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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to mcsweeneysmail@yahoo.com. Letters received will be added to this page in chronological order, largely unedited. Thank you.] - - - - From: "Sarah M. Balcomb"
Dear McSweeney's, Things may have gotten a little out of hand. I was going to send the following message to Whitney Pastorek in response to her very nice letter of 18 May: "Whitney, I'm glad you're finally taking an interest in your health. Bryce Newhart does not work in the Broadway-Lafayette area, although sometimes he flies down from midtown for a slice of Two Boots (actually this is a lie; Bryce hates Two Boots and their cardboard-flavored crust). With or without Bryce, I'd love to take you out to lunch, show you the ropes of healthy living. I'd set a date for us to meet, but since McSweeney's posts these letters so infrequently (that's right M.R., I'm talking to you man), it would be difficult to coordinate. So . from now on, every day at lunchtime, I will stand on the northwest corner of Houston and Broadway and wait for you. I will be the thin young woman with the healthy inner glow. My nose is a large carrot, so you can't miss me. We can start your new diet with my nose. You'll chew on it while I explain the differences between good and bad cholesterol." That's a nice note, isn't it? I'm doing my part to keep the peace, right? But then I caught wind of her recent comments on Salon (thanks for the heads-up, Sothoth). It appears that Ms. Pastorek has been talking shit about me, as well as the innocent Bryce Newhart, behind our backs. Nasty, spiteful, petty words she wrote about us, saying she could kick my ass in any sport (ho ho, did you consider Blood Sport, hee hee, I got you there Whitney). Not sure where Chubs got her information, but she seems to think that Bryce and I are aspiring playwrights and she made a plea to her "pals" at Salon to compose a play about our "untimely death/dismemberment, ideally at the hand of something pathetically weak and scrawny, like a puppy or a kitten or Rick Lazio. AND, one last thing: Me, standing over their bent and broken bodies, cheeseburger in hand, laughing maniacally." So I decided to take up the challenge myself, using her formula. BUSHWHACKED, A Play for McSweeney's by Sarah M. Balcomb Characters: Setting: Prospect Park, Brooklyn, a beautiful Saturday afternoon in early June. SMB and BCN are taking a break from their busy playwriting schedules for a nice, romantic walk. SMB chain-smokes Parliament Lights. BCN is complaining about the second-hand smoke. Snot drips down his face because he forgot to bring his usual wad of neatly folded Scott tissue. SMB rips a sleeve off her T-shirt for blowing purposes. Although touched by this gesture, BCN refuses it. SMB slips the sleeve over her torso as a belt. They enter a trail leading into the woods. SMB: What a day. BCN: Whatever, smoky. What the hell happened to quitting? SMB: I'm no quitter. But look, a puppy and a kitten. They're fighting. BCN: Wha? SMB: (gestures with cigarette) There, beneath that tree. Aren't they cute? BCN: They're trying to kill each other. SMB: No, just playing. BCN: The kitten is going for the puppy's jugular. Oh my god, I've never seen so much blood! SMB: Should we do something? The poor puppy is defenseless. BCN: Survival of the fittest, sweetie. SMB: Shit, I wanted to say that line. BCN: Well, you gave it to me. Sorry. SMB: (pulls out another cigarette, pauses, forgets to light it) You say something? BCN: Forget it. I think the puppy and the kitty are dead now. SMB: Yeah, guess so. Hey, isn't that Rick Lazio over there? BCN: Who dat? SMB: Some scumbag. Look, here he comes. BCN: Is that a gun in the scumbag's hand? (As Lazio approaches, BCN trips him.) SMB: Good one, lover. You saved us. (SMB and BCN embrace.) SMB: Lazio is dead now, I think. You better hit his head with that sharp rock to make sure. BCN: OK. Wait. That gun in his hand is a book of matches. He just wanted to light your cigarette. SMB: (grabs matches, lights cigarette) I hope we can prove it was self-defense.Uh oh, something moving in the bushes! BCN: It's a fat lady, huh? SMB: She's not fat, just not heroin chic thin like me. BCN: You're not heroin chic, you're a junkie. SMB: Oh yeah. (Whitney Pastorek leaps out from behind a bush, looking svelte and athletic as always in her capri pants. They didn't make her manager of the Gap for nothing. In one hand she holds a Panasonic video camera; in the other, a bucket of KFC.) Whitney: (laughing manically) Ha, you murdered Lazio. You're gonna hang for this. SMB: (trips, stubs toe) Fuck, that hurt. BCN: I told you not to wear flip-flops. That's gonna need a couple stitches. (Sirens are heard in the distance. The cops arrive and handcuff BCN and SMB. They seem to enjoy this. Whitney laughs her way back to Wendy's for a bucket of burgers. SMB and BCN shake the murder rap on a technicality. Later, on another walk in Prospect Park, they're killed by a stray kite.) FINIS. Whitney, I hope you enjoyed this. My offer for lunch still stands. Kindly,
- - - - From: "luke o'neil"
Dear McSweeney's, In response to all the letters of concern, an update on my whereabouts: I wrote a little while ago about losing my job at a silly web site. Well, since then, I have given up my apartment in new york, turned my back on all the friends i had made there, and have decided to move home with my parents in kingston, ma. I am there now. It is raining out. I have no car. I am 23 years old. I have asked my sister amanda, who is a junior in high school, to give me a ride to the gym, where i will ride a bike and read time magazine (if they have it.) i might also try to finish mrs dalloway -- but you know how that one goes down when you're sweating. I am allergic to the cat at home that i grew up with, but my bedroom is at least 3 times as big as the one in new york. This just sort of peters out now... - - - - Date: Tue, 06 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, OK, so here's how it works: You get a fairly large cylinder and cut a hole in it big enough for somebody to stick their head through. On the inside of the cylinder you set up a guillotine blade arrangement. On the outside of the hole you set up a coin slot, and make up a nice little sign to go above it, "Get your head cut off -$1.00" Dimwit inserts coin, followed by not so bright head. CHOP! Not only do you rid the world of those who are common sense challenged, but also make a tidy bit of coin on the side. It is a win-win situation. I figure we test pilot them in a few of the larger urban centres first to see what kind of success we have. Franchises, anyone? Jeff Martin - - - - Date: Tue, 6 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, First of all, let me describe to you a typical Monday morning at my place of employment: I'm sitting in the upstairs office of a machine shop that manufactures wooden jewelry boxes and other desirable trinkets made from exotic trees; i.e. pirate's treasure chests, peg-leg components, hand-carved parrots, and barrels primarily used for the containment of black, explosive, cannon powder. The saws and sanders are mighty downstairs. Their aggressive noise rattles a thin glass window separating me from a heavy gray-brown cloud of sawdust. Earplugs and eye-goggles come highly recommended, although I've recently begun to abstain from all generally accepted precautions. There's a skylight above my desk that allows sunrays to enter, warming the top of my head and practically blinding any view of the computer screen. I'm drinking out of a white coffee mug that boasts: Playwright's Kitchen Ensemble. Not that I've ever written an entire play, but I did pay a woman to escort me to the Theater one time, when