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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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G A B E H U D S O N ' S [Write a letter to the president.] - - - - [Gabe Hudson, a McSweeney's editor-at-large - - - - [These letters were compiled by Gabe Hudson, Jessica Rabinowitz, and Kevin Feeney.] - - - - Dear Mr. President, What happened to the "Mission Accomplished" banner? Can I have it? Sincerely, - - - - Dear Mr. President, The memory hole is a toilet, and while the man who sold me my newspaper gazes with sad resignation at the photos of his former countrymen being brutalized by his current countrymen, you and I know that this, too, is only circling the drain. "General X was in charge, according to order A." "In charge, yes, but not authorized to give orders." "General Y drafted order A, but did not have the authority to implement it." "I never heard of order A until this morning." "Not to my knowledge." "Not to my knowledge." Deflect. Deny. Stall. Rinse. Repeat. This is the game—as we all know—whereby we satisfy our vain desire to wash our individual hands of their complicity by pretending we are satisfied by non-answers. This is the game in which we wait, silently and patiently, and you guys in charge play spin-the-bottle with blame right up until the bottle disappears down the memory hole. We are still told the terrorists look like them, and the liberators look like us, but we all know the story. Terror is the currency of the human race, since love is ill-suited to the agendas of politicians and tyrants. You tell us you have top-secret information about what kind of toilet paper the head of a distant, mysterious, ethereal organization over 10,000 miles away uses to wipe his ass, and you tell us that this top-secret information gives you good strong reason to believe there are imminent terrorist attacks on the vital infrastructure of our lives, and we believe you. Or we tell ourselves that we do. Or we don't, and we don't do anything about it. Then you tell us you had no idea what was going on in your own organization, under your very own nose, between the men and women you yourself hand-picked for the job, despite the fact that it happened five and six months ago, and we believe you. Or we tell ourselves that we do. Or we don't, and we don't do anything about it. How did this happen, we ask ourselves. A few rotten apples did it, you tell us. But we know the story. We're smarter than that. We know the assholes in charge did it—but don't blame us, we voted for the other guy, and he would have been better. And we wash it off our hands. And that drain, at the bottom of the sink? That's the memory hole. The man who sold me my newspaper knows this: the despair and fatigue in his expression tells me so. He and I know that yesterday's terrorists looked like him, and that today's terrorists look like me, but neither of us will smile and forgive—not each other, not ourselves. I will not be the soap you wash your hands with, our expressions tell each other. I am too busy being the blood that stains them. Thank you for your contribution. Thank you for making things different. After all, before you, the face lying to me from my television wasn't cross-eyed at all. Sincerely, - - - - Dear Mr. President, My name is Ben Clemmens and I am eight-years-old. I think we need to keep Amtrak because my mom teaches dance and her students get on Amtrak. Our school takes Amtrak for field trips. One of the conductors helped a person with crutches on the train. Nearly every seat was full, so that shows how many people need Amtrak. The rest of my family is on Amtrak right now, headed to the museum in Chicago. When I grow up I want to be a train engineer and I want to run Amtrak. I want to help people all over the country. Sincerely, - - - - Dear Mr. President, I am a cashier at a thrift store called Goodwill, and today I was working in back, collecting donations, pricing items, hanging clothes, sneaking cigarettes while the manager was away. A man drove up in a pick-up truck with a Bush/Cheney '04 sticker on the window and a dirty mattress in the back. I think God created a metaphor just for me, and I thought I'd share it with you. Sleep well. Sincerely, - - - - [NOTE: The opinions expressed in these letters do not necessarily represent those of McSweeney's, Knopf, Vintage, Kevin Feeney, Jessica Rabinowitz, or Gabe Hudson.] |
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