- - - -
Dave Eggers' The Wild Things is available for preorder, in regular hardcover and
limited-edition fur-covered.
- - - -
L E T T E R S .
[Please send printable correspondence to mcsweeneysmail@yahoo.com. Letters received will be added to this page in reverse chronological order, largely unedited. Thank you.] - - - - From: Jeff JohnsonSubject: ncaa Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, I have gotten several e-mails from McSweeney's NFL readers asking what I think of the NCAA hoops tournament. The only thing I can say is the Wisconsin Badgers are the math rock team of this spring gala. They are like the patient scientists of Tortoise compared to Gonzaga's poor Toad the Wet Sprocket imitation (couple of surprise hits, not a serious contender, a career built on lethargic sorority soliloquies), or Michigan State's shoddy Too Short (Mateen Cleaves is tough, but he's like 4' 7"). Seton Hall could be the tournament's Pavement, but more likely they emulate the quick, ugly sulfur burn of Letters to Cleo. Duke and North Carolina are like the Rolling Stones, Steve Miller Band or Jimmy Buffet (always around) of the tournament. Iowa State is strictly Buck Owens, or even a novelty hillbilly act (someone singing about the lubrication benefits of butter) like Ray Stevens. Purdue (just based on the wanton self-destruction and comb-over of coach Gene Keady) is Steve Earle, while Indiana, who went down for the count early is either a) Shannon Hoon of Blind Melon (early extinguishment) or b) George Jones (based on Bobby Knight's history of tantrums, and serious scraps with everyone he's involved with. Think for a minute of Neil Reed as Tammy Wynette. Actually think of Bobby Knight as Tommy Lee.) Syracuse makes me think of John Lithgow. I know he's an actor, but that is the kind of career trajectory they're shooting for. They look good on paper, but always shoot themselves in the foot, because like Lithgow shilling for the Discover card, they always try to take the easy way out. Tulsa, I have no idea about. Although I once stayed at a Holiday Inn in Tulsa that had an empty third-floor open-air swimming pool and it was 105 degrees out. It was all being remodeled, and throughout the downtown the only sound you could hear was an air conditioner. There was maybe a two-mile an hour breeze every fifteen minutes. The hotel had a new manager, fresh from California, and it was Saturday afternoon. This to me is the essence of divorce and forced fresh starts. I will leave you with this: In 1943, there was a group of lads from Duluth who played for the Maroon Pharmacy, a traveling semi-pro basketball team. Their starters were called the Buttermilk Five. The term came from what the coach, Hank Gomlichek, called "Buttermilk Defense," because he wanted the other team to curdle. In reality he probably meant cottage cheese, but no one cared. The Buttermilk Five also took wagers and wore fedoras. They often reminded their best gals to never sass them, and they insisted on extra dinner rolls and those tan eggs at every roadhouse their bus stopped at. Once in Muncie, Indiana there was a small boy named Vic Dufrane, who 86% of the time could hit a half-court shot while wearing a blindfold. The Maroon Pharmacy arrived for a game against The Muncie School of Optometry and signed Dufrane up for an 11-day contract. They were going on a special trip to Delaware at the special invitation of the governor, and needed something special. They arrived at the Governor's mansion, and were feted with a buffet of samosas, poi, lemon pie, London broil, and oysters. The tea was crisp and minty. Vic Dufrane had a glass of whole milk, and the governor secretly supplied him with a stack of risquŽ Japanese comic books. Dufrane remembered atrocities of Pearl Harbor and thought, "No, I shouldn't accept." But the onset of puberty made him change his mind, and he retired for the evening to a mammoth tree house in the backyard that had an electronic elevator and brass floors. Speaking of floors, the Maroon Pharmacy took on the Dover Monks the next afternoon at a YMCA with a thick glass floor. It was the Governor's secret trick. The Dover Monks were used to the floor, but the Maroon Pharmacy, and more importantly the Buttermilk Five, were rattled. There was a marching band out front, four tons of confetti, and mules were being shot out of cannons. The whole town held hands. The Maroon Pharmacy fell hard that day, 64-26. Dufrane never made it out of the tree house, and several members of the Buttermilk Five retired in shame to a life of lawn work and tuckpointing. One of the stars, Miller Eisenelson opened a successful harbor steakhouse, but in 1983 was convicted of tax fraud. In closing: 1) Have you seen Bijou Phillips in the new Playboy? 2) The Denis Johnson thing in the new issue is my favorite. 3) Why won't Stuart Murdoch of Belle and Sebastian do interviews? Respectfully, Jeff Johnson - - - - Date: 20 Mar 00From: Thomas Gibbon Subject: McSweeney's Related Event Dear New York-based McSweeney's Subculture, This is a a very angry letter [This is a very grateful letter]. To the smart-assed Hunnish cur who nicked my printed items from Galapagos last Thursday, I curse you and your entire line form your long-dead mutant protazoan ancestors to your malfunctive disembodied floating space-brain descendants of the distant future [To the sweet and generous soul who saw some much beloved books in danger and sought to refuge them from the drunken typhoon, blessings in abundance to you, your livestock, your crops, and your hale and fecund tribespeople in perpetuity]. On page 55 of both items ("Journey to the End of the Night," "European Review" February 1998) you will find the terrifying symbol of my vengeful curse, this symbol shall be burned into the foreheads of your children and your children's children making it difficult for them to get dates except with each other which ultimately will lead to this symbol, normally a recessive trait, being branded on the diminutive frontal lobes of your malfunctive disembodied floating space-brain descendants of the distant future, also, you will get runny boils in nasty, sweaty places, by which I mean your crotch [You will find proof of my ownership of these items embossed on page 55, courtesy of my sister, a charming woman, who would be very pleased to know that someone was kind enough to look out for her little brother's much beloved books]. I would appreciate any information which may bring this matter to justice swiftly and ruthlessly [I would be ever so pleased if the guardian of the objects could email me, tgibbon@cup.org, to arrange an exchange of my undying gratitude and stuttered thanks for the book-things]. Hip-deep in blood [With boundless respect and adoration],
