s,
Last week I received my first negative feedback rating on the eBay personal auction site. The item, dated September 15th, reads “Buyer never sent payment, even after several emails.” Of course, I have no one to blame but myself. But the question remains: Why did I not remit payment for that used copy of the CD March, by Michael Penn? Certainly I was excited to learn that I was the high bidder for the album, which provided me with at least five hours of joy during the winter of 1990. (The song “Invisible,” I recall, was particularly crushing.) Yet the days passed and I did not send a check or money order and when the seller began bombarding me with e-mails requesting that I please live up to my end of the eBay bargain, I simply deleted them without the slightest twinge of guilt. You are correct to point out that my actions may jeopardize my good standing in eBay community, forever resigning me to inferior auctions sites such as NiceBid and Amazon, but I am ready. Whatever happens, I am not afraid.
Fondly,
Bryan Charles
Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000
From: Chris Cotner
Subject: Everything is On Fire in Oklahoma
Dear McSweeney’s,
There is an old axiom in Oklahoma that everything gets here a little late: fashion, music, etc. That proved true this week as we finally had wildfires spring up all over the state. So people in the West take heart, we are now getting what we so richly deserve.
On another fire note: a family was killed in a mobile home after a dropped cigarette lit the place up. Paragraph from the newspaper story (I am not making this up): “Stanaland [Oklahoma City Fire Dept. Spokesman] also stressed the importance of cigarette safety. Though it hasn’t been determined whose cigarette ignited the blaze, Stanaland urged people to be careful when smoking.” The loss of life here is tragic and should not be made light of, but well…does the fire department offer a course in cigarette safety? Should you have to take this course before beginning smoking? I am at a loss why he felt compelled to say anything along those lines. But, nothing could be more Oklahoma than dying in a mobile home fire caused by a dropped cigarette. The only way to top that is have happen in the middle of a tornado.
Random Song Lyric Overheard at the bar last night: “…and you know that you’re the only one to say ok…”
Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000
From: Tim Sloffer
Subject: a day of reckoning
Dear McSweeney’s,
Some day I will write a book full of beautiful sentences, and you will buy that book for twenty-five dollars in the hard cover edition. Afterwards, I will think back to the day I wrote you an e-mail that was never printed on your “funny little website.” I will shake my fist in the air with triumphant vigor! CARPE DIEM! (did I spell that correctly?) Rue the day,
Tim Sloffer
Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000
From: Magic Mike Simpson
Subject: Life is perfect. Honestly.
Dear McSweeney’s,
I am an MFA student; often, I have very little to do. Sometimes that frustrates me, but today, not so much.
Today, I woke around noon. I had applied, the night before, via phone, answering questions quickly and accurately, to appear on Regis Philbin’s “Who Wants to Be A Millionaire?”. Though I survived the “first round”, my fate was up to a computer, who would, hopefully, randomly select my right answers and call me today, between noon and three. Though I wasn’t called, today, to play “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire”, I did, in fact, find that Eddie and The Cruisers II: Eddie Lives! was on TNT. I watched all of it. The band — which wasn’t, actually, called Eddie and the Cruisers, but instead, “Rock Solid” — never played “On the Dark Side”, but they did play a number of other songs, all of which reminded me of Bruce Springsteen prior to Tunnel of Love.
Later, my friend Tobin came over. We walked down to the Bears Den, a Syracuse bar, and had cans of Pabst for one dollar. The weather has been beautiful — cool, windy, a brilliant September. Tonight, I will watch more television — most likely MTV’s new show, “Fear”.
Mike Simpson
Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000
From: Kendall Hudson
Subject: Gabe Hudson
Dear McSweeney’s,
I am writing this letter on behalf of my family. We recently received your very kind note inquiring as to the whereabouts of my brother. My father, after sitting down and discussing it with the entire family, decided that we have had enough time to heal in private, and that now is as good a time as any to let you know of the tragedy which fell on our family this summer. On June 18, 2000, my brother Gabriel Hudson passed away in a random car accident. This happened in Austin, Texas, which is where he was spending the summer, at our vacation home.
The details are not important. Gabe was on foot. A deer was in the road. A large truck swerved to avoid the deer. By the time the ambulance arrived at the hospital Gabe was already gone. Please understand that this is very difficult for me to talk about even now. Gabe was my big brother.
