You feel poor. We feel poor. Let's feel poor together. This week only, almost everything is half-price in our online store. Escape the holiday rush and cross every name off your list in one cheap swoop. - - - - |
L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to mcsweeneysmail@yahoo.com. Letters received will be added to this page in chronological order, largely unedited. Thank you.] - - - - From: Greg Purcell - Contractor
Dear McSweeney's, Something people say in Seattle, to strangers: "Hi." Also: "No worries." (I understand this is a phrase which generated in Australia. It means that whatever is happening, it will come out in such a way that it will cause absolutely no distress or conflict of interest.) People say nothing in Chicago. Only pragmatic things. I am working here, I say to my self. I am working in Seattle. I feel a little lost. I left Chicago very suddenly to write a book about a British Columbian inventor named John, who claims to have recreated the Philadelphia Experiment using radio waves and Van der Graff generators. Unfortunately, John wanted all the rights to my little unmade book, and plus he was illucid from his medication, so nothing worked out. Now I am a contractor in Seattle, where men in little Seattle Mariners hats glare at you until they get your attention, then beam brightly at you as if you and everyone else were in an orange-juice commercial. Then they say "Hi!" in a normal tone of voice, but with an implied exclamation point. In Chicago you would get arrested for this. I am confused in a very nice town on the corner-edge of America. Greg Purcell,
- - - - Date: Mon, 15 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's, It was good what we did yesterday
Linger on
Sincerely, Justine Hermitage - - - - From: "Newhart, Bryson"
Dear McSweeney's, In the diner where SMB and I sometimes go to breakfast, every table has a sign advertising "Northern Ranch Buffalo Burgers, 100% pure Canadian bison meat, natural choice flavor." Me: Just once I would actually like to try one of these buffalo burgers. SMB: I would just like to eat a buffalo. Me: Without the burger part? SMB: Yes, just a buffalo. Me: Wouldn't that be too much food? How would the waitress carry the platter? SMB: No platter. I would lie there gnawing on the buffalo until I passed out, and when I woke up, I would just keep eating. It would probably take time. Possibly a week or two. Me: Lie where? In the buffalo field? SMB: Of course. Don't be an idiot. Me: Would it still be alive? SMB: Stop asking obvious questions. Yes, the buffalo would be alive. Me: Sounds like a scarring experience. It might be hard to return to society. You might see all the cars going down the street and think they were stampeding bison. You might run out to join them and get hit by a bus. SMB: True, but before I died, I would sink my teeth into the bus to get one last juicy bite. Me: I guess you would think you finally found the mother of all buffaloes. At least until another bus came along. SMB: No, even then. Then I would think I'd found two mother of all buffaloes. Me: You're making me hungry. Think they have any bison syrup for my flapjacks? SMB: I'll show you some flap, Jack. For more information about Canadian Bison meat products (whitney pastorek might be interested), please call toll free: 1-888-422-0623. Best, Bryce Newhart & Sarah M. Balcomb - - - - Date: Mon, 15 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's, My niece Katy will be seven on June 6th. Her mom is taking her to a place by the name of Two Peas in a Pod which is, apparently, some sort of craft store that charges 12 bucks a head to paint plates. Anyway, this is what Katy and I talked about yesterday on the way home from Food Lion: "Chuck? CHUCK!"