ps- I do not enjoy corresponding with or meeting strangers so you may imagine my email appears here only with great reluctance. Only because I am so cheap (and I am so cheap, so very, very cheap) is it necessary for me to compromise myself and my office in this way. Please remember this, dear strangers. - - - - From: "Robert Beier"Subject: From your office correspondent Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, I am now working at an office that has a theme. It is a theme office. The theme is baseball. Everywhere I look there is baseball. I shall look to my right and tell you what I see. I see a baseball bat in a nook, lit from the top, the bat says it is a "Louisville Slugger". There is a wall light above the bat, this wall light is in the shape of a baseball diamond. I shall look to my left. I see a conference room; the panels have frosted glass, etched into them are the figures of baseball players. They aren't just any baseball players. They are famous baseball players. Players with names you would recognize if you followed baseball or if you were a True American. I have a baseball yummy dispenser on my desk. A nice woman keeps it filled with M&Ms. People stop by my desk all day and dispense their little pleasures. The noise of these tiny pleasures falling into the warm palms of the seekers hands (won't melt in the hands, melt in the mouth) has all ready gotten on my nerves. Particularly some of the women who stop by. They have to comment on the chocolate they are eating, as if guilty at the pleasure of having three M&Ms. They feel for some reason they have something to explain to me. They have nothing to explain. I do wonder what more they are hiding. What guilt lies curled around the teeth, snatching all of the pleasure from such glorious round globules of goodness. The desks are the most impressive. They are made out of the wood that bats are made out of and polished to that golden battiness color. In fact, I am typing on a baseball bat, except that it is flat and long and in the shape of a desk. I have learned some baseball lingo. The most disturbing to me is the lingo used to describe the catcher's equipment, which is: Tools of ignorance. This scares me in places I haven't been scared in before. Regards. Bob Beier - - - - From: "Matt Velick"Subject: age Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, I've begun seeing people as they will look when they get older, as well as seeing people as they must have looked when they were much younger. Not all the time, mind you, as that would provide a Twilight Zone-esque situation wherein I would most certainly end up seeing my own death in some horrible wretched way. This is more along the lines of being able to visualize someones face in a more or less ageless way. Again, I'm not bothered by this; it doesn't haunt me. It's actually quite fascinating as I'm more than willing to give into this sort of imagination as a means of escaping the banality of tedious routine. Usually when I'm on the subway. For example, I was sitting across from this woman whose age was tremendously difficult to determine due to the premature wrinkles under her eyes and around the sides of her mouth, but also because she had immaculate teeth and a girlish demeanor which surrounded her. Without generating an uncomfortable situation by staring bug-eyed at her, I could tell that she must have been a beautiful little girl, and also that as she gets older, the wrinkles will increase substantially making her look unfortunately older and smaller than she really is. It was a fleeting thought, but as I got off the train, I became concerned that she maintain her wonderful teeth. They really were quite breathtaking. Matt Velick
- - - - Date: Sat, 18 Mar 2000Subject: In response to Katie Lederer's Mar. 10 response to Kerry Lannert's March 3 letter about camp songs Dear McSweeney's, At Camp Whippoorwill, we too sang a version of the "Zip zip zip" song, identical to Katie's version except that we had no "camels" or "fatimas." We sang: "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, if the skeeters don't get you then the midges must..." There were lots of bugs up there at Camp Whippoorwill, which might explain it, although perhaps there were a lot of bugs in the WWI trenches as well. Neither do I have any idea what a fatima might be (although there was a character by that name in the musical "Boys From Syracuse") Fellow camper,
- - - - From: "Mike Topp"Subject: How to Break Up Date: Sat, 18 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, from THE WORST-CASE SCENARIO SURVIVAL HANDBOOK How to Break Up With Someone You've Been Seeing for Awhile When attempting to end a lengthy relationship (over three years) in an emergency situation, you will not know much about your surroundings, specifically the reaction of your partner. This makes breaking up particularly dangerous. If breaking up with an especially volatile or disturbed individual, try to end things in public; neighborhood Italian restaurants are good. These establishments are generally quiet, and have an air of decorum. Stay away from bars or singles events over the next several months. The jury is still out on the efficacy of rebound relationships. Take a cold shower immediately after breaking up. How to Break Up 1. Jump feet first. 2. Keep your body completely vertical. 3. Squeeze your feet together. Sincerely, MIke Topp - - - - From: "Tom Bartos"Subject: last night's reading Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, Perhaps you didn't get my note. I said I was going to be late but you went ahead and started without me. Why do you have to be so difficult? I would like to know if it was something I said or did to make you act this way. Please, let's air it out. I can't take your fickle abuse any more. First you say 100 yards. Now it is a 200 yard restraining order. Please, have some consideration and consistency. My friend in Portland, Oregon asked me to attend your reading last night, but I was busy (some call it being a "Wheel Watcher") and couldn't get there until 10:30. As the place was packed and hotter than a bordello on shore leave in July (or something to that effect), the last 15 minutes sounded good. My friend also asked me to say hello to Mr. Eggers and give him a kiss for her. She is not that good of a friend. Sincerely,
- - - - From: "Holder, Laura T"Subject: facts regarding contest pitting bunnies against kitties as to who makes better pets Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, forwarded by me from my friend brandon:
- - - - From: "Holder, Laura T"Subject: do you think kitties make better pets than bunnies, or do bunnies make better pets? Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, i know i know. it might be dangerous to rate the appropriateness
of
certain kinds of animals as pets
dear MR,
i said 'yea, i think maybe it is' and you said... this other thing...and get his book, it's called [somethingsomething] (which i do not remember and i really didnt hear you very well in the first place, because bars are noisy. plus i can look it up later) and i said, unwittily*, "yah i will" and then i read ms.___________'s thing this morning, about the mown lawn. and i thought that might be the best in the category of nice and neatest things in town, actually. but then i started to read Ben....Something's thing, about the drive-in and the gliding waitress and the chef throwing the brownie on the grill and i said to myself now that might be the best best thing in the category of bestest things in the category of small little stapeled things and then i learned of this, and this is good to be aware of: according to amazon.com, CivilWarLand in Bad Decline "Is Popular in: Stillwater, OK (#9)". The number nine here refers to its rank among the top ten books listed for "Uniqueness to Stillwater, OK". The quotes are there because i am quoting. along with that book's number nine ranking, amazon.com proves a listing of eight other books which are rated more "Unique to Stillwater, OK" than mr.saunders' book in the contest of Most-Uniqueness-to-Stillwater-Oklahoma-in-the-category-of-a-book. also listed is one book less unique. some of these books and their rankings are, not necessarily in this order : Handbook of Orthopedic Rehabilitation ABRIDGED! (#3)
which might be good to keep in mind. lth *unwittily is not a word. - - - - From: Christina DixcySubject: 3/16/00 Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, Thanks for the trim. My hair has renewed vim and vigor. (Though I do
think
you could use more water and sharper scissors for future snips.)
