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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. Thank you.] - - - - Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000From: M. Ryan Purdy Subject: Just like a movie star. Dear McSweeney's, Last week -- a good week for me my co-workers say -- I left work early one day, beaming like a fool for no other reason than I could layer my clothing, and wear a jacket that had inside pockets. Walking downtown, sort of in "the Village," I continued simply to glow, thinking of how good things were at the time. That morning I had seen someone who means very much to me, although he or she is really none of your business. Work had been fine, especially because I had left early in order to go downtown and buy the new compact disc by that songwriter who in many a publication has been called, "the Cole Porter of our Generation." Wonderful thoughts I had to be sure, while walking on Lafayette Avenue: that time I saw and heard Uma Thurman, from that boundary-breaking "Pulp Fiction," pushing her baby in his stroller and singing to him; that other time that Julianna Margulies, formerly of "ER," glided into the Starbucks near my office and I tried to catch her eye by that thing that has the stirrers and the napkins (I think I did and I think she smiled -- she's prettier in person!); and that day when I was sick but still met a friend at the CBS commissary for lunch and spied Andy Rooney, America's favorite curmudgeon, sitting alone. Ah... Well, you can imagine the rest. And then I looked down at the street before me, CD in hand and smile on face, and saw a pigeon eating broken glass. Take care of yourselves. Yours, M. Ryan Purdy Brooklyn, NY - - - - Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000From: Lara M. Zeises Subject:Megan Hustad's letter of Fri., 8 Sept. Dear McSweeney's, Megan Hustad wrote complaining that the Galapagos person had sold her a used copy of the Neal Pollack Anthology. However, she doesn't realize the hands that have made contact with her "used" copy. I cannot pretend to know the origin of the pink makeup smudge on your book's cover, Megan, but I do know that Jim Behrle is in charge of organizing literary events for the Brookline Booksmith (the first stop on Neal's world tour, which, by the way, was the quite the little hoe down). Jim has what I believe to be the coolest day job ever, but that's neither here nor there. Since the e-mail you found inside was addressed to Jim, the book could have been in possession of a great many people: Former literary agent John Hodgeman, Mr. Behrle, or Neal Pollack himself. At any rate, consider your copy special, woman! Sincerely Yours, Lara M. Zeises P.S. Please feel free to use this information to beef up the book's price on eBay. - - - - Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000From: Tim Durkin Subject: complete names Dear McSweeney's and Karl Steel, My favorite name-that-is-also-a-complete-sentence belongs to the author of _The Screwtape Letters_ and the Narnia series: Clive Staples Lewis. Not many of these out there with direct objects, eh? eh? Tim Durkin - - - - Date: Mon, Sep 11 2000From: Ben Davis Subject: RE: Kung poo poo Dear McSweeney's, Oh my gosh! I can't believe that you wrote that about that "Shallow Alto" place Ms. Gagliardi! Check this out though. A group of like six of my friends got together kind of last minute style for one their birthdays at this place in Chinatown called Full House. So we order and, you know, get a few beers too. And then our food comes. We're all eating for a little while, and two among us who have recently gotten together are leaning in towards each other, heads touching at the hairline. And, you know every one just keeps eating, nothing is out of the ordinary. But then it turns out the lovebirds weren't just nuzzling, they were examining... their kung pao chicken. As they proceeded to lazy susan it around, we all get a good, close look at a, maybe inch and a quarter long cockroach laboring in super slo mo through the kung pao scape. After the waiter came and held the offending plate in one hand while looking around the table and inquiring if this was the only one, he returned with two complimentary conciliatory beers. It all happened so fast. My poor bewildered friends seemed ready to accept this deal looking around with raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders. I felt an exhilarating feeling welling in my bowels (I did eat some of the food), I drained both beers as well as my unfinished own. I walked slowly to the front area and looked all personal alternately in the eye while I said "This is unacceptable, we are not paying you one penny, there was a freaking roach in the food". And then we took off and got some pie. Yours, Ben Davis - - - - Date: Mon, Sep 11 2000From: Jim Behrle Subject: Re: The woman sold me a used