February 13, 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

The following is a transcript of one afternoon’s worth of emails on the “coffee night” mailing list that we use to arrange gatherings with art school alumni. It demonstrates quite well the toll that four years of art school can have on a person.

Alan:
Coffee night at Calabria, 8pm. Bring any cute people you know.

Jonathan:
I don’t know any cute people other than the ones that normally meet for coffee night.

Steven:
I thought that was why we met? To be seen with the cute people?

Adrienne:
I thought we met to discuss issues and ideas that concern us as a cute community within a not necessarily cute society.

Alan:
Sorry, you’re all wrong. It’s to consider the NOTION of discussing issues and ideas that concern us as a cute community within a not necessarily cute society.

Steven:
Oh, I see. I could have sworn it was about discussion issues and ideas that concern us as a cute community, except discussing it the same way we did 25 years ago, only different.

Jonathan:
At tonight’s meeting I’d like to raise issues surrounding the cute diaspora, and how hetrogenius cuteness influences postmodern thought and discourse. Moreover, I would like juxtapose this concept with a much more minimal, and tautological idea of cute. (Cute is cute). I look forward to your thoughts and ideas.

Adrienne:
So, to sum up, Jonathan, you’d like to propose heterogeneous cute vs. minimal, tautological cute? Or, in other words, hetero=cute vs. mini/ taut=cute?

Joan:
SO SORRY TO MISS THE STIMULATING DISCUSSION THIS EVENING BUT I’VE BEEN UP SINCE 4:00AM AND SINCE I AM NEITHER TAUT PHYSICALLY NOR FRAUGHT MENTALLY—I MUST MISS YOUR DELIGHTFUL COMPANY.CHEERS

Adrienne:
I have two concerns regarding Jonathan’s hetero=cute vs. mini/taut=cute. One, I am both hetero and mini and semi-taut: does this mean that my cuteness conflicts with itself or does it mean that I am doubly cute, in all definitions of the concept? Secondly, I would like to propose a second concept, cute=bored at work with way too much time on one’s hands and lots of pent-up creative energy channelled towards smart-ass emails.

Jonathan:
Let me first make myself clear in that I don’t think these two camps of cute ideology are diametrically opposed, and in fact when combined can lead to a number of diverse cute little ideas. (did you get that cute little joke?)

Yours truly,
Alan Hoffman

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From: “Mike Topp”
Subject: War
Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

In November 1915 Chief Secretary of Ireland Augustine Birrell said, “I, for one, would forbid the use, during the war, of poetry.”

Sincerely,

Mike Topp

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From: “Robert Beier”
Subject: From your office correspondent
Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

Here are some phrases that, if heard in an office, should make the listener run straight for the doors and to any major airport where they will purchase a ticket to anywhere except the city the said phrase was heard in:

We need to make sure that everyone’s on the same page

I think you should get them on board

Let’s get her up to speed

As per your request

Any mention or use of the word ‘triage’ under any circumstance with the exception of invasion or bombing. Angry co-workers gunning people down is covered under the invasion clause.

NB. If this advice is taken I would like to give a time saving tip for the traveler. Do not purchase a ticket to any city with a population of over 15 people. The city can have over 15 people if it is a ranching town located in Montana or a village in the Himalayas.

Regards,
Bob Beier

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From: “Robert Beier”
Subject: From your office correspondent
Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

I call myself a ‘switchboard’ at least three times a day. I want to state for the record that I am not a switchboard. I am a man. I breathe and think and feel. Only under duress do I transfer calls.

Regards,

Bob Beier

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Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000
From: “ashley day”
Subject: job-seekers say the darndest things

Dear McSweeney’s,

Following is a cover letter written in application for a less-than-scintillating job offered by the company for which I work. Sadly the applicant was not granted an interview, but I thought she was fierce.

A. Day

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to apply for the administrative assistant position advertised in the Village Voice.

I have had some experience in the exciting adminstrative assistant field, and I love it. I would truly be a great asset to you as an enthusiastic employee, ready to screw over the little people in the company if they even look at the boss wrong. I am obedient and willing to please in any way possible, and I am very responsible when necessary. If you need any reckless office terror I can do that too. It helps keep the temps in line, eh? And unions? Fuck unions. I hate unions. Anyone mentions unions they get my high heel right in the eye. That shuts them up.

If you like a tight ship, I’m the bitch for you.

In terms of more traditional skills required for an administrative assistant, I am amicable and attractive. I am very good at chatting with people and am often propositioned by men. I think that this would be a good quality to bring to the position.

If necessary, I can bring knee-pads to the interview. Just let me know in advance.

Thank you for your time, and I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Michelle [LAST NAME OMITTED]

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From: “Newhart, Bryson”
Subject: Disco snack
Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

I almost went dancing last night but never made it because I was too self-conscious about the state of my wardrobe. Here is the e-mail conversation that happened before I realized it was hopeless. Close readers will find a sly but friendly reference to Gabe Hudson that is largely undeveloped.

SMB: Why don’t you wear one of your cool T-shirts like that McSweeney’s one I got you over a long sleeve T-shirt? That’s my favorite look.

Me: I don’t have one that’s good for that. They’re all too big. Maybe I can get one.

SMB: I could pick one up for you today if you like. Or just go to Old Navy and get a plain one.

Me: Oh yeah. There is one of those near here. I will check there. Maybe I can get orange.

SMB: Oooh, orange. You’re really branching out, you wild man.

Me: Maybe I’ll also wear my ski goggles.

SMB: You’re a real tough guy.

Me: And my leather banana hammock.

SMB: Go for it stud. Over your jeans. Don’t forget about your platform shoes.

Me: I can go in my homemade ones. Dictionaries strapped to bare feet.

SMB: It’s a little cold for that. You could wear those rainbow colored socks. You know, the ones that have individual toe demarcations, a different color for each toe.

Me: How about ziplock bags filled with warm water?

SMB: As long as you put goldfish in the bags.

Me: They will keep the water warm by moving around a lot and stirring up the molecules.

SMB: You could put Japanese Fighting Eels in the bags. They’ll keep the water warm.

Me: Good idea. And a tube can go up into my pants. That way the eels can go up there sometimes. That extra movement will really keep me dancing.