Christina Dixcy
- - - - From: "Gary Greenberg"Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, Today I received in the mail a letter from a woman whom I barely know. In it was an article from New York Magazine about Dave Eggers. It had a picture of Dave Eggers in his office and quotes from Dave Eggers about, among other things, McSweeney's. Attached to it was a sticky note: "I thought you might be interested in this." But that's not all. yesterday I got two letters. One was from my mother. In it was a copy of a column by Ellen Goodman in which she (the columnist, not my mother) said something to the effect that if everyone was a panic-stricken parent like Dave Eggers, kids wouldn't be bringing guns to school and killing each other. Well, maybe she didn't say that exactly. I couldn't read it closely because I had to open the other letter, which was from an actual friend of mine and contained an article from the Boston Globe about Dave Eggers. It had frighteningly large photo of Dave Eggers and many quotes attributed to Dave Eggers. Both of these letters had little sticky notes attached telling me that I was probably interested in these articles. Well, I'll admit I am a little interested, although I'm not sure about the staggering part. But what I'm really interested is whether this is happening to other people, and I thought this might be a way to find out. Gary Greenberg - - - - From: "Gillian Beebe"Subject: sheesh! Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, Did you print my letter without editing the mis-numbered list on purpose to humiliate me? Well, it didn't work anyway. I know I am a math moron (can't even count past 2 for crying out loud), and I make no bones about it. Maybe I even screw up mathematically on purpose now and then just to text people--to see if they will be aggravated, kind-hearted, or just mean when they discover what I have done wrong. What id the name of the blond boy in blue jeans who read second last night? He was wonderful! Your Literary Agent, however, spoke down to me, and I take umbrage. I am trying to be understanding, though. Maybe he can't help talking down to people, being a literary agent and all. Or maybe he enjoys talking down to people which is why he became a literary agent in the first place. This is what happened: I thought it might be nice to volunteer for the haircutting during intermission, so I walked up front and ended up speaking to a tall red-haired man whose name I forgot the instant he told it to me. He asked me what I do and I told him that I am an editor of philosophy books at an academic press. I told him I am quite bored with my job and was considering apprenticing myself to a literary agent "just for fun." Conveniently for the red-haired man, the Literary Agent walked near us at exactly that moment, so the red-haired man graciously introduced me to the Literary Agent and summarized my interest. The Literary Agent then talked down to me. Maybe he couldn't tell how old I am. Maybe I look fresh and naive and like I need a good talking-down-to. The Literary Agent gave me the "grass is greener" speech and otherwise maligned the job of a literary agent. "Why would I want to do such a lousy job as his?" or something like that. I was disappointed that he behaved like one of "those" people--those people who have awesome or interesting or somehow appealing jobs yet feel compelled to complain about them to anyone who oohs and ahhs. Ugh. Perhaps he was just busy and distracted and annoyed about having been aggressively introduced to a girl who was really there to see about getting her hair cut. I didn't get my hair cut by Dave Eggers, by the way. He had plenty of volunteers who didn't look as though they needed their hair cut. I really need a hair cut! Still I remain fond,
- - - - Date: Thu, 17 Feb 2000From: "Leslie Ternes" Subject: A Sign. Dear McSweeney's, Someone in the apartment building across the street from my office hung a huge sign on his or her balcony that says, in big black capital letters: BU$H BITES. The sign must be eight feet long and is directly across from my third story office window. Your friend,
- - - - Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000From: Kiersten Conner-Sax Subject: Chuck Easterling rocks Thank you, Chuck Easterling. You are my hero. Kiersten Conner-Sax - - - - From: "Ed /"Subject: the mars globe Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000 Dear Mr. Malizsewski, I read your essay about the Mars "globe" and immediately searched the "internet" for a book I've been trying to find for a long time. I do not care about globes, nor did I immediately think about responding to your "story." However, when I saw that the various responses from other readers had been posted on the site, it began to seem like not such a bad idea. I too would like my writing to appear on the internet for all America to read. America hell! The world!!! And so, I've prepared a little something myself. It's just the kind of thing your "publication" seems to like to print. I was searching for a book of Paul Auster's poetry and couldn't find it, you catch my drift? So I thought I'd call a few places and boy was I in for it. Following is a transcript (reconstructed from memory) of some pretty funny telephonic exchanges: Border's Border's Employee: "Hello, Border's Books. May I help you?"
--- Quoth The Raven Booksellers Quoth...: "Quoth the Raven."