my girlfriend was out of town on business. This beautiful stand-in's raffle ticket number was chosen during the intermission lottery, whereas she won a matching T-shirt/coffee mug set. She gave both prizes to me because, at the time, she fancied herself to be an aspiring bikini model, plus she didn't drink coffee all that often. She saw little use for either a T-shirt or a coffee mug. However, from the preliminary interview with her service, she knew that I occasionally wore T-shirts and drank coffee so frequently that the glands of my armpits often became clogged. The escort, with limited use for such dismal prizes, passed them right along to me. Which I thought was only practical, after all, was it not I who was behaving mischievously by entering into a 'date' with an escort? Was it not I who was taking the highest degree of risk of being discovered and discarded by a suspicious girlfriend? (I ended up moving in to the escort's apartment for the next 2 * years; mostly because my ex-girlfriend was having me trailed that night by a sinister-looking man in a black hat who took excellent notes and snapshots; not to mention the fact that the escort and I had far more compatible fetishes.) So I drink hot coffee from this mug, and reflect fondly upon days past. I stir powdered creamer and grains of sugar, but the creamer doesn't dissolve well. Clumps of white still travel in circles around the rim of the mug. Tastes rather pasty. And I'm considering writing a three-act play about a humiliating love affair with a beautiful woman plus two enormous false breasts, which had originally accepted a personal check in order to accompany me into the Theater one fateful eve. So I guess what I'm trying to get at this morning (through thick, thick metaphor) is that I'm reading Timothy McSweeney's web page. I have no internal conflict about doing so, even while on the job, because my boss is a late sleeper and my job description is relatively undefined. Let me say this much about your publication: "I like it fairly well (except for a few pieces that I like far less)". As literary magazines go, you folks are right on the money! Question: does getting published in a literary magazine (sometimes loosely termed as a "rag") get anything accomplished besides having one's material read by a slew of other bookish, disillusioned, angry, tired, desperate writer's (with and without a spark of talent/potential); those of whom are reading--not for artistic style, credible context, or simply for pleasure, but rather skimming--to decipher whether or not this publication would feature his/her "voice"? Whatever the case may be, I like to believe Timothy McSweeney's to be a publication that brings the academic together with the garbage man, the scholar together with the gas station attendant, so that we may embrace our subtle differences; that we may understand each other's views; that we can have fun with these words that occasionally form decent sentences. Benjamin J. Gilton - - - - Date: Tue, 6 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, The continuing story of a girl gone to the dogs... PART III: I can ride all the way to Dunkin' Donuts! And all the way
back!
Carrying a full cup of coff- oh, crap.
That's all. whitney pastorek - - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's- My job is gone. Not just my tending to it, but the actual job, along with the actual company, is now gone. I have purchased the following items in order to feel now somewhat prepared for these times: -14 bottles of popular iced coffee drink. -Wide assortment (18 count) of top selling nutrition bars. -Two black shirts that seem to say "For the last year or so, I've worn tee-shirts...but since I am meeting you, I have dressed in something a little more special than a tee-shirt, but not so special that if our meeting yields zero personal gain I am left feeling like I sold myself in a very desperate way that will leave a weird mark on me." -Tube of ground sausage. -Individually wrapped hand towels (Anti-bacterial.) -National Geographic magazines. Used for maintaining perspective. ("Look at him. He wears a mask on his head to look like a bird. He isn't embarrassed. He hunts. He is sustained. He does not mope." And so on...) Now there will be a new job of some kind. One I can't even picture, even though it will most likely end up being very, very similar to all of the others I've had. I think. One friend asked if I would be interested in going to Hong Kong to hang out with a man named Dr. Ho in order to write a story about him, but something tells me I won't be going to Hong Kong to write about a man named Dr. anything. Another friend/colleague said his magazine would keep me in mind for "Short humorous pieces" and the note he sent to me was short, and extremely funny...which makes me assume he's got it covered. My days are open if anybody wants to drop by for iced coffee and a nutrition bar- Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: "Marissa D. Madrigal"
Dear McSweeney's, Occasionally, the receptionist at my office will engage me in conversation. Our receptionist, a dear and sweet grandmotherly type, typically wears a long string of pearls, avonesque earrings, and giant heavy blue glasses that go all the way up to the edge of her bangs and all the way across her face from hairline to hairline. This particular conversation occurred as I was reading your publication. "Damn it" (her)
The End. Marissa D. Madrigal - - - - Date: Tue, 06 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Setting: Forest Scene. Large Beautiful trees, singing birds, deer and squirrels playing next to a small babbling stream. Something one might see in a Disney movie, especially since it's all a cartoon. Enter 2 people (if you can call them that): male and female. One Bryce Newhart and one Sarah M. Balcomb, neither of which are cartoon characters because they don't deserve to be. They are dressed in black GAP from head to toe carrying Starbucks cups containing their daily dose of Mocha Cappuccinos. As they enter the singing birds go silent, the squirrels scurry up to hide in their nests, the deer run away through the trees. Even the babbling stream stops altogether. There is a sense of fear and trepidation in the air. As they walk they comment on how they got into the forest. SARAH: I told you we shouldn't have driven down that road.
Little did they know they were walking towards a huge encampment of wood elves, the guardians of the forest. They were an amiable group, lively and always ready for a party. The animals loved them, the trees loved them, the stream loved them. At this very moment they were celebrating the first day of summer in honor of their goddess Whitney, who was to make her entrance any minute. Both parties were very much surprised when Sarah and Bryce walked into the middle of the celebration. They finished their Mocha Cappuccinos and dropped the empty cups on the ground, contaminating the forest. The elves all became very uneasy seeing these hideous and smelly people at their sacred party. Albert, the elf in charge of the party stepped forward. ALBERT: You two are definitely lost, and you do not belong in the
woods. We
would be pleased to provide you an escort to see you out of our forest.
Besides you're ruining our party because you reek so badly. And if you
would
please pick up your cups-- we do not want the remnants of Starbucks
here in our wonderful forest.
A group of elves gathered around the 2 and tried to peacefully remove them from the premises, but they would have none of that. Bryce threw one elf into another causing both to fall on the forest floor. BRYCE: I am not going to be pushed around by dwarves! I shoved one of
you in
my roommate's bed once! You're so puny and small, I could step on you.