SMB: If you use Unagi and we bring a Bunsen Burner, we can make a delicious little snack.

Thanks,

Bryce Newhart

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From: “Robert Wolfe and Kendra Lider-Johnson”
Subject: Me Again, No I’m Not Obsessed
Date: Thu, 10 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

How cool to see that my good friend from college Jesse Lichetenstein is so good at writing clever lists. Did he tell you that he is moving back to this coast from the other? Maybe we can put our heads together and find him a job. He is very cool. Although maybe he is moving back because he already has a job. I sense a dilemna: we don’t want to put our good names on the line with potential job leads (who may, after all, be in a position one day to provide us with new opportunities) for a chap who might already have committed himself elsewhere. But maybe we could find him something better. There is always something better out there (or so I’ve heard said). Any advice?

I see why people like to write to you. It is very theraputic.

Kendra

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From: “glitter kitty”
Date: Thu, 10 Feb 2000
Subject: ?

Dear McSweeney’s,

You look smaller in person.

—r.

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Date: Thu, 10 Feb 2000
From: Annie Morelos

Dear McSweeney’s, Your computer isn’t a mirror, but mine is. Ever since I stopped keeping a journal, I could no longer look into the mirror. It wasn’t on purpose, it just kind of happened. And when I grew grown up enough to move myself around, mirrors weren’t anything that came along with me. Small ones maybe, but never bigger than a half of my face. Most of my mirrors are the size of my eye. Sometimes I hear you when you think you are all by yourself, when you are trying to be alone. You’ll say something or move around, so I’ll kick the wall and maybe even shout a little which I don’t often do but you still don’t come near me. I don’t think you mean anything by it. Maybe you really don’t hear me. But this is the side of me that isn’t afraid of the world, even though I may tell you that I am. You think we’re the “loners” when really, I’m just the world’s biggest fan.

Annie Morelos

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Date: Wed, 09 Feb 2000
Subject: (no subject)
From: “Ian McSweeney”

Dear McSweeney’s,

i was writing to inquire as to where the namesake McSweeney is derived from. i am unfamiliar with the magazine and with you, the person who is reading this. But, one similarity compells me to inquire. My last name is McSweeney. I was wondering if it is your name or on the other hand, whose name is it? please respond with as much detail as you can afford me. Thank you for your time.

Ian McSweeney

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From: (Craig Moorhead)
Subject: Chicken Soft Tacos
Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

Once during college I was purchasing some items from the Taco Bell menu. Chicken Soft Tacos, to be exact. I was in a good mood that day.

At the check out, the cashier rang up the items on my tray. “Coke,” she said, “Nachos, chicken soft taco..”

Then, wishing to spread my good cheer, I interrupted.

“Not just soft. Chicken soft!”

The cashier did not laugh. Nor did anyone else.

I ate alone that day.

regards, Craig Moorhead

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Date: 08 Feb 00
From: Thomas Gibbon
Subject: Letter about Gilles le Fou

Dear McSweeney’s,

In Al “I played college basketball, too” Gore style I believe I can out-confess Guilfoyle. My skin is in fact rather thin, transparently so, rendering my internal workings obvious to the eyes of all but the blindest citizens. Until Guilfoyle started his campaign of hate this odd physical quirk had only been a problem during exam periods at medical school (which I did not attend, but I could always feel the gaze of the students on me as I walked down the street, shirtless, in my inimitable fashion) and during my botched attempts at sexual coupling (gross).

Guilfoyle’s brief, though tiresomely erroneous, history of his family’s usurpation of hard-working Frenchmen’s jobs, reminded me of something that was actually funny. I was asking a question of the man who lives in the cubicle next to mine, while myself inside that cubicle. There, as I pretended to pay attention to his response, I saw a mailing label for a man with a very funny name. I can’t say what that name was because the last name was a derogatory term for a relevant ethnic group. But that isn’t funny. No, what was funny was the man’s first name; it was a homophone of an adjective! And one often used to modify epithets! Oh, how I laughed! As for examples (with different words, same concept): Dr Surley Krauts, Mrs Smak-Addled Sawnies, or Colonel Nepharious Limey. This, sadly, reflects not at all on Guilfoyle, of course, but rather badly on me and that whole scene in which I was raised, smugly, to be cruel but then, later, regretful and ashamed.

As for this “Western” Pennsylvania I think Guilfoyle will find, should he check, that Somerset is in Mexico. The westernmost town in Pennsylvania is Paoli, ask anyone. Damn it, there I go again.

Before this gets worse, I am, as ever, yours,
T.G. Gibbon

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From: “glitter kitty”
Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2000
Subject: how to make friends

Dear McSweeney’s,

1. “you smell like grape soda”
2. “that glitter makes you look very pretty”
3. “would you like a back rub?”

—r.

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Date: Tue, 08 Feb 2000
From: Kiersten Conner-Sax
Subject:

Dear McSweeney’s,

In a recent letter, one John Warner addressed the important issue of how long your book is. I, however, have a different question: is this letter from Senator John Warner? And if so, what is it like to be married to Elizabeth Taylor?

Right ho!
Kiersten Conner-Sax

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Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2000
Subject: Hamm’s

Dear McSweeney’s,

This letter does not intend to make light of Helen Ross’ letter concerning the passing of her friend, but her missive did remind me of an incident involving the funeral arrangements of a friend’s grandfather.

My friend’s grandfather was a hard-working machinist from a gritty Polish neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. He was a dedicated family man, World War II veteran, and all-around nice guy who appreciated life’s simple pleasures: after work he enjoyed nothing more than knocking back a couple of cold beers. Beers from the land of sky blue waters that is, i.e. Hamm’s. And only Hamm’s. He consumed Hamm’s with such regularity that when he died, his family asked that a can of Hamm’s be interned in the casket with him for eternity, as a tribute to his favorite recreational activity.

Well, the funeral director misunderstood the family’s request. When the bereaved arrived at his wake, they discovered that a canned ham had been placed in the casket instead of the can of beer. In retrospect “can of Hamm’s” and “canned ham” do sound an awful lot alike. The family was obviously quite upset and the funeral director corrected the situation as quickly as he could. However, my friend tells me that the family jokes about the incident today, saying that his grandfather would have found the mistake very funny himself.