--- Well, that's that. Yet another fruitless search. Funny, though. Love, Eduardo Illades - - - - Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000Subject: re:"french style" Dear McSweeney's, regarding mike topp's note concerning cowboys requesting a shot of red-eye at the saloon, i believe there is a woody woodpecker episode in which buzz buzzard asks for a red-eye and woody then swaggers up to bar next to him and says with a slight drawl "make mine a red eye too". no french subtitles in that one, that i remember. kelly king - - - - From: "Boucher, Matthew"Subject: powder-coating the Bolen Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, A while ago, I logged on to this web site called highschoolalumni.com. You can go there, and they supposedly have every high school in the country listed. You can go to your school, select your class year, and leave information about yourself, including your email address. A few classmates have written me since I posted my email address to catch up on old times. I got an email today informing me that I had a message in my highschoolalumni.com "inbox." So, I went to the site, accessed my account, and here's the message I got, with the subject heading "RE: What I Am doing": I am restoring the Bolen tractor. Having it powder coated by Joe Newlon. Doing my threater work. Still working with Charlie 3 days week. Watching My Mother go further and further into alzheimers. Getting fatter. Drinking too much . and enjoying the Hell out of retirement. Also I have our 55 up for sale. Plus all the extra parts. bout a car and a half. Now aren't you sorry you asked. We bought a time share in Branson in January. But haven't been back down since . Thats about all my excitement for this letter Take care of yourself and let me know waht you are up to . Bye Ed I'm only 26 years old. I don't know who the hell Ed is, but, Ed, if you're out there, I hope your mother is doing okay. Thanks for all of your info - I'm not sorry that I asked, because I didn't ask. But say hi to Charlie and Joe Newlon for me, whoever they are. Bye, Matt Boucher - - - - Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000From: Suzanne Price Subject: Puppets After reviewing many of the letters you print, I quickly saw a lack of the subject of puppets. Sure, there is mention of monkeys and toasters and such, but puppets, who are of utmost importance, are glaringly omitted. The British write it in to discuss clowns, but no one has mentioned that Flat Eric, the puppet from certain Levi's commercials, has become a sort of cult phenomenon. Puppets make people happy and they also are ways to vicarously express feelings that would otherwise be considered insane. Imagine if Grover were a real person, talking to little kids and asking for hugs. He would be jailed, as should the old host of Family Feud, who made all the contestants kiss him as much as possible. Which brings me to the GameShow network. Does anyone else watch this besides me? Because it gloriously chronicles our nation's descent from 1970s cheerfulness to 1990s turpitude, with the show Inquizition being a prime example. I would like to say puppets make my life easier and that I feel safer when people express their most subconsious thoughts using a felt animal. who agrees? Suzanne Price
- - - - Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000From: Chuck Easterling Subject: Grains of sand in a Dixie cup Dear McSweeney's, Like an anvil to the head of a foppish cartoon character I stumbled upon an idea: I should be the McSweeneys Answer Guy. Now, I realize not everyone is using McSweeneys as the Great All-Knowing But Generally Esoteric Answer Place (Booth?) but it seems that at least a few people are. And those folks need me and I need them. I would simply draw upon my years of counseling experience and provide the answers your intelligently confused readers crave. The only condition I would place upon my participation is that I will be able to skip right over questions from Mike Topp. Well, I would read them, pause and then laugh. Then I would skip over them. But everything else would be fair game. And if I could not furnish the answers I would consult the man who gave me life. My father. Dad. I could use this forum to show him that there is more to the Internet than the proliferation of smut. (He's retired from Sears & Roebuck and now spends most of his time at this huge Catholic church in Columbia, South Carolina). I would consult him when a question had a religious or retail bent. Please allow yourself to visualize such a scenario: Dear McSweeneys Answer Guy,
And it would go on like that from there. I would then email the problem/quandary/dilemma to my father. He would respond with something approximating this: Hi Chuck! I think I deleted your email. I can not find it. I read it but can not remember most of what it said. Do you have enough money? Who is McSweeney? Mom said that's not your roommate. Peace be with you,
The possibilities are limitless. Sincerely,
P.S. My Uncle Fitz is a welder so I have that covered as well. - - - - Date: 16 Mar 00From: Thomas Gibbon Subject: Helpful Office Tip Dear McSweeney's (but really Bryson Newhart, David Madden, and Christopher Butler), Here's a fun and useful trick you can use in the "washroom" at work: 1) Don't talk to anybody. No but seriously: 2) If the faucets are the kind you press down (as opposed to turn) try pressing down on both simultaneously. I do this alla time at work. The usual method, you get like four seconds of water but this way, man it is exponential! Seriously like sixteen seconds of water, I'm not kidding. Of course you can't control temperature but four seconds isn't enough to get warm anyway (and don't think that's not part of the plan, they know they're saving precious pennies on heating oil, the bastards). Also, I had to kill a roach in the bathroom at work this morning. No, no, no, it's not what you think; it was an insect and I stepped on it. Spreading the Word for Convenience,
ps- There is also a sign over the urinals in the bathroom of our company, the oldest of its kind in the world (the company, not the urinal sign), which reads "Please Flush the Toilets." Best part = Doesn't always happen. I am filled with contempt. pps-Oh, right, the rest of the letter.
- - - - Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000From: amie barrodale Subject: This one is w/o focus Dear McSweeney's, sharp nosed swift snakes
We have an internee training program down here, in the spare room. It's usually geared toward high school children and college freshman - you know, feed them, groom them, teach them to brand leather pouches and communicate. "What," we say, "I don't understand the question." "The words your saying, they don't make any sense," we say. In time they learn to pronounce 'hungry' without that terrible, plangent 'o' sound that so rankled my mother. I'm supposed to mention Zbigniew in this letter. Good morning, Zbigniew.
