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L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to mcsweeneysmail@yahoo.com. Thank you.] - - - - Date: Mon, 18 Sep 2000From: Jessi Wilson Dear McSweeney's, Hello there, Several weeks ago, in response to Neal Pollack's request for a dollar and a few words of encouragement in his (and McSweeney's) quest to circumvent Big Publishing, I sent him both. In addition, I sent an envelope addressed to me, a note card and a request for some reciprocal positive vibes. To my surprise, (I apologize if this offends you Neal, but not knowing you, I had no idea you are so polite), Neal Pollack replied with some nice words about my handwriting and stationery selection. In my letter to him, I also complained about the location of his tour stop in Baltimore, the International Gate of the airport, not the most convenient location seeing as how it is not even in Baltimore. However, because he did respond to my letter, and I was (and am) waiting patiently for my copy of his book to arrive via priority mail, and dude, I so wanted that poster, I was going to attend anyway. Unfortunately, fate intervened and I had to go to Ocean City, New Jersey to move my seventy-something grandparents home to Charm City. Though I had fun at the beach, riding the pirate ship with my little munchkin of a cousin, I do regret missing Neal's reading and the chance to thank him in person for his thoughtfulness. I wish him well on the future stops of his tour. Somewhere in the Swamps of Jersey (and Baltimore) Jessi Wilson - - - - Date: Mon, 18 Sep 2000From: Gillian Beebe Subject: nfmdlc's f Dear McSweeney's, It has been a long time. Is it my fault that News From Melissa de la Cruz's Father no longer exists? Does it only no longer exist for me? Has it been discontinued and erased because I sought advice from Randy Cohen, The Ethicist, regarding the questionable morality of exposing another person's correspondence to all of us without his knowledge? I was only being a busybody--sometimes it can't be helped. Now of course I worry that I am being egocentric. Worried all around. P.S. Does anyone know how I can get my hands on a 1-row 4-stop diatonic button accordion in C/G for less than what a brand new one custom made by Marc Savoy or Junior Martin would cost? I am only a novice and beginners do not deserve the best. (My mother taught me that.) I have a video tape by Evo Bluestein to teach me how to play but so far it has only been frustrating to mimic him on a cardboard box scrawled with buttons and stops. Yes yes my accordion lessons will disturb the neighbors but if I don't get one soon I will have to resort to learning all of Steve Riley & the Mamou Playboys' songs on the fife. Now there's a loud instrument. Scattered and fond as ever, Gillian - - - - Date: Tue, 19 Sep 2000From: Shane Wilson Subject: John Warner, no. No, John Warner. Dear McSweeney's, In John Warner's "Lesser Known Facts, Democratic Party Version," he says that Richard Gephardt played with a plastic toy pony as a child while his mother prepared a "toasted cheese" sandwich for him. Toasted cheese sandwich? What exactly is this supposed to be? Toasted cheese? No, no, John Warner, you are so sadly, sadly misguided. The sandwich is a grilled cheese sandwich. There is no such thing as toasted cheese sandwich. Is there such a thing? No. That is because you do not toast the sandwich. You grill it, in a pan. Sandwiches do not work in the context of a conventional one-function toaster. Hence: no toasted cheese sandwich. I would advise you, John Warner, to never, ever again make this grievous error. There will be consequences. Oh, the consequences! --Shane Wilson - - - - Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000From: Mike Topp Subject: Ankh! Dear McSweeney's: I'm all chippper now. Seems my problem was not enough hematite. Now that my love muffin has bought me a hematite ankh, I should be ship-shape from here on out. Thanks! Mike Topp - - - - Date: Wed, 20 Sept 2000From: Matthew Mitchell Subject: comprised of? COMPRISED OF? Dear McSweeney's, "Many have been simple notes of encouragement, others have been desperate pleas for contributions to small, unimportant magazines, but most have been comprised of three basic questions." "Have been comprised of," huh? So that's how this Pollack plays the game. - - - - Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000From: Ann Loutry Subject: Your Filthy Publishing Habits Give Me A Thrill To: McSweeney's From: Ann Loutry I see that there is a Neal Pollack book. Why is there not a Ben Greenman book? I mean, I have nothing against Neal Pollack. Neal Pollack is my cousin's brother's longtime cuckold. Maybe I am wrong about this: I'm not certain. All I know for sure is he loves me. He whispered in my ear, with sweet chocolaty breath. He said, "Love to the lover is air." This was in a dream but it felt real. Sorry, I am getting off the point somehow. My point was that in some ways, I find Greenman to be funnier. I imagine that he is skinny and often angry. Pollack strikes me as a bearish, lovely thing. In some ways, I find Pollack to be funnier. Every girl needs a razor and also plush toys. Why is there not a Ben Greenman book? I will sing this