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L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to mcsweeneysmail@yahoo.com. Thank you.] - - - - Date: Mon, 22 Jan 2001From: Ottessa Moshfegh Subject: John GoodmanAdd Addresses Dear McSweeney's letter-editor, A while back I wrote you a letter including a true-to-life description of a miraculous event. This event concerned John Goodman. Remember? Now I am writing to make a report on the status of my roomate. I have recorded the following developments and transcribed them in order of how much they annoy me, least annoying to most annoying. The list is short, but, mind you, its brevity is only an expression of the concentration of this young woman's insanity. 1. Upon exiting her room, she will inhale deeply through the nostrils, as though to say, "I can smell you and all your filth!" Sincerely, Ottessa - - - - Date: Mon, 22 Jan 2001From: "Hartsough, Eevin" Dear McSweeney's Yesterday, Sunday, I awoke around quarter to ten in that alarm-less, Sunday morning, slowly coming into consciousness way. As I awoke, I heard with increasing clarity, the sound of someone - some woman - crying. At first, I couldn't tell what it was. It might have been some hurt animal, it might have been people having sex. And although the sound was unpleasant and disturbing, it was impossible not to listen. So I lay there in my bed, listening as intently as I could, trying to sort out exactly what the sound was. And then, between the squeaks and squeals and other bizarre sounds of upset, I heard the voice say "stop" and then the crying continued. It went on for some time - fifteen or twenty minutes and who knows how much I had slept through. I think the sound was coming from my neighbors to the East. Once, waiting for the elevator in the hallway, I heard them having a fight. They said things that make them look like entirely different people when I see them now. Later that day, I returned home and was again besieged by the sound of weeping - this time more human and, I think, from the South. All of this upset. All around me. And I, with the sense that some action should be taken - something should be done - but what to do? Haunted,
- - - - Date: Mon, 22 Jan 2001From: "samer singh" Subject: Request for phage resistant E.coli strains Dear Web master, I have come across a paragraph mentioning about phage resistant E.coli strains on page http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/mitdoors/mitphage.html. I am facing the same problem of lysis in DH5a, BL21,and SG13009. I need the resistant strains for my work. Will you please forward this request to concerned person (MIT researcher) as I am unaware of his address. Thanks in advance for your help. Samer Singh
- - - - Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2001From: "thelils" Subject: the inherent difficulties in brotherly obligations, at least as embued in my consciousness as early as I can remember by a mother concerned w/ making damn well sure that her child aspired to goodness, greatness and all other bar raising ideals. Dear McSweeney's: My sister called me moments ago. She is out of college and has become the antithesis of what she was at the moment she was handed her diploma. She was ata rave. I did not know that these things still went on. "Of course they do you dork---didn't you read the article in the Times Magazine?" She was screaming into her cellular phone. I calmly, and somewhat discreetly, asked what she was doing (thinking I was going to have to talk her down from an ecstasy overdose). She said that she had only smoked some pot, and had a couple of Mickey's Big Mouths. I could hear the music. She was breathing into the phone, and snorting, and laughing, and saying "no way!" to someone else who I also heard. I was wondering why she had called. "Oh my God!" she squealed, "There are two guy's spray-painting the word 'scrotum' on the hood of someone's new Volkswagen Bug!" I felt sorry for her, the owner of the Volkswagen, and Anthony Braxton, whom Ken Burns conveniently left off from his comprehensive anthology of Jazz. "Scrotum"? Yours,
- - - - Date: Tue, 23 Dec 2001From: Ottessa Moshfegh Subject: John Goodman Add Addresses Dear McSweeney's, Last night my roommate and I both dreamt about John Goodman. In my dream, John was a runner at a restaurant I managed. I had to fire him on account of his eating disorder, and his inability to run. In my roommate's dream, John played a retired football player recovering from reconstructive surgery of the larynx. My roommate said that John refused his dinner, and, having lost his ability to speak English, wandered around the apartment clutching his throat, murmuring "uno, dos, tres," in a voice like Janet's, from "Three's Company". The chances of us both dreaming about John Goodman are slim enough for me to wonder if John Goodman is just another John Candy waiting to happen. I just want to document this somehow, in case John Goodman you-know-whats. Sincerely,
- - - - From: Chuck EasterlingSubject: Half-blind. Like a bat at dusk. Dear McSweeney's, If my boss is talking to the woman in the cubicle beside me I can't hear them if I don't turn around. Well, actually, I can hear them. But I pretend that I can't. And if one of them makes a joke about babies or President Bush I don't laugh. Most of the time it's pretty boring stuff. Slipping,
- - - - Date: Wed, 24 Jan 2001From: Lonesome Robot Subject: King Olaf And The Saturday Knights (w/ capitals) Dear Mcsweeney's, There is a contest being run by a certain, big record label (that likes to pretend it's a small record label) for tickets to an upcoming Steve Malkmus concert as part of his 'Without Pavement, Do I Suck?' tour. The only rule is that you have to send them the name of a Swedish reggae band. Faced with the challenge, I spit out the first thing that came to mind: King Olaf and the Saturday Knights This stems from a conversation I had with my roommate the other night in which I proposed band names for us. Some of the candidates were 'The Crazy Angeles' pronounced angels, in which I grow a pencil thin moustache and we pretend we are hispanic (we are not, although my roommate is tall) and a nerd rock band a la Weezer called 'Four Eyes and Brace Face' for which I would have braces installed. My roommate already wears tremendously thick glasses. Actually, about my roommate (who's moving out, if you need a room), he was at a dive bar near our house called 'The Station' (where there is an unshelled peanut machine on the wall). He was there for a prework beer talking to the old drunks that hang out there and this one, dare i say 'geezer'?, found out that he worked at a well known New York bookstore and said 'oh, get me this book by e.e. cummings, you know I'm good for the money' which my roommate, in fact, did not know. He likes to smoke pot. bye.