How come you're supposed to attribute each line of dialogue even though there are only two players? Living in South Carolina now,
- - - - Date: 15 May 00
Dear McSweeney's, Justine Hermitage is pretty right on. But let me ask you this: Is Pajaro the same as Pajara Dunes? I used to have some relatives there (lovely people, as they all are, truly. All the things I say about the family and private property and such, you know, it isn't anything personal, I'm not one of those twisted freaks who develops an ethic out of his damaged psyche). It's a fine place. Personally I'd prefer to be wed in a cathedral, speaking as a fellow girl, or girl sympathiser at any rate. Whichever, it is the nineties, after all. John Davis, I'm going to write some more about my charming relatives who live on the West or "Wrong" Coast. My aunt, Timothy, lives in British Columbia. Her name is, in fact, Timothy, and she is a natural-born woman. She spent some time living in Nicaragua, and is, of course, from Philadelphia, although in the forty years she has lived in or surrounded by (her husband and son) Canadians, she has picked up a bit of an accent. She, too, loved my dear dog, and has always been a great inspiration to me, informing me of salient facts (she, her father, and his brother, and I all shared a college major, not English) and exquisite phrases ("excruciating delicacy").. My grandmother, whom we called "Danny" for some reason I can't quite remember or wish not to relate, who was an excellent musician and tennis player (by the way, a note to that bar in Greenpoint, you know who you are, those are not ashtrays, those are coasters very much like the ones given out by some institutions as tennis trophies, plus! your clientele is verminous), had a, shall we say, wonderful sense of humor. It was the custom of the day to name one's Philadelphian she-spawn after plants and such, viz a viz "Rosemary" and I'm sure there were others. The botanists among us have already realised where Phleum pratense comes into this; yes, timothy is a variety of feed grass native to Eurasia. So name your damned daughter Timothy and make the world a better place. At least a warmer place for my daughters, Journal of Navigation and USS Chippewa Falls. Paschel Barkin, ah, yes, Dirigo! Maine is what it is, which is the best. I was recently relating my extensive Maine-ophilia (which is being treated, don't worry, you can just use ringworm medication on it, and, lord knows, I have plenty of that leftover from my troubled teen years) to some person or group, I have no idea who (I ain't Heuro the Memory Man, although I have all his albums), and they said I must have been delighted with "Gettysburg: The Movie" and I said that, by god, I wasn't. I went on, "I don't give a salmon's milt about Jebediah Springfield or Joshua Chamberlain or whatever name he's using these days, the hack." Bryson Newhart, continuing with my family related theme, I appreciate your concern but I have managed to temporarily slow the rot with ample ingestion of doggy spittle, kindly provided by my local. I was so glad to see you mention drenching day, or, more properly, po polsku, "Smingus Dingus." No joke, that damned holiday is Zbigniew's favorite. God damn it, and it's real, the bastards. I'll be all clever and when he's playing "Space Invaders;" I'll sneak up behind him, with the giggling encouragement of Kevin, and shout "Smingus Dingus!" and spray the back of his head with a fine mist from a confiscated and converted Stadol nasal injector. Of course the aliens will take out his booky Polish ass just as he was about to get the double shot. Later we find Tom enjoying a little of the television (which is now on twenty-four hours, thank god) when I'll hear the tell-tale signs of Kevin's girlsih twittering behind me, causing fear, and then (it's already too late, that's why I don't run) the deluge, and I'm soaked head to webbed toe in dishwater and I'm hearing an evil whisper: "Smingus Dingus, kurwa." Naraze,
- - - - From: "Robert Beier"
Dear McSweeney's, A woman came over to me and told me that she thought about not telling me what she was about to tell me but decided that a stranger in her dream was too weird and she had to tell me. Apparently, I walked into the office carrying a can of Bud Light. It was first thing in the morning. I told her that she didn't dream it, that in fact I had walked in this morning with a can of Bud Light. I'd been out all night partying with the older but still hardy 4th incarnation of Spuds. He can put them away, oh yes. Right in front of me he lapped a whole oversized doggie bowl full of beer in less than one minute. I'd never seen a tongue work so fast. The women hanging on him had never seen a tongue work that fast either (I didn't say this part but if she could read minds she would have heard that too). She told me that she didn't believe me with surprise oozing from her eyes. I reached down under my desk and informed her that I still had the can. Surprise and horror gushed out of her nose. When my hand appeared empty from under the desk the joke ended. Regards,
- - - - From: Dan Sweeney
Dear McSweeney's, Don't you think that "Dojo of Cool" would be a good name for a band, or
a
website?