In the past, our family, in one way or another, has participated in a few pranks with your very fine McSweeney’s Organization. And we continue to cheer your successes from afar, and are quite proud of our family’s minor association with your magazine. For this we are grateful, but most of all we are grateful for the encouragement which you showed my brother during his brief time on this earth. His life had not been an easy, and writing and comedy were vital components of my brother’s existence. When I was younger, he used to tell me that it was my job to save myself because no one else was going to do it for me, and that the only way this could be achieved was by entering the world of literature and ideas. He always told me that smart laughter was grace, and that to be nice, spontaneous, and playful were the keys to living in a predicament which was otherwise unbearable.
I hope you will keep Gabe in your prayers, and join us in our hope that he is in a better place now.
Respectfully yours,
Kendall Hudson
Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000
From: Charles.Rachford
Subject: She loves him
Dear McSweeney’s,
A woman sits in the office next to mine, let’s call her Laura. Today another woman, Jill, stopped by to request something or other. As Jill was leaving, having received her requested something, Laura said, “I saw Todd Saturday and he made me cry.”
Jill stops at the door, turns to Laura. Disinterested, just making conversation.
“Haven’t you been broken up for awhile?”
“Yeah, year and a half.”
“And how long did you go out?”
“Nine months.”
Stepping on the comedic pause, Laura said she was at the bar, drunk and saw Todd so, what the hey, she went over and said hi.
I missed some of the conversation here, but I’m recreating where I can.
“Damnit, Laura, you’re needy,” he said to Laura. “You have to stop calling me, stop following me. I never loved you.” My ear was pressed to the wall now. “You have an overbite, your feet are hideous. Please, leave me alone”
There was a pause as the Jill worked on her consoling speech “well, if he said that?”
“…obviously still cares about me, I know. Anyone who is still that angry must still have feelings for that person.”
Thank you,
chuck.
Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000
From: Gregory Purcell
Subject: At issue, here, is my blood.
Dear McSweeney’s,
For the Ensconced and Bursting-Hearted,
I have decided to quit smoking. Had decided—the decision was made two days ago. At issue here, of course, is the resolution of my will. I have been a smoker since I was fifteen. I had no resolution then, of course. It is now that I have resolution—now, at twenty-seven strong, very strong, years of age. At night, my arms fall asleep. I sit there whispering to my leaden, prickly hands. Strong, strong…
I have begun to fall apart. In the middle of the night I woke to find two fingers sitting bloodlessly in the kitchen sink. I made a mental note to myself to contact the proper authorities, thinking that whoever lost those fingers would surely want them sent back somehow. Then I slumbered (i.e. “slept” and “lumbered”) back into bed. This morning I pulled back the bedsheet to find another finger and three toes. I looked at the toothless grin of my own hand for the first time and thought, “yes. I have the will. I have the resolution. I can beat this thing.”
It’s hard. Now I know that whatever benevolent gluten once held my bones together has since been replaced by a film of tacky, resinous tar. That tar is slowly being brickbatted away by my iron will. By the end of next week they will have to cart me around in a wheelbarrow. “They” being demons. I will pay for things with my own ears and toes, particularly since none of my freelance connections have called me back about work, yet.
What about rent? What about the Sol LeWitt article I need to have done by the weekend?
My formerly sluggish blood is now rushing through my body like one of those Japanese supertrains.
Resolved,
Greg Purcell
Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000
From: J. Douglas Krawetz
Dear McSwiney’s:
I have started the deprogramming of the Stepford McSwiney’s followers through my debunking of the entire Eggars/McSwiney’s/Pollack mythos in the thread dedicated to Mr. Pollack in the “Books” folder of the Salon Table Talk area (tabletalk.salon.com). I figured it was time to take the battle directly to this nest of smirking vipers.
I am here to end the reign of stance and cool (as personified by Eggars/Pollack/McSwiney’s) vs. thought, study and perspective. I am here to cut short the pathetic mocking some of the greatest writers our culture has ever produced, in the name of “laffs.” Listen up people, no longer should you look on Eggars/Pollack as some kind of cute, fur-covered, harmless, post-postmodern creature. I’m here to stop the entitlement you and your Gen X, McSwiney’s crowd flaunt like so many well-toned physiques amongst the intellectually flabby. It is just so typical of your generation to mock the discussion of ideas that matter, that have importance in the world, that are our mooring, keeping us from sliding down that slippery slope into meaninglessness. I know you don’t hold this as an important principle, but those of us who care about the state our sad society has descended to do. I, for one, intend to maintain my position as an intellectual Schwartzenegger.
I am imploring you readers to start THINKING, to start using your BRAINS. I know this is a rusty apparatus for most of the McSwiney’s crowd who spend their time waiting around for the next spoonful of Eggars pablum (Neal Pollack being only the latest serving), but perhaps you are not beyond saving. I, of course, will be the judge of this.