Your Devoted Pal,
- - - - From: "Mike Topp"Subject: 100,000,000,000,000 Poems Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, Had lunch with my agent today. I talked about the trouble I was having with finishing my new book, "100,000,000,000,000 Poems." Sincerely, Mike Topp - - - - Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000Subject: reverse chronologist Dear McSweeney's, I noticed that your letters page was not in proper reverse chronological order today. If this is a staffing problem, I would like to offer my services. With many years in various order-oriented fields, I have quite the experience in numbering. In addition, I can order things alphabetically, and I can operate a fax machine with relative proficiency. Let me know if you would like me to send my resume. I work for cheap (often going for days on end without a meal). Yours, Mike Reynolds
- - - - From: "Richard Alcott"Subject: The Modest Life Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, Many people want to live a modest life, and some people are able to achieve a kind of simplicity in the midst of this busy, cosmopolitan, getting and spending world. Even people like you, who either live surrounded by luxuriant rural verdure, have one or two potted plants to console you, or use red masonry bricks for a pillow -- even you struggle with the realities of accumulation. Just the other evening, as I relaxed in a hot, scented bathtub following a long and challenging yet satisfying day's work educating the eager young students of this quaint seaside village as to the intricacies of definite and indefinite English article usage, I was reminded yet again that searching after truth is a rutted highway, full of twists and turns and the occasional roadkill. My wife, who is an astute and insightful observer of the human scene, and has raised the question before, called my attention to the Dalai Lama, a presumably immaculate, devout individual who has been forced by circumstances to live a life of exile. Do you think he lives a modest life? my wife asked me. Look at those glasses he wears, she suggested. Those must be Renoma frames. What kind of a modest man wears Renoma frames? What kind of a Buddhist does he think he is? This was not an easy question, not one I could dismiss with a glib, ironic answer. First of all, I would not recognize Renoma eyeglass frames even if I were wearing them myself, and I settled back into the steamy, fragrant waters of my tub, my tightly knotted muscles relaxing uneasily, the stresses of the day slowly melting away, certain that my wife would herself soon straighten me out with answers of her own, if not, more questions which would illuminate the subject like a bank of kleig lights. Was Fred Blassie a modest man? Blassie's major claim to his fame derives from the night he took the right to wear the world's pro-wrestling championship belt back from Rikidozan of Japan. Rikidozan had been yokozuna, the highest rank in the Japanese national sport,sumo,before becoming a professional wrestler and world champion, himself taking the title from Blassie, from America. Before that night, Blassie was no more than a bad guy blowhard with long platinum bleached hair who took the televised locker room interview from filler at the end of the evening's matches to a level of high art. Defeating Rikidozan and winning back the championship redeemed Fred Blassie, who grew up as Freddie Blassman and was known as a professional variously as "Classy" Freddie Blassie, Fred McDaniel, and even, God knows why, "Sailor" Blassie. He is now retired from professional wrestling, and lives in Los Angeles. It was Fred Blassie who introduced the expression "pencil-necked geek" into the popular vocabulary as a typical excoriation of his many colorful opponents. Fred Blassie was a great showman, who often took a metal file to his front teeth in order to make them sharper and more menacing to his many worthy and colorful opponents like the Super Swedish Angel Tor Johnson, or Szandor Szabo, or Mr. Moto, or the Frenchman, Edouard Carpentier, or that masked guy, The Destroyer, or Lou Thesz. One balmy Southern California evening, in that locker room at the venerable Olympic Auditorium in downtown Los Angeles, Fred Blassie dangled the pencil-necked geek ringside announcer Dick Lane by his ankles out an upper-story window. Live. On the air. Dick Lane, professional that he always was, did not drop his microphone, and continued broadcasting his interview with Blassie, though in an understandably somewhat more strangled and excited tone. It was Dick Lane who coined the expression, "Whoa, Nellie!" to lend color to particularly exciting pro-wrestling moves. Dick Lane did not cry "Whoa, Nellie!" while being dangled by his ankles in the strong but tenuous grip of Fred "Sailor" Blassie out the window of the locker room of the venerable Olympic Auditorium in downtown Los Angeles that balmy Southern California evening. He had other things on his mind that evening. Dick Lane had his entire life flashing before his eyes that evening, and survival was suddenly much more important to him than shouting "Whoa, Nellie!" That night, the line between art and life was blurred considerably, and for Dick Lane, the more important line between life and death yawned before him like a chasm. He held on tightly to that microphone like a lifeline. Dick Lane was the model of a modest man. His suits were not expensive, and his glasses were not mounted in designer frames. He was just a skinny little guy with dentures and thinning hair who smelled funny -- which is not to say his body produced odors so powerful that driving through the streets of Los Angeles, home from work each night, packs of dogs, their glistening snouts high in the desert air, and coyotes drawn down from the hills, swollen tongues lolling and dripping, would chase, howling, after his black, round-topped Ford coupe and mill around all night outside the brick apartment building making it a nightly peril for Dick Lane, who kicked around Hollywood during the late '30s and 1940s and played a few bit parts in pictures while more worthy talents were fighting the Fascist menace abroad before he landed the announcing job he held all those years at KTLA, Channel 5, to negotiate the walk from his parking spot in front of the building to the elevator inside the first floor lobby. Dick Lane was not a Buddhist, but then he didn't wear a Rolex watch, either, if you know what I mean. After finishing up his job that night, long ago, the night Fred Blassie dangled him high above the downtown Los Angeles urban pavement, still alive, Dick Lane went back to his skanky Hollywood apartment where he lived during the years after his wife, fed up, for reasons of her own, left him, fixed himself a cup of hot cocoa which he liked to drink with those little mini-marshmallows floating in it, put the cat out on the fire escape, relaxed in front of the tube for awhile, until after midnight when the test pattern with the little picture in the middle of an Indian chief wearing an eagle feather war bonnet came on, then opened up the couch and went to bed. What Dick Lane dreamed about as he slept is his own private business. Just chillin', Rich Alcott - - - - Subject: Neal Pollack's Handsomeness Explained Away Suddenly Using TechnologyDate: Thu, 9 Mar 100 Dear McSweeney's, Some of your writers are brilliant but some others are as dumb as many rocks are considered dumb. I found out why Neal Pollack was handsome after about 2 seconds of Search Time on the Internet, and Ask Jeeves also gave me a useful Pre-Law Advisement page and a list of movies and/or TV shows Sydney Pollack been in (he has been in several). If you print this, please use the name "Robert Orenstein". - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2000From: Paul Elias Subject: hungover again Dear McSweeney's, Man, I got drunk last night. I mean real drunk. I drank this beer called the Eye of the Hawk, which was really glorified malt liquor as its alchol content hovers just under nine percent. One of the two guys I was drinking with also drank Eye of the Hawk. We spent the night sticking out our arms and going "aaawwwwkkkkk" in attempted impersonations of hawks. We also joked that we were all "hawked up" after about the third pint. It seemed funny at the time. My other, non-Hawk drinking companion Dave kept calling it Falcon beer. But he has a habit of doing that. For instance, there's this lunch spot called the Turk and Larkin Deli that we go to all the time. It's called that, presumably, because it sits on the corner of Turk and Larkin. But Dave calls the place Turkey Larkin. They do make killer turkey sandwiches. yours paul elias - - - - Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2000Subject: Mascots Dear McSweeney's, Recently I attended a DePaul University basketball game. At one point in the afternoon the DePaul mascot, a person wearing a costume depicting a large smiling blue demon wearing a basketball uniform, wandered up to children in the crowd and produced a can of whipped cream. The kids would automatically open their mouths and the demon would fill them up with dessert topping. I found this odd, but no one else in the arena looked concerned by the mascot's actions. I wondered how they would react if this happened in any other environment. Imagine