Dan Sweeney
- - - - From: Greg Purcell - Contractor
Dear McSweeney's, I have more to say on the differences between Seattle and Chicago. You will notice that my name (above) has been qualified by the e-mail program I am using. I am a "contractor," it says. In Chicago I would be called a "temp" and I would not get my own e-mail program. Chicago is a bit superstitious about such programs. Such are the differences between cities, cities that are separated, on one hand, by an emphasis in the e-commerce industries, and on the other hand, by the industry known as "bricks and mortar." My skills are "in demand" in Seattle. That's what people say. There are more differences. Sometimes I hate myself. Sometimes I am filled with unimaginable joy and want to kiss myself on my own lips, like a happy Blakean doppelganger. I went to Paris last fall. When I got there the first thing I said to the ticket seller at the Metro was "Je voudrais un carte orange pour le semaine," which means, "I would like an orange card for the week." I do not think that my French was very good, in that instance. When I got to the Champs Elysees (add an accent grave) it looked just like a bustling shopping mall. Later, I went to the famous Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore and the little man who runs the place spoke to me in a halting, interruptive American English. He let me into the store an hour before they opened up and than sat me down in his office and made me write something about myself. It sounds charming but really it was quite officious. He did not look at me while I wrote. What I wrote was this: "I am here to see Paris. I like Apollinaire. The Champs Elysees is like a great big American shopping mall." He read the little slip of paper and then looked at me like I had flecks of animal blood on my shirt, like I was some kind of a militant animal butcher and he was a righteous vegetarian. So I bought a book and got out. Some people really like Paris, and will talk to you about it any chance they get. They do not know the kind of self-love that I feel. The Eiffel Tower is crowded. There is art everywhere. Five years ago, you could look through any given literary magazine and see the word "bougainvillea" about ten times. Now, it's the word "vichyssoise." And in France my name would be,
- - - - Subject: Wazzup?! Yuppers! Dude! Etc.--Inquiry into Email Slang
I have a question about the infantile slang terms that otherwise mature, educated, reasonable people deliberately employ in the subject lines and text of their emails in what I find to be a painfully and irritatingly misguided effort to make them, and their authors, sound "hip," "casual," or "so well informed and relaxed and at peace about the large matters of life that I just reflexively use adolescent schoolhouse lingo." Such language would include, but is not limited to, the following: Wazzup!? (for what's up!?, popularized by the infamous Budweiser advertisement) Cuz (for cousin) 'Cuz (for because) Yup, Yuppers (for yes) Writin'/thinkin'/talkin' (and any other present progressive tense verb with its final g replaced by a ', which for me actually requires more effort than simply typing a g) 'bout (for about) I dunno (for I don't know) Ya (for you, as in here ya go) Dude, duuuuude, etc (for what?) You da man... That's enough of a list for now, though I am well aware that this is not even a nearly complete sampling of the varieties of verbal manipulation that go on. My question/point is this: not that these terms are in use somewhere in the world, by fairly identifiable groups/classes/cohorts of people (high school students, frat boys, urban dwellers, etc), but that people who I know to be mild-mannered, usually white, professionals over 25 tend to abuse this kind of talk mercilessly in their email correspondence, as well as in their posts to professional discussion groups (the field I am most familiar with is video postproduction). Is this tendency strange, or what? Whazzup wit dat!? As far as I've been able to observe in my modest assortment of acquaintances with 20- or 30-something white professionals, they absolutely do not talk like that in life. Why do they do that in email? Is email and newsgroup language a type of communication where one must disguise one's voice, make it loud and slangy to protect against possible insults or disrespect? Is email an inherently laughable, insignificant form of communication that needs to be mocked through the use of slang (which to an extent has the effect of showing that the author refuses to take the medium seriously)? Is it, on the contrary, an opportunity to be the carefree hipster that one has always wanted to be? Ultimately, I find the whole thing disturbing. When I see one of these silly slang terms, I think something along the lines of the following: "I am reading this discussion group message for information about an esoteric digital video technology, and yet your post has both 'I dunno' and 'if you be gettin' da signal...' (referring to a video signal), so how can I take you or this information seriously? You sound like a 12-year-old, yet I know for a fact that you own a production house in Vancouver..." That's what I think. I am disturbed. Is it just me? Thanks for any insights. Bill Fisher - - - - From: "Mike Topp"