book, damnit. Dear McSweeney's, If Megan Husted sends me her address, I'll send out a fresh new copy of The Neal Pollack Anthology to her door. A boy named Jim Behrle. Brookline Booksmith 279 Harvard St. Brookline, MA 02446 - - - - Date: Mon, Sep 11 2000From: randal cory walker Subject: bear Dear McSweeney', Is there any connection between David Eggers and "David," the teddy bear advertised at members.iinet.net.au/~eggers/david.html? "David" is described as a "shy bear and never fights with the other bears. He never asks for honey, but we always ask him if he wants some and he always answers in a polite way. His heart is as golden as his fur. David is fully jointed, has glass eyes and leather paw and foot pads. He wears a home-sewn fabric bow." - - - - Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000From: Jay Friesen Subject: Camp Burdens Dear McSweeney's, I was the web site upkeeper (webmaster simply implies too much) for a boys camp this summer, located in the middle of nowhere. I was one of the few who had access. The power of the net becomes clear in a place like this. I controlled the flow of information. I believe I wielded this power and responsibility with care. I did good things. I introduced a relatively harmless character to your website and he instantly fell in love. "How perverse" he said. We -- well I -- constructed an email (my first) and sent it to you. It was heartspoken and beautiful. We were both excited to be part of this, this... energy. Weeks passed. Nothing was posted. We were shunned. You should have seen the look on his face. My stomach rolled. How could this be? There is still time. I ask you, please reconsider. For us. For everyone who has ever been turned away. We want to be part of this too. Hoping, Jay Friesen - - - - Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000 19:22:55 -0700From: Bob Subject: Little to pass on Dear McSweeney's, I've been meaning to write for some time now. Bob - - - - Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2000From: Andy Albertson Subject: fear of barbers, or the nature of deception Dear McSweeney's, I've told, for many years now, a funny story. I tell this story to account for my tendency to go without haircuts for a month or so longer than ideal. I often have bushy hair while telling the aforementioned story. It goes like this: I am, at the time, four years old. My hair is bushy yet wet, and I'm wearing Garanimals elastic waist band shorts. I'm in a barber's chair, getting my hair cut. The barber snips off part of my left ear. Twenty-two years later, I shake in the presence of barbers. I've been lying to everyone. Even the two class sections I taught yesterday. I'm just lazy about getting haircuts. I'm really, really sorry, and I'll stop telling the story. It's not even funny. Sincerely, Andy Albertson - - - - Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2000 11:29:06 -0700 (PDT)From: Julie Diana Subject: TURF! Dear McSweeney's I noticed today under the rubric I F Y O U W O R K A T A T R A D E M A G A Z I N E , that you subscribe to Turf: The Magazine for Turf Care Professionals. Though I do not work for a trade magazine, I want to share with you my experience one fine afternoon at TURF HQ. In 1995, I was a recent college graduate living in the mountains of North Central Vermont. I was mostly unemployed, but it was so beautiful there, and you could hear the snow falling on the roof at night and when there was no snow there were such stars as you have never seen in your whole life! Sometimes I was lucky enough to get a temporary gig answering phones for a semiconductor equipment manufacturer near Burlington, or for an insurance company typing up letters to very sick people or the parents of very sick children explaining (in a thoroughly unsatisfactory manner) why the insurance company refused to cover the treatment that the very sick person needed to get well again. (This last one I only did for a few days, because even though I was very broke, I could not do a job that made me feel like such a wretch. As for the "health care professionals" who do that job every day, I believe their souls to be writhing, writhing, writhing, regardless of how nice and healthy the Christmas cacti on their desks appear to be.) I went on many job interviews during those first few, cold months in Vermont. One was for a job as an editorial assistant at Turf: The Magazine for Turf Care Professionals, in St. Johnsbury. I had a fresh, useless BFA in creative writing, with some magazine experience. When I arrived at the TURF HQ, there was a slim man in a short sleeved shirt and skinny black knit tie smoking outside at a picnic bench. It was a glorious day in Vermont; one could stand around in one's shirtsleeves without becoming cold. The man greeted me and guessing that I was the college graduate he had slated to interview that day, introduced