- - - - Date: Wed, 24 Jan 2001Subject: Ode to Ben Greenman Dear McSweeneys, Ten days ago I put a piece of cheese inside an iron box and buried it ten feet underground. If my calculations are correct, the cheese is now one hundred feet underground. "If my calculations are correct," I said, reading my last sentence, and my boyfriend, who has the worst haircut I have ever seen on a man who wasn't Sam Donaldson, tried to strangle me. I think that his rage comes from poor self-image. Wouldn't you have a poor self-image if you looked like that goofy bastard? Here's what my boyfriend and I do sometimes: we walk out by the river, and he slips his hand inside my shirt and sees what he can see. "I see what I can see," he said, reading the last sentence over my shoulder. I turned around and punched him hard in the ribs, and he went down like a sack of potatoes. Tomorrow I will put a potato in an iron box and bury it ten feet underground. If I am not mistaken, by this time next week it will be made of gold. Peace out,
- - - - Date: Wed, 24 Jan 2001From: Elizabeth Miller Subject: I had this dream Dear McSweeney's, Last night I had this dream in which David Foster Wallace was trying to kill my family. He was a very calculating killer, choosing first to off my mom before moving along to the rest of the family. Wallace was the sort of serial killer that would track you around the globe in an effort to kill you, and he did just that when my family fled the country in order to thwart his evil plans. Alas, just when it seemed that he had lost interest and was going to leave us alone, we received a tip from the FBI that he had been apprehended in Alaska with a plane ticket in his hand, just moments away from boarding an airplane to the PNW in order to kill us all. His whereabouts were discovered due to an anonymous tip. When confronted, he confessed to everything. That night, in true evening news fashion, all of Mr. Wallace's peers from the world of literature were seen looking into large news cameras with shocked expressions on their faces saying, "I just don't get it. He's such a nice guy. And smart. Very smart. Why he would do something as awful as this is simply beyond comprehension. Terrible. Just terrible." I, too, was on the news. I was talking about how much I enjoy the man's essays, but, due to the fact that he was stalking my mom, I was most likely going to retire from reading his work. Very sad, as I do enjoy him so much. After the dream was over I dreamt that Diane Vadino had sold her small red Toyota pick up to my friend Mike and on the side were decals spelling out the word, "VA-DINO" in huge black lettering. Then I woke up and I was late for work because I forgot to set my alarm and thus did not get up until five minutes before I was supposed to be at work. I have not stopped thinking about this dream all day. I think it kinda freaked me out. Respectfully,
- - - - From: Tahneer N OksmanSubject: Smokey Obsession Date: Wed, 24 Jan 2001 Dear McSweeney's, One day, for no reason whatsoever, I called my friend Paul Elsberg (now Smokey) Smokey. He is obsessed with the name. He's even asked his mother to call him Smokey. Is there something about the name that I am not getting? And, furthermore, do you know the nickname I got in return? Dokey. Sounds like Donkey. And he doesn't even use it. Yours Truly,
- - - - Date: Wed, 24 Jan 2001Subject: submission? sure Dear McSweeney's, Have you ever wondered whether or not you would get the opportunity to travel through time? We all have! Fortunately, I have devised a method whereby you can determine just that fact. Simply follow these easy steps: 1: Look at a calendar. Write down today's date on a piece of paper (referred to herein as 'the note'). 2: Look at your watch (a clock or other timepiece will do if your watch is unavailable). Note the current time. Now, write down the time it will be five minutes from now. 3: Put the note in your pocket or other safe place on your person (IMPORTANT: Keep the note with you at all times for the rest of your life!!! I cannot overstress this enough!!! Perhaps these three exclamation points will help: !!!) 4: If, at some point in the future, you ever come across a time machine, simply remove the note from your pocket, or other safe place, and punch in the time and date written on the note. 5: Revel in the paradox of meeting your future self! If you follow these easy steps carefully, you should find out in about five minutes whether or not you will ever travel through time! It worked for me! Let me know how it goes! Bill Burman - - - - From: "Newhart, Bryson"Subject: Marching in the Snow a Popular Sport Date: Thu, 25 Jan 2001 11:13:12 -0500 Dear McSweeney's, Can I take this opportunity to come clean on the whole "McWeeney" thing? - - - - From: Ben WhiteDate: Thu, 25 Jan 2001 Subject: Her Dear McSweeney's, The sun was very bright and warm at 11 A.M. yesterday. I was walking down the street, and I had completely forgotten, for the first time, that my girlfriend broke up with me over the weekend. I was simply enjoying the sun and feeling happy and not the least bit maudlin. I passed a restaurant. The sign outside the restaurant read: PIZZAS PASTA HER Maudlinly yours,