Dear McSweeney's, Please relay to Amie Barrodale that my name is spelled "Topp," not "Toppp." I already have enough problems, what with the extra "p," besides smelling like her grandfather (that is to say, clean). Thank you. Mike Topppppppppppppppppppppppppppp - - - - From: "Timothy McWeeney"
Dear McSweeney's, A pervert comes into a whorehouse and stays for a while. He gets married there and learns to play Parcheesi, ancient royal game of India. Sometimes he has to keep his balance for a while on the knobby old hobbyhorse. You know the routine. We've all been fired from an asinine office job. But how many of us crazy morons have been fired by an actual firebomb? The answer is none. Or maybe just a few. No human being can withstand those conditions and then immediately go camping with nothing but a plastic suitcase filled with ketchup sandwiches and liquor. But like I was saying, after selling the Eskimos, people began to think of me as a professional accountant. I ran with it, of course, got fired, set a few homes on fire, eventually went freelance. Now they think it's just me, my yellow suitcase, and those short, stunted evergreens looking sketchy on a hill. Me and that loser mother nature getting along, she with her sophisticated ideas about plants and animals and such, me with my head full of notions about perverts pimping in polar-bear fur beneath a sky filled with reams of flaming paper. Truth is, I'm freezing my ass out here but refuse to put on a jacket. The way I see it, I am God's gift to uncomfortable temperatures. Why this solo "business" on a mountain? Fuck, maybe I'm really just sauced in the brothel. What I'm saying is, just try to get in my way while I'm napping on the Pong table, muttering as you part through thick white smoke, displaying a sly smile, and we'll soon find out something. "Emanate, if you are daring, the wildlife fire that smokes in your chest like a flaming stack of twigs." Another line from "The Harrowing of Hell." Then and only then, if you're ready to explode, hike up here with your own plastic suitcase stuffed with sandwiches (a tastier variety if you're lucky), and with your own goddamn bottles of booze. Those with the lemons to join me on the bare crown of this desolate hill will discover if they're ready to hang with a full-on nutjob. They will soon learn if they're ready to be tackled by the firebomb. If so, they will be provided with a polar bear suit and granted an hour in a whorehouse with Mrs. T. McWeeney. They will be given time in the lounge chair with the fuzzy slippers on their feet. If they can handle that woman, I guarantee they can leave with my Pong paddles. As long as they don't forget to take me too. Earning my trip to Italy with a gallon jug of urine, Timothy McWeeney
- - - - Date: Tue, 16 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Please inform Mr. Purcell-Contractor (if that is his _real_ name) that, when he chooses to return to Chicago, I would be happy to wink at him. He might try looking out from the observation deck of the Hancock Building toward Navy Pier on a mutually agreeable day. I will position myself on the ferris wheel and wink continually and with aggression. He may want to bring binoculars. May I suggest May 26th around noon? Thank you for your help. Yours,
- - - - Date: Wed, 17 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
Here's another music-related-Elian-essay ripoff! Unbelievable!
[url]
Alicia Mosier
- - - - Date: Wed, 17 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
Commencement speakers: Al Gore, Jesse Jackson, Brian Dennehy. Missed
the
first two, but Brian was a funny fat man. The program listed him Class
of
'60-- he apparently was at one point-- three kids later made it Class
of
'65. He wore Men-In-Black shades and opened with a flurry of ethnic
jokes. People kept laughing before the punch line. Timing, Brian,
timing.
"In closing," he said, "I'd like to tell a story about my mother's
funeral. It may sound like a sad story, but it's not. It's funny!"
