Subject: concerned father of Gabriel Hudson
Date: Sun, 26 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
A co-worker recently brought it to my attention that you have posted several letters written by my son Gabriel Hudson on your website. As a concerned parent, I am writing to appeal to your sense of compassion, and to request that you please refrain from posting any more letters that my son may send to you.
This is not an easy thing for me to talk about. But there are some things you should know. Gabriel’s childhood was extremely difficult for everyone involved, primarily because his grasp on reality was tenuous at best. As a boy, and even into his late adolescence, Gabriel had a tendency to act out scenes based on his, shall we say, obsessive, overactive imagination. These delusional episodes caused his mother and I more pain and trauma than I care to name. Suffice it to say, our family has been through a lot.
But things have been on the upswing of late. I am proud to report that Gabriel has been stable for close to two years now, and he has a good job here in Seattle, and a girlfriend. What concerns me then is I see in his letters the symptoms of a kind of behavior which we have worked so very hard to put behind us. And above all, my greatest worry is that Gabriel’s mother might one day see his letters on your website and that would be too much, I know it would be, because it would surely break her heart.
I realize until now you would have had no way of knowing any of this, so I certainly do not hold you accountable for anything which may have transpired thus far. I am also sure you run a very fine poetry magazine. But I hope now that you are informed you will behave responsibly and cease to encourage my son’s participation with your magazine in any way. For I fear that this whole letters business might cause extreme internal agitation, which could potentially result in a serious setback to the progress we have all made towards Gabriel’s mental well being.
Thank you for your cooperation and understanding in this matter, and best of luck in all your endeavors.
Yours,
Bruce Hudson
Date: Sun, 26 Dec 1999
From: Gabe Hudson
Subject: Letter to McSweeney’s, Report from the Lone Star State
Dear McSweeney’s,
Good news! The operation was a success! Of course I’m not completely out of the woods yet, but Doctor Littlefield says if all goes well, I should be able to breathe (can you believe it?) without wearing this plastic helmet-thing within a couple of weeks. And then, who knows, maybe even walking by 2001! There’s this pill I can take that would speed up my recovery, but one of the possible side-effects is that I could grow a nipple on my forehead, so I don’t think I’m going to do it. Here’s a picture of me in my hospital bed the day after, and that’s my family standing around the bed. Well, it’s probably impossible for you to tell, so you’ll just have to take my word for it, but when my aunt took this picture, instead of cheese she told everybody to say McSweeney’s! Have you ever noticed the weird shape people’s mouths make when they say McSweeney’s? Is that how you named your journal, by looking in the mirror and making sounds until your mouth got twisted up in the weirdest way possible? That’s cool. See the tall guy in the back wearing the “Love Your Mother Real Good” t-shirt and giving the thumbs up sign, that’s my uncle Frank. Remember, the “conservationist”, the one who went sailing down in the Caribbean and came back married to a barracuda.
Frank has a portable aquarium that he wheels through the park on Sundays.
Everyone makes waterbed jokes behind Frank’s back.
You know what’s embarrassing? After all these years my parents still don’t know they’re dead. I thought one of the fringe benefits about dead parents is that you didn’t have to worry about them embarrassing you any more. Guess not. Because each night they saunter into my room during visiting hours. They bring gifts and flowers and ask me how I’m doing. They shower me with love. They tell me stories. The whole thing is pretty shameless. But the last thing I want to do is to encourage them, which means I do the only thing I can think of, I pretend like they’re not there and keep my eyes glued to the tv until they get restless and leave. So, if by some strange chance you happen to be reading this, please mom and dad, for god’s sake, the two of you have been dead for a while now and it’s about time you start acting like it!
But overall, I feel good—no scratch that—great! I want to thank you McSweeeney’s for all your support. I want to thank you for all the letters and phone calls and candy and stuff. I can’t tell you how much it means to me. God knows you didn’t have to, what with how busy you must be and everything, but you did, and that’s something I’ll never forget. I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t heard before, but you have a heart made of pure gold. Here’s the money I had to borrow for the operation. I’m sorry it’s in ones but that’s all I had. I’m sorry it’s late. My next payment might be a little late too. Oh, that reminds me, when I showed nurse Deeker the picture you drew of George W. Bush wearing an apron she laughed and said, “But why is he standing next to a monkey’s butt?” Then when I explained to her what the monkey’s butt really was she said, “That kid’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
I told her she was damn right.
Sincerely,
Gabe Hudson
Austin TX
Date: Sun, 26 Dec 1999
Subject: Handicapping
Dear McSweeney’s,
A record of 137-77 with four pushes is impressive. But for those who turn to McSweeney’s for financial planning advice, it’s essentially meaningless, since you don’t report on the spread. Any numnuts can predict that St. Louis will handle the Bears. But will they handle them by 9-1/2 points?
True, a money line bettor could simply have taken your picks to win outright. But that strategy would prove disastrous on favorites who fail to cover. Dallas, for example, was -400 visiting the lowly Saints this week, meaning a bettor had to risk $400 to win $100. The ’Boys 31-24 loss would have proven very costly indeed.
Admittedly, you’ve had some brave calls on dogs — Tenn and Pitt this week (“There’s no quit in Pitt”). But if this feature is to reappear next season, I request — I DEMAND! — that Mr. Jeff Johnson include spread-adjusted picks.
Thank you for honoring this request.
Ken Kurson
greenmagazine.com
Subject: Re: Mystery Marks
Date: Sat, 25 Dec 1999
From: Ron Carraher
Dear McSweeney’s,
I hope that what I have discovered is not only true but is also a glimpse into the intricate workings of your editorial mission. As a devoted reader of all of your issues to date I realize that your printing is carried out by the Oddi Printing Company and that all manner of hairlines and line art are printed with the highest resolution possible with today’s offset printing process and that it is highly unlikely that neither your designer nor the printer would allow any abberation, or artifact to find its way onto the paper of a final press run. Thus I am forced to conclude that the two artifacts which adorn my copy of Issue #3 are intentional clues to a more complex puzzle albeit editorial policy. I am referring to:
the rather deliberate line fragment on line 8 page 54 the graceful scribble which was added mid paragraph on page 204Given the complex role of these graphic insertions in you publication, I am not anticipating a response from your designer.
Obviously the whole matter makes sense to someone somehow.
Ronald Carraher
Seattle, WA
From: “Newhart, Bryson”
Subject: How did I break my leg this Christmas?
Date: Thu, 23 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
How did I break my leg this Christmas? It’s really my uncle’s fault. When I told him about the phony news story that said how a Japanese department store got their Christmas icons confused, allegedly putting up a life-size display of a grinning Santa Claus nailed to a cross, he nodded in the winter sun and said, “My idea.” He said he had been planning something like this for the front lawn. Now that the Japanese had stolen his idea, we had to act fast, he said. Using his own body for the Santa Clause, and with rope instead of nails, I tied him onto the cross we’d hastily erected. As I tugged on the ropes, he screamed at me to make them tighter. “Wrap some Christmas lights around me,” he said. I did. “Feed me some Christmas cookies.” I threw them at his face and he caught a few between his teeth. “Douse me in gasoline and set me on fire.” I shook my head and said, “If that’s what you want…” He laughed. “That time I was just kidding,” he said.
Soon, of course, the suspicious onlookers came, obviously hoping that he would come down and offer them gifts. I sat on the roof pelting these people with eggs but they didn’t even blink. Instead, in a perfect monotone, they chanted the lyrics to Jingle Bell Rock and other Christmas songs that are really only upbeat when you sing them. They kept their hands in their pockets for warmth, but I suspected them of secretly rubbing their genitals. I guess at that point it was I that became the suspicious onlooker.
Later on a man who was probably jealous came out of a filthy school bus with snot dripping from his nose and erected another cross right beside my uncle’s. My uncle gave him a funny look as though to say, “This is my performance.” But the man just nodded and smiled. He was also dressed in a Santa Claus suit. My uncle yelled up to where I was perched above the rain gutter. “Well? What are you waiting for? Come on down and help this man tie in.” I was feeling lazy. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be right down.” I aimed for the man’s head and jumped.
Happy Holidays,
Bryce Newhart
From: “Sean Carman”
Subject: A letter to the editor that is really a plea for help and that could improve the world
Date: Wed, 22 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
Let me tell you the worst part. It’s not suffering under a back-breaking mountain of assignments, meetings and deadlines while slowly awakening to the realization that you’ve chosen a meaningless line of work. It isn’t acknowledging to yourself that even five years from now no one will remember or care that you pulled 15 consecutive late nights and three consecutive all- nighters (away from your family) to perfect the InterCom initial offering, or that your barrage of hostile letters and burdensome interrogatories so hindered and exasperated the Saturn airbag plaintiffs that they settled for less than the attorneys fees for their putative class action. No, the worst part is, after a long and hard day, standing by helplessly while the host of a downtown party introduces you to another guest merely because both of you are lawyers.