- - - - From: "Massing, Robert"Subject: "The Sneer," etc. Date: Thu, 25 Jan 2001 14:03:35 -0800 Dear fellas, Yes, it is no doubt a bad thing that critics - and the critic in each of us - are tempted to diss the creative output of others; and your theories about our motives for doing so are sound - an immature response to the sheer dauntingness of the creative output we have to comb through, a need to distinguish ourselves from the ones who are most like us. Where we have to look to address this problem is inward - each of us to his/her own desire to judge, and each of us to his/her own reasons for doing so. As to how it is possible to manage the unmanageable flow of ideas, creativity, and whatnot, that we are bombarded with every day (and by the way, that is such a good thing! What could be better than knowing that there will always be enough books to read, music to listen to, etc.!) - for me what works best is, believe it or not, to be less discriminating. Read whatever is in front of you. If you have five things in front of you, start with the one that grabs you first. Thanks for opening up a very important discussion.
- - - - Date: Thu, 25 Jan 2001From: "Jacob Arvold" Subject: 50% of a Short Conversation -OR- Just Me, Abridged, Thus Far Dear McSweeney's, A while back I was really into you, then frankly, got bored, but now find you attractive again. While there may be some correlation between your appeal and the content you put-out, I do not dismiss the fact that it may be just some kind of male cycle pheromone thing on my part. But to the point: I am finding the recent conversation between J.L. and D.E. refreshing. Don't get me wrong. It's not as though I don't thoroughly enjoy your regular dose of clever stupidism. I am just finding that SINCERITY can have a certain power at times. I remember watching the Super Bowl commercials last year and thinking that the (admittedly sappy/cheesy) Budweiser commercials which plainly boasted the legacy of its company and product actually seemed to be more effective in grabbing the viewer's attention simply because the other commercials seemed to be on a quest to out-bizarre each other. The wackiness had become monotonous. (I did, however, really dig the cowboys herding cats.) I think the "Narcissism of Minor Difference" and the "Watching Goliath Fall, Even If He Is A Nice Guy, Syndrome" are wonderful topics to pursue. ButI won't horn-in on that conversation. I've been doing some thinking lately and am wondering; would McSweeney's and its readership be more interested in discussing 1) Embraced Contentment In All Things vs. Quest for Improvement as meansof attaining Peace Of Mind or 2) Hot Dogs with Papaya Juice vs. Malt Liquor.? [If this letter is too long you may cut out the last ten sentences] Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Fri, 26 Jan 2001 09:35:14 -0500From: Caren Lissner Subject: popcorn Dear McSweeney's: There is a rule at my office against making microwave popcorn. But I figured I could get away with it. I put some popcorn in the microwave and then I got a phone call. When I got back into the kitchen, black smoke was billowing from the microwave. Since I was hungry, I thought, "I could still eat some of it," and I ran across the hall into my office with it and closed the door. But I was almost overcome by the smoke. I quickly ran back out of my office, shut the door behind me, ran into the hall, and threw the popcorn out the window. I returned to my office and started typing. People began drifting in and accusing me of having burned popcorn. "It wasn't me," I said. "Where's the popcorn? Where's the popcorn? I defy you to find the popcorn." "I can smell it," they said. I threw out my hands. "Where's the popcorn?" I advise anyone in a similar situation to do the same. Sincerely,
- - - - Date: Sun, 28 Jan 2001Subject: Necessary Gratitude Dear McSweeney's, The recently-read exchange between DE and JL (?) got the blood pumping. I applaud the efficiency in which the point was made to quit the sniveling, and remember why we are involved: our mutual love of reading and writing. Thanks,