walking down the streets of Des Moines, Iowa or Richmond, Virginia seeing a large happy blue devil sticking a can of Reddi-wip down children's throats. I doubt people would sit idly by. I wanted to approach the mascot and ask "What gives with the whipped cream," but I thought I might cause a scene or suffer the wrath of a big blue Lucifer (what if it wasn't just a mascot?). The incident left me with many questions. Does this go on at sporting events often? Do other mascots, such as the San Diego Chicken or the Phillie Phanatic or Bucky Badger, act this way? Did the parents of the children have to sign some sort of waiver to OK the placement of the whipped cream in their kids' respective mouths? Is this a part of some sort of upside down hot fudge sundae ritual and I only caught the end of it? If an adult requests some whipped cream will the demon oblige? Am I over-reacting to this? Please help me. Speaking of mascots, when I was 11 years old, Ribbie and Rhubarb, the furry duo that entertained between innings of Chicago White Sox games in the 1980s, appeared in my neighborhood to celebrate the opening of a bank. Dozens of children showed up to watch Comiskey Park's very own good-will ambassadors usher in a new era of financial convenience to Downers Grove, Illinois. Many of these kids took the opportunity to get an autograph from Ribbie and/or Rhubarb. The young people (and many of their parents, mind you) waited for several minutes to have what was probably an intern in the White Sox public relations department in a purple elephant costume sign a brochure advertising a money market account or whatever other piece of paper happened to be on hand in the bank's lobby. I didn't get an autograph. My 8 year-old brother wanted one, but the line got long and we had to be home for lunch. I told my distressed brother that Ribbie and Rhubarb would come back to town for some other grand opening, but strip mall after strip mall opened with nary an appearance by the zany twosome. A few summers later Ribbie and Rhubarb was mysteriously disappeared from White Sox games altogether with no explanation of their absence from the team's front office. It was like they never even existed. Sincerely, Robert Recklaus - - - - Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2000From: Tom Stanley Dear McSweeney's, Sometimes, I think about Bob Beier. How is he doing? Is he doing ok? This last letter of his, it has me nervous. I tell my grandmother about Bob's letters -- the one where you pretend to be running late to help the woman who is late, the one where you propose to work in the dreams of McSweeney's readers -- I tell her about these letters, and she smiles. Really. So Best Regards,
- - - - From: "Sarah M. Balcomb"Subject: this is our first experience with boredom and a nail gun, i.e. lemons taste better than a punch in the face Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, I'd love a good green pen. Why is it that bosses always have to go on and on, making you feel as dump as a tin can in a processed salmon factory, spitting out mean-spirited words you won't be able to wipe from your head for hours or even days to come, before the inevitable firing? Isn't being canned bad enough without all the guilt and the humiliation and the we-expected-more-from-yous? As if I didn't get enough of that from my mother, whose tirades could last for hours while I stared blankly into her face, which looked more and more like the face of the grim reaper as I got older and my misbehavior grew more serious and threatening to the community at large (I won't go into any unnecessary details here, but let it be said that I haven't returned to this peaceful community in over four years, although this may be related to the fact that my parents also moved away and it's much more convenient for my friends to visit me here in the big city), and as I gazed into in the face of death, I would repeatedly pray, "Just hit me and get it over with, a beating would be much better than this emotional torture;" plus all of my teachers from about sixth grade on up, who couldn't seem to understand why a straight-A student (onetime Valedictorian even) couldn't seem to stop talking during class no matter who they put her next to in the room--she'd even talk to that S.O.C. (that's an acronym for Social Out-Cast, for those readers who didn't grow up in my home town) in the back corner who no one talked to, the one with the greasy blond curls who always smelled like kerosene. And while listening to said ranting and raving by my soon-to-be-former boss, all I can think about is how I will never be able to find another job which provides me with the freedom to spent a large majority of my paid hours composing such rambling excuses for writing as this letter, and how once I am unemployed all my time will be spent writing such snippets which bare no prospect for capital gains; this may sound like an ideal situation, not having to even pretend to work, but without lucrative potential, said propensity for writing rambling, self-referential (dare I say solipsistic) bits of nonsense will prevent me from focusing on preparing a revised resume (which would now be oh so impressive if I did update it), much less those incorrigible cover letters (they seem so simple, but cover letters are treacherous little devils), and I will become, eventually and inevitably, that which my parents and my teachers and former bosses all predicted I would be: alone, a handful of illegitimate children all with different fathers whose last names I never knew, whose hair will always be greasy (and curly like mine, as I fear it's the dominant gene) and reek of kerosene, the only source of fuel we can afford to heat our one-bedroom apartment by the airport, oh and they'll have bad eyesight too, what a shame, glasses but not a brain between the eight of them (could someone please explain to me that whole glasses=smart thing; would I trade my poor eyesight for a slightly less exceptional brain?), and of course I will never receive a graduate degree. The cycle complete. Regards,
PS Ð I did not get fired this week, but proper mental preparation in next to godliness. PPS Ð Squushy is my word for the day. - - - - From: "Brendan O'Malley"Subject: Career Advice Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, I am writing with some career advice for the young man who recently published one of those memoir-type books, and who appears to be affiliated closely with your publication. He has no doubt earned out his advance and is now perhaps enjoying some further financial gain. I believe he should invest some of these well-deserved rewards in his future by engaging the services of either Phil Niekro or Charlie Hough so as to learn the arcane art of the knuckleball. I think he may find appealing the way in which the knuckleballer offers up his pitches, well beyond the control of his will, to the Fates. In 1998 I witnessed a contest between the Boston Red Sox and a certain team in the South Bronx during which the humid atmospheric conditions aligned with the manipulations of the serene Tim Wakefield to make the ball dance in a most unnatural fashion, thereby utterly mystifying the opposing batters. Even the consummately professional Chili Davis struck out swinging like a Class A scrub. On other occasions, Mr. Wakefield throws what appears to be Little League batting practice, but such are the vagaries of the knuckleballer's career. I am not proposing some Plimpton-esque stunt (that guy's an asshole). And I do not think this is an absurd proposition; throwing the knuckleball does not require the freakish level of athleticism that most professionals possess (and that the young author most likely does not), having more in common with the craft of a medieval artisan, passed down from master to apprentice. I am talking about really becoming a major league pitcher, not just some schmuck who dons a uniform for a day and then writes about the "experience." He might even be able to outshine that other great media darling, Garth Brooks, by actually making the team (come to think of it, Mr. Brooks' Chris Gaines album has a lot in common with this young man's memoir-ish book). I hope this potential career move will be seriously considered. Sincerely, Brendan O'Malley
- - - - From: "Butler, Christopher (Nick Online)"Subject: Odd Nostalgia Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, This is an open letter to my fellow aging ex-schoolyard yucksters and reformed grade school paste-eaters. This is an open letter to those who romped in Lee corduroys in the 70's, played tag in springtime and ran screaming from all forms of the dreaded "Cootie". I am hopeful someone out there can shed light on the origins of either of these mysterious melodies from my halcyon "nanny-nanny, poo-poo" days. I have affixed the songs hereto. The first: Mary Beth Feeney* And the second: Jesus Christ! Superstar!** *I am reasonably certain Mary Beth Feeney was a fictional name. No disrespect intended to any real-life, genuine Mary Beths or Feeneys or Mary Beth Feeneys or, for that matter, any females/males possessing cropped genitalia. I share your pain. I mean, "FEEL." I feel your pain. *These exlamation points reflect that this song was always shouted rather than sung. Whence these phallocentric ditties? Help me. Thank you.