There is a secret lawyers carry around with them, that I will now reveal, and it is that when they go to parties they don’t want to spend any time talking to other lawyers. Your lawyer friends will not tell you this — they know it would seem rude — but it is how they feel. Your lawyer friend imagines that she alone among lawyers is an artist trapped by an unfortunate career choice, biding her time until a brilliant creative flowering and its consequent commercial windfall free her from her daily drudgery. This is why most lawyers you know are working on screenplays. This is why they are fascinated by Scott Turow and John Grisham, and why they secretly envy them, although they would never admit it, except perhaps to themselves, or to their spouses, and then only during an intimate confessional moment. These lawyers that you know, they feel separated from the creative souls with whom they feel they rightfully belong. They want to rejoin them when they venture outside their professional world. They expect your party to offer them a creative homecoming or blissful artistic re-union with a long-lost soul-mate. They do not want to be shunted back into their narrow professional slots by your blundering, inconsiderate gesture, however well-intentioned it may have been.
These conversations with other lawyers at parties, they are Hell. They are marked by a sense of quiet guilt and mutually concealed shame. Each participant knows that he and the other are just treading water: dressing an empty soul with a respectable appearance and nursing a growing depression by saving to buy a bigger house or send a kid to art school. “Here kid, don’t make the same mistakes I did. Drive a used Volvo. You’ll be happier.” Each has probably dabbled in some creative enterprise, and most likely each discovered that his imagination had been petrified just enough by the practice of law to fix his ankle to a silver cuff tethered permanently to the hard, unforgiving ground. One discovered, when he took up creative writing for example, that he couldn’t toss off brilliant character-driven prose like Jeff Johnson, or, like Lucy Thomas or Francis Heaney, soaring poetry about daily mundanities. Our lawyer-conversants suffer through their forced introduction, each carrying on long enough to indulge the host while looking out of his eyes’ corners for possible dancers or actors to buttonhole. These are not happy people, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding.
This letter is a plea for help. There are small things you can do. They won’t go unnoticed. Never invite more than one lawyer to any party unless you invite at least 10 non-lawyer guests. When you are swimming through an awkward party moment, against seemingly unforgiving swales, when for example you want to escape the conversational persistence of a particularly desperate guest lawyer, don’t just lunge for the nearest lawyer at the party and make introductions. Be considerate. Take a deep breath, compose yourself, and search out a journalist or a school teacher.
Of course information is power. I’ve seen hosts introduce two lawyers without reference to either’s professional occupation, leaving them to make the unfortunate discovery on their own. That’s simply cruel, especially if it’s late and people are beginning to pair off and go home for the evening.
But I trust your readers will use the information in this letter wisely, to do their small part to improve the lives of lawyers they know, and perhaps to feel some measure of pity and sympathy for them during this busy holiday season.
Sean Carman
Seattle, Washington
Subject: Re: response to letter
Date: Tue, 21 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
If you could post these in your letters section I would appreciate it:
Dear Jim Ruland,
Jimbo, thanks for the interest in the NFL picks column. Have a good holiday.
Sincerely,
Jeff Johnson
p.s. Your letter was a Raymond Pettibone drawing come to life. I am sending your group a gift basket from Harry & David for making such keen observations. However, please refrain from thinking about me from now on.
Dear Michael Rice,
Mikey, thanks for the interest in the NFL picks column. Have a good holiday.
Sincerely,
Jeff Johnson
p.s. You’re betting against the spread every time you get out of bed.
Dear Bryson Newhart,
Bry, thanks for the interest in the NFL picks column. Have a good holiday.
Sincerely,
Jeff Johnson
p.s. Sweatshirt vs. Sweater is an historic dilemma.
Dear Emily Cotlier,
E-dog, thanks for the interest in the NFL picks column. Have a good holiday.
Sincerely,
Jeff Johnson
p.s. Is this a compliment? If the picks trouble you, but you always read them, then I really can’t be sure.
From: “Mike Topp”
Subject: Letters: Christmas Card from My Brother
Date: Tue, 21 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s:
I’m in Illinois now. It’s 6 degrees. I saw a Bulls game (loss to the Magic) and a Bears game (a win over the Lions). A lot of Bears fans wanted to beat me up because they thought my blue Eddie Bauer coat looked like “Lion colors.”
Here’s a Christmas card I got from my brother:
Dear Mike, A deer like the one pictured on the front of this card got hit by a car on Hobson Road a few weeks ago. It then ran through the sliding glass doors in Al Olson’s apartment. The cops came and shot it because it got trapped inside and was wrecking the place. It made the Progress. Merry Christmas. Love, RandyBest,
Mike Topp
The Information Superhighway
From: “Robert Beier”
Subject: From your office correspondent
Date: Tue, 21 Dec 1999 Add Addresses
Dear McSweeney’s,
As I was walking to work this morning I saw a woman who was late. I knew she was late because she would walk a few paces briskly, then, unable to contain herself any longer, she would burst into a run, spurred on, no doubt, by the inevitable scowls her co-workers would exhibit when she came in five minutes after nine. After a few gallops, she would reign herself in due to self-consciousness. The people around her weren’t rushing. They were, in fact, walking to the train. “My god”, she thinks, “all of these people who’ll never see me again or recognize me think that I don’t have my shit together. I can’t run! I’ll let everyone know I’m late by running.” I could see the battle being waged right in front of my eyes, alternating between fear of jealous co-workers for that extra five minutes spent out of the office and fear of fellow commuters thinking she didn’t have her shit together. Brisk walk, run, brisk walk, run. It made me so sad. I decided to help her. I was about 30 ft. behind her (I was strolling. I don’t run to work. I don’t walk to work. I stroll. Even when I’m late I stroll. I have to always keep my priorities in mind). I broke into a run and as I was about to catch up with her I started saying in a very loud and worried voice “My God I’m late, FUCK”, etc. I thought that this might provide her with the opportunity to follow suit and use me as a decoy. People were definitely looking at me, with something bordering on glee. They were walking. They had their shit together. For an instant, I played with the idea of going to work every morning like this. What joy I’d bring. I’d become the guy who didn’t have his shit together. Everyone would feel so good when they saw me. On some days perhaps I would trip for a really feel-good top o’ the morning to ya. Then I remembered my strolling policy, I could make an exception today but if I made an exception every day it wouldn’t be an exception anymore. I really hoped that we could run to the subway together. I envisioned her sprinting behind me and laughing, all the while whispering to herself “I don’t care, I don’t care.” I passed her. I listened for the patter of her feet. I listened for the whisper, maybe my laughing was drowning her out. When I reached the top of the stairs the bell rang letting us know the train would be departing momentarily. I stepped on. I saw her at the bottom of the stairs, panic in her eyes. The doors began to close. I stood between them, keeping them open. She ran up the rest of the stairs and onto the train. I let go of the doors. “Thank you,” she panted. I looked at her very seriously and said, “What about tomorrow? Who’ll be there for you tomorrow?” “I don’t work tomorrow. It’s my day off.” She slid past me and walked to the other end of the train.
Regards,
Robert (Bob) Beier
From: “glitter kitty”
Date: Tue, 21 Dec 1999
Subject: rock and roll
Dear McSweeney’s,
Michael Mannella asks “Would ‘Chanting Invalids’ be a good name for a rock band?”. I would have to say “no”. I think Rubato Cube would be a better name for a band.
love,
r.
From: “Chadd Johnson”
Subject: A note concerning “The Wiz”
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
I am not certain if you aware, but Richard Pryor did not use a wheelchair during the filming of “The Wiz.” He did, however, bend spoons and scare children. In 1978, Pryor’s personal physician diagnosed a dull numbness in Pryor’s waist and left leg as Transverse Myelitis, adding, “He’s a cokehead with poor circulation.” During the shoot, Pryor may or may not have used a cane. Also, Adam Rich is very much alive.
Thank you.
Chadd S. Johnson
Subject: A letter from Auckland
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
Why did you have to make me cry?