Shaggy-dog: the long funeral procession from Long Island to New Haven,
with Metro-North stops enumerated along the way, s-l-o-w-l-y. Come
"Stratford... Milford... New Haven," limosine loads of hard-mourning
Irish
Catholics have to pee, but there's only one bathroom at the cemetary
because, as he says, "Let's face it, you don't need a lot of bathrooms
at
a cemetary." Then he described, very slowly, the sound of the one
toilet
flushing again and again. We squirmed in the dehydrating sun,
particularly those of us who had washed down the last marked-up cocaine
of
our college career with the last marked-down six-pack of our college
career at 6:00 on the last morning of our college career. Lunch:
Barney
Greengrass, Sturgeon King, is out of sturgeon, so the little sister
orders
trout instead. I ask for poppy-seed, toasted, receive scooped-out
everything, untoasted, instead, cold fishy sweats and diarrhea.
But: graduated. Thanks for everything,
Sam Stark
- - - - Date: Wed, 17 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
Maybe I just wasn't paying attention. I thought American Beauty was
dreadful, a pale gray imitation of a '70's black comedy, full of stupid
non
sequiturs, cardboard characters, and gratuitous manipulations. I
thought the
characters a predictable amalgam of anti-middle class cliches, and the
ending
incoherent and pretentious. I thought, how can the Kevin Spacey
character,
emotionally inept and intellectually clueless throughout, suddenly
transmogrify into this paragon of glowing contentment, simply because
he
decides not to deflower a 17 year old virgin? I thought, how can his
estranged wife go from victimhood-bent-on-bloody-vengeance to hugging
the
man's shirts just because her neighbor beat her to the punch? (A
miscue in
the editing, by the way, shows her walking from the rainy outdoors
straight
into her bedroom, totally by-passing her murdered husband.) As a
friend
suggests, won't we all look back ten years from now and wonder, what
was that
all about?
And then I saw it a second time. What was I thinking? The whole thing
has
that "great movie" sheen, that Oscar burnish. The sensitive poet in
the
young drug dealer comes off as a deeply original characterization. And
Spacey is revealed as a Dionysus (of acting too), awakened from a
slumber of
ignorance to become a Buddha of humanity, his final encomium to the
audience
the equivalent of a perfect poem of man's redemption through the
perception
of life's illusive but pervasive beauty. Whoa.
Christopher Guerin
- - - - Date: Wed, 17 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
Oh, and incidentally:
Re: Rinkes 5/3. "Suck" perhaps Midwestern for "white potato salad"?
2/29/00: Chicken with Eggplant. "This is really a lovely day.
Congratulations!" Lucky numbers: 6, 12, 15, 17, 24, 34. Winnings:
$-1.
3/4/00: Chicken with Eggplant. "Your exotic ideas lead you to many
exciting, new adventures!" Lucky numbers: 1, 13, 33, 43, 44, 47.
Winnings: $-1.
3/7/00: Chicken with Broccoli. "A new hobby may relieve stress."
Lucky
numbers: 4, 11, 10, 47, 32, 50. Winnings: $-1.
Thanks for nothing,
Sam Stark
- - - - Date: Wed, 17 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
Did you know that astrophysicists took images of
145,000 galaxies with a Big Throughput Camera? They
analyzed a light distortion effect known as cosmic
shear which measures the distribution of dark matter.
Since the amount of dark matter determines the
universe's shape and expansion, now scientists can
better predict the ulimate fate of the universe.
What do I get from all this?
Yours,
- - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's,
Turn around, bright eyes.
Every now and then I fall apart-
Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: Greg Purcell - Contractor
Dear McSweeney's,
I went to see a Seattle Mariners game last night. The Mariners stood
the
Minnesota Twins up against the wall of Safeco Field house and butchered
them
down to the last man. Graphics appeared on the scoreboard: "Hector
esta
caliente!" A fattish, digitized baseball player slumped away, dejected,
while a rain cloud the size of a manhole cover marked his passing. An
interesting fact concerning the ballparks of Chicago and Seattle:
whereas
Safeco field is the newest baseball park in America, Chicago's Wrigley
field
is the second oldest--and the prettiest, according to George F. Will.