And at that a hundred dwarves jumped on the 2 New Yorkers and started beating them w/ their cups. Soon the 2 were reduced to a bloody pulp. They lay there beaten and dead. At that moment the Goddess Whitney arived in her golden chariot, she gracefully stepped down in her flowing white dress, her hair, beautifully pinned on her head, adorned w/ small white forest flowers. The elves parted and humbly bowed in her awesome presence. WHITNEY: Albert, what has happened here, why are you not merry and
enjoying
the first day of summer?
Albert pointed to the Starbucks cups. Whitney stared in disgust first at the cups and then at what was left of Sarah and Bryce, the only non cartoon characters of the whole play. WHITNEY: You did well my children, you did as you should. These 2 did not deserve to live. They were followers, they had no lives, and no brains. You are to be commended, and to show you my appreciation you will all feast on Wendy's tonight! Today will truly be a day of celebrations The elves cheered and all praised the goddess Whitney for her wise ways, and because she brought with her their favorive food. The celebration was one to remember, and everyone had an amazing time. Sarah and Bryce's bodies were carted far far away, and dumped in the Hudson River, where they sank to the bottom and rotted w/ all the other people who had been knocked off. No one cared that they were missing, in fact no one even knew they were gone. Hope you enjoyed.
- - - - Date: 07 Jun 00
Dear McSweeney's, as a fan of scientific progress I was pleased to see the first of Joshua Bearman's piece on RIHC. Even better than seeing a good science yarn was a good science yarn with a point, reversing the gains made by scientific naysayers over the past years. Those chuckleheads who have managed to get all sorts of genetic testing and experimentation banned in several countries, resetting government's relationship to science to that of the medieval church. While Bearman's purpose is noble he must be careful not to concede unnecessary ground to his flat-earth opponents (these luddites don't want you in space, they don't want dogs who can speak, and they mispronounce words with abandon). Specifically I question his claim that genetic science "carries the threat of biological destruction." At its best this claim is banal, at worst, loopy. What, exactly, is the nature of this threat? Is he buying into their fear of a race of genetically designed Ur-CHUD who will break us puny humans on the anvil of biology like an otter with an oyster? Or is he voicing the fears of the One-Blood purists who figure any tampering with our bodies is in violation of God's will for a perfect human race? That, technically, any change in our genes makes us not human, and thus "humanity" (as the collection of homo sapiens) is gone? In the former case I would suggest he ignore their comic book antics and concentrate on the fact that there has been no reason whatsoever to believe that we are in danger from hordes of genetic monsters. Microbes and biological weapons, perhaps, but any government making such weapons, indeed even any mad scientist with an island lair, would also manufacture antidote, countermeasures or vaccines for their, or his or her, own use. The latter argument is squabby as well. If we were to seize the reigns of genetic mutation, in essence to jump evolution ahead, say by turning off or eliminating genes which cause disease, or adding ones from dogs which will make us cooler, so be it. If homo sapiens is replaced with something better, what's the problem? Evolution would retire us in a few mil. anyway, and I don't suppose anyone's got any serious misgivings about that. If you say it's unnatural then show me the natural. If it is wrong to tamper with our genes why is it right to tamper with scalpels, or sewing machines, or seeds? One imagines the first farmer coming under fire for subverting nature by planting corn where he thought it would do best. Guff. Nothing wrong with farming, nothing wrong with genetically enhanced super-smell. Sure, Prince Charles may have great taste in architecture, but when it comes to science, yeesh, the man's the rawniest sadogue to ever bostoon. I am sure Bearman does not mean to support these glauvauning oonshicks and I look forward to the rest of his article, but we must be ever-vigilant. Let's not give them a break. Concede nothing. Demand proof. Ignore. Mock. Threaten. It's just I feel very strongly about this. Best wishes,
ps - Newfies! Like ace skatesman Hubie Hutton. God love 'em. Look into it you gowdy gideroy or as a gamogue I'll replace your gumbeens with gurry, that'll be hard to glutch and you'll feel quite the gommil. - - - - From: "Andrei Sinioukov"
Dear McSweeney's, Last night, just like the night before, I went out to a restaurant. The salad was nice and the lettuce crisp, as they were the day before as well, albeit at a different place. It took us no time, as usual, to forget that we were supposed to review the food and not ourselves, since the readers of this major newspaper that is readily available (daily) to all had always seemed to want to know more about trivial things like food, service, and dˇcor, rather than the intellectually stimulating and disarmingly engaging information about our past, current, and future lives and those who surround us or have a potential to surround us soon. Our poignant commentary, incredibly insightful observations, and overall undeniable inside and outside beauty concern them little, if at all. However, they read these thought-provoking columns obsessively, they laugh, they cry, they discuss them into the wee hours, thus reducing their productivity at work the next day, and, finally, they clip and laminate the articles for the benefit of future generations. During this particular outing the following topics were covered: religion, comparative religion, religion and dress code in the Western world, ducks, neurosurgeons, official "Hello Kitty" merchandise, love, fiction writing and its relation to reality (none, some, it is reality), non-fiction writing (more money), linen pants, "The Golden Bough" by Sir John Frazier, more ducks, cycling (Australian), UN in Congo, UN in Ethiopia and Eritrea (quickly switched to injera), US foreign assistance, the cuteness of the waitress serving the table next to ours (my left shin was discreetly but firmly kicked by my dining companion for this), leather-soled shoes, and the much anticipated whiskey-tasting party at my house. Rating: three stars. Seeing the light, Andrei. - - - - Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I didn't expect such a harsh reaction from people about my letter. Mind you, I never really expected you to print it. I like my country, maybe a little more than most of the rest of the citizens, but hey, a little patriotism won't kill me. Or will it? I am nothing but a sensible, quiet, polite Canadian. It always amazes me how we typify ourselves. We are a quiet people, enjoying life in our little quiet country (not a single civil war, yet). Every once in a while, reports come out about surveys the federal government has done, researching how much Americans actually know about us. One came out a little while ago stating that many Americans think we're loggers and trappers and we play hockey. It doesn't surprise me - but what will continue to surprise me is how oblivious people in our own country are to other regions. See, in Canada, we have 10 provinces, 3 