I am referring to your initial Interview With A Lunch Truck Driver, Dan Dickinson of Philadelphia. As a homesick ex-Philadelphian living on the opposite side of the planet (Auckland, New Zealand), Dan Dickinson’s casual litany of forgotten culinary staples is piercingly poignant. I remember the nonpareil lunch trucks of West Philly, and my attempts to eat from them. The Chinese food that tasted like soapy ginger. The one truck where I became a regular for home-made spanakopita and sweaty pretzels and temperate cans of soda. The other one where I got fruit salads that, unlike other fruit salads sold from aluminum trucks, did not have alimentary repercussions. It all comes back to me, whenever I read that saga-simple list that Dan recites. “And of course cheese steaks — every day.” A blunt, plastic knife in my heart.
On the other hand, Jeff Johnson’s Weekly NFL Picks always remind me of why I left America, so I am consoled.
Sincerely,
Emily Cotlier
Date: Sun, 19 Dec 1999
Subject: sinking feeling
Dear McSweeney’s,
My son is taking swimming lessons. I don’t swim, but I do write. The other night while his swimming teacher was faking an orgasm I thought of the perfect name for a character in my book. She seemed indifferent when I told her about it. She also insists that Timothy McSweeney is the guy who blew up the daycare in Kansas City. Go figure.
Larry Lynch
From: “Robert Beier”
Subject: From your office correspondent
Date: Fri, 17 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
Yesterday, a man who looked like a cartoon character leaned over to me and pointed to a man down the hall and whispered, “doesn’t that man look like a cartoon character?” I suggested that we both walk down the hall and pummel him for it. He laughed and told a girl we were passing that I was a sick man. She didn’t laugh. She just smiled a tight smile, the kind of smile Emerson told us never to smile. I smiled at her. I don’t know if she got it, the humor I mean. For some reason it reminded me of people swimming in a tepid pool with the ocean roaring 40 ft. away.
Regards,
Robert (Bob) Beier
Date: Fri, 17 Dec 1999
From: Michael Mannella
Subject: Chanting Invalids
Dear McSweeney’s, This has been bothering me for 20 years. Remember when Kurt Waldheim went to Iran to try to free the hostages? He was taken to a hospital, and was led through a ward filled with people who had been tortured by Savak. They pumped their fists at him, and yelled revolutionary slogans. I saw this on the TV news. The reporter called the torture victims “chanting invalids.”
I have four questions:
1. Was this the first time ever that the word “chanting” was used to modify the word “invalids”?
2. Would “Chanting Invalids” be a good name for a rock band?
3. Is “chanting” a gerund or a gerundive? (Please don’t tell me to look it up.)
4. Is “invalid” the very best heteronym? (Please don’t say it’s a matter of personal preference.)
Thank you.
Michael Mannella
Philadelphia
From: “Newhart, Bryson”
Subject: letter to Jeff Johnson
Date: Fri, 17 Dec 1999
Dear Mr. Johnson,
Here is a story taken out of a context that it never had in the first place. It mentions the game in a very general way. I don’t really know the correct usage of “sui generis.”
Marsh was the leader of the Goths—a bunch of sneaky black clothing, makeup wearing delivery boys who lived in the basement of Benny’s Food Pie Emporium—but he still earned his varsity letter. In honor of his father, a limbless vet who’d duked it out with a stick in his mouth in the killing fields of Cambodia, he demanded that the letter be an Asian character. Nobody knew nothing but American, so they pulled something off a Chinese menu. That was good enough for Marsh. Despite his sui generis, he was basically too dumb to ever have cared for the deeper meanings.
I’ll never forget the day he found out what the character really meant. We were wearing our varsity sweaters playing a pick-up game of tackle football on a giant concrete slab in the middle of the cornfield where the old mill had burned down. The other team was a bunch of commies from the Community College who naturally spoke the red commie language. Watching Marsh’s black fingernails go back with the ball as he prepared to throw a long one, I was thinking what a surprise that he and his Goth cronies had never fallen in with those commie faggots. Then one of them shouted, “Deliver it straight to me noodle.”
Marsh got all upset and dropped the ball. “Who said that?” he demanded.
“That’s what it says on your sweatshirt delivery boy,” said the voice. It was near impossible to locate in the sea of red that was the other team.
“It’s not a sweatshirt,” said Marsh. “It’s a sweater.”
Then Marsh’s father came out of the corn in his automated wheelbarrow, besotted as always, and started in with the baiting. “Yep, you little faggot fuck. All this time you thought you were honoring me and being a man but I was just laughing at you.” Then the old man lifted up a small red flag with his teeth and roared.
Marsh ran over to the barrow and picked his runt father up with one hand. The old man took a beating as we used his tiny body to run a few quick plays so Marsh could cool down. Then Marsh said, “Lets get out of here,” and we went to Benny’s. But even as he pretended to enjoy his pies, we knew Marsh had just earned a new nickname that would last him to the grave, maybe even beyond. If there is one.
I look forward to more picks.
Sincerely,
Bryce Newhart
Date: Thu, 16 Dec 1999
From: Sam W Stark
Subject: On the Implications of the Loewenheim-Skolem Paradox for Peter Schoof’s “Themeless Restaurant”
Dear McSweeney’s,
Peter Schoof writes of his “themeless restaurant”: “There will be no ketchup on the tables. Patrons requesting ketchup will be asked to leave.” The New Haven hamburger joint Louis’ Lunch has no ketchup. You will be, if not asked to leave, at least ridiculed if you ask for it (really). Further, they have nothing on the menu that tastes like chicken, nor anything even remotely “ethnic.” (All they serve is burgers).
However, they not only encourage, but actually sell “message-bearing T-shirts.” The T-shirts say “Louis’ Lunch, New Haven, CT” and probably also, “Since 1898” on the front. On the back, they have a big bottle of ketchup with a “no” sign drawn over it.
The Loewenheim-Skolem theorem (1915) states explicitly: if G (it’s actually a “capital gamma,” but I can’t do the greek symbols here) is a set of formulasin a language of cardinality x (it’s actually I think a small chi here), then G is satisfiable in some structure of cardinality less then or equal to x. Words to live by, Mr. Schoof.
From: “Ogilvie, Sara, ARV”
Subject: I love mail.
Date: Thu, 16 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
This is a letter more suitably addressed “Greetings, Alex Pascover.”
Alex, I am taking up a collection for you. While I am out amongst friends and even strangers, I will be carrying a tin cup with tin handle, waving it in front of their faces and asking them to help support you, the man I like to call “Mr. Alex Answer.” I have a great affection for you, though we have never met; an affection so great that I am perfectly comfortable panhandling for you. I am charming, you must know, and will be able to raise money for you to live on without much difficulty. You will be able to afford scented lotion, fine soaps, the finest in cheeses and imported chutneys. If you do not like these things, pick others, the choices will all be up to you. You could purchase a bottle of muscatel and gloves with the fingers cut out – I will furnish the paper bag and the furrowed brow. You are not my servant, I am yours. And my name is not capitalized out of habit – I am a creature of it.
Your friend,
sara ogilvie
From: “Rice, Michael”
Subject: your picks
Date: Thu, 16 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
why don’t you stop being a wuss and pick with the spread. any retard and their mother can pick games straight up. lets see how good your record would be then.
pappy
From: “Robert Beier”
Subject: From your office correspondent
Date: Wed, 15 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
As I was hiding the stack of inter-office envelopes I had gotten from the mailroom I realized that there were plenty to go around. In fact, there were hundreds of available inter-office envelopes. Why was I hoarding them like a greedy beast? My mind hearkened back to a time four months ago when the inter-office envelopes were in heavy demand. If you were in possession of one you were the envy of all. Some of the bolder people would parade around the office with their extra envelope, showing all that they had the power to put memos in it addressed to people 30 ft. away so they would not have to deal with them or the anger the said memo would engender. It was an awful time. Full of bitterness and contact with others. Then one day it alleviated. The mailroom must have ordered more and where there was once none, now there were many. The drought was over, yet I was still hoarding envelopes and eyeing them greedily. Then it struck me. If I am doing this with brown envelopes after a month of them not being around how would I feel about food? What about the people who survived a war on rations or nothing at all? No wonder they don’t like to waste food. No wonder my grandmother tells me to clean my plate. I spent the rest of the afternoon going through the company’s telephone list. I pretended that I was different people and signed their names to memos to see what my signature would look like if I were them. If my name were Penny Kokkinides, I would have a nice signature.
Regards,
Robert Beier
P.S. I have sent this letter in Garamond. I hope you are happy now that you have had your way.