J. Douglas Krawetz
Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000
From: Newhart, Bryson
Subject: Hell’s Angels
Dear McSweeney’s,
When I’m really hungover it helps to chew with my mouth open. Let bits dribble. At the food court, I curl up my toes and read D.H. Lawrence novels covered by pornographic dust jackets to throw off the tourists from Britain. This one dude is totally the scurviest. He stumbles around with a cigarette dangling from his mouth that is tied to a string wrapped around his one remaining tooth. I smile and offer him pudding. On my mind are Hell’s Angels.
Imagine two Hell’s Angels on a cold moonlit night. The first, Rick, stands on a smooth plane of ice at the end of which is a thousand foot drop-off. Around his waist is a rope. On his feet, tractionless loafers. Hanging over the precipice on the other end of the rope is Toby, another Hell’s Angel. He and Rick met at a PTA meeting. As Toby falls, Rick rapidly slides toward the edge, no chance of stopping himself. No time to pull up his friend. In Rick’s hand is a flimsy kitchen knife that is not strong enough to jam into the ice but sharp enough to saw through the rope. Does he do it? Without a second thought? A weird little grin on his face?
Eevin Hartsough? Can you wear shoulder pads?
Yours,
Bryce Newhart
Date: Sat, 23 Sep 2000
From: Dan Kennedy
Subject: THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE IS A SUBTLE AND TENSE EXCHANGE
Dear McSweeney’s-
In case you’ve been wondering what I’m up to, I’ve been hanging out in pleasant places and studying the dialogue of happy couples. Like this gem of an exchange overheard at a Sunday cookout/open-house for prospective home owners at a newly developed planned living community in central California.
Him: Do you feel okay?
Her: Yeah.
Him: You were saying you’re thirsty.
Her: I’m fine. Really. What about you?
Him: No, I’m good. I’m fine.
(long pause)
Him: I need to meditate or something.
Her: My eyes hurt.
Learning to speak their language-
Dan Kennedy
New York, New York.
Date: 25 Sep 2000
From: Thomas Gibbon
Subject: No subject, just stuff
Dear McSweeney’s,
ahoy. I’m sure you heard at the party the other day, or earlier, that I am moving to Tangier. It’s true. They just kept bombarding me with descriptions of the house and, well, you know my weakness for doing nothing in beautiful surroundings for cheap.
I hope to mollify the Puritanical dissent within myself, who are upset at the thought of not having a job, by living ascetically.
I hope to visit Malcolm Forbes’ old house, where, I have heard, there is a great collection of toy soldiers, arranged to recreate famous battles. The fun version of the Chapman brothers’ “Hell.”
I hope to lose some weight and get into a shape.
I hope to arrange the residents of the house in regular recitations, recitals, and/or skits.
Obviously I am running away. You know what it is that I care about. And you know how I fail to do it justice. Remember? Over that weird Czech liquor?
I will buy a fez and wear it in your honor.
I am, as ever, a poltroon,
Thomas Garrett Gibbon
Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2000
From: Sommer Browning
Subject: A problem.
Dear McSweeney’s,
Neal Pollack is wearing underwear and you said he would be nude.
Sommer Browning
Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2000
From: Michael Brodeur
Subject: Your ideas, all ideas, are great and very useful.
Dearest McSweeney’s,
I would like to thank Mr. John Hodgman (FPLA) and the M.S. for their helpful suggestions re: the selection of my middle name a few weeks back in Brookline. While Tiberius and Nero were great, great ideas, I shrink from the idea of having a sharp ‘e’ sound anywhere in my name, as it is really kind of ‘played out.’ I am sure you two understand. I require something fresher, something big and gusty. I wanted it to be formed in the throat, spitless and plangent.
I choose Andor.
“Forward the Lion!
Forward the Lion,
the White Lion takes the field.
Roar defiance at the Shadow.
Forward the White Lion,
Forward, Andor triumphant.”
Thankful and triumphant,
Michael Andor Brodeur
Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2000
From: John Warner
Subject: Response to Shane Wilson: Gephardt and Toasted Cheese
Mr. Wilson:
Perhaps you were not aware that my recently released list “Lesser Known Facts, Democratic Party Edition” was a work of journalism, (i.e., “Facts”), and as you speak of consequences, I’m sure you know that in journalism, you can’t just make shit up because otherwise there would be, you know, consequences.