- - - - From: "Dave Madden"Subject: the unbearable lightness of lucy thomas Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, I've been hitting your site with my browser repeatedly for months now and have enjoyed everything Lucy-Thomas-oriented that has been thrown my way. Now that I've found myself a job that sits me at a computer that's fast, fast--and also gives me nothing but free time to hit web pages with my browser--I have recently taken to going through your archives and reading what I've missed. Lucy Thomas! Oh the cool and assured bluntness of her prose! Her knack for titling! Her sexy name! Needless to say I need more Lucy Thomas. Please tell me where I can find it (searching for her in the depths of amazon and barnesandnoble.com has produced books on Peggy Guggenheim and a book on Bryn Mawr's archives I'm convinced was written by an old professor of mine) and when I can maybe be expecting some more stuff from her on your site (or, perhaps in the print version, which, I should mention, hasn't arrived in the mail yet (Is there a problem with printing? with my subscription order? I feel left out from those who got to attend the readings that happened in cities bigger and more literarily important than mine own and picked up available copies)). So yes, please tell me anything and everything you can. Thanks and g'night,
- - - - Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2000From: "Carman, Sean" Subject: A further reply to Barrodale Dear McSweeney's, Last Friday I stumbled into my Elizabeth Park Georgian Colonial well after midnight, more tired than drunk from the martinis Harry kept loading onto the Arco rep's tab, to find my second wife Mabel sitting alone with an empty Stoli bottle, staring at a lone printed page from your upstart website. Every goddamn light in the house was on. Even before I saw the bottle I knew from her blotchy cheeks and welling eyes that Mabel was long gone. It took me a second to decipher her distraught ramblings. "How could you?" she kept saying. I might have also heard the word "bastard" muffled behind her choking sobs. It wouldn't have been the first time. I knew the source of her anguish the moment I saw the line drawing of the antique free-standing magnifying glass on the tear-stained page she waved at me like an indictment. There a certain contributor of yours, A. Barrodale, whom I recently had the unpleasant responsibility of setting straight about the relationship between PE production and cracker nameplate specifications for overseas ethylene configurations, had responded to my correction by accusing me of intellectual property theft and a liaison with a Beaumont hooker named Jorge. Excuse the long sentences in this missive, but since this incident I've been quite upset. About my time in East Texas I will only say that I don't recall visiting Beatrice's House of Pleasure, although I'm almost certain it had changed names by then, but I never knew any Jorge there. Plus I wouldn't stoop to lifting the chemical formula for bromide admixture inhibition from her for a sweaty five dollars without at least enquiring about pilot test results, and it is in the omission of this last detail that Barrodale gives the game away. She can't prove anything and she knows it. Besides, that just isn't how we did things in those days. But tell Barrodale I don't begrudge her Nash's fixation on me, nor his ill-conceived quest for revenge. I can explain it all, and may someday have to, on the stand or in the glare of some television reporter's klieg lights. I'm tiring even as I write this. Mabel has since gone, to God knows where, leaving only a summons and a lawyer's business card, and my explanations to the bridge club and the office pool are wearing thin. I suppose Barrodale might only have been doing her job, and that I should thank her for shedding light on the recent spate of pranks I had written off to the unruly children of my uncivilized neighbors, and for giving me a name to take to the police. Perhaps Katy, Texas is not such a bad place, though I never had occasion to drive that way from Beaumont, and would not have done so with that cheap perfume spilling from me like a confession or a cutting remark. Perhaps though, if I am out that way again, I will look this Barrodale up. And maybe I won't go the authorities about her boy. It sounds like he might be worth quizzing about some problems my clients have been having meeting EPA's new concentration limits for the land disposal of benzene. Sincerely yours, G. Berks-Kill P.S. Those caps Honker did? Failed after five weeks. Had to have Eco-Chem build them again from square one plus pay some white-shoe Houston firm $10,000 to tell us they were unable to serve process on the scoundrel. I hope, for your sake, you don't regret leaving him. - - - - Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2000From: Erik A Kraft Subject: my week Dear McSweeney's, Monday.............The death of a thousand cuts.