From: “Ruland, Jim”
Subject: You, sir, are an idiot
Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999
Mr. Johnson,
We New York Football Giants fans here on the West Coast have a saying: “There’s wrong, there’s Santa Monica Boulevard at 3 o’clock in the morning wrong, and then there’s Jeff Johnson wrong.” Being wronger than Jeff Johnson is somewhere between taking the wrong meds and breaking out in itchy hives while dry humping a hot radiator (the one on the third floor with the loose fittings and unraveling insulation), and turning on your t.v. set and seeing Bill Parcells in a mold-green varsity jacket. That’s how wrong you are. I don’t blame you. The Jets are out of it and you, as they say, are suffused with ennui. Face it, you’re tired of feeling like a prisoner on Sunday afternoon, tired of the futility of another series of downs ending in three and out, tired of having your hopes inflated by New Jersey “journalists” only to watch them go up in flames as another Hindenberg of a season crashes down. And now your exhaustion is showing in your tired, rambling reminisces of your adolescence and adult childhood in the Upper Ice Chest on the squalid shores of Dysfunctionville. In Group we often compare our adult male role models with yours. Happily, we have reached the conclusion that for many us things aren’t as bad as they once seemed.
But that’s not why I am writing. I am writing to help lead you out of the darkness and into the light. It won’t be easy, but with determination and effort you can pry your fingers off the porcelain whiskey decanter long enough to let some bright, clear thinking through: the Giants are a team of destiny, Jeff. They beat the Jets. The beat the Bills. And now they will beat the Rams. There’s nothing sordid or cultish about respecting the Giants and giving them their due. Plus, in yours truly, they have a secret agent, a mysterious play-caller, tirelessly transmitting from the field. (On third and long an Armstead blitz forced Flutie to the outside where #94, Cedric Jones was waiting for him. Result? Strip, sack, fumble. Just as I “predicted.”) My bus leaves in an hour. I have sacred duties to fulfill. By all means, get with the program or stifle yourself.
Coach Ruland
P.S. The arch in St. Louis is neither a “power spot” nor a “vortex.” It’s just an arch.
Jim Ruland
Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999
From: Peter Wallace
Subject: Peter Wallace
Dear McSweeney’s,
You have apparently been hoaxed. I did not write the letter about the other Peter Wallace. The one written by Peter Wallace. I am Peter Wallace. I mean, I am the other Peter Wallace. The real one. This is very confusing. My mind is spinning. Oh God, what if I’m schizophrenic?
Peter M. (for Marsden, HA! try and swipe that!) Wallace
PS If this purported other Peter Wallace, I mean the one who isn’t me, cares to contact me, my email address is cephas@mindspring.com
From: “R.J. White”
Subject: “What’s Happening!!” Death Curse?
Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
I found this item about the death of Shirley Hempill, who played the brash Shirley Wilson on “What’s Happening!!”-
“Hemphill is the second What’s Happening!! player to die this year. Mabel King, who played Mama on the ABC sitcom, died Nov. 9 from complications of diabetes. She was 66.”
Now this may seem like a mere coincidence, but two cast members from this popular show die in a little over a month? Please consider the following-
- Fred Berry, beloved as “Rerun,” guest starred in the “Footloose Mel” episode of “Alice.” Mel was played by Vic Tayback. Vic Tayback? Dead.
- Haywood Nelson, who played “Dwayne” once appeared on “The White Shadow” in an episode entitled “Sudden Death.” That’s right, “Sudden Death.”
- Thalmus Rasulala, who played Rog and Dee’s father, died in 1991, but not before appearing in the TV-movie “The Preppie Murders,” which I believe involves some folks being murdered.
All I can say is, Ernest Thomas had better be looking over his shoulder these days.
We’re through the looking glass, people.
Yours, in earnest,
R.J. White
From: Gabe Hudson
Subject: Letter to McSweeney’s, Six Memories
Dear McSweeney’s,
Memory about a Day at the Beach
1. My friend Gary was goofing around with some matches when all of a sudden my sandcastle caught fire and turned to glass.
Memory about Little League
2. Coach got mad at me. The pitcher kept bunting the bat out of my hands with the ball.
Memory about Backyard Play
3. We were playing hide-and-go-seek. I stepped out from behind a tree and said, “Not so fast,” and Bart’s smile slid off his face and hit the dirt and shattered into a million tiny pieces. When I looked down I saw a bunch of swarming red ants in the dirt. The way the ants smelled reminded me of a pirate ship at sea, or my big fluffy pillow, the one that I slept with between my legs.
Memory about My Math Homework
4.
Memory about Paper Airplanes
5. One time I made a paper airplane and threw it at the sun and I lost sight of it, and when it came back down it was a mosquito. I took the mosquito in the house and wrote a story on it. A western about a stranger who rides into town claiming that he’s the ocean. The stranger rips off his shirt in the town square and holds it up and shouts, “This is a wave,” and a fish jumps out from one of the shirt pockets. Then the stranger leans over and starts crying on the fish as it flops around in the dust. The fish drowns.
Memory about Supernatural Beings
6. Nobody said the bogey man was shy.
With best wishes,
Gabe Hudson
Providence RI
Subject: McPlagiarism or McPseudonym?
Date: Sat, 18 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
What are we to make of the 8:21 entry in this Slate diary which Dave Eggers (McSweeney’s editor, aka the McSweeney’s Representative…I think, unless he has appointed someone else as the public representative while running the show from the background, pulling the McSweeney strings in a marionette-like fashion) describes David Gergen dancing to save the world? Read it now and I will wait:
http://www.slate.com/diary/99-12-13/diary.asp?iMsg=1
Compare this now to:
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/gergen/dgdances.html
This must mean one of two things.
(1) Dave Eggers has stolen a concept from one of his writers.
(2) Mary Gallagher is in reality Dave Eggers.
Or perhaps there are some other things it could mean.
(3) Dave Eggers does not actually read the magazine which he edits, but merely has the same ideas as the people who write for it, and therefore prints only material by people who he senses has the same ideas he does, thereby obviating the need for him to read the articles he prints.
(4) David Gergen really is dancing to save the world.
I should also point out that the name “McSweeney’s” conjures up uncomfortable images of a merger between McDonald’s and Sweeney Todd, he of the serving unsuspecting barbershop patrons as meat pies.
Francis Heaney
Date: Thu, 16 Dec 1999
Subject: Southerners, do not despair
Dear McSweeney’s,
Much, much celebration at the discovery that McSweeney’s is available in at least one Alabama bookstore, The Little Professor in Homewood, which is a suburb of Birmingham, which is about as urban as Alabama is likely to get. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet found a McSweeney’s purveyor in Tuscaloosa, home of the University of Alabama, where you expect to find the offbeat and literary. It is a college town, after all. Alas, it would appear that while football jerseys in crimson and white are in abundance, as are rabid fans clad in the aforementioned colors (whether or not they even attended the school), erudition and humor don’t really go hand in hand quite as easily as do football and fans. So those of us in Tuscaloosa who have even a slight pretense toward urban hipster-ness and an accompanying ironic sense of humor, must travel far (about 45 minutes) to sample McSweeney’s on the page. But we do give thanks for small favors. At least it’s not Mississippi.
Katherine Lee
Dear McSweeney’s,
I guess you’ll be sticking this in the Letters section. So:
This Taxi Cab Accident My Sister was in on Saturday Night
By Jeff Johnson
My sister was trying to end her evening in a calm fashion on Saturday. Her cab driver kept turning around talking to her and not paying attention to the road. After while she feigned sleep, but he kept jabbering on and on. Pretty soon he shouted something and hit the brakes, but he couldn’t slow down in time and he ran into the back of another cab. She hit the plexiglass divider and cut her lip and forehead.
The other cabbie got out and walked back to her cab and shouted at the driver, but after a few minutes they determined there wasn’t much damage. My sister told the cabbie he should report the incident anyway. He said no. She said he should pull over because she wanted to report it. He started crying.
She said too bad. She didn’t care. He started talking about his four kids. She said I think I’ll just walk the rest of the way. She got out and started walking home. He was still sobbing and he started following her. Pretty soon he caught up to her and started crawling. Then he grabbed one of her legs and kept sobbing, begging her not to report him.
She said please leave me alone. He grabbed on to her leg tighter. Then she used her free leg to kick him off of her and walked the rest of the way home.
Thank you,
Jeff
From: “Jonathan Kendall”
Subject: Submission: Christmas, the X-Men, and racism.
Date: Wed, 15 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
The following was hastily written on a Christmas card by James Burnett to Jonathan Kendall. Reproduced and submitted with permission from James Burnett.