- - - - Date: Mon, 29 Jan 2001Subject: The Eggers/Lethem Conversation, Please forward to McSwys Rep From: Dave Reidy Dear McSwys, "If one person's book is popular, or another wins an award, then it helps us all— at the very least, it certainly can't hurt. The impulse behind tearing into a colleague says Don't look at that fraud, look at me! But wouldn't it be just as easy to say, Hey, after you're done looking at him, look at me, too! Imagine going backstage at a piano recital and seeing the kids scratching each other's eyes out over who gets to go first. It's just ludicrous." This reminded me viscerally of the semester I spent studying Spanish in Dublin. (I have yet to study Gaelic in Madrid). We read the epic poem of Spain and the Spanish language, "El Poema de Mio Cid." It was hard to read in Middle Spanish and took forever, but no matter. What reminded me of El Cid in The McSwys Rep's letter was the fact that 2 fellow noblemen whose names escape me spend much of the poem doing whatever they can to bring dishonor and strife to El Cid, especially when he has reached the pinnacles of honor and success through his exploits in battle and demonstrations of loyalty to the king. And why? According to my professor, because they believed that honor came in finite quantities: there was only so much to go around, and any that El Cid had diminished the portion available to them. Because of this, they perform any number of heinous acts that seek to dishonor the Cid, which, thankfully bring nothing but dishonor and shame upon themselves (eventually. One would have liked to see it happen sooner). Interestingly, some of the same imagery Mr. Eggers uses to describe the phenomenon of "not enough praise to go around" reviews is used to describe the actions of the 2 Noblemen: they take El Cid's daughter in the desert, defile her, and leave her to die. And that, in their mind, dishonors El Cid and not themselves. Unbelievable. Reminds me a little of our reviewers, though we've all done it as Eggers and Lethem are kind enough to admit. Just thought I'd write this because it came to mind and I couldn't not write it. If the you think the McSwys rep would like to read these thoughts, please feel free to forward them. Dave Reidy - - - - From: "Bryan Charles"Date: Mon, 29 Jan 2001 12:56:38 -0500 Dear McSweeney's, In high school I woke from a fever dream, stumbled to the phone, called my girlfriend and told her, for the first and last time, that I loved her. Last week I had a fever, but instead of dreaming love, I dreamed my bedroom was a steam engine and a city. The next morning, I called in sick, turned on the television, watched a talk show about teenage girls who dress slutty, and thought, for some reason, about the short stories of Raymond Carver. I decided I'm going to buy that new book, the one with the five unearthed stories, even though I pretended for a long time like I was over him. Who was I kidding? The guy could tell a damn story. Fondly,
- - - - From: "Gregory Purcell"Date: Wed, 31 Jan 2001 02:55:35 I Had An Idea, Actually, two. 1.) Ice cream is on the very cusp of human ingenuity. Where does it stand next to The House of Fame or the first model of the double helix? It is delicious, and we made it. 2.) Also, people are particularly okay when they stand up for themselves as many times as they back down. Sure, sure, I know... The joy of my life is that I am usually surrounded by these people. Sometimes they give me money, and the arguably good part of it is that it's never when I really need it. I would like to be a fighter. With my fists. Just once, and then never again. But that's a third idea. Alternately,
- - - - From: "Sarah M. Balcomb"Date: Wed, 31 Jan 2001 Dear McSweeney's: My office moved. Don't worry, not too far, just a couple blocks down Broadway. But here's the thing. The doorman in my new building, he's a burly, mustached black man who dresses not unlike Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (though perhaps this might make a better story if he dressed more like Eli Wallach in said movie -- including crisscrossed ammunition belts). Also, his name is Cowboy. Seriously. That's how he introduced himself. Now, you may be wondering why I didn't question him, didn't demand to know why he asserted this moniker or if he even has a last name, but as far as I'm concerned, any man who can offer a hand and with a straight face say, "I'm Cowboy," well, that man is all right with me. That man should not be questioned. So this morning while I waited for the elevator, Cowboy and I had an interesting exchange. Here it is, as far as I can recall. "How you doing this morning?" Cowboy asks, his arms folded across his cask-like chest. "Fine," I reply softly with a vague smile. "How's your spirit? A little low?" "Yeah." "I can tell," says Cowboy nodding. I smile sadly, also nodding. "We gotta keep spirits up around here." He pauses to regard the woman next to me, "Ain't that right?" The woman smiles and nods. Then the elevator arrives and the woman and I file towards the opening door. Cowboy stands to usher us into the elevator saying, "We could all, any of us, go at any time, so keep them spirits up. Otherwise, what's the point." - - - - Read Previous Letters:
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