When I told this story to my own Polish Grandfather, who prefers the taste of a fully krausened Old Style over Hamm’s, his response was “Did they at least get to keep the ham?” I don’t know. Next time I see my friend, I’ll ask him.

Robert Recklaus

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McSweeney’s Rep:

How come no one knows how long your book is? Amazon says it’s 480 pages. Barnesandnoble.com says 375 pages, thus agreeing with Time and the NY Times. Are there multiple editions? Are you playing games with us?

And while you’re at it, explain why the Booklist review cited on Amazon says it was written January 1 2020. Have you discovered the secret of time travel? Has Booklist?

Curiously awaiting,

John Warner

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Subject: T.G. Gibbon and a Vast Conspiracy
From: “kevin guilfoile”

Dear McSweeney’s,

T.G. Gibbon is not a man with thick skin, nor has he an even temper. Poke him, and he pokes back. But had I known the insidious depths to which he would burrow in order to discredit me, I would have kept my brilliant and scathing critique of his daydreams to myself. Since he has hinted that he knows my closest-held secrets and now threatens to reveal them on these pages, I have no choice but to release the painful truth in boxes, John McCain style.

By referring repeatedly and sarcastically to the proper Gaelic spelling of my surname (Guilfoyle, or “Follower of Paul”), Mr. Gibbon hopes to expose me as an Irish-American. Well, it’s true. Although hard to imagine in these triumphant days of Conan O’Brien and Malachy McCourt, there once was a time in America when an Irish-Catholic could hold only three jobs: police chief, fire chief, and mayor. In fact, society thought so little of our ruddy-faced tribe that my great-grandfather actually wanted people to think he was French. He and a neighboring farmer affected accents, eschewed Guinness for Bordeaux — and soap for perfume — donned berets and, of course, changed the spellings of their last names. To seal the pact, barns were raised, and later, indoor tennis courts. The Guilfoile and Eau Leary clans were born.

But Mr. Gibbon’s attack does not stop with allegations that my family has a history of public drunkenness, bad cooking, and loquacious wit. He next mocks my grade school days in Western Pennsylvania with flippant references to the movie Flashdance and then, predictably, calls me a “fascist.” To that, Tom, I say only this: If your definition of a “fascist” is someone who espouses the principles of a centralized, autocratic regime with severely nationalistic policies, exercising regimentation of industry, commerce and finance, rigid censorship, and forcible suppression of opposition, well sir, I’m guilty as charged.

As for his reference to me as a “cannibal hick,” that’s just mean. He should know, we prefer to be called “homotarians.”

Kevin Guilfoile
Chicago, Illinois

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Dear McSweeney’s,

A situation (this may not be the most suitable word as will become evident ) has recently come to my attention which I hope you can be of some assistance in ameliorating—last week I was riding the subway (F train on the A line) as I often do, to and from work, and generally going out and about on the weekend, and I gazed absently up from the book (60 Stories) I had been reading, you know how it is when a certain sentence reads in such a way as to stop you from reading on and you stare, tangentially, off into day-dream-space (maybe its just me and undiagnosed A.D.D.)—well anyways when I re-focused, instead of continuing to read, I looked up at the advertisements (all for Chivas—as if I really needed to think about drinking on my way to work, those ad guys/gals are so damn sly) and then I saw on the subway car wall to the left of the doors, a sticker of some sort, . I thought nothing much of it, probably just an ‘insider’ ad promo for some new movie, Ziggy Stardust maybe, like all those cleverly obnoxious ‘pi’ stencils on the sidewalks downtown last year. But that evening on the N train (sometimes for variety’s’ sake I switch to taking the N/R home from work; it’s a block further from my apartment than the F; by the way have you ever noticed how people choose to stand in the same place on the platform each morning, month after month, for years, lifetimes even, never straying from that same old-gum-Pollacked square of concrete) I saw, again, the same adhesive decal (SAD for short hereafter except when I miss using that graphic). To test a hypothesis I walked railroad fashion through the train from car to car and sure enough the was in each car. Either below or to the side of the numbers by the door. Sometimes near the middle, others at the ends. One in every car.

I thought about the as I walked home; the strange things one comes across in New York. Then forgot it; the strange things on forgets about. I didn’t even notice the during the daily commute but then that weekend I was at a bar with a friend (whose name will remain “friend” for his protection since this situation/conspiracy may have ugly even dangerous undertones as you will discover) and during the course of the evening I noticed that my friend had a tattoo on his wrist where he usually wears a watch (at the jewelers for a new battery), a . Curious I asked him why he got a instead of say a solar eclipse or a sickle moon or some totemy thing. He replied that he had always liked and then he had seen these stickers of on the Tube when he was living in London and thought they were cool, an auspicious sign, hence his choice of tattoo. Intrigued I asked if he’d seen the same in the subways here. He replied yes. I asked what he thought of it. Who knows, its kinda cool though, my friend responded. What do you think the<insert picture are for I asked. Someone thought it would be neat I guess, although it is fascinating to think that the same stickers are on subway cars here and in London. Maybe even magical. Yeah, I replied. We had some more drinks and talked about other subjects but by now I was hooked and when I got home couldn’t stop thinking about those .