Your prompt attention to this matter is appreciated. Erik Kraft. - - - - Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2000Subject: Confessions of an Eavesdropper From: "Ed Page" Dear McSweeney's, One day, several years ago, I was strolling along, fairly aimlessly, when I happened upon a bevy of women. They were casually dressed twentysomethings, and were all, I suppose, reasonably good-looking, but the thing that struck me about these women was not their looks, but rather the gusto with which they were throwing themselves into their chitchat. They all seemed to be talking at once. They would pause only to laugh, which they did frequently. As I sauntered toward them, I wondered what topic could have inspired such ebullience. So, as I passed, I couldn't resist craning an ear in their direction, hoping to catch some clue as to their subject matter. Here, gentle reader, is the phrase that wafted its way to my outstretched ear: "I was hit in the face by a monkey in fifth grade." Very truly yours, Ed Page
- - - - From: "Newhart, Bryson"Subject: food writing Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, In Part 3 of Neal Pollack's "Why Am I So Handsome?" the narrator is given an address printed on a poppy seed bagel. This morning I discovered that something similar to this has been going on in Ohio for quite some time. In Toledo, at a street-corner hot dog shack made famous by Klinger -- the cross-dressing soldier from M.A.S.H. -- there is a glass case filled with hot dog buns autographed by celebrities, among them President Clinton. Tony Packo opened this hot dog shack in 1932 and neighbors embraced his messy sausage & sauce sandwiches with open mouths. 40 years later, led by Burt Reynolds, celebrities started flocking to Toledo to sign their names on these delicious sandwiches. And the rest is history. Tony loves talking about food and he loves eating his famous Hungarian hot dogs. He also loves to serve them just right, no mistakes. Each bun has a story -- like the 1972 Burt Reynolds bun that somebody swiped. A year after it was discovered missing, the bun was back. People thought that the new bun was probably a work of forgery, most likely by Tony himself, but nobody wanted to see the old man freak out. Strange how reality and fiction seem to mirror each other so directly sometimes. Sincerely, Bryce Newhart PS. This letter was originally written in pencil on a soggy corned beef sandwich. - - - - Date: 13 Mar 00From: Thomas Gibbon Subject: My Newfound Sense of Purpose Dear McSweeney's, I think this letter to my roommates explains it all: Zbigniew and Kevin, Having remained largely sinless, I have never coveted, I mean really coveted, anything in my life the way I do $78 million right now. I have never wanted anything quite so much as I want that luxury submarine now, except when I was a kid and wanted a luxury submarine. From now on we three work towards one goal, that luxury submarine. No beer, no cigarettes, no fancy clothes, one thing, luxury submarine. We eat sleep and breathe luxury submarine, no new apartment, no car, no books, no drugs, no cabs. And we spend all our working hours finding newer and higher paying jobs. It does not matter if we like our jobs or do not have jobs, we must get higher paying jobs. At the end of the day we should have house meeting and discuss the money we saved that day. We will eat only one meal a day, a large dinner consisting of 3 parts rice, 1 part corn, and 1 part peas, with one 1/8th ounce pat of butter and one eight-ounce glass of milk each. We will harvest our own sea-salt (and sell what we do not use). We may each have one eight-ounce glass of cranberry juice for breakfast (white-rose, not ocean spray). No Coca-Cola! No Dominos! No Fortune Garden! We do not eat lunch. Instead we find part time jobs at places that need extra lunchtime help. We spend the weekends fishing coins out of public fountains. We walk everywhere. Cancel internet, cancel phone-stop using electricity, water, heat.On the first Tuesday after a Monday of each month we must rob a bank of no less than one million dollars. On every other Grandparents' Day we must kidnap a Colombian cyclist and hold him for $50,000 ransom. We must begin pilfering from the wallets of our families and friends. We must sell all our possessions except: one pair pants, one pair socks, two pairs underwear, one pair shoes, one overcoat, one shirt, address of luxury submarine salesman. We must sell atlases, inflatable mattresses, silverware, that ripe avacado in the fridge, our blood, our semen, our skin. On a personal note, I need this luxury submarine. Look, let's be honest, my life has been kind of a wash. Sure, I've had my high-points, but they were fleeting and ill-appreciated (by me), I've never lived up to my potential. I don't have what it takes to achieve happiness and satisfaction in life, I'm just not cut out for this late capitalist world. But maybe, just maybe, with the help of a couple of beautiful, crazy bastards I do have what it takes to live on a 200 ft. luxury submarine. I estimate this project will take at least six months. Your roommate,
- - - - From: "McCarthy, Ann"Subject: 360 questions Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, There are several (or possibly only a few, we will see which shortly) I want to ask Eric McHenry, or his legal representative. Or his foul doppleganger, if he has one. Whichever. 1. Did he learn the word antidisestablishmentarianism from the movie SLC Punk!? (incidentally, if a movie title ends in an exclamation point, is it okay just to follow it right up with a question mark? When italics are impossible, how does one indicate that one is not, in fact, both curious and excited, but rather a curious girl asking a question about an excited movie?) If so, would he agree that Matthew Lillard has hideously hideously betrayed the implicit promise he made when he started drooling in Scream? Does he know what that promise is? 2. Is that Eric McHenry qua Eric McHenry in the BU catalog, where it says Eric McHenry? I think it is. If so, does he like BU? Well, I guess I actually just had a COUPLE of questions, unless you count question #1 as five questions, which it's only right you should. Ann P.S. While I will not be upset at receiving no response, I will be highly highly peeved and hardly amused at all if the response is like this: Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Or any other combination of those two monosyllables. These were meant to be discussion questions. Brief aswers would--clearly!--be quite the predictable move. - - - - From: "Robert Beier"Subject: From your office correspondent Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, If you are rich things are easier. If you are rich you don't have to:
I called Nobu to get reservations. I am not wealthy or famous. How did I fare? I called on Tuesday. My lady's birthday was on Saturday. This is how it went: Phone ringing. A girl answers the phone and quickly says "Please
hold."
And that's that. Sometimes it's better to be clever than rich. We enjoyed our meal of raw delights. I was feeling ever so clever the whole time. When I received the bill I stopped feeling clever. I felt poor, oh so very, very poor. It was at this point that I decided it might be better to be rich than clever. Sometimes being clever can put one in situations one shouldn't be in. Robert Beier - - - - From: "Mike Topp"Subject: Question Date: Sun, 12 Mar 2000 Dear McSweeney's, If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, can I get it wholesale? Sincerely, Mike Topp - - - - From: "Mike Topp"Subject: French Style Date: Sun, 12 Mar 2000 vv Dear McSweeney's, There's a classic Western movie where a cowboy says, "Gimme a shot of red-eye," and the French subtitle reads, "Un Dubonnet, s'il vous plait." All my best, Mike Topp - - - - Read Previous Letters: |
Red dot denotes content that is new today.
Black dot denotes newish content.