refrain until I am captured. The enemy forces are massing along the border. I remain a devoted reader of both men. Every sentence in this letter has eight or nine words, except this one, which has sixteen. That was a sentence Ben Greenman would have written. Neal Pollack would not have written that sentence. He would have whispered in my ear, "Cara mia." I have not dreamt of Ben Greenman yet. It is only a matter of time. - - - - Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000From: Steven Tomsik Subject: crime Dear McSweeney's, That Balcomb lady was talking about Pumas last time, right? Well, this: I was 12 years old, and part of a break-dance crew called the "Ice Breakers." Please, you know this name is glorious. We got done with our routine in the mall and I had to go home. I sat down in one of those areas in the mall designed for rest, fake plants and cushioned seats and brown brick walls and everything. I was removing my Pumas (blue suede, rotund laces) and was suddenly set upon by some older kids. They stuck me up, at knifepoint, for my shoes. One of them had a jheri curl. They were not laughing. I had to take the bus home in socks only. This is partly why I have so much moxie. Peacefully, Steve. - - - - Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000From: Brian Maker Subject: Some people have gone too far. Dear McSweeney's, The other day I was lying on the duvee eating queso from the jar and searching our internet. I discovered a piece of information, and I have something to say about it. Some people have gone too far. Gary Baum has printed a fond, perhaps keyed-up, love letter on his website. This letter was written by a young woman, intended for Dave Eggers, and mistakenly sent to Nic Mussolino. Mussolino sent it to Baum, &c. &c. Before I comment on the behavior of these two boys, which I think is bad behavior, I want to make it clear that I believe there are writers who, for whatever reason, make you want to date them. Personality, I think it is. I am thinking Samuel Johnson. I am thinking Ford Maddox Ford. I am thinking Laurie Moore. No one should think badly of the young woman who wrote the letter in question. What I really want to say is: Isn't it a bit rich? Two men, each of whom has devoted a considerable amount of time to and some money to - well - let's not shine a light into that one. Heard it said before the best way to tell a man's flaws is to watch him point to the flaws in others. I guess that makes me an unscrupulous person with little manifest self-awareness who carelessly abuses my position within the media to deride others. It is too true. Bryan Maker - - - - Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000From: Bryan Charles Dear McSweeney's, Last week I received my first negative feedback rating on the eBay personal auction site. The item, dated September 15th, reads "Buyer never sent payment, even after several emails." Of course, I have no one to blame but myself. But the question remains: Why did I not remit payment for that used copy of the CD March, by Michael Penn? Certainly I was excited to learn that I was the high bidder for the album, which provided me with at least five hours of joy during the winter of 1990. (The song "Invisible," I recall, was particularly crushing.) Yet the days passed and I did not send a check or money order and when the seller began bombarding me with e-mails requesting that I please live up to my end of the eBay bargain, I simply deleted them without the slightest twinge of guilt. You are correct to point out that my actions may jeopardize my good standing in eBay community, forever resigning me to inferior auctions sites such as NiceBid and Amazon, but I am ready. Whatever happens, I am not afraid. Fondly, Bryan Charles - - - - Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000From: Chris Cotner Subject: Everything is On Fire in Oklahoma Dear McSweeney's, There is an old axiom in Oklahoma that everything gets here a little late: fashion, music, etc. That proved true this week as we finally had wildfires spring up all over the state. So people in the West take heart, we are now getting what we so richly deserve. On another fire note: a family was killed in a mobile home after a dropped cigarette lit the place up. Paragraph from the newspaper story (I am not making this up): "Stanaland [Oklahoma City Fire Dept. Spokesman] also stressed the importance of cigarette safety. Though it hasn't been determined whose cigarette ignited the blaze, Stanaland urged people to be careful when smoking." The loss of life here is tragic and should not be made light of, but well...does the fire department offer a course in cigarette safety? Should you have to take this course before beginning smoking? I am at a loss why he felt compelled to say anything along those lines. But, nothing could be more Oklahoma than dying in a mobile home fire caused by a dropped cigarette. The only way to top that is have happen in the middle of a tornado. Random Song Lyric Overheard at the bar last night: "...and you know that you're the only one to say ok..." - - - - Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000From: Tim Sloffer Subject: a day of reckoning Dear McSweeney's, Some day I will write a book