Now maybe I’m a little closer to the dark grey shaded areas on the sanity/insanity bar graph (as Don Quixote says in the book of the same title “The reading of many books will make one mad.”) but I was convinced that I was on to something. What a great idea for a story. Like in Crying of Lot 49. Perhaps the are the markings of an underground. And in the subways no less. What a funny! My main character could stumble into a secret society. Initiated into their rites, she joins the struggle and gets a tattoo on the nape of her neck which would be usually hidden by her long straight red hair. Although maybe the is nothing more than the most elaborate concept/installation/graffiti art exhibit of the 20th century. My main character might, after much toil and many international phone calls (made from the desks of out to lunch editors of the numerous magazines she writes for) and late nights riding the subways discover the name of the lone artist who had accomplished such an extravagant and foolish gesture. Most likely it would be the maverick music mogul artiste extraodanaire David Bowie INC. The art world would be stunned! What will he think of next! MOMA would acquire subway cars and have an interactive exhibit at PS1. She would write a long article, theoretically dense but with playful prose, for ‘Art Forum’, interview Bowie himself for ‘Rolling Stone’, and finally purchase a print of that photograph she always coveted from an exhibit of a rising star at Casey Kaplan Gallery two years ago. But on the other hand maybe she would find out, one mid-afternoon on near empty subway car, after carefully removing one of the and taking it to her friend (enrolled in the PHD/MD program) at the Columbia Bio-Chemistry lab that the are actually super-high-tech terrorist devices set to simultaneously release a bio-toxic gas on the night of the true millennium, 1.1.2001. She would call the CIA. Save the western world! Who would have guessed a could harbor such horrors. The devious plans those crafty guys/gals in your terrorist/militia of choice foiled. Although there is the possibility that she would instead, after staring at the on numerous occasions, somewhat inebriated, notice that the resembles (especially when one is near blacking out) a multi-dimensional space ship. Immediately upon this realization she is beamed from her seat in the subway car to aboard the mother ship (a to scale with saunas and a telepathy drive) and has a life of inter-galactic adventure as the grand prize winner of an alien game show. Not to forget of course the one where she obsesses about these , asks all her friends and co-workers and older sister if they have seen these , what do they think these could signify, even emails inquires to the MTA and the LBT asking if they are aware of these on their cars, all to no avail and in the end has to conclude that these are nothing more than . Maybe kinda neat auspicious signs. Something to reflect on when she is riding the subway. Silly stickers…

As I pondered the potential of such rich plots I came to the conclusion that since these are actually there on the subway cars of NYC and in London that perhaps a fictional treatment of this theme would not be sufficient for the specific demands of the . I realized my limitations (like a dog chasing its tail) when faced with the perplexity of such a subject as the . But later that night as I was leaving my bathroom I saw on the cover of Issue #3 of your journal (Timothy McSweeney’s Windfall Republic) a . HA! It all became clear. I decided that in all probability, what with you all being a part of the Zeitgeist and all, you would know what is the what w/r/t I have seen on the subway and my friend saw on the Tube in London.

Before you answer though I have a few stipulations.

A. If you do not know what the what is w/r/t I would gladly volunteer to investigate this pressing matter. What if these are on subway cars not just in New York and London but around world? Rome? Mexico City? Tokyo? Vienna? Seoul? Beijing? Moscow? Paris? A McSweeney’s Amex to assist in such endeavors would surely bring back results.

B. If you do know what the what is w/r/t the and it is similar to the last story hypothetical in the above or as my friend with the tattoo phrased it—some inspector #12 like thing—please keep this to yourself. A silent truth. I do not find disillusionment as edifying as others.

C. If the involves the FBI, CIA, M6, the mayor’s office or any other governmental/law agency as in the anitipentultimate plot outline in the above please disavow all knowledge of my inquiry. Don’t take me wrong here, its not that I don’t favor the prospects of politics meliorating the world for progress’ sake, I’d just rather sit that one out.

D. If by any chance is tied to organized crime, here too, do as in C. and more so—burn this. I don’t imagine the whole witness protection thing is as nifty as it seems in movies.

E. If the is truly an ingenious ad campaign, plotted years in advance, for David Bowie’s new movie I will proudly take all the shame for my foolery and be publicly branded with as a mark of idiocy.

F. If your knowledge of the is really just a hodgepodge of symbolic interpretations re the significance of generally speaking in specific cultures around the globe please edit this out. Although such information may be illuminating it does not shed any direct light on the on the subway. If there is nothing more than this refer to either A. or B., as your desire dictates.

I know I may be wishing upon a star . I hope you can help. Thank you in advance.

David William Andrews
Brooklyn, NY

PS Please have your great design guy add the image (for a good idea of what it looks like take a ride on the subway or the Tube) in the letter where I have written .

PPS Without the assistance of John Jameson and his son and Rafael Salas I and you too would never have learned about the . If we have learned anything that is. Although perhaps you have known all along. And I’m the only one in the dark w/r/t .

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From: “Benjamin Lima”
Subject:
Date: Tue, 7 Dec 1999

Dear McSweeney’s:

I would like very much to work at your management consulting firm which I have been told is one of the most highly regarded worldwide. Unfortunately I have been perusing your pages at some length and I am unable to find the sections which relate to management consulting. Would you be so kind as to direct me to them? Specifically the ones that might pertain to my submitting an application for employment there?

I thank you most sincerely,

Benjamin Lima
Queens, NY

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From: “Elizabeth Cox”
Subject: His name was not Hoc

Dear McSweeney’s,

Last week I went on a corporate team-building desert Jeep expedition treasure hunt. We all agreed we would rather be drinking beer at the bar next to the conference center, but for various professional reasons decided to go on the expedition anyway, as it was on The Schedule, and we felt compelled to follow said schedule out of a vague paranoia that if we were to ditch the fun-filled Jeep trip it would somehow negatively impact future salary reviews and advancement opportunities. At least those were my reasons.

Our crusty Gabby Hayes-style Jeep driver said that his name was “Hoc”. Or so I believed. How interesting, I thought, as we bounced on dusty roads in the surrounding canyons. I wonder if it is short for “Ad Hoc” or some such thing. I kept talking to him, “So, where are you from, Hoc?” and “What sort of cactus is that, Hoc?” and “Is that really an official snake crossing sign by the road, Hoc? Or is it a joke?” and so forth.

After one particularly rough spot of terrain, I realized with that particular sense of rapidly dawning awareness, that searing bolt of understanding, that his name was not “Hoc”, but “Hawk”! Of course, of course! Like the raptor, not the Latin! You citified fool! Without thinking, I blurted out my revelation to my team-building team. “Oh, it’s not ‘Hoc’” I cried, “It’s ‘Hawk’! How silly of me!” How silly, indeed.