Dear Jon,
Remember: Whenever we say “Christmas,” Christ always comes first. And whenever we say “X-mas,” X comes first. Not many people know that Jesus Christ’s real name is “Jesus Little.” He changed His name to “Jesus X” to show that He was His own person and didn’t need the white man’s slave name… He was His own man. Which explains the the meaning behind X-mas. It’s just short for “X-Man’s.” Because the X-Men had superpowers… just like Jesus.
Jim
From: “Steve Minster”
Subject: just noticing
Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
I see your editor is doing one of those Slate diaries. What is he talking about there? I am deeply confused thus far. Also saw that you people somehow won Utne Reader’s Best New Magazine award or somesuch. Has the world gone mad?
Steve Minster
Concerned
Dear McSweeney’s,
Subject: Watching the detectives…
Date: Tue, 9 Nov 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
This letter is late, but you will understand that timeliness is not the forte of Australians. (God save our gracious queen…)
I read The New Yorker issue. You know the one I’m talking about. I have some questions.
Why are Sophie’s parents not more vigilant?
Eight-year-old chess prodigies?
Why has no one mentioned the heartbreaking loveliness of the McSweeney’s ensemble? What are they laughing about, and why does Mr Eggers not get the joke? Are they laughing at him? Why don’t they stop it?
Do Paris and Nikki want a gift subscription to McSweeney’s? Perhaps it would be an appropriate acknowledgement of their recognition that now they are now “more mature”. Why aren’t they laughing? I certainly am.
My father was looking at Issue #3 on Wamberal Beach this weekend, in the heart of the limitless beauty that is the Central Coast of New South Wales. He held it high and pronounced, “This is the best thing I have ever seen. Can I show you why?” He pointed to the piece by David Foster Wallace on the spine. “The best”. Then he said, “Can we have a steak sandwich at the pub?”
Why not?
When I was in New York recently I went looking for St Marks Books on St Marks Place, where you said it would be. It wasn’t there. It was around the corner, on that other street.
Is this a trick?
On the noticeboard in my building is a sign that says “If the tenants of Unit #6 do not remove the potplants from their balcony railing, somebody will be killed”.
Is this not too harsh?
Affectionately yours,
Katherine Biber
Bondi, NSW, Australia.
Date: Fri, 5 Nov 1999
Subject: Summer Vacation
Dear McSweeney’s,
Perhaps a new section of McSweeny’s could be on the old “What I Did for Summer Vaction” theme so familiar in elementary school. It would spark old memories of days gone by, create an universal connection between all your readers, and provide interesting insights into this place we call “America.”
My essay would look something like this:
This summer I went on a whirlwind tour of the South with my mother-in-law, Lorraine. It was at turns exhilarating, exhausting, and surreal. I recommend Asheville, NC to anyone yearning for an arty city in the midst of the Smokey Mnts – it was my favorite stop; we hiked and window browsed and at great pizza at a freaky place called “The Mellow Mushroom.” We toured too many homes – a mansion in Savannah, The Biltmore Estate in NC. Too many tours altogether, but that’s all right. I survived.
Lorraine and I had some good talks and some not so good; I enjoyed traveling with her. She told me America wasn’t ready for a female president, I told her that I didn’t think a female president would ever have an affair with an intern. We discussed race relations and various family relations and homosexual relations, which was quite a conversation. We visited her niece and nephew-in-law in Atlanta, GA. The entire trip went off kilter when Lorraine related to her niece that I said that “you’d never catch a lady president ‘humping’ an intern.” This freaked me out. First of all, my 50-some year old mother-in-law said “humping.” Second of all, she said I said “humping.” I never say that word. I don’t think I’ve ever said “humping” aloud. Maybe I’ve never thought it, either. And now my mother-in-law is claiming I said it. Of course, I protested the word. And then I wondered, why don’t I say the word humping? Why not say “humping” instead of “have an affair”? Perhaps I was giving too much dignity to the whole act of humping. At any rate, from that moment forward, I strove to say “humping” every remaining day of that trip. As Andrea and Tommy told of their camping trip, I casually asked if they humped much. If Lorraine commented on a favorite movie actor, I casually mused if he was good at humping or not. I am now the sort of person who says “humping,” and I feel better for it. I encourage all of you to say “humping” at least once today. See how people react. If you’ve never said “humping” before, you will have an interesting time with this. It will be unexpected, and people will think you are great fun.
Sincerely,
Trina Martin
From: “Gilbert Garcia”
Subject: The Truth
Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
Dogs love beer. Did you know that? They also love bloody marys, but don’t give them bloody marys, because dogs don’t realize when they’ve had too many. A dog will also eat almost anything you can imagine, even if it’s something that just came out of a cat. Some other things that dogs will eat if you give them a chance: Roast beef, spaghetti sauce, summer sausage, ashma inhalers, pens, taco bell wrappers, cushioned insoles, most feminine products. Just thought you might like to know that.
Gilbert Garcia
Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999
Subject: it takes all kinds
Dear McSweeney’s,
“All kinds of pissed off” is one of my favorite mildly profane expressions, though I seldom hear it outside of Texas, which is where I grew up, and where I rarely desire to return. I had an idea that McSweeney’s readership might also relish this locution, and that I would concoct an anecdote to display it. However, this did not come to fruition. I would not describe my resulting mood as all kinds of pissed off, merely resigned.
Sincerely,
Snow Tempest
From: “Tom and Michelle”
Subject: FYI
Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
Just wanted to let you know that I was Christmas shopping with Mr. Rockwood (he of the fake haiku) and caught him paging through Jewel’s poetry book. If he sends something that begins “I saw the greatest minds of my generation. On TV,” watch out.
P.S. He has a rabbit, not a cat, that sits in a hutch under his television. I think he’s trying to create a huge mutant bunny.
XOXOXOXO,
Tom Clancy
Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999
From: “Daniel A. Norton”
Subject: all lowercase is much more soothing than all caps.
Dear McSweeney’s,
Hello, I would very much like to have a piece in your publication. Unfortunately, I have no skill as a writer. I realize this may be a setback, so I have devised a solution that will make all parties involved satisified.
I realize that as of right now I am the only party involved.
My solution is this: I will write my submission here in the email, and you may edit it as much as you like. All aspects of it may be changed, including my name as author, and title,and all of the body of the story.
However, some creative control must be asserted to establish identity. In order to maintain my satisfaction that it is, in fact, my story, I have the following requests, no, demands to make:
1) It remains in English, at least 25%.
2) It is comprised of complete sentences, at least in part.
3) Incorrect spelling is forbidden, unless intentional or by accident.
4) It must contain the word bumpy, in italics as just demonstrated.
Here is the story.
CHEERLEADERS AT THE FACTORY: THE WAR ON SCIENCE.
by Daniel “Hi Mom!” Norton
ADOLF: You know, my name is funny!
PROF. BRUCKENHAUSER: I’m a scientist!
Thanks in advance,
Daniel Norton
Date: Sun, 12 Dec 1999
From: andy crewdson
Subject: Michiko surrounds us
Dear McSweeney’s,
The question of Michiko Kakutani haunts us still. Everyday we think about her; our lives aren’t so empty, it’s just that she’s so full. You are not Michiko – conversely I am not her. Nevertheless, I bumped into a diminutive and spritely asian woman on W. 43rd just the other day (she’s not Finnish, but Asian I’m told); she was holding a French cigarette (Galoise Blanche I wondered?) in her fingers; she said ’McSwee’s uses black, shadowed bullets to denote new content – this is gauche for a publication which prides itself on its use of Garamond.’
She went on to say that ‘they should be using decorative flower-like ornaments, traditionally called “fleurons” by printers and typographers of yester-year. Surely this would fit better with their line-drawings-and-Garmaond aesthetic.’ Then she was gone.
With feeling this time,
andy crewdson
Date: Sat, 11 Dec 1999
From: Gabriel Hudson
Subject: Letter to McSweeney’s about Farm Life
Dear McSweeney’s,
Every summer my parents and I would fly all the way around the world in our hot air balloon. Then, one year, tragically, a big gust of wind came along and dumped the balloon basket on its side, and my parents fell to their deaths. The weird part was the balloon hadn’t even left the ground yet, so my parents fell on the grass, right there in front of the crowd that had come to see us off, and somehow I ended up landing on top of my dad.
After that, I was sent to live on my grandpa’s farm way out in the country. Each morning I’d lay in bed until my grandpa knocked on the door and said, “Time to break a leg,” or, “Mornin’ Glory.” Probably the worst thing was getting the cows’ milk, because the cows wouldn’t give up the milk until you listened to them moo for a little bit. After bringing the milk back up to my grandma in the kitchen, I’d wolf down breakfast and then it was time to go out in the field and drag the tractor’s rear end over the earth’s face.