territories (pre-provinces, I guess). But when you watch the news, it's very Toronto-centric. I've been to Toronto a number of times, I don't like it. I grew up in the prairies where the skies were not clouded up all the time with pollution. The mosquitoes, however, were another story. But it's been a major complaint for years that Toronto is the centre of the universe, and the rest of the country just kind of exists. This is not just a Toronto problem, either. I see this all the time in my home province - Manitoba. The province's population is roughly 1.1 million - most of which (650,000) is in the capital city, Winnipeg. I live in Brandon, the second largest city in the province (45,000). The media has developed a term for Winnipeg and it's 'problem' - Perimiteritis. Anything that exists outside of the perimiter doesn't matter. It's true. And then there's Quebec (I feel a political rant coming on - perhaps I should stop). I was living there during the last referendum, and let me tell you it wasn't pretty. Coming from the west (evil) and not speaking much French (I was the devil), I managed to survive by hanging out with a group of mainly rich English-speaking kids from Montreal. But it was tough - especially listening to the politicians rant about how little the province got from the rest of the country. Sigh, those were the days. It's died down quiet a lot since then, thankfully, but every once in a while, the referendum and Quebec independence rear their ugly heads. We're used to it by now. But thank you for printing my letter. I am a quasi-student journalist here and this was the first piece of my written material that was printed outside of our city. I'm overjoyed and humiliated at the same time. Feel free not to print this one... I just felt I had to justify myself. Thank you, Stacey Brown
- - - - Date: Wed, 07 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, You been peeking in my windows again? Paul
- - - - Date: Wed, 07 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, For about two weeks now I've been thinking of certain things as small shiny solid droplets. Do not think of dot candy. Dot candies are smaller, drier, brightly colored and they cannot move of their own accord. These droplets are dark colors, like mahogany and carving knife. To move, they spin. You can think of the motion of a Frisbee, but remember these are about the size of an M&M, and, also like an M&M, slightly convex on both top and bottom. Do not think I am thinking of M&Ms. These things are droplets. They shimmer like liquid and I sense they could change shape at any moment. The certain things that I think of as these small acid drops are things that I do not like. My recommending a deli to someone who began to sense I had never been there and so asked, and my lying and saying yes, I got coffee- that, for instance. There was nothing good about that interaction. What's more, I picture these droplets as sliding across a page of paper that has writing on it and is contained in a book; they spin like little golden flower fireworks and burn holes in the page. I think to myself, it would be good to avoid these droplets. I do not need any more incentive. I will try to avoid the spinning droplets. Best regards,
- - - - Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000
Dear Jeff Johnson and other McSweeney's representatives: The trend continues in as venerable a source as the New Yorker. Bruce McCall's humor piece, "Still a Few Openings, but Hurry," in the June 12, 2000 issue which I received yesterday, seems eerily similar to Jeff Johnson's first and second installments of summer camp previews. What is the turnaround time for a humor piece in the New Yorker? Is this possibly some zeitgeist tapped by both men simultaneously? Or do you guys just have some kind of short-term time machine so your writers can write about things just days before everyone else does? For any similarities -- intentional or not -- between the two takes on summer camp, I find the difference between the worldviews they represent to be quite striking. Of Mr. McCall's seven imaginary camps, three poke fun at modern life and its trappings (respectively: sweatshops, overly earnest leftist health-nuts, and the stock market). The other four find their humor solely in imagining how badly the kids will be treated while there. Mr. Johnson's pieces, on the other hand, seem to find their humor more in the carrying out of one very specific idea to its logical conclusion; there are neither attempts at "timeliness" nor cruel, cheap laughs. The only camp that hints of cruelty as such is number three, and I feel that this is merely the extension of the persona speaking in the brochure. The New Critics would have enjoyed these pieces, which have present in every part the humorous theme of the whole. Needless to say, I prefer Mr. Johnson's take on the world of summer camps, and eagerly await previews five through ten. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, The latest delivery man was just here. He rang the doorbell and from where I was in the house I shouted "Just a second!" and then proceeded to hide near a window where I could observe him. I have been doing this a lot lately. My mother would be frantic if she knew. They are in the process of redecorating the house and the delivery guys bring many items they have purchased to this end. Anyway the driver is wearing his FedEx hat on backwards, which suggests to me that he thinks he's got mad flava. I think he is maybe thirty, chubby, and he really ought to shave. He has the package on one hip, a bulky thing he has to shift around while he waits for me to come to the door. He has slouched his navy blue socks (this I can see because he wears sensible walking shorts) and something about the way the socks drape around the ankles makes me think of Richard Simmons. If Richard Simmons were to come to my door I would do the exact same thing to him that I am doing now to the FedEx guy. Though Richard Simmons would be loud. The Fed Ex homeboy sighs, fidgets on my front step. He lifts his foot in the air once, twice, as though he were revving a motorbike, or perhaps he is having a fantasy about being a superhero, wishing he could kick off the ground with all the ease a body has while swimming, and fly away. Actually that is my fantasy, I realize as he rings the doorbell again. This time I do not answer because I'd give away my vantagepoint, my cozy postman hunting blind. He turns and looks suspiciously from side to side. He can feel my eyes upon him. This is the part I like best, waiting for them to snap and walk away, leaving my mother's LL Bean goodies on the front step in a huff. As an added gesture this guy spits stringily on the door before setting the box down. He stalks down the path. Brilliant. When he is gone I retire to the kitchen. I mix myself a Virgin Jonestown Kool-Aid, which does have alcohol but will not kill you. It sends you to the hereafter in other ways. More I cannot say. Then I go on-line, and order some CDs next-day air. Come Friday I shall have another opportunity like today's. Having told you all this, I would like to know: do you think it is fair for the local Wal-Mart to flagrantly display graham crackers and Hershey Bars, but no marshmallows? I felt teased and dejected. I kicked morosely around the garden center display, and then went back to a home without s'mores. How dare they. Meshelemiah had sons and brothers: eighteen brave men.
- - - - Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I guess my best birthday was the one where my father became "Love, Dad" and left behind the macho days of signing "and Dad" in my mother's handwriting. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, She is is excused from work for an entire week because of a raging flare up of adult acne. She doesn't leave her apartment for an entire three-day period due to an enormous colony/cluster of zits smack dead-center on her upper left cheek that protrude three-quarters of an inch from her face and is highly visible to pedestrians standing two miles away. After steaming her face with boiling water a scab the color of eggplant screams for attention. On a Sunday night, she sits with a co-worker who exclaims: "Thank God it's Sunday. I only have to drink for six hours." On a Saturday night, she is offered both Crystal Meth and Special K. Visiting a new gynocologist, she is somewhat embarrassed by having to explain she has implants during the breast examination--and feels downright silly when exposing her ridiculously-shaved vagina. When asked by a patron 'what she likes to do in her spare time,' she replies: "I like to clean the house in the nude, especially scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees. Then I sometimes parasail in the nude, horseback-ride in the nude, play Checkers by myself in the nude...and oh yeah, I watch the X-files. As a matter of fact on Memorial Day I lay in bed and watched the entire eleven-hour marathon with all the shades down, eating very bad food the whole time." Patron's response: "X-Files? I hate that fucking show." She: "That's because you don't understand all the big words." She leaves him standing there wearing his Serial Killer Frown and she guffaws away. She Is Not Alone,
- - - - Date: Wed, 7 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, I hope you're all doing well. All is well here. OK. So I don't have a comic strip about cooks or anything. But I once drew a picture of a mechanical dog -- it has a lightbulb and there is a cup of coffee by his side. It's at I also drew an angry king. He's at Feel free to use a virtual magnet to put them on an imaginary refrigerator. But do not name the dog. It's a dog with no name. Cheers, Juan - - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, After this past weekend, I'm beginning to believe that everything Mr. Springsteen sings about, you know, 'oooohhh, my life is hard like yours' and 'ooooohhhh, I really hate punching the clock, too.' is a complete LIE. Last weekend I found myself visiting friends in Rumson, New Jersey and walking right past Mr. LIAR'S mansion. Born in the USA but not YESTERDAY, thank you very much- Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, Recently I've found a way to get famous models to appear in my photographs even though I am constrained by shoe string budgets, a cheap Polaroid 'land camera' and only have small, self-financed shows as a means of showing my work. 1) Find a picture of a famous model. 2) Take a picture of that picture. Next show is in August- Dan Kennedy - - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, The following "coincidences" occur when reading Herb Cohen's YOU CAN NEGOTIATE ANYTHING from page one while at the same moment starting Cheap Trick's LIVE AT BUDOKAN, on track one, side one: p1 BOOK: Your real world is a giant negotiating table, and like it or not, you're a participant. RECORD: "All right Tokyo! Are you ready!?" p15 BOOK: How you handle encounters can determine not only whether you prosper, but whether you can enjoy a full, responsible life. RECORD: Hello there ladies and gentlemen/hello there ladies and gents/Are you ready to rock?/Are you ready or not? p17 BOOK: I perceived that there might be a problem. "I've had a rough day," She murmured. RECORD: Oooh, baby feels so good/ Don't you go ruin it tonight, tonight/been so long/since I don't know when p25 BOOK: Don't act as though your experience represents universal truths RECORD: There is some place/one place in the world/where I wanna take you/lookout/lookout I wasn't too impressed with the last one, either- Dan Kennedy - - - - From: "Gregory Purcell"
Dear McSweeney's, Hi. I am in Portland now, instead of Seattle. I am like a broke rubberband which goes careening in all different directions until suddenly there is an eye put out. Earlier I insinuated that I was fat. I am stout, gainly. I am. But once, I was thin and handsome, just like you. And nothing bothers me as far as this goes. I would kiss myself (this is something I have insinuated likewise). Hi, Thomas Gibbon. There are many machines which could destroy the Earth or little parts on the Earth, such as people. There are a lot of people who say that the Death Ray technology is locked deep within the ex-Soviet Machine, since the Tesla archive was sent en masse back to Tesla's birthplace, Yugoslavia, after he died. In fact, some say that there was no death ray, that one day when Tesla was hard on his luck he simply traded in a black box for rent payment, telling the landlord that the contents of the box held an extremly valuable invention, and further warning the landlord never to open the box, because the resultant effect would be the reduction to ash of everything within a mile radius. A very good trick. No one can prove anything. Many people think many things, and those few who think the most things have clammy, sweaty hands and breathe hard through their noses. They have expressions on thier faces as if they were wondering who is watching them. Hi, Karl. Karl is my friend. Yesterday I went to see a medical student for a throat condition. How did I know that he was a medical student, and not a real doctor? By his laugh, contextualized in the following exchange: GREG: My throat hurts.
Then he told me to take some ibuprofen. With Movement and Dischord, Lightly,
- - - - From: "Steven Tomsik"
Dear McSweeney's, Beebe: No, it wasn't me both times, just the second time, with the wiping, the wiping. Plus, there are things that are vexing me so much! right now. They are: Stupid haircut. Why am I even calling this a haircut. That Charlie Brown special, the motorcross one, "It's the Motorcross, Charlie Brown!" or whatever, he had that watermelon helmet? Me too, only it's hair. With these little bizarre, wispy wings right over my ears. Sort of a fuller Rik Smits tribute, very prone to creating a supernatural-type aura in even the lightest breeze. Two. Why do I lack the motor skills necessary to not stain myself at every meal? So far today, my outfit will tell you, I have had ketchup and coffee. Then, outfits. I cannot seem to wear proper work clothes. If the style is flat front with no cuff, invariably, I have EXTREME, painful pleats and yes, cuffs. No matter what, I look prepared for my eighth-grade band concert. It's just... I don't know, I'm probably better off. Thanks again, Steve. - - - - From: "Timothy McWeeney"