Sillily,
Libby Cox

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From: Martha Di Salle
Subject: Trade Magazine

Dear Person Who Must Read These Emails,

I haven’t got much time to chat, but I will say this: My colleagues and I (more on this in a minute) will not be promoting your magazine in that “word of mouth” way that people excited about newly discovered “cool” journals so often do. The reason: My colleagues and I (okay, here goes) are starting our own “cool” journal, articles from which will be posted in a similarly erratic way (similar to McSweeney’s Internet Tendancy, that is) on the internet—and McSweeney’s most excellent pages now represent a most steep and nightmare-inducing (!) competition to our fledgling project. We don’t even really exist yet (as a journal / magazine, that is)—although, to our credit, we have a name (name withheld for legal purposes), a domain name, and regular editorial/design meetings—but we are very afraid (indeed) that your rising popularity among the sun-starved peoples currently shivering in Canada will prevent us (the magazine) from occupying a similar (yet completely different), profitable niche in the journals market. We’ll give it our best shot, though—my mother is so supportive, and this is very important. Please look for us next to McSweeney’s on newsstands everywhere this June (or May—if we’re really ambitious). So, good luck McSweeney’s! Even after our journal gets more popular than your journal, we’ll still read, like, every issue of McSweeney’s we can get our grubby little hands on—we just won’t tell anybody about you, as I’ve already explained.

Best regards,

Martha and The Good People at L——H Magazine (which we hope will have a real “cool journal” look to it)

(McSweeney’s Rocks!)

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From: “Mike Topp”
Subject: Point to Pin
Date: Mon, 07 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s:

How would you say the pin on the left has a broken point? I would say, “The pin on the left has a broken point!”

Yours truly,

Mike Topp

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Date: Mon, 07 Feb 2000
From: Kiersten Conner-Sax
Subject: Useful phrases

Dear McSweeney’s:

Here are some phrases I intend to work into conversation whenever possible:

1) The ground cannot cause a fumble.
2) Right ho!
3) There will be a reckoning.

Sincerely,
Kiersten Conner-Sax

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Date: Mon, 7 Feb 2000
From: Gabe Hudson
Subject: Letter to McSweeney’s

Dear McSweeney’s,

I just spent the past two days reading that mystery novel everybody’s making such a big deal about. Now I don’t want to ruin the end for you or anything, but let me save you some legwork by getting you caught up to the very last paragraph: Lisa Dunbar, a young attorney fresh out of law school, stays home from work one day, because she can’t figure out why the honey on her toast keeps jumping off of the toast and onto the floor. Then that evening (some 283 pages later) she figures it out: what she thought was toast was really her bed, and what she thought was honey was really her body. When she wakes up the next morning on the floor, what does she see on her nose? A bee.

And in case you were wondering, this is a picture of me holding the first fish I ever caught, a goldfish named Blinky I grabbed out of my friend Tom’s aquarium when he wasn’t looking. The reason it’s blurry is because yours truly took the picture. After I snapped it, Tom’s mother came in the room without knocking and I got scared, so I tossed the camera in the aquarium and stuffed Blinky in my pocket by mistake. When Tom’s mother went over and peered into the aquarium, I said, “Smile.”

My parrot knows that feathers aren’t ticklish.

Thank you.

Gabe Hudson Providence RI

- - -

Date: Mon, 07 Feb 2000
From: “Yolanda Winters”
Subject: (No Subject)

Dear McSweeney’s,

I have been perusing your letters section and have discerned a lack of letters containing baking tips. If there are in fact a number of letters on this subject, please accept my apologies.

If not, I would like to address the topic of a cookie I have recently created, the peanut butter oatmeal faux -Macaroon. This cookie, and the recent set of experiments that I have been conducting, make me wish that I had not majored in English and in fact had majored in Chemistry. I have heard that it is a very useful subject. But as I did not, due to a fear of explosives, (although I did attend cooking school) much of my hypotheses about the mysteries of the Peanut butter Oatmeal MacAroon (faux) , will remain only supposition.

Here are the ingredients of the original batch of cookies: Peanut Butter, Sugar, Vanilla, Eggs, Salt, Baking Soda, Oatmeal.

Here are the ingredients of the batch I just made late at night missing several ingredients but finding several more in the cupboard: Peanut Butter, Salt, Sweetened Condensed Milk, Oatmeal, Vanilla

The mystery is this: Why can you make macaroons with either sweetened condensed milk, although for your information there is no condensed milk that exists that is not sweetened, or egg whites? Since when did milk and eggs become the same thing?

Truly, it is a violation of some natural order. Can you imagine breaking an egg over your cereal in the morning, or a herd of cows, clucking in between bites of grass. I can, and it makes me cry.

I have already developed my own theories involving protein, something I know little about, so I would prefer not to field any questions about that. Instead, I will ask a questin of my own, which is this: Although I have been told by my grandmother that the wat to meet men is to sit outside with a plate of cookies, and I remember reading something like this in a Beverly Cleary book, why is it that baked goods hold no chaem for the young men of today? Is it because of the condensed milk?

Yours very truly,

Yolanda Winters

- - -

From: “Robert Beier”
Subject: From your office correspondent
Date: Fri, 04 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

I heard a man in a suit say, “He’s richer than God!” This is an interesting statement that deserves some attention. I shall meditate upon this oft-used phrase and list the things I think of. The first: There is no God therefore something that doesn’t exist can’t possess any money. This statement is ludicrous. The second: God is dead. Whoever the said man is, who is supposedly richer than God, can’t be because God is dead and must have bequeathed his wealth to another person in His Divine Will. Perhaps the man in question is this person. There can only be one man, however and many people use this phrase. I conclude that people are liars (except the one person who is not lying…he or she may be a saint.) The third: God is everywhere and everything. Therefore God is all wealth. He is even the potential for wealth. He is all the money that has ever been and will ever be created. It is not possible to be richer than God.

Regards,

Bob Beier

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From: “Newhart, Bryson”
Subject: Jeff Johnson’s Superbowl Party in 3 parts (so they won’t be too l ong) and sent in reverse order so they will read from top to bottom: the first part.
Date: Fri, 4 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

Last Saturday as I was rereading week three of the playoffs in “NFL Weekly Picks,” lamenting that I’d never taken a doll-making class so I could now capitalize on Jeff Johnson’s Zuckles the shaveable chimp, my apartment buzzer nearly gave me a heart attack. Guess who. Nope. It was not the MR cashing in on a secondhand floorlamp — wrong day of the week, no rain — it was a surprise visit from my old pal Doug, aka Soggs, on what he claimed to be the one year anniversary of his “masquerade in the recovery community.”