himself as Neil Rouda. Mr. Rouda was a very nice man whom I believe to have ingested at least 9 quarts of coffee that day. He gave me a tour of the TURF headquarters, during which I was suitably impressed. When we got to Mr. Rouda's office, he asked me a few garden-variety interview questions about where I saw my career in five years and the like. We talked for maybe 40 minutes, during which Mr. Rouda gesticulated rather forcefully and periodically got up out of his chair to search around in the towering piles of trade magazines to show me examples of things he liked about one or another of them. He drank coffee from an oversized mug. Occasionally I would remember that I was sitting there being earnest, grinning it up and nodding along, all in the hopes that I could secure a position editing text about The Best Mix of Toxic Chemicals to Dump on Golf Course Greens. When Neil asked me if I had any questions, I asked, "Yeah Neil, I'm wondering, how do you feel about grass? I mean, I used to work for a film magazine, and I really loved it, but I'm having kind of a hard time seeing myself getting worked up about grass." Neil said, "It isn't any better or any worse than anything else." (He didn't make me an offer.) Julie Diana - - - - Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2000From: Mike Topp Subject: Funnybones Dear McSweeney's: What's this neo-ironic "humor" I keep hearing about? Sincerely, Mike Topp - - - - Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2000 22:45:29 EDTFrom: George Long Subject:Going Postal Dear McSweeney's, I had to mail a package at my local post office. As I stood at the counter, I overheard the conversation of two postal employees. "So what would they taste like?" "Your toenails?" "Yeah." "I don't know. Probably taste like cheese." Avoiding the fondue, George Long - - - - Date: Wed, 13 Sep 2000From: David C. Parker Jr. Subject: swift on the heels of victory comes stinging defeat Dear McSweeney's I was off-line for a couple of weeks, surfing and backpacking on the coast, and when I returned to my delightful grey cubicle here, I went straight back to your site. I read the Back to School story, I checked Neal Pollack's tour dates once more to make sure he's still coming, and I scoured the archives, looking to see if maybe possibly by some off-chance you published one of my letters while I was away. And... and... there it was! My letter! In black and white (pixels)! I was stoked. Proud. Beaming. "There's no stopping me now," I thought. And then, to my great disappointment, I read my own letter. It was not funny. I thought it was funny when I wrote it, but it was not. Cute? Maybe. Quirky? Perhaps. But, oh, I remember so vividly how I chuckled as I sent that one off... Thankful yet Broken-hearted, David Parker - - - - Date: Wed, 13 Sep 2000 22:33:42 -0400From: richard lock Subject: Not everything's funny you know Dear Timmy, Not everything is funny you know. Why does everything have to be so funny? Not everything's funny. I don't know why we have to pretend everything's funny all the time, when it so obviously isn't. There's not much you can do about it, but pretending things are funny when they're not most certainly won't help. Sorry, Adam Lock - - - - Date: 14 Sep 00 11:38:44 -0500From: Thomas Gibbon Subject: A safe and clean use of cigarettes. Dear McSweeney's, you have been asking me, for some time, to explain this sport that my people (Americans) play, which we call K****** Ball. It seems R**s** R****n and I were sitting around one day practicing how to throw a pack of cigarettes across a crowded party (because, god knows, when you're gooned on PCP what the hell else are you going to do? Turn over police cars? Guess again, Bruce Banner). As time wore on, as it does, we became lazier and more methodical, efficient. The next year, in the library of D**** S**, the thing became codified and the official sport of America. Two players sit in easy chairs about eight feet apart, or ten or twelve, whatever, and toss a pack of cigarettes, swathed in masking tape, to each other. If a pitch goes wild or a catcher fumbles, a whiffle-ball bat, held at business end (thus transformed into a K****** Ball Bat), is used to pull back the K****** Ball within fingers reach. There is no score but the due and honest appreciation of a good toss and a good catch. Smoothness, naturally, is the K******lian ideal. The name I believe comes from the Latin for Stiper. While I have not played myself in years I remain a great patron of the sport and own several franchises including the world champion Arrowsic Tummelers. Bye for now, TGGibbon - - - - Date: Thu, 14 Sep 2000rom: Robert Beier Subject: From your office correspondent Dear McSweeney's, I am one of the few people in the world who can wield a baseball bat in the office and swing it menacingly without getting weird looks or fired. It