Dear McSweeney's, This Italian chick was so hot she was literally on fire. "Perfect for the noodle shop," I thought. When she opened her burning lips in the traditional Italian manner, even her stick of chewing gum was flaming. Strictly speaking, it no longer resembled a stick, but so what? When there's a spectacle to be seen, people know about it. That's probably why the city hired this tramp to sit in the snow or something. Melt it with her blazing tushy. Can you believe all this snow in June? This happened around lunchtime in front of a few Siberian tourists drinking Pennzoil, a business woman with severe knuckle disease, a young boy whipping his sister with a metal skewer, a guy eating chips and salsa to keep his insides warm, and a family from Mankato, Minnesota, who said, "Those flaming foreigners sure know how to have a good time." Generations of Americans from Mankato have been impressed by removable showerheads, vibrating seats, hamsters, whatever household innovation is basically designed for burning, foreigners are no exception. As for me, I was on my way to pick up a pair of freshly polished shoes before heading to the park for some hotdogs on my favorite snowdrift. "I'll get the shoes Monday," I said gleefully when I spied the flaming Italian. Then I ran into a deli for a package of dogs. "Time for a cookout." Back on the street, I offered the young boy a roasted wiener in exchange for use of his skewer. Then I followed the flaming hussy down the street. She and I were like a team, her strolling through the snow, a real saucebox, melting it down in seconds; me alongside with the wieners, roasting one after the next above her flaming, upturned rump. It didn't matter that I'd forgotten the Wonder Bread for pigs-in-a-blanket, I cooked up the whole package and people just ate them plain. It was one of those moments when everyone unites under a unique sense of shared experience. I completely forgot to ask Jezebel if she wanted a job in the noodle shop. The violent young boy and his halfwit sister were skipping at my side, brains agog with wiener joy. The guy eating chips and salsa slapped together a hotdog chipwich. The Siberians jumped about spilling Pennzoil all over, shouting for more wieners. McWeeney was there to provide. "Wieners anyone?" Even the business woman with the giant knuckles smoothed down her suit and adjusted her bra, held out her paw for a partly cooked dog. "Gimme one a them bad boys." The family from Mankato was awestruck. "Wow, meat-stuffed skins!" In all the excitement I never got round to asking that slutty Italian whore if she wanted a job in my newly opened 24-hour noodle shop. Never got to offer her work as a walking human spit roast or tell of my plans, as soon as I become limber enough to touch my knees, of becoming the first contortionist bartender. Tired of walking the slushy summer streets in my Ultima Thule kneehighs, I decided to pick up my shoes that night. The ranger boots were also in need of a polish. Most pretzels are actually quite brittle, Timothy McWeeney - - - - From: "Newhart, Bryson"
Dear McSweeney's, There was so much I wanted to respond to this week that my brain began to sizzle. Fortunately this heated my flesh to the point of evaporating the tears that were streaming down my face. Last night I had McDonald's for dinner and thought of Whitney on a skateboard. I believe I was muttering aloud with a mouthful of quarter pounder. "But can she do an impossible or a pressure flip, a shove-it or a variable kickflip? Can she ride ditch ramp?" Whitney: I haven't been to the banks in a while but a friend recently sent me a fat Zero with Pig bearings. Apparently they're supposed to be better than Bones. Jeff: you are not the Jeff I thought you were. Weird. Good point about the dwarves though: they are smaller and always have beards; hence, a good handle for limbless whores. Sick, I know. I'm glad you liked it. GGT: the Anti-Submarine Detection Investigation Committee has failed it would seem. I'm not sure who's to blame but probably Juice Newton. Also, Cartago is elusive. I had UTM coordinates from the topo, but could not be sure that they were reliable. Only time will tell as I trudge on in speculation, the cold wind swooshing through the trees, or whatever those things are. As you know, the high security in my office is mostly controlled by fisting hounds. Baluster and Baby Newel. They rule with an iron paw and do not sit to shake hands. People find ways to break the rules by consulting various fumbled pamphlets which discuss disguises, among them, sea rover/Lothario and temp/gutter kitten. Anything Middle Eastern that blends with the brown & orange color scheme, lending a soporific quality. In South Africa you can play online chess, bridge, spades, and backgammon. This week's thought. "Sometimes your subconscious talks." Bleah, so what? Much quoting in Mpumalanga where they can never get the lyrics right: "Fit to be hair" and "Hiccupy Square" -- "Now the elbow may be bad at breathing" and "Now the oboe may be barely breathing." The result is of course strife, pornographic diamond mining, chunter. Sorry for the mix up. The repetition. Regards,
- - - - From: "Sarah M. Balcomb"
Dear McSweeney's, A nice young family with a brand new baby just moved into the apartment below mine. From the sound of things, the baby's room is right below my room and at night, when I am trying to work, trying to write serious fiction, the mother is down there cooing passionately to her new child. "Where's blah blah? There he is! Where's blah blah? There he is! Where's mama? Here I am! Where's mama? Here I am!" Do you think it would be rude to stomp on the floor and shout, "Could you turn down the baby talk, I'm trying to work up here." Always wondering,
- - - - Date: Fri, 9 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, There is a good chance that Ms. Balcomb has a gift, really. You should check somehow. She recently wrote a fine play that predicted I would work for a non-profit. Her play was right on, honest. I now work for a non-profit. And to top it all off, I think I make less than Mr. Purdy does at his job for a non-profit (which she also predicted!), though I cannot be sure. Can you believe it? She got everything right on. I think this somehow makes me more interesting, too, according to Ms. Balcomb. Thanks, Ms. Balcomb, for making me more interesting. Yours, I remain, dutifully employed, &c.,
- - - - From: "Timothy McWeeney"
Dear McSweeney's, "Know a happy-sounding Italian speaker who is not as happy as he sounds?" Why I decided to ask the German man polishing my boots if he knew of any good Italians to employ in my 24-hour noodle shop is a mystery even to me. These ridiculous European entrepreneurs never know squat. "No se," the man said, pretending to speak Spanish. Roiled, I lifted my boot and rubbed some polish on his lips. "Listen fellow," I said. He stopped wiping to rub the polish in like lipstick. Then he lit his rag on fire and waved it about like a pair of pasta tongs. I smacked him a couple times to get his attention. "Listen," I continued, "it doesn't even have to be an actual man. Just one of them Italian ones. Two dwarves in large overalls or even a Roman statue will work just fine. Anything that can mix it up with tomatoes and ground ostrich meat. Know what I'm saying? Those crazy bastards are cooking pasta on every corner. All I'm asking for is just one." I was shouting by then, whacking the old man on the noggin with my noodle textbook, pretending to translate my simple request into a gibberish version of the Kraut language, but the man was clearly bored. "Screw you if you think I'm paying for your shoddy performance with the shoe polish," I added. "I've got better things to do. Also, when I go for a shining, I expect my boots to look like new all the way up to the knee -- like a young child after a swift caning. I hopped off the platform, yelled something in a language that even I did not recognize, and dove into my car through the window. Man was I pissed. My pants were ruined. In the backseat the rats were practicing their musical instruments. "Enough!" I shouted. I turned on the radio, the high beams, the windshield wipers, the juicer, the popcorn maker, and the shower head. Then I popped on my miner's helmet, aimed it at the disco ball, and switched on the smoke machine. I put the car in reverse and took off down the sidewalk. Breathing through my mouth, Timothy McWeeney - - - - From: Ryan Purdy