The Magnetic Fields have written the lyrics: "I don't know why but I
feel
like dancing/The sun goes down and the world goes dancing." Also: "Who
will
mourn the epitaph of my heart?/ Will its pretty droppings climb the pop
charts?/ Who'll take its ashes and, singing, fling/ them from the top
of the
Brill building?" Carole King used to write songs in the Brill building
with
her husband. I forget his name. Sometimes she would get stuck on a
particular passage. The sound from her simple, upright piano would
get
locked in the air, inaudibly tumbling with it out of her studio's only
window, lost in the Manhattan night. It was then, for the first time
that
day, whichever day it was, that she truly heard the city. This would do
well
as the kind of novel that is written nowadays. It would be called "I
was
Carole King."
There is also much mention of Wallace Stevens' The Emperor of Ice Cream
on
this site by the people, who come to show how cold they are, and dumb.
Ice
cream falls within the marginalia of human ingenuity. Stevens is mine.
He
belongs to me. Seriously, they say he had terrible taste in art, except
for
his affinity towards Cezanne.
The following are observations cloaked as fact:
1) I would like to fall in love with a girl who has the courage to be
at
least one foot taller than I am.
2) I am going to write an article about you.
3) Alexander Pope was feared and stunted in his day.
4) I am a temp in an office type situation.
5) A racist skinhead would attempt to hurt me if he knew my politics.
6) Who likes the avant-garde? No one. This is written about often.
7) It is difficult at first to believe that the human faculty developed
not
by means superior to, though analogous with, human reason, but by the
accumulation of innumerable slight variations, each good for the
individual
possessor!
8) I am getting old and will probably live my life no differently than
other
people live their lives, but with fantastic secrets.
9) There is a joke in existence that begins with a panda bear and ends
with
a punch line incorporating the phrase "eats shoots and leaves." Some
people
know this as a dirty joke, and others know it as a joke you could tell
to
any 10 year old child.
10) The McSweeney's website appears to be scaling down its operation to
include only regularly featured writers, trusted friends and
associates.
Alternately: quality control is measured by workload.
11) "Zenith-like" is a marginally descriptive compound word.
12) Nicola Tesla, the inventor famous for harnessing alternating
current and
radio waves, and who was also rumored to have invented a powerful death
ray,
was depicted in early issues of Action Comics as being an enemy of
Superman.
Once, when J.P. Morgan cut funding for one of his larger projects, he
used
the discoveries unearthed by said project to send a lightning bolt into
the
sky which could be seen by the entire state of New Jersey.
13) We all know good things.
14) Here is a little known poem by T.S. Eliot:
When with a jigsaw they unite 15) Actually, I wrote that.
I am still in Seattle. Ken Griffey Jr. no longer resides here.
"Amusemental" is not a word,
- - - - From: "Newhart, Bryson"
Dear McSweeney's,
To get my roommate back for being a slob, it amuses SMB and I to
contemplate
putting things in his bed while he is away at his girlfriend's each
weekend.
We imagine he wouldn't even notice these additions and would just crawl
into
bed and go to sleep. In response to "Megan's" Katie Manifesto, here is
a
partial list of such things.
PART I: BENEATH THE COVERLET
Putrid week-old bag of trash.
Four Ace brand eggs expired July 15, 1996.
15 ancient "Wok & Roll" containers filled with cigarette butts.
A Rubik's Cube destroyed to be put together again as though solved.
A copy of Pauline Kael's "For Keeps" wrapped in "Classic Images of
Hollywood" shower curtain with image of Bogart obscured by mold.