One morning, I woke up and noticed that some hairs had sprouted under my arms. I said, “Good God, what’s this?” I thought these new hairs were feathers, and my mind started doing somersaults. I was looking straight into the mirror, and it was a miracle. I was confused and excited. I was scared. I didn’t now what to do, so I went down to the creek and sat on a rock to think about things for a while.
That night I built a nest in the old oak tree by moonlight. You could hear all sorts of animals out there in the dark. I built the nest out of Aluminum Foil and Saran Wrap and paper plates and anything else that wouldn’t be noticed when it was gone. This nest was going to be the launching pad for the journey that lay ahead, and as I put the finishing touches on the nest I felt a happy song well up inside of me, and suddenly, I was singing. It was a soft, pure song, with no words. It was my little song of hope. And after a couple minutes a gigantic crow came and landed on a branch next to me. The crow just cocked its head and stared. The another crow came and did the same thing. Then another, and another, and another. In no time the tree was filled with crows listening to my song, only now the crows had joined in the singing too, and I couldn’t see a thing because my eyes were overflowing with tears of joy.
But the next day, after I jumped out of the old oak tree, it hit me that I didn’t have enough feathers to fly yet. I think I realized this when I was still about four feet off the ground. A little voice inside of me whispered, “Don’t give up.” And that’s when I stopped flapping. For the rest of the flight I just watched the nest fall away from me, except at the last second I turned my head and saw my grandma’s rose garden right before I crashed into it. I was knocked out with my head buried in the dirt. When I woke up my dog Rags was peeing on me. So I bit him.
The way my aunt tells it, my mom prayed for a little girl the whole time she was pregnant but then changed her mind in the delivery room. Apparently her labor was pretty dramatic, because they had to call in this special team of high-powered doctors. The doctors immediately dove down between my mom’s legs and set to work with the forceps and the suction-cups. Everybody started to panic, because I wouldn’t budge. But on the fifth day, I finally jumped into the world face-first, with my eyes shut tight and my wings spread out as far as they could go.
Sincerely,
Gabe Hudson
Providence RI
From: “b thomas g” (btgalla@hotmail.com)
Subject: Valve World
Date: Sat, 11 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
I am writing in response to your solicitation for trade magazine relationships. Let me just say, to start, that I am encouraged by your interest in trade magazines, the most often underappreciated sector of the publishing world.
My name is Bronson Galla. I am the senior editor at Valve World magazine, the premier publication of the valve industry. I would be interested in not only a subscription trade, but perhaps something more. For several years, I have struggled against the mundane writing style that has, in my mind, plagued Valve World, at least since I’ve been here. What I am hoping for is a relationship with McSweeney’s which would allow for some content trades as well. I would be interested in publishing some humorous essays, and possibly even a bit of fiction. Anything we use would of course have to be valve-based, which should not be hard given the ubiquitous nature of valves in today’s world.
In return, I would like to compose a story about valves for McSweeney’s. I noticed your solicitation of pieces about science — valves are a key part of industrial science. Let me know what you think.
Sincerely,
Bronson Galla
Date: Fri, 10 Dec 1999
Subject: Six points, and ein fussnote*
Dear McSweeney’s,
1. McSweenies, hello!
2. You know what I’ve found? Some genuine McSweeney tartan (plaid, you call it), direct from the Highland McSweeneys of Scotland. (S’true!) Let me know that you’re excited, and I’ll send you a swatch (plastic-strapped, working interior: Happy 14th Birthday!)
3. Talking of Time: Imagine the entire history of the world as a single day, divided into 24 hours. Would it be a Tuesday do you reckon, or more a Saturday? And when would you have lunch? (Thinks… mmmm, I fancy some Primordial soup for breakfast.)
4. Props to M. Muurge Curry and Ms Ogilvie for showing interest in others (well, me). See I worry that this forum may be like those arty loft party I attend* where trendysomethings just watch each others’ lips move, whilst each is dropping their finest aphorisms ? ignored! ? like pearls into a blind-man’s cup.
Know wharra mean?
5. Sara: it’s the curving sensuality. Mr Swade: I lived for your letter ? and I didn’t even get it on the first read. But then I did, & I was a bit disappointed it was just a simple trick.
6. Well, cheerie-bye, one and all,
RrrRrrRRRrrrrrrr
*because I’m very trendy
Date: Fri, 10 Dec 1999
Subject: childhood-pet allegory
Dear McSweeney’s,
I should be forgiven for this. I was still just a tike. It was my seventh birthday, and I was given two pet hamsters. Cute little guys. I named them Patches and Ralph. Ralph was brown; Patches was white with brown, well, patches.
Patches and Ralph came furnished with a ten-gallon aquarium, assorted hamster nick-knacks and a big bag of hamster food. I’d fill their food bowl everyday and top off their inverted water bottle. I’d lift them out at least once a day and put them on my bed to run around and play. They had a clear plastic ball for a while that they could be sealed inside of and navigate around the floor of my room. I think my brother stepped on it, though, and then it wouldn’t shut right. They seemed to have a happy life.
I’m not sure how long it all took’€”probably just a month or two, because it was still winter’€”but one afternoon, I found that Patches had eaten Ralph. Ralph was still partly there, not completely consumed, but he’d been pretty much nibbled off from the waist down’€”a little, dead look of anguish still on his hamster face. Patches was cowering in the corner, still in a bloody, guilty stupor.
It turned out that the big bag of hamster food was actually a big bag of hamster bedding. I’d been feeding them bedding, filling their bowl every morning. It seemed like they were eating it’€”they’d empty the bowl every time. I guess they were only digging it out to see if there was any food underneath.
Okay.
Kevin Walter
Date: Fri, 10 Dec 1999
From: “Elizabeth Field”
Subject: re: an ode to woody
Dear McSweeney’s,
we walked out on a woody allen film last night
not because we were bored
but because we were hungry.
E. Field
Date: Fri, 10 Dec 1999
Subject: Botched Joke Attempt Last Night In The Cab On The Way To The Holiday Party At The Merc Bar
Dear McSweeney’s,
Esty: …so it turns out the guys in the funny outfits that look like they should be in the French Navy are actually in the French Navy.
Me: Yeah, well I heard that some of those guys were out walking around in Times Square and they ran into some guys from the German Navy and then the French Navy guys went up and surrendered to the, uh, German Navy guys.
Esty: …
Me: Sorry.
Esty: You might want to polish that up a bit before taking it out on the road.
Aaron Cockle
Date: Thu, 9 Dec 1999
Subject: Peter M. Wallace
Dear McSweeney’s,
When I told a friend that my recent subscription woes were caused by a mix-up with another subscriber named Peter Wallace, he said the following:
“Those fags. What a lame lie they came up with after they finally put down that fuckin’ bong for once!”
I was inclined to agree with him, but I don’t like to make trouble, so I kept it to myself. When a letter from “Peter Wallace” appeared on your page, it occurred to me that it could be a hoax. Perhaps this letter had been written to quiet any suspicions I might have about devious lit-mag people taking my subscription money and spending it all on dope. But, I am not a conspiracy theorist, so I banished such thoughts. I accepted that there was another Peter Wallace out there and that he enjoyed your publication in much the same way that I do.
But, it did not end there, did it? No. Every time I perused your letters column, there seemed to be a new letter from Peter Wallace. “This other Peter Wallace writes a lot of letters, doesn’t he?” I thought. “Not only does he write a lot of letters,” I responded, “but the good people at McSweeney’s print them. What’s up with that?” Then it dawned on me that you were sending me a message. You were letting me know that you had made a choice. You had chosen which Peter Wallace would be endorsed by McSweeney’s and all its subsidiaries. You had chosen to back the OTHER Peter Wallace.
Then I realized that from now on I will be considered the “other” Peter Wallace and that the other Peter Wallace will be the “real” Peter Wallace. I will always be viewed as some Johnny-come-lately Peter Wallace bandwagon-jumper. Peter Wallace #2. Some will jokingly refer to me as the “evil” Peter Wallace. Others will pretend they are joking, but they will secretly mean it. I will always be the lesser Peter Wallace. The neglected Peter Wallace. The Peter Wallace who comes second in everyone’s affections. People will say things like, “Well, this Peter Wallace isn’t so bad, but I prefer the original.”
It’s true, there will be a few who favor me. They might even call me the New, Improved Peter Wallace. But, just like those who liked New Coke, these people will be seen as crack-pots with inferior taste and no sense of tradition.