Dear McSweeney's, I never had the chance really to study science or math in high school or college, but I take an interest in them nonetheless. For instance, I just finished a book that is science-related, and am going to start reading another one soon, once I have finished this other book I am currently reading, which is about something else. But, of course, I digress; I mean to bring up the field of statistics, and also one of America's favorite ethnic-character-actors. Here is an interesting situation that involves said field of statistics, a situation I read about a little while ago. With any luck, I can explain it clearly and its interesting nature will be self-explanatory: (1) In the card game, poker, the relative value of hand is inversely related to its statistical frequency, e.g., a "pair" is worth less than a "three of a kind," because a "pair" is easier to get, i.e., is more frequent. (2) Sometimes, when people play the card game, poker, they include a "wild card," for whatever reasons. (Yes, I know there are many card players out there who dislike the use of "wild cards," and may even call those who use such "wild cards" awful and spiteful and just-plain-mean names-- either to the wild-card-users' faces or behind their backs-- but we must all take a step back and gain perspective, musn't we? I mean, who are we to consider ourselves without fault-- without fault enough to look down upon those who use "wild cards," without once looking ourselves in the eye and recognizing that we all have our own "wild cards," so to speak? Exactly.) (3) If one is playing a game involving "wild cards," and one is dealt a "wild card," one will most likely-- given human nature and the desire to win games-- use it to improve one's hand, i.e., change that "pair" to a "three of a kind," because a "three of a kind" is worth more, right? (See Point #1.) (4) But now there is a problem: given human behavior, and the use of a "wild card," suddenly one is playing a game of poker in which a "three of a kind" is, in fact, sort of more frequent a hand than a "pair" is. (True, I admit my funny little pseudo-paradox gets hazy here, for two reasons: (a) it depends on how many "wild cards" one is using, and (b) I read this book about a year ago.) (5) So. Where does that leave us? "In a conundrum of sorts," is the answer. If one is using (enough) "wild cards" while playing the card game, poker, suddenly the rankings of various hands become an inverted mess, as there is little easily understandable rhyme or reason to hand-value anymore. You can't simply invert all of the values of the hands, because a "full house" is still a heck of a lot harder to get than a "pair," and yet a "pair" is less frequent than a "three of a kind"! Anyway, when I started typing this I thought it to be a touch more mathematically sound; sorry. Which brings me to my point: Dan Hedaya, star of the screwball 1999 comedy, "Dick." A few weekends ago (I have been busy), I had the pleasure of spending time with a friend (male) in from out-of-town, and another friend (female) who lives in Brooklyn. We spent time in a lovely SoHo bar, watching the Knicks sadly lose the first game of the playoffs to Miami. After we left the bar, we decided to eat, also in the Soho district of Manhattan. On our way to find a restaurant, who should come walking towards us, unshave and in a Hawai'ian shirt, but Dan Hedaya, who played Carla's (Rhea Pearlman) husband, Nick Tortelli, on the seminal NBC sit-com, "Cheers." He was chatting with another friend, heading south, and radiating that cool Hedaya-vibe for which he is so well known. Once we had decided not to follow Mr. Hedaya-- although we loved his work in the slightly misguided, "Alien: Resurrection"-- we settled on Corsican food, which, by the way, is delicious. As we sat sipping our after-meal coffees, and as I could not avoid a post-prandial cigarette (although, as it has been thoroughly documented, I am cutting-back), my friends and I finished the Sunday NYT crossword puzzle and attempted to eavesdrop on the only others in the restaurant, they being the waitress and her friends, all of whom were speaking in French. As the eavesdropping was going nowhere, whom did I spy outside the window walking east, but-- yes-- Mr. Hedaya, who had recurring roles on both classic series, "St. Elsewhere" and "Hill Street Blues"! He was still chatting with his friend, almost two hours later, which almost made me cry because seeing a strong friendship between two grown men is a rare and valuable thing, is it not? What do you think the odds are of this happening, this seeing Mr. Dan Hedaya, of both "Blood Simple" and "A Smoky Mountain Christmas," twice in one day? Thanks for understanding. Take care of yourselves. Yours, M. Ryan Purdy
- - - - Date: Fri, 09 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Where I work, I am partly responsible for the creation of a nearly-monthly newsletter, which is sent free of charge to "subscribers" all around the country. The truth is, we haven't published an issue in some time now. But that doesn't bear on this story. Or does it. Today I received, from the hale and hearty folks at the United States Postal Service, an envelope containing two items. I knew there were two items inside because certain things that come from the USPS tell you how many items are inside, right there on the envelope, in a box marked CONTENTS. In the box, someone wrote the number 2. A woman's handwriting, I'd say, insofar as these things are discernable. And sure enough, what flitters out of said envelope upon opening, but two identical, torn-off bits of our newsletter; the part where the adressee's name goes (also, their address). And above that, a USPS sticker, explaining that these items were "Undeliverable Standard Mail (A) and (B) and Special Standard Mail (B)." An aside: didn't you think just now, as I did upon first reading it, that the USPS sticker was all logically-worded, in the way your mother would lay out her litany of complaint at you when you were young, as in: "What you've done now is bad because, you were unconcerned for others' feelings (A), and (B) you really could have hurt yourself." Now let's return: so what's hitting me as I go to toss this right into the garbage is, well, you know. Elvis. I became conscious of that 'life-soundtrack' thing, where you find yourself humming things, realize you've been singing it to yourself all day, and can't figure out why. In this case, my cranial jukebox had naturally flipped to Elvis Presley's "Return to Sender." Right when I got to the second line of the song, what should my eyes come across, but the very box marked "No Such Number." I know! Immediately, I thought, "Synchronicity," and in a flash, could picture the place in my childhood home where I last saw the cassette tape of The Police's last record. (It fell behind the dresser, as did the chopsticks-turned-drum sticks. You will know, synchronicity!) Thrilled by the musical interlude this random piece of mail had brought into my life, I read more carefully, to see what would get spun next. I checked the adressee's names. Nothing. I noticed that both of them were from Cary, North Carolina. I thought, 'Carry Me to*." No. In my mind, I went to Carolina. But, there was still nothing. Disappointed, feeling that I'd lost it, I gathered up the returned newsletter bits, and looked at the envelope. "Huh," I actually said out loud. "There was even postage due." Which triggered that kind of whiny Chet Baker version of "Everything Happens To Me," which I'm like, thank you very much, U.S. Postal Service. Fly Like an Eagle, my ass! Right? So now, and maybe this should be another letter altogether, but regarding the power of music, here is a list of words/phrases which, I can never come across them without hearing in them the melody or rhythm of popular song: "these are a few of my favorite things" Thank you.