For a year Doug has been going to AA meetings with a pocketful of breath mints to give fake motivational speeches and pretend to follow the program. He arrived with a vinyl gym bag stuffed with notebooks purportedly outlining the 12 steps — they were filled with obscene drawings and phrases — and with tapes he’d made titled “conversations with me.”

With a six-pack wedged under his arm, he dumped these materials on the table and said, “Somebody please tell me why I bother with this charade. I’ve lied in this arena for so long that fact no longer has any part in the confusion.” Then he cracked a beer and took off his windbreaker to reveal a cream colored suit that he said was made of “100 percent Italian silk corduroy.” He held out a sleeve and said, “Go ahead, feel it.” From his left pocket he produced several candy necklaces which he wore all three of because my girlfriend and I were being “tight asses.” He tucked them under his royal blue turtleneck, which had on it a snowflake and reindeer pattern, and said, “These are for consumption at 4:32 AM.”

Before we were ready to leave my apartment for dinner, Doug left to wait on the street because he couldn’t wait to start smoking. In 45 minutes he’d consumed the six-pack and had made six bathroom excursions to powder his nose. We discovered him outside asking two high school kids it they knew where he could score some weed. One of the boys said, “Yo, you feeling this guy? I am feeling this guy.” Later, as we crossed the Manhattan bridge, Doug said, “I am down with the Negroes.” He licked his lips and laughed hysterically. Then he laughed hysterically some more. “They must have seen my Newports,” he said.

Sincerely,

Bryce Newhart

- - -

From: “Mike Topp”
Subject: Doing Something Again
Date: Fri, 04 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s:

This is from an interview with the writer Gayl Jones:

“I always like everything to be different. I have always liked everything to work itself out differently. If I’ve done something I don’t like to do it again. Why do something again when you’ve already done it? Why do something the same way again? Why sing something the same way twice?”

Thank you,

Mike Topp

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From: “Robert Beier”
Subject: From your office correspondent
Date: Fri, 04 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

I was reading through a computer manual so I could learn how to hook up my new cd-rw drive. I came across a section about not hurting yourself that went something like this: Exercise is very important. It will help you survive the rigors of a sedentary job. This made me very, very sad.

Regards

Bob Beier

- - -

From: “Mike Topp”
Subject: Police Story
Date: Thu, 03 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s:

The police in the city fire their guns or blow their whistles to announce their presence, allowing criminals to escape. People blow their noses loudly even at dinner or during a speech and the handkerchief is put back into the pocket to be used again at a later time. This is not regarded as rude.

Sincerely,

Mike Topp

- - -

From: “Newhart, Bryson”
Subject: Jeff Johnson’s Superbowl Party in 3 parts (so they won’t be too l ong) and sent in reverse order so they will read from top to bottom: the middle part.
Date: Thu, 3 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

Doug insisted that we let him treat us to dinner at Benihana’s, but as it turned out, our samurai chef was less than enthusiastic. In his disappointment, Doug spent most of dinner at another table where the chef was flicking chunks of meat with his knives into the gaping maw of a listless fat man who appeared to be sleeping. Food bounced off the man’s chin and cheeks but he didn’t seem to notice, other than an occasional jerk in his seat. Nor did he notice that an extra person was sitting at his table.

After Doug’s food was long cold he finally came back. “Kemosabe,” he said to the chef. “You cannot cut for shit. Gimmie them freakin’ knives and I’ll show you how a real man cuts.” The chef ignored him, bowed, and started to walk away. “Wait,” said Doug. He took off one of the necklaces and handed it to the man who threw it into the air and caught it in his hat. When the check came, however, Doug couldn’t pay. “Shit. I forgot about the blow,” he said. He brought it out and started cutting a small pile on the plastic check tray. “Can you lend me a couple hundred?”

In the car Doug told us a story about his first and last sexual experience with another man, a short, middle-aged bartender named Frank who worked at a small cocktail bar in Altoona, PA. “As you know, I was pretty lonely that summer.” I had no idea what summer he was talking about. “And Frank was a really cool guy. One night, while watching Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, he asked me back to the bedroom. I wasn’t sure, but then it dawned on me. ’I’m lonely. I’m a homo. What have I got to lose?’ What a fucking mistake. The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking about how awful it was. I’ll never forget that horrible taste. But at least I can say I’ve sucked a man’s dick. Most guys don’t have the balls.”

Using his knee to drive in order to scoop a key hit up his nose, he continued. “I need to find a woman. My last date was through that Internet service. I swear I chose the hottest chick they had, but when I got to her house outside Boston, shared with her alcoholic grandmother and 13 cats, whoa boy. She was not that. On the website she had looked blond but it turned out that she was more like albino. You could see right through her skin and she was covered in pimples and tattoos. A real freak. We spent the afternoon walking around Boston looking at obelisks and I told her about my research into the history of the phallus. Then she invited me to sleep over and we rented Twin Falls Idaho. But no way was I even going to kiss that freak.”

Just then my girlfriend spotted Robert Urich. Doug slammed on the breaks and started yelling out the window. “Hey Urich! Robert Urich! Want some crack Robert Urich? You know you want a hit.” Urich pretended not to hear but it was obvious he was jonesing. As we continued to the bar where we were supposed to meet my girlfriend’s friend Beliny, I said that I could never recognize a celebrity on the street. “The only celebrity that you would recognize is Arnold Schwarzenegger,” said Doug. “What is that supposed to mean?” I said. He winked. “You know what it means.”

At the bar, Beliny said that her phone had stopped working. Clipped to the back of her jeans, it had fallen into the toilet, much like Mary-Kim Arnold’s mysterious penny. Doug asked if he could try it. “S’posed to check in with my bookie,” he said. Holding the phone close to his nose he sniffed. Then he tentatively stuck out his tongue. “Your friend is gross,” said Beliny. Later they exchanged numbers.

In high school Doug was buddies with a guy named Austin. They talked in funny deep voices and gave everyone nicknames like “Slap Happy.” It had always seemed to me that Austin was the leader. Unlike Doug who became “Soggs,” Austin never had a nickname. Also, he is now on track to becoming a diplomat while Doug is unemployed, in debt, and a drug addict. But for the rest of the evening, Doug wouldn’t stop talking about how “That pussy Austin copied everything I did.” Slobbering on his candy necklaces, Doug said. “I made his ass. I should fly to Hong Kong and piss in his soup.” By now his neck was covered with red, green, and blue marks from sweating with the necklaces on. To get the last bit of coke out of his plastic vial he stuck his tongue into it.