is true that some men carry baseball bats to work. They work in ballparks and get paid millions of dollars. I am not one of those men. Since I work for those bat wielding men, I get to swing bats in the office as well. My office isn't outside with thousands of screaming fans heaping glory upon my shoulders. My office is inside with three people telling me to do things I don't want to do. They do not heap glory. They heap sadness. I can, however, walk around the office wearing a baseball helmet and swinging a bat. This is something. Regards, Bob - - - - Date: Thu, 14 Sep 2000From: Sarah M. Balcomb Subject: Pumas Dear McSweeney's: A homeless guy who works my block sported the same black Puma high-tops I favor. The first time I noticed him, I was filled with warmth, glad this poor man at least had a decent pair of shoes (they are the best shoes I've ever owned -- so good that when I first bought them, I was tempted to sleep in them that night). One sunny afternoon he was sleeping in a bit of shade in front of the Swatch store, his high-tops hanging off the ends of his bare feet. I wanted to wake him, warn him to be careful with his shoes. You have to watch what little you have when you're homeless, right? He should know that better than I do, right? A few days later, he was strutting down Bleecker wearing a ratty pair of flip-flops. "Easy come, easy go," I thought, lamenting his loss. Then again, days later, he was fitted out in the Pumas. "Hurray," I thought, wanting to embrace him. And today, sadly, in the gutter, I spotted one lonely black high-top Puma. Just tired, Sarah M. Balcomb - - - - Date: Fri, 15 Aug 2000From: Gregory Purcell Subject: The cutest word in the OED McSweeney's, Readers, All, Forget whatever aluminum-fogged affectations I might have picked up over the course of the summer--comic books, video games, making out behind the Zipper at the Illinois State Fair--I'm done with it. It is autumn, now, or nearly, and I have just received, in the mail, an item which I have coveted ever since I began thinking of words: The Condensed Oxford English Dictionary. I went straight for the back, and centered my new, magnificent, clarifying eye on the wordfield. W. Wassail. OE meaning "be fortunate." Okay. Wasp. Latinate or Germanic? Presumably Germanic, it says. In French: gueppe. Wops, woppes, wespe, etc. Lovely. Moving forward, past quotations from the King James, I find it. Something I didn't know I was looking for. The cutest word in the English language, it must be: Waspling, a baby wasp. --Greg Purcell - - - - Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000From: David C. Parker Jr. Subject: Neal Pollack ruined my life. Well, sort of. Dear McSweeney's, I went to Neal Pollack's reading last night at Politics and Prose. It was great. I laughed, I cried. I begged for more. Then I got into line with my girlfriend, and we waited for Neal Pollack to sign my copy of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature. My girlfriend is lovely, and not just because she actually PAID for my copy of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature, but because she's... well, lovely. So I get all the way through the line and I'm standing before Neal Pollack, and he says, "Who are you?" "I'm Dave," I say, blushing. I hand him my (his) book. "Is this for both of you?" he says, eyeballing my lovely girlfriend. In a generous spirit, I say, "Yes. Yes, it is. This is my girlfriend, Dolly." And then, clean out of the blue, Neal Pollack says, "So, are you two going to get married?" Now Dolly and I have been together for like four years now, so of course we have had the long dreamy talks over candlelight about getting married and having babies in Spain where we'll be forever drenched in golden light on the beach... So I say proudly, romantically, without hesitation, "Um, well, ah, probably. You know, maybe. Something like that." Well, Neal Pollack thinks that answer is just fine. He smiles and nods his head and signs my (our)(his) book - "To Dave and Dolly" - and he says, "Right. Thanks for coming out." So I walk out of that bookstore beaming. I'm admiring that signature, that bold hand, that admirable name, that stroke of genius in the way he rolls his L's. And then my lovely girlfriend says, "Um, 'maybe'? 'Maybe' we're going to get married?" "Um, well, ah," I begin to say. "Um, well, ah - 'maybe' you can find another ride home..." Blast you, Neal Pollack. Blast you. Undone but well-read, David Parker - - - - Date: Sat, 16 Sep 2000 14:16:00 -0700 (PDT)From: Frank Bures Subject: Mars globe Dear McSweeney's I apologize if you already know this, but I just saw a Mars globe that looks like it's made by Sky & Telescope Magazine. Thought you'd want to know. But maybe you don't. Or maybe you already do. Frank - - - - Read Previous Letters:
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