So trust that indeed, there is such a thing as a “toasted” cheese sandwich. I, myself, am more familiar with the “grilled” cheese variety, but my research was thorough and it is uncontroverted by any known source that while playing his imaginary games with “Pretty Pegasus,” the future House Minority Leader was indeed waiting for his “grilled” rather than his “toasted” cheese sandwich.
You see, Mr. Wilson, the “toasted” cheese sandwich of Rep. Gephardt’s youth was prepared in what is known in common parlance as a “toaster oven,” a most ingenious invention designed as both a toaster, and a light duty oven, capable of baking at temperatures of up to 400 degrees. The Gephardt family model was manufactured by Hamilton Beach (merged into Proctor-Silex in 1990) and given to Mrs. Gephardt by Mr. Gephardt as a spontaneous gift, for “no good reason.”
As the future Rep. Gephardt sat at the table, playing with his Pretty Pegasus, the tomato soup (Campbell’s) beginning to burble on the stove, Mrs. Gephardt would put two slices of American cheese between two slices of white bread and, placing them inside the toaster oven, would depress the toast lever. Heating coils inside the toaster oven simultaneously toasted both the bottom and top pieces of bread as well as melted the cheese. As the toasting intensity of the toaster oven was, as of that date, a still variable thing, Mrs. Gephardt would watch carefully through the toaster oven window, removing the now “toasted” cheese sandwich just as the first dollop of melted cheese threatened to fall to the toaster oven drip pan below. The “toasted” cheese sandwich was then served with the tomato soup, always placed on the table with a caution from mother: “Careful, it’s hot,” after which young Gephardt would hold Pretty Pegasus close to the soup bowl rim and instruct the magical pony to, “blow.” Mrs. Gephardt would smile at this, perhaps shake her head a little, and wonder if her boy was either a genius or “goofy in the head.”
As I said, Mr. Wilson, truth.
Happy to set the record straight,
John Warner
Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2000
From: Mike Joosse
Subject: oh dear
Dear McSweeney’s,
I love your website. I love your books. But I had this larger-than-sneaking suspicion that you all were criminally insane. Frankly, I thought your organization was made up of pathological liars. Not the scary kind, mind you, but the funny kind, like how Jon Lovitz used to guest-star on “NewsRadio” before he became a regular cast member. Anyway, I was used to expecting the unexpected, but then I go and order “The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature,” and its accompanying signed poster, and it arrived in my mailbox yesterday. When I opened it, I was a little shocked to find that, yes, indeed, there was Mr. Pollack, naked as the day God made him, with only a cat separating me from the madness, lying on something bright white. It may have been a couch, it may have been a rug. I don’t remember. Anyway, I was not quite sure if Mr. Pollack even existed. Mr. Pollack is a pathological liar of the funniest kind, but now I know he is a human being, and I look forward to the book arriving in my mailbox any day now. I am sorry I made a “NewsRadio” reference, but it was on my mind.
Thank you, and goodnight,
Mike Joosse.
Date: Wed,.27 Sep 2000
From: Hartsough, Eevin
Subject: Shoulder Pads
Dear McSweeney’s,
I trust that you will safely deliver the following message to Bryce Newhart:
Yes. Yes I can wear shoulder pads. Will I? I just might.
thank you & best wishes,
Eevin Hartsough
Date: Wed, 27 Sep 2000
From: Newhart, Bryson
Subject: Gabe Hudson
Dear McSweeney’s,
There are strange circumstances surrounding Gabe Hudson’s death: the kind note inquiring as to his whereabouts, the deer, even his own letters, some of which questioned his existence and made jokes about the death of his parents. Nevertheless, this turn of events is extremely tragic. Gabe Hudson’s letters were brilliant and an enormous influence. It feels weird to come out of my McSweeney’s “persona” to write this, but this news is confusing and very, very sad. If Gabe’s family reads this, I hope they will consider sending McSweeney’s any writing that he may have left behind.
My condolences,
Bryce Newhart
Date: Fri, 29 Sep 2000
Subject: FW: Missing chair
Hello everyone-
The School Entrance is missing one of our black chairs. Last seen yesterday at 3:30.
If you are sitting in a chair that you were not in before yesterday, and suspect that it may be the missing chair please let me know.
The chair is on wheels with adjustable seat and arm rests.