Sincerely,

Bryce Newhart

- - -

Date: Thu, 3 Feb 2000
Subject: porridge oats

Dear McSweeney’s,

Can someone please help me to make my porridge oats more delicious. I have added lots of frozen blueberries and some currants and even a little milk but still my porridge oats are very stodgy. Here are some possible additives from my cupboard:

Canola oil;2 President’s Choice-brand All-in-One cookies;assorted dried spices;1 package Carnation-brand hot chocolate mix;1 bottle tincture of rosehip. I do not possess any chocolate bars stolen from my brother’s Christmas stocking. Please help me.

Best regards,

Stephen McIlvenna

PS If we can get the money together, will the MR take a quick trip to Vancouver instead of 2 whole days in Seattle?

- - -

From: “Sarah M. Balcomb”
Subject: winter vs. summer, the age-old debate
Date: Thu, 3 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

This is in response to Bryce Newhart’s letter of 21 January. Just to set the record straight, I do in fact like stromboli. The bigger and greasier the better.

Here’s what really happened that hot day I lost my cool …

The elevator came quickly for once and I got in the tiny box heading downwards. I’m tempted to say “spiraling” downwards, but unfortunately that machine only travels in straight lines, an endless vertical path up and down, never even side to side. It was cool in there with the hum of the artificial coolant system and I couldn’t resist the impulse to vanity caused by such a large mirror in such a small, enclosed space. Only the man on the other side of the security camera bore witness to my narcissism. Half way down, the vain proceedings were halted. Caught with my back to the entrance, gazing at myself, a bike messenger stepped into my space. The leering smile with missing teeth wasn’t as disarming as the body odor. The door closed, trapping us both, together. What happened next happened fast. Keeping his eyes locked on mine in the mirror, he pressed the emergency button. We halted, hanging in mid-air. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed my chest up against the mirror. I couldn’t move. Then he reached up my skirt, ripped down my panties. And …

Oh, whoops, I’m sorry. That did not happen. Today I saw a bumper sticker on a truck for an elevator repair company: “Elevator men do it up and down.”

Elevators can be fun in the winter too. Here’s what happened last week …

In the shadowy light of the elevator fire, Poncho rubbed his hands together maniacally. Puffing out his cheeks like a squirrel with a mouthful of nuts, he blew on his palms. It wasn’t cold in the elevator — we’d only lit the fire out of boredom when we’d finished quizzing each other on state capitals — but Poncho was loosing touch with reality, shivering and stomping his feet, presumably to keep the blood flowing. I myself was actually rather warm. I took off my down jacket and tossed it on the fire along with our sneakers, which we’d burned for kindling about fifteen minutes earlier. Sparks flew up out of the fire like a mushroom cloud. “Psychedelic,” I said, as Poncho reeled backwards to avoid the fallout. His face was that of a man long accustomed to plunging head first into the trenches to avoid the dark rain of shrapnel. His head hit hard on the metal paneling, emitting a sound so high and squeaky that I thought a small woodland animal had found it’s way into our enclosed space. I laughed, hoping to distract him from the pain by reminiscing about our old college days, but my short, round friend was silent. He must have knocked himself unconscious. I tried shaking him, but decided that it was just as well. If we weren’t rescued before long, I’d soon be hungry. I stroked my chin, thinking about which part of Poncho’s body would make the best steak, and discovered a pimple was coming in down there. I get zits in summer, but never in winter.

That happened. If not to me, than to someone, I’m sure. The following is real (I swear this time). And it was cold that day too. I like winter better than summer. More pockets.

On my way to work, I stepped out of my apartment, locked the door, called the elevator, put my keys in my bag, and then got on the elevator. Once I’d gone down a floor, I looked at my hands which were extremely dry, white and flaky in fact, and realized that I needed to go back up for some lotion. I pressed 7 to stop the elevator, but nothing happened. I pressed 6 and again nothing happened. Near panic, I pressed 5 and the elevator stopped at the fifth floor. I exhaled in an exaggerated manner, even though there was no one around to see this physical indication of my frustration, and walked up two flights, extracted my keys from my bag, unlocked the door, went into the bathroom and applied lotion to my hands, rubbing it in deep, especially in the knuckle area. I exited my apartment again, locked the door, and pressed the button for the elevator. After five minutes elapsed, I decided that the elevator was stuck somewhere in it’s shaft, so I started down the stairs. When I got to the fifth floor, the elevator door was open as if waiting for me, so I got in. I pressed L, the door closed, but the elevator went up. The door reopened on the seventh floor, and I thought I might as well grab another sweater while I was there. Layers are the key to keeping warm this time of year. I unlocked the door, went inside, picked up a carefully folded sweater, placed it in my bag, and put some more lotion on my hands. Then I exited my apartment again, locked the door, and found the elevator still on my floor, eerily waiting for me. I pressed L and traveled downward. At the fifth floor, the door opened. This was no doubt a sign, so I got out and walked back up to my apartment. I unlocked the door again and went inside. This time I grabbed a little bottle of lotion and put it in my bag for future dry-hand emergencies. I left my apartment once again, locked the door behind me once more, and called the elevator yet again. This time I made it all the way down to the lobby. When I got outside, my gloves were not in my bag where they’re supposed to be, so I returned.

Best regards,

Sarah M. Balcomb

PS – Coincidently, pulpous is my word for the day again today.

- - -

From: “Newhart, Bryson”
Subject: Jeff Johnson’s Superbowl Party in 3 parts (so they won’t be too l ong) and sent in reverse order so they will read from top to bottom: the last part.
Date: Wed, 2 Feb 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

Back at the apartment, so he wouldn’t piss on anything, we set Doug up in the bathtub. In the middle of the night, he tried to crawl into bed with us and I had to kick him out. Then he kept us up for two hours apologizing.