full of beautiful sentences, and you will buy that book for twenty-five dollars in the hard cover edition. Afterwards, I will think back to the day I wrote you an e-mail that was never printed on your "funny little website." I will shake my fist in the air with triumphant vigor! CARPE DIEM! (did I spell that correctly?) Rue the day, Tim Sloffer - - - - Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000From: Magic Mike Simpson Subject: Life is perfect. Honestly. Dear McSweeney's, I am an MFA student; often, I have very little to do. Sometimes that frustrates me, but today, not so much. Today, I woke around noon. I had applied, the night before, via phone, answering questions quickly and accurately, to appear on Regis Philbin's "Who Wants to Be A Millionaire?". Though I survived the "first round", my fate was up to a computer, who would, hopefully, randomly select my right answers and call me today, between noon and three. Though I wasn't called, today, to play "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire", I did, in fact, find that Eddie and The Cruisers II: Eddie Lives! was on TNT. I watched all of it. The band -- which wasn't, actually, called Eddie and the Cruisers, but instead, "Rock Solid" -- never played "On the Dark Side", but they did play a number of other songs, all of which reminded me of Bruce Springsteen prior to Tunnel of Love. Later, my friend Tobin came over. We walked down to the Bears Den, a Syracuse bar, and had cans of Pabst for one dollar. The weather has been beautiful -- cool, windy, a brilliant September. Tonight, I will watch more television -- most likely MTV's new show, "Fear". Mike Simpson - - - - Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000From: Kendall Hudson Subject: Gabe Hudson Dear McSweeney's, I am writing this letter on behalf of my family. We recently received your very kind note inquiring as to the whereabouts of my brother. My father, after sitting down and discussing it with the entire family, decided that we have had enough time to heal in private, and that now is as good a time as any to let you know of the tragedy which fell on our family this summer. On June 18, 2000, my brother Gabriel Hudson passed away in a random car accident. This happened in Austin, Texas, which is where he was spending the summer, at our vacation home. The details are not important. Gabe was on foot. A deer was in the road. A large truck swerved to avoid the deer. By the time the ambulance arrived at the hospital Gabe was already gone. Please understand that this is very difficult for me to talk about even now. Gabe was my big brother. In the past, our family, in one way or another, has participated in a few pranks with your very fine McSweeney's Organization. And we continue to cheer your successes from afar, and are quite proud of our family's minor association with your magazine. For this we are grateful, but most of all we are grateful for the encouragement which you showed my brother during his brief time on this earth. His life had not been an easy, and writing and comedy were vital components of my brother's existence. When I was younger, he used to tell me that it was my job to save myself because no one else was going to do it for me, and that the only way this could be achieved was by entering the world of literature and ideas. He always told me that smart laughter was grace, and that to be nice, spontaneous, and playful were the keys to living in a predicament which was otherwise unbearable. I hope you will keep Gabe in your prayers, and join us in our hope that he is in a better place now. Respectfully yours, Kendall Hudson - - - - Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000From: Charles.Rachford Subject: She loves him Dear McSweeney's, A woman sits in the office next to mine, let's call her Laura. Today another woman, Jill, stopped by to request something or other. As Jill was leaving, having received her requested something, Laura said, "I saw Todd Saturday and he made me cry." Jill stops at the door, turns to Laura. Disinterested, just making conversation. "Haven't you been broken up for awhile?" "Yeah, year and a half." "And how long did you go out?" "Nine months." Stepping on the comedic pause, Laura said she was at the bar, drunk and saw Todd so, what the hey, she went over and said hi. I missed some of the conversation here, but I'm recreating where I can. "Damnit, Laura, you're needy," he said to Laura. "You have to stop calling me, stop following me. I never loved you." My ear was pressed to the wall now. "You have an overbite, your feet are hideous. Please, leave me alone" There was a pause as the Jill worked on her consoling speech "well, if he said that?" "...obviously still cares about me, I know. Anyone who is still that angry must still have feelings for that person." Thank you, chuck. - - - - Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000From: Gregory Purcell Subject: At issue, here, is my blood. Dear McSweeney's, For the Ensconced and Bursting-Hearted, I have decided to quit smoking. Had decided--the decision was made two days ago. At issue here, of course, is the resolution of my will. I have been a smoker since I was fifteen. I had no resolution then, of course. It