I have been put in an untenable position. For example, I can’t even write to you and tell you my preference in pasta. If I say that I, too, like vermicelli better than spaghetti, everyone will accuse me of trying to raise my position by copying Peter Wallace. If I say that I am partial to rotini, people will say I’m just trying to be different. If I say that I’d rather not disclose my pasta preference, people will say I’m being obdurate. “Why must you be so difficult?” they’ll say. “Why can’t you be more like Peter Wallace? Our Peter Wallace. The REAL Peter Wallace.”
So, you see, I cannot win. I could lash out in anger, but there would be no use. I have become resigned to my fate. I am the Peter Wallace who no one loves. I am the Peter Wallace for whom people settle until a better Peter Wallace comes along.
I am the other Peter Wallace.
Thank you for your time.
peter wallace
Date: Thu, 09 Dec 1999
From: “D. J. Waletzky”
Subject: RE: Bad Names for Action Movies
Dear McSweeney’s,
You should be aware that there is, in fact, an action film entitled “Exit the Dragon (Enter the Tiger).” If I recall correctly, it is available at the video rental store next door to the copy shop where the McSweeney’s Representative bought the now-legendary rubber stamp detailed in an early print issue of McSweeney’s (usually it’s in the Kung Fu section next to “Drunken Master II” or “Black Samurai”). It is a fictionalised portrayal of Bruce Lee’s death (except that he is cleverly refered to as ‘Bruce Li’ to the delight of subtlety enthusiasts).
There is, also, actually a film entitled “Paper, Rock, Scissors” (as opposed to “Rock Paper Scissors”) made in 1998, and it has a character named “Sly The Loan Shark” (Isaiah Wellington, sometimes credited as “Ike Gingrich”) in it.
In addition, “Easy Does it” (a.k.a. “Easy Does It…Starring Frankie Avalon”) is also real, albeit a TV show produced in 1976. Whether it falls into the “action” category is a purely subjective matter, but rest assured that the actors move and talk, which are generally recognised to be actions in and of themselves. Also, it has Annette Funicello in a supporting role and only lasted four shows.
Continuing with the kung-fu movies, the list also includes “Kung-Food Fighting”- I think that chopsocky fans the world over will recognise this as a reference to “Half a Loaf of Kung Fu”, starring the ever-popular Jackie Chan (credited in this film as “Jacky” Chan) as a hapless gymnast who eventually learns Kung Fu and defeats two competing bands of bandits from stealing jade “soul crystals.”
With reference to “Pop Goes the Evil”, the distinguished cinemaphile will immediately see the obvious pun on “Pop Goes the Weasel” (a.k.a “Lady Coco”), a 1975 film starring ‘Mean’ Joe Green. But my theory is that the list is actually referring to a Three Stooges movie called “Pop Goes the Easel”, which was made in 1935. It’s not exactly the same thing, but I think most people will see a similar theme here.
D. J. Waletzky
Montreal, Quebec
9 December 1999
From: “Ruland, Jim”
Subject: Help right a wrong
Date: Wed, 8 Dec 1999
Jeff Johnson,
Boy you were wrong about the Giants Jets game. But I’ll tell you something else, Neil Best and Paul Dottino and all those other hacks were even wronger about who was calling the shots on Sunday. As you know, Coach Fassel relinquished the reins to Quarterbacks Coach Sean Payton. Many feel that Payton’s aggressive play-calling kept the Jets on their heels. Not so. Those were MY plays. That’s right. I been drawing them up at rec time and during slow days in Group for years. Last week I sent MY version of the revised playbook to Payton (just like I been doing all season) in a thick manila envelope and violophone! Big Blue gets the win. Except he, not me, gets all the credit. I demand recompensation. I would like to appeal to you, a fellow violence enthusiast and member of the fourth estate (my letters are no longer read in the tri-state area). Hear my cry for help, Mr. Jeff. I don’t want any fame or glory or money, but if I could enlist your aid in acquiring a helmet, which I would modify to my own specs, I feel it would help keep the din down and I could draw up my plays in peace. That’s all anyone could ask, isn’t it? As proof of my versimilitude I offer the following: look for a linebacker blitz (98) up the gut on virtually any third and long on the fringes of field goal range resulting in pressure, knockdowns and sack. I’m sure you can relate.
Thank you for the courtesy of your time,
James Tyrrell Ruland, #77
P.S. I also know where Hoffa is buried.
Jim Ruland
Date: Wed, 8 Dec 1999
Subject: A Response to Ms. sara ogilvie
Dear McSweeney’s,
Sara Ogilvie asked, “Why do you think it is that people write with so many questions on a page in which no answers are presented?” I am happy to answer this question. Since March 3, 1972, I have been diligently answering all questions posted to the McSweeney’s letters page. Although researching these answers often takes up to six hours a day and has left me a broken, penniless man, I feel it is my duty and privilege to assist the readers of this fine publication in resolving the quandary that haunt their souls. Unfortunately, the M.R. of McSweeney’s and I have not seen eye to eye on this matter, and he has printed none of my letters in response since late 1983. (And that was the first in over a year.) To complete my task, then, I have been forced to phone McSweeney’s correspondents with the answers to their questions. You can imagine that this has not been easy, as many of the names attached to the letters are aliases. Nonetheless, I have been largely successful in this endeavor, and if Colleen Werthman would be so kind as to give me her (unlisted) home phone number, I will be able to tell her that yes, she does need to pick up a new clock.
The answer to your question, therefore, is that, despite the M.R.‘s obstinance, word of my services has spread around the McSweeney’s community and, as such, those that ask questions in their letters know that they will be answered.
Here is a sample of the previous answers I’ve given:
1. No.
2. Yes, Wayne, you’re not alone. (Although I felt the piece deteriorated a bit near the end.)
3. Not only have I felt that way, but it has frequently been commented on in the press.
4. No, I didn’t, but you’re right, it is.
5. Yes.
6. It means that David E. Kelley has realized that the Ally character, and this is not a criticism of Ms. Flockhart’s performance, has run its course, and that without redefining her, she will become irrelevant. This would not be a problem if the show were named (as it should be) “Cage & Fish” (or possibly “Cage & Fish, L.L.P.”). If it were, Ally could be legitimately relegated to the background (as she has been this season) or even written off the show completely to make room for stories focusing on the more interesting members of the ensemble cast. (I am particularly fond of Renee, Georgia, and the Biscuit. I also enjoy Ms. Liu’s performance as Ling, but one cannot say that her character has been underutilized.) Unfortunately, as Ally is the show’s titular character and its titular head, something must be done to keep her fresh. I don’t think the sleeves will work, and I don’t believe Kelley thinks so either, but he has to try something.
7. It depends on context. It often is, but you made the right choice here.
Moving on to your other questions: I think I’ve already handled this one. This one too. The M.R. seems to think so, but I would have to disagree; otherwise there is no point to asking them in a semi-public forum. Yes.
I hope this has been helpful. At the risk of making more work for myself, might I ask why you do not capitalize your name?
Your servant,
Alex Pascover
Date: Wed, 8 Dec 1999
From: Glaxo Wellcome
Subject: I just gave an old coat to the homeless!
Dear McSweeney’s,
This in response to Eric McHenry’s number, “What Orrin Hatch Must Do To Win” (6 December, 1999).
Beneath each author’s byline, please add another line indicating where he earned his MFA.
You could even eventually have hotlinks to special archives for each MFA program. “IOWA ALUMNI ARCHIVES” “JOHNS HOPKINS ALUMNI ARCHIVES”; I think most of us are prepared to consider Lucy Thomas an MFA program in her own right — but that’s long-term.
Sincerely,
Glaxo
Also — and I JUST THOUGHT of this — you should come up with a shorter version of your zine, call it McSweeney’s Lickety Split, like those miniature McDonald’s, McDonald’s Express, or those miniature Staples, Staples Express, that we are not meant to expect to really deliver the full McDonald’s or Staples experience. You might even be able to finally get a dot-com domain out of the deal: Is Mcswyslicketysplit.com registered? Oops, it is now.
Suckers.
From: “Gilbert Garcia”
Subject: A note on headline writing
Date: Tue, 07 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
Two headlines for the same story about a donkey that brays along to his owner’s recorder and might be on the Tonight Show tonight. Portland, where the story ran, has:
KLAMATH FALLS DONKEY TO SING FOR LENO
In Seattle, exact same story gets:
OREGON DONKEY SONG MAY PLAY ON TV
If you mis-pronounce “Oregon” i.e. call it “Ore-a-gone” you end up with two rhyming swing triplets and a line of iambic pentameter. Which proves that Seattle is cooler than Portland.
warmly,
Gilbert Garcia
TO: McSweeneys
RE: Textures
FR: Peter Wallace
12/7/99
Dear McSweeney’s,
I like the feeling of rice in my mouth. I also prefer vermicelli to spaghetti, even thin spaghetti, because it feels so much better. Since neither rice nor vermicelli have much taste, the texture really matters.