Roommate's towering stack of newspapers that avalanched due to slick
patches
between paper created by issues of PC Magazine, Utne Reader, and
Territory
Ahead catalogs.
Beat-up inline skates without stopper, covered in "Free Tibet"
stickers.
A toilet plunger wearing roommate's lavender bandanna left on kitchen
table,
stiff from repeated wear, still tied in knot at the back.
My buddy Doug, aka Soggs, naked except for roommate's briefs, moaning
in
pool of urine after three-day drug binge. Roommate has never met Doug.
Fondest regards,
Bryce Newhart &
- - - - From: "Das Brot"
Dear McSweeney's,
Why have people I've known all my life suddenly started signing their
email
with "Ciao?" The only Italian person who has ever written me was a
girl in
8th grade. She wrote me a letter from rehab thanking me for writing to
her
while she was there. She had always been very friendly, and had the
most
amazing breasts for a 13 year old. I hear cocaine does that. Enlarges
breasts, I mean. I'm not sure what it does to personality.
Anyway, she did not use the word "Ciao" at the end of her letter.
Please help,
P.S. A note to Justine Hermitage: I can't decide if I like Reese's
better
now, or feel somewhat disgusted with my peanut butter cups. They still
taste good though.
- - - - Date: Wed, 17 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
I don't know if this is the best place to pose this question, but
strangely, I think it is.
So, here goes.
What do skinny people have against fat people anyhow?
Being one of the latter, rather than the former, I was just wondering.
Sure, I've come to realize that nearly everyone has had some physical
feature they were teased about as a kid, whether on the playground or by
some tormenting older sibling, but this is such a lasting thing. Not
being a wealthy, cigar-smoking robber barron, I don't think the whole
"fat cat" thing applies to me. Not like neighborhood kids yell things at
me as I climb into my car weekday mornings, or anything.
Maybe someone could explain it to me. Nicely.
Hopefully awaiting a response,
- - - - Date: Wed, 17 May 2000
Dear McSweeney's,
As a faithful reader for a few months, I am
overjoyed at the first dispatch from Neal Pollack
from Toronto. Sweet!!
As Mr. Pollack travels across the second-largest
country (land-mass, anyways), may I suggest a few
spots he should check out? I've travelled
coast-to-coast (but not to the other coast), and
have come across some intersting sights.
East:
Quebec City: Plains of Abraham. Where all our
troubles started.
Halifax: The Citadel. Awesome. Might want to
take in the graveyard where they buried several
remains from the Titanic.
St. John's: Signal Hill. And, of course, all the
pubs along St. George's St.
West:
Brandon (my hometown), Manitoba: not a thing, but
if he wants to stop by, give him my email
address.
Regina: The RCMP training facilities. You too
can become Dudley Do-Right.
Edmonton: Gateway to the North. West Edmonton
Mall. Mmmm, shopping, mini-golf and waterslides
all in one.
Calgary: The Cowboys. And the mountains. They
mix sooo well.
The Rockies: Beautiful all year round. And you
might even run into a couple of mountain goats
(long story).
Vancouver: Probably the most beautiful city in
the world. I'm moving there as soon as I finally
graduate from university (going on 7 years now).
North:
Overall, Canadians are a fairly good bunch. We
are friendly, polite and helpful. But don't act
like we're all that way. There are quite a few
pricks among us. And be very careful of the
rednecks in the Prairies (I'm from here, I'm
allowed to call them/us that). Whatever you do,
don't assume we all say 'eh?' or enjoy the cold.
We're just like you - only cooler.
Many thanks,
PS- Hockey is huge in Canada (duh). Right now,
one of the national breweries (Molson) is
promoting their Canadian brand of beer, using the
theme 'I AM'. There's a commercial starring Joe,
who gets up on stage and does this whole "I am
proud to be Canadian" speech - basically, it
takes a nice little jab at Americans. You can
find it at www.moslon.com and follow the links...
you can learn some pretty interesting stuff about
how we perceive you perceive us.
Thanks again.
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