is now that I have resolution--now, at twenty-seven strong, very strong, years of age. At night, my arms fall asleep. I sit there whispering to my leaden, prickly hands. Strong, strong... I have begun to fall apart. In the middle of the night I woke to find two fingers sitting bloodlessly in the kitchen sink. I made a mental note to myself to contact the proper authorities, thinking that whoever lost those fingers would surely want them sent back somehow. Then I slumbered (i.e. "slept" and "lumbered") back into bed. This morning I pulled back the bedsheet to find another finger and three toes. I looked at the toothless grin of my own hand for the first time and thought, "yes. I have the will. I have the resolution. I can beat this thing." It's hard. Now I know that whatever benevolent gluten once held my bones together has since been replaced by a film of tacky, resinous tar. That tar is slowly being brickbatted away by my iron will. By the end of next week they will have to cart me around in a wheelbarrow. "They" being demons. I will pay for things with my own ears and toes, particularly since none of my freelance connections have called me back about work, yet. What about rent? What about the Sol LeWitt article I need to have done by the weekend? My formerly sluggish blood is now rushing through my body like one of those Japanese supertrains. Resolved, Greg Purcell - - - - Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000From: J. Douglas Krawetz Dear McSwiney's: I have started the deprogramming of the Stepford McSwiney's followers through my debunking of the entire Eggars/McSwiney's/Pollack mythos in the thread dedicated to Mr. Pollack in the "Books" folder of the Salon Table Talk area (tabletalk.salon.com). I figured it was time to take the battle directly to this nest of smirking vipers. I am here to end the reign of stance and cool (as personified by Eggars/Pollack/McSwiney's) vs. thought, study and perspective. I am here to cut short the pathetic mocking some of the greatest writers our culture has ever produced, in the name of "laffs." Listen up people, no longer should you look on Eggars/Pollack as some kind of cute, fur-covered, harmless, post-postmodern creature. I'm here to stop the entitlement you and your Gen X, McSwiney's crowd flaunt like so many well-toned physiques amongst the intellectually flabby. It is just so typical of your generation to mock the discussion of ideas that matter, that have importance in the world, that are our mooring, keeping us from sliding down that slippery slope into meaninglessness. I know you don't hold this as an important principle, but those of us who care about the state our sad society has descended to do. I, for one, intend to maintain my position as an intellectual Schwartzenegger. I am imploring you readers to start THINKING, to start using your BRAINS. I know this is a rusty apparatus for most of the McSwiney's crowd who spend their time waiting around for the next spoonful of Eggars pablum (Neal Pollack being only the latest serving), but perhaps you are not beyond saving. I, of course, will be the judge of this. J. Douglas Krawetz - - - - Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2000From: Newhart, Bryson Subject: Hell's Angels Dear McSweeney's, When I'm really hungover it helps to chew with my mouth open. Let bits dribble. At the food court, I curl up my toes and read D.H. Lawrence novels covered by pornographic dust jackets to throw off the tourists from Britain. This one dude is totally the scurviest. He stumbles around with a cigarette dangling from his mouth that is tied to a string wrapped around his one remaining tooth. I smile and offer him pudding. On my mind are Hell's Angels. Imagine two Hell's Angels on a cold moonlit night. The first, Rick, stands on a smooth plane of ice at the end of which is a thousand foot drop-off. Around his waist is a rope. On his feet, tractionless loafers. Hanging over the precipice on the other end of the rope is Toby, another Hell's Angel. He and Rick met at a PTA meeting. As Toby falls, Rick rapidly slides toward the edge, no chance of stopping himself. No time to pull up his friend. In Rick's hand is a flimsy kitchen knife that is not strong enough to jam into the ice but sharp enough to saw through the rope. Does he do it? Without a second thought? A weird little grin on his face? Eevin Hartsough? Can you wear shoulder pads? Yours, Bryce Newhart - - - - Date: Sat, 23 Sep 2000From: Dan Kennedy Subject: THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE IS A SUBTLE AND TENSE EXCHANGE Dear McSweeney's- In case you've been wondering what I'm up to, I've been hanging out in pleasant places and studying the dialogue of happy couples. Like this gem of an exchange overheard at a Sunday cookout/open-house for prospective home owners at a newly developed planned living community in central California. Him: Do you feel okay? Her: Yeah. Him: You were saying you're thirsty. Her: I'm fine. Really. What about you? Him: No, I'm good. I'm fine. (long pause) Him: I need to meditate or something. Her: My eyes hurt. Learning to speak their language- Dan Kennedy New York, New York. - - - - Read Previous Letters:
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