Thanks,
Ben
Date: Thu, 28 Sep 2000
From: Howard Peirce
Subject: Three scenes from a trip to Kroger’s
Dear McSweeney’s,
I witnessed the following scenes a few weeks ago while shopping at the Hyde Park Kroger’s:
Scene 1: A very elderly African-American couple is shopping. They are both tall, large (not fat, but solid), and now somewhat faded with age. He is a good six feet, with a wide clean face and the erect posture of a military veteran. She is confined to a wheelchair, and neither moves nor speaks. Although it is Saturday, they are both dressed as for church. He has backed a young white Kroger associate up against a display of pantyhose.
“Nair,” he says, and it sounds like “Nayuh.” His voice is remarkably deep and distinctly Southern.
No response.
“N. A. I. R. Nayuh.”
A wave of recognition. “Aisle 4, sir. I’ll walk you there.”
Scene 2: The same couple, in the cereal aisle. A different associate, a young African-American, also backed up against a display (Pop-Tarts).
“All Bran.”
Associate: “Uhmm… We have 100% Bran Flakes.”
Another shopper: “Here’s Total Bran Flakes. Will that do?”
“Awl. Bran.”
Scene 3: The same couple, this time by the fresh, not frozen or canned, orange juice in the dairy section. A young white female associate with stringy hair tries to escape notice.
“Prune juice.”
No response.
“Prune. Juice.”
“I don’t know, really. I’m sorry.” She’s almost crying.
That’s where it ends. I don’t know what else to do with it, so I’m sending it to you.
Howard
Cincinnati, Ohio
Date: Thu, 28 Sep 2000
Subject: offer x’mas lighting
Dear Sirs,
It’s my honour to learn your company by Internet. We learn your company deal in x’mas lighting business.This business are in our business line. So we would like to establish business relations with you.
Our company is China Metallurgical I/E Zhejiang Company is state owned company.We deal in x’mas lighting and metal candleholder, householder item for many years.We can offer your good products for good price and good services.
Here we email some of our catalogue for your reference.You will see the pictures by attachment.We hope you will be interested our products.You any inquiry for metal candleholder, x’mas lighting,householder item are welcome.
We are looking forward to your early reply.
Best Rgds
Tommy
MIEC
Contact as follows:
Person: Tommy Zheng
Company: China Metallurgical I/E Zhejiang Company
Date: Thu, 28 Sep 2000
From: Jim P. Walsh
Subject: Alter ego
Dear McSweeney’s,
I just found out that Neal Pollack is really Dave Eggers. Why is there so much deception on this website?
Anyway, I’ve been writing under the name “Susan Sontag” for thirty years. I send my Mom out on speaking engagements, to read from a prepared script. She’s getting tired of the whole thing, and would like to spend more time playing bridge.
Thanks,
Jim Walsh, and his mother, who deserves a rest.
Date: Fri, 29 Sep 2000
From: Ted Travelstead
Subject: Correspondence
Dear McSweeney’s,
The following is a fake letter from legendary sultry singer, Eartha Kitt:
Dear Peter, It has been two months and I still haven’t received the towels we spoke of. Should I remind you once again of their importance? Please forward them, at my expense, to the address provided on the envelope. I feel, at this point, it is not necessary to apologize for my terseness. EarthaI hope you enjoyed this fake letter from the legendary Eartha Kitt.
Best Wishes,
Ted Travelstead
Brooklyn, NY
Date: Fri, 29 Sep 2000
From: Hartsough, Eevin
Subject: Under my skin·
Aiee McSweeney’s!
What have you done to me? You, with your deceivingly jaunty letters section.
Last night, as I moved my laundry from washer to drier in the basement of my building, I looked up and beheld the largest bug I have ever seen in person (as opposed to, say, on a documentary about giant bugs of the rainforest). And what thought leapt to my mind just as terror struck through my heart? It was “Dear God! Where’s Bryce Newhart when I need him?!”
Is this bizarre to anyone but me?
Faltering,
Eevin Hartsough
Date: Sat, 30 Sep 2000
From: Posok Oubli
Subject: Cabinet Door
Does anyone know what happened to the cabinet door, the one above the refrigerator on the 11th floor? It seems to be missing.
Thanks.
Kyle
Date: Sat, 30 Sep 2000
From: Janet Hinojosa
Subject:Neal & Hugh
Dear McSweeney’s,
Every time I turn the TV on, it seems as if somebody famous or semi-famous is at the Playboy Mansion.
They drink, slur their words, drool, dine and frollock with the Bunnies and Hugh Heffner. …
Wouldn’t it be funny if Neal Pollock did a book reading from the Playboy Mansion? Just Neal with his book, Hugh Heffner and lots of Playboy Bunnies…all adoring him…
Thinking of Neal,
Janet