- - - - Date: Fri, 9 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Things found in and about Ms. Sarah Balcomb's bed after an unusually satisfying night: 1/2 (one-half) fry, prepared French style
The scent of a carnivorous burp Mr. Bryce Newhart's roommate Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Recently I found myself in my childhood home. When I say "childhood," I refer to the last two years of high school, which for all intents and purposes is as good as "childhood," as I have no clear memories before this time. This is not particularly relevant, though it is occasionally disconcerting to me. I was in Washington, D.C., which is quite some distance from where I live, but it is sadly close to Baltimore, the site of my father's house. I could not escape a somewhat obligatory visit. While there, I was quite bored, and late at night, trying to amuse myself, I decided to catalogue the contents of my father's pantry. But just the junk food. As far as I can remember, this list is fairly representative of what would have been in the pantry at any point when I lived there. Pringles, original Some may object to the inclusion of some of the non-sweetened cereals as "junk food." They may be right. It is only recently that it has been pointed out to me that this sort of hoarding of snack foods, on the theory of "you never know exactly what sort of hunger will hit you," is not universal. And may actually be somewhat strange. I think it may go a long way towards explaining some of the ways in which I live my life. Thanks, dad. Jon Zerolnick - - - - Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Here is a tip for anyone who might find themselves in the throes of insomnia. If your television has the Secondary Audio Programming setting, tune it in during infomercials. Understand that there aren't many infomercial producers who pay attention to the purchasing power of all the demographics, so actually finding a "show" like this may be frustrating. This is the fringe benefit: Your're not thinking about your lack of sleep anymore, are you? Once you've found a show with SAP, select that setting from the AUDIO menu on your T.V. Then sit back and enjoy the bilingualism. Unless, of course, you understand the language the SAP rebroadcasts. In such a case, you are, by far, smarter than me and are allowed a celebratory toss of the remote at the T.V. screen. Go ahead. You've earned it.
- - - - Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Some Things Purchased at Wal-Mart in Asheville, North Carolina 6/10/00* 1. CD Single: Zachary, Isaac, and Taylor Hanson, "This Time Around".
*items not actually purchased, but gripped tightly in sweaty little hands until calmer minds prevailed. thanks so much whitney pastorek - - - - From: "luke o'neil"
Dear McSweeney's, "Short," I have recently discovered, is in the new "long." "Wednesday," someone in the know pointed out yesterday, is the new "pinkish-gray." "Black" is, however, still the same old "brown" of thirteen weeks ago. With that in mind, my email: Remember how I wrote about not having a job and moving back home with my parents and so on...well, I should have mentioned (except I didn't know at the time) that my girlfriend is leaving me. Literally, which, isn't exactly as bad as the usual sense. You see, she has recently graduated from college, one year behind me, and, like me, not having a job, decided (well, i guess she has known she wanted to do this for years) to travel and do volunteer work at various god-forsaken (literally) parts of the world. She will probably leave in september and be gone from 3-9 months. I am hoping for 3. She assures me that it will work out fine. I am a bit worried though, because, as you know, I have been stung by love before, and it took me quite a long time to warm up to the idea of ever believing in it again. So, here we are two and a half years later, and I am a scared again. She is downstairs writing thank you notes for the gifts she received for graduation. She got yelled at for our having slept together last night in her parents house, as she has a young brother who may be confused by those sorts of things. I am 23 and I am confused by those sorts of things. I remain yours,
- - - - From: "Andrei Sinioukov"
Dear McSweeney's, A shopping list written in pink marker found in the dressing room at "Limited" at the King of Prussia Mall, King of Prussia,
PA:
j-crew:
Hope this helps,
- - - - Date: Mon, 12 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Re: W A R N I N G S A F F I X E D T O L A B O R A T O R Y D O O R S I went to UCCS a decade ago, and always enjoyed walking by the door leading to, as the sign said, "EMERGENCY SHOWER - DO NOT LOCK" Someone crossed out LOCK, and the sign accumulated quite a few witty substitutions. FOllowing are the few I remember: DO NOT LOOK Gee, I guess that's the only one I remember. Well, it was the 80's. Best regards
- - - - Date: Mon, 12 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, to BRIDGET HAMILTON: Yesterday, as I walked past the Astor Place Starbucks (plural), I shivered. Despite the heat of midafternoon, the cold, snaky tentacles of doom that wriggled across Lafayette, slithered around the black cube, and darkened the sun over Cooper Union had turned the bright summer day to winter's wan purgatory. They were the tentacles of homogenization, the grasping, clutching appendages of the gentry reaching out to strangle me, to wipe my mind clean of all originality and creative thought. And yesterday when they came for me-- smelling vaguely of Jamaican Blend and bundt cake-- I closed my eyes, I took a breath, and I screamed out SPORK!!! with every fiber of my being. And I was saved. People, we have found a prophet. Bridget, may the bards sing your praises in the highest courts of the land. thanks so much whitney pastorek - - - - Date: Mon, 12 Jun 2000
Dear McSweeney's, Tonight I came across the website www.bullshitanalyzer.com. This site analyzes another site selected by the 'web surfer' for bullshit (hence the name). Unfortunately, the makers of the site do not define exactly what constitutes bullshit in their minds. I'm sure that everyone reading this has a firm opinion on just what bullshit is - but is it the same opinion for everyone? What's more this site is operating out of Sweden. Perhaps there is a completely different understanding of bullshit over there... I really have no answers. Now that I have begun typing, this discussion is reminding me of a joke Martin Amis told prior to his reading this past week in Toronto. Researching his next novel, Amis has been spending alot of time in Los Angeles taking a close look at the multi-billion dollar pornography industry. In the course of his work - just a couple of weeks ago he said - he was sitting at the poolside in a porno villa with a porno king (I cannot remember his name, but he is the guy responsible for the Seymour Butts movies). Amis asked the porno king "Why the fascination with anal sex, not only in your work, but in the industry in general?" The king got as pensive as he ever did and replied "Because, pussy is bullshit." Amis asked for, and received, an elaboration on the claim ... something to do with the search for authenticity, but that is neither here nor there. The joke was that this story came up a few days back when Amis was dining in New York with Ian McEwan, Christopher Hitchens, and Salman Rushdie. The guys decided that if pussy = bullshit, then bullshit = pussy. The wit began to fly, as they discussed 'Bullshit in boots,' 'The Owl and the Bullshit Cat,' on up to that famous Bond girl Bullshit Galore, and the line which capped the night (according to Amis), Rushdie's 'Octabullshit.' But, I digress. With the bullshitanalyzer, I took the liberty of running a few pages of yours. These are my results: Melissa De La Cruz's father - 900% Bullshit
As yardsticks by which to measure the bullshit content of the given pages, I submit the following: Joyce: Finnegans Wake - 20% Bullshit
Jonathan Carson - - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, Zen Buddhists have a simple phrase they repeat that really happens to sum up the way I feel right now, and that phrase is: "Completely fucked against a brick wall, as if this life is a party where everybody acts like they love the hosts and guests, while not so deep inside, they seethe with a hatred that will, ironically enough, be the very force that keeps them alive in this world even longer." I love everybody- Dan Kennedy
- - - - From: "Dan Kennedy"
Dear McSweeney's, Only minutes ago I sent you a note about a Zen saying and I got it mixed up with something else. The phrase I meant to reference was "Calm and content despite chaos." Okay with my error- Dan Kennedy
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