With all due respect,
Peter Wallace
Date: Mon, 06 Dec 1999
From: “William Rockwood”
Subject: My pet cat
Dear McSweeney’s,
I have written a poem that sounds like haiku but is not. I would like to share it with the readers of McSweeney’s letters page.
My pet cat
Is a wet cat
He was out in the rain
Please note that the poem was inspired by actual events.
Sincerely,
Bill Rockwood
From: “Choate, Andrew”
Subject: Instead of going to the bathroom I got out of bed
Date: Mon, 6 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
I don’t care about your up-down letters racket, but I will tell you one thing about deception. I, not Timothy McSweeney, am partially in favor of deception. I know you’re stuck gurgling at your computer, but I’m gonna keep fuckin your mind like the film of zapruder.
Andrew Choate
Date: Fri, 3 Dec 1999
From: Stuart Wade
Subject: yo-yo deal
PS – or are you just trying to fuck with us?
Austin
Stu Wade
deal. Hope it helps. Let me know,
deal but it’s still sort of a trial and error
of solution, now) to the scrolling
half of the solution (not the e-kind
ho ho!). At any rate here is one
Tim C. responds to that Cornell fellow,
bit of fun is (like when the irrepressible
yo-yo north once again to see what the next
he or she must then (for lack of a better term)
the business from that Cornell fellow)
(e.g., like when Tim Carvell gets
has enjoyed a very funny missive
the scroll once again, so that once the reader
letter by actually reversing the direction of
individual letter, then begin to read that same
scrolling up to the top of each
the letters, and then begin the tedious process of
must first scroll south, to the bottom of
these witty exchanges now, the average visitor
letter-writers develops. To follow
correspondence or running gag between/among
The trouble seems to occur anytime a
being run in reverse chronological order.
complaints regarding the McSw’s letters section
I’ve been monitoring readers’ (for lack of a better word)
Dear McSweeney’s,
Dec 3, 1999
Date: Fri, 03 Dec 1999
From: Rich Zito
Subject: To the Editor
Dear McSweeney’s,
I have noticed your habitual publication of letters by a reader named Dallas Dickinson. This reminded me of the old axiom my grand-daddy told me, “Don’t ever play poker with a fellow whose first name is a major city located in the contiguous United States.” It is apparent that your grand-daddies told you something entirely different.
Rich Zito
Philadelphia
From: “Ogilvie, Sara, ARV”
Subject: Letters, you get letters…
Date: Fri, 3 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
(This is a letter asking a question about the questions on your letters page.)
Why do you think it is that people write with so many questions on a page in which no answers are presented? Examples will follow.
1. "Is the structure of your “Letters” page deliberately annoying?"
2. “Does that make any sense?”
3. “Did you ever feel that way?”
4. "Did you know that if you take the Gettysburg Address and insert the word “ARGH!” after every occurrence of the word “the,” it’s funnier?"
5. “Is that a scented candle that tastefully augments your logo?”
6. “What do you think it means, the cutting and re-cutting of Ally McBeal’s dress sleeve?”
7. “Is salt funnier than sugar?”
What does it all mean? Should someone write a letter answering all of these questions? Should someone else write a letter questioning my means of questioning questions on the letters page by using more questions? Are the qustions more important than the answers? Or do we just enjoy littering our correspondences with the curving sensuality of a question mark?
Probing for answers,
sara ogilvie
Dear McSweeney’s,
Last year, on a trail to Geneva Lake in Colorado, my ten year-old mutt Jake, killed some wildlife in front of a group of middle-aged, zealous Boulderites. My little brother and my Dad were visiting and got to witness the whole mess. My brother tells the story best, so here’s his take:
I live in North Carolina and my dogs are in a pen most of the time so they don’t get hit by cars. We went to Colorado to visit my sister and we stayed in this cabin that had a nest of gross baby mice under the porch. They made me go on a hike.
It was boring but I told my sister about every episode of “The Simpsons” that I had seen. I’ve seen all of them. About now my Dad announced that we were at 10,000 feet. He was breathing really loud and it was annoying so I ran up to catch up with Jake, the dog.
Jake is ten and looks kind of old. He has gray hair where his testicles are supposed to be and his neck sags. My sister says that he just looks old that he’ll live a long time. I was like yeah right. But then I saw him kill this marmot.
Oh, wait. But first we passed these people who had their tent right off the trail. They all drank hot chocolate in silver space mugs and wore gaiters, those things that cover the bottom half of your legs from snow.
There wasn’t any snow, They were friendly when we passed them, but said “That dog should be on a leash. This is wilderness you know.” The men had short beards, all of them. The women had big calves. I think Jake farted then. OK, maybe he didn’t then but he did later in the car. It sounds better if he did it then.
Anyway, Dad smiled and waved at them, and we wondered why they cared since we had just passed some hunters who were gutting a big deer. In the trail.
Then Jake takes off like a million miles an hour up the hill into some rocks. My sister takes off after him and all the tent people in their gaiters carrying their hot chocolate run out to see. I started yelling at her, “Did he kill the marmot? Hey! Did he it kill it?” My Dad tells me to be quiet but it’s too late. The gaiter people are pissed off and running to see if Jake killed something. About now, some lady starts crying and saying “Oh my god Oh my god did he kill it did he kill it did he kill it?”
My sister said she found Jake behind the rocks with this dead, fat marmot under him. He was smiling and so tight with the excitement that she picked him up by his tail and the scruff of his neck and he was stiff as a suitcase. She said she was stupid not to kick the dead marmot under the rock that was right there so we booked up the trail because we knew the gaiter people, my Dad is now calling them “pinkos,” are going to find it. They do and this guy holds it up over his head and yells out, like he’s on WWF or something “He killed the marmot!” Now the lady really starts bawling and she runs up to us full speed screaming Put your GODDAMN dog on a leash! Put your damn dog on a leash! Oh my God Oh my god!" You would have thought her baby was snatched by a dingo.
My Dad says calmly, “Please don’t use that kind of language. We have a child here.”
And we hiked to the lake, ate ham sandwiches and walked back down to the car. Jake farted the whole way home.
Laura Jackson
Clines Corners, New Mexico
From: “Dallas Dickinson”
Subject: Wondering about this…
Date: Thu, 2 Dec 1999
Dear McSweeney’s,
Is the structure of your “Letters.” page deliberately annoying? And by that I mean “Are the aesthetics of the page more important to you than the content?” By which I mean “Are you punishing me for not keeping up and reading the page every day (whether you take the time out of your oh-so-busy schedule to update it or not) in order to keep up with whatever asinine thread has presented itself re: wrestlers or professional football or whatever?” Which is to say “Do you take secret pleasure in imagining me scrolling to the bottom of the page, then up again to the point where I last left off, then down to re-read that letter and reacquaint myself with the peculiar idiom that is McSweeney’s, then up again to the chronologically subsequent but physically previous letter, then down again, then up again ad nauseum until I fall, weeping, against my mousepad – only to rise again like the proverbial beaten wife (if anyone knows a proverb about a beaten wife, I would like it hear it – but let’s just assume that one exists) and suffer further at your unrelenting, counterintuitive hand?”
Or what?
Dallas Dickinson
Los Angeles
From: “Dallas Dickinson”
Subject: Your Letter Page
Date: Thu, 4 Nov 1999
Dear McSweeneys,
Is there a logic behind listing letters in reverse chronological order? Do you think we enjoy scrolling to the bottom of the page, then up a bit, then down, then up some more, then down again to the previous ‘up’ point, then up, then down again, etc. ad infinitum?
Or do you hate us?
With love,
Dallas Dickinson
Los Angeles
Date: Thu, 2 Dec 1999
From: Wayne Baffert
Subject: oh my lord
Dear McSweeney’s,
I have just begun reading your magazine, and I can honestly say that the December 2 piece on the Microsoft musical is the funniest thing I have ever read in my whole life. I don’t know how else to put it. I’m not a writer, so it’s hard to explain, but there’s a weird combination of snottiness and sensitivity. Does that make any sense? I wasn’t drinking milk when I was reading it, but if I was, there would have been milk sprayed all over my computer screen.
Since this isn’t one of those really intelligent letters, you probably won’t print it. I don’t care. I just want you to know how funny the piece was. Keep up the good work over there.
Sincerely,
Wayne Baffert