In the morning we found him shivering in the tub filled with cold water. He was naked except for my girlfriend’s hat and scarf. Even the two remaining candy necklaces were gone. He said that he’d eaten them, string and all. By breakfast at the diner, however, he was back in prime form. “What do you think of when you hear beep, beep, beep? You know, like the sound a truck makes when it’s backing up?” Giggling, he stood, pointed his feet inward, and proceeded to do the “retard” walk. Sticking to his cheek was a piece of sausage.

“Doesn’t it make you think of a crippled boy getting off a bus?” This made him roar with laughter and he staggered and pretended to fall into the table. “Can’t you just see that little cripple in his arm crutches? His backpack sliding off his scrawny shoulders? Drool waving from his big dumb smile?” He sat down to continue. It doesn’t sound as funny in print.

“Remember that Jewish community center out in East Pete?” he said. I nodded. I had no idea what he was talking about. "They had a sculpture of a rocket there for kids to play on. Once a babysitter took me there and I climbed halfway up it. But then I suddenly had to take a dump and there was nothing I could do but just let it slip out. It came out the bottom of my shorts and landed on the head of the boy beneath me. “Did you do this?” the babysitter said when the boy started bawling. “No,” I said. “He did it to himself.”

Later that evening we walked through giant snowflakes to Jeff Johnson’s Superbowl party. On the way we stopped at a few bars and Doug got loaded. When we finally walked into what appeared to be an empty bar in Mankato, MN — the Parkside Lounge — he yelled, “Where’s that son-of-a-bitch Jeff Johnson!? I’m here to kick his ass!”

Somebody pointed toward the back where there was another room. I had explained how there was supposed to be a large-screen TV, a venison raffle, and clowns, but when we entered the other room there was just a 13-incher. People were drinking beer and talking and my girlfriend and I looked around wondering who they were. Doug attacked the bowl of Doridos and yelled, “Go Trogans!” Bits of chip flew from his mouth and people ducked. Then something weird happened.

Suddenly we were inside that little TV, right there on the football field. Outside of the screen we could see the McSweeney’s people pointing and laughing at us. I tried to laugh along but I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. Then we were suddenly in a commercial in which a computer-enhanced Christopher Reeve was walking on stage. Doug looked over and a big smile lit his face. “I’m going to kick that crippled Superman actor’s ass,” he said. He ran over and tried to tackle Reeve but Reeve just grinned and kept on walking. Reeve was very determined.

To get home we followed the cable lines, but once we got to my building I realized that I don’t actually have cable. We had to enter through the TV of the Latino family next door. They were very courteous and offered us nachos.

Sincerely,

Bryce Newhart

PS. I have assembled a group of Jeff Johnson fans and we are staging a hunger strike effective right now. Our demands are simple. Whatever comes first.

A) The immediate re-commencement of “Weekly NFL Picks.” B) The immediate re-commencement of the NFL season (actual watching not necessary). C) A year’s supply of certified Angus beef, a set of Ginzu knives, a year’s worth of service from a genuine Benihana chef — one that can get real fancy with the knives, goddamnit.

- - -

Date: 02 Feb 00
From: “Geoff Dickinson”
Subject: A Vaguely McSweeney’s-related Purchasing Story

Dear McSweeney’s,

I recently had a rather limited conversation with some helpful folks at the rough-around-the-edges and quite hip City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco about the McSweeney’s Representative’s new work and think that it can serve as a nice lesson for future generations about interpersonal communications. Plus, I don’t want people in our new city to get the wrong impression about me and the Mrs.

We entered the bookstore still in our suits, having recently discovered a check from our Visa card company for $150.47 (1% of last year’s purchases apparently), which I carefully checked (this isn’t one of those $5,000 checks borrowed at some userous rate is it? ) and then deposited and quickly blew a good portion of on dinner with the wife. We then wandered over to the bookstore hoping to cap our windfall celebration with a nice new hardback.

Me (after pretending to browse for a moment): Do you have the new Eggers book? (Me, who knows what the hot book of the minute is because I have been reading McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and other cutting-edge publications).

Bookseller, male (moving to the computer terminal to look the book up): What’s the name?

Me (causally, offhandedly even): “A Staggering something something something.” It was in the Times today. (The Times (again) online because I have lots of unsupervised time at my job and reading online publications can look like work from a distance, especially if I furrow my brow and look concerned — writing this email gives the same impression, I hope).

Bookseller, female (hesitant): “A Breathtaking . . . Work of Genius”?

Me: Yes, that’s it

She: Not yet, it’s on order.

Me: Too bad, Amazon says it “Ships Same Day.”

Almost immediately after leaving the store, I thought that to the booksellers it might appear that Mr. and Mrs. Suit-Wearing Internet-Bookstore Yuppie like to go around acting superior and flashing their big Visa refund all over town. I just want to say that this would be a gross misunderstanding of the type of people we are. In fact, we once were, and like to think still are, young and hip and cool. The Mrs. even published her own monthly Arts/Entertainment Magazine (“Rant Magazine” for you readers in Huntsville) back when we lived in Alabama (don’t ask) complete with stories about vibrators (apparently they are sold through Tupperware-type parties in the Deep South where otherwise prohibited by law) and the local rave scene. I was once a young high school teacher with a devil-may-care attitude. In short, we’re coooool, man. No really, coooool.

Anyhow, suits not withstanding, the only real differences between us now and us then are that (1) I shaved the front mullet off of my chin and (2) we can now afford renter’s insurance. Wait, that’s pretty lame and old.

Nearing thirty and nervous, Your Uncle Nowlin

- - -

Date: Wed, 2 Feb 2000
Subject: Oranges

Below are the details of an exchange between a co-worker and myself; let’s call the co-worker Rick from Sales.

Rick arrives to work at around 8:20a.m. He stops at my cubicle on his way to his own.

Rick: Hey, were you eating oranges yesterday? Me: Yes, I had an orange with lunch. Rick: It smelled like oranges in here yesterday afternoon, must have been you.

This struck me as odd. I wonder if he woke up in a cold sweat during the middle of the night, sat up, and said aloud, “Oh dear God, I never found out where that orange smell came from.”

Later as I was eating lunch at my desk, Rick strolled by as I was peeling yet another orange (they were on sale at Jewel over the weekend.)

Rick: Oranges again, eh? Me: Yeah.

Rick shook his head, sort of half-smiled, and walked off.

I am not sure what all this means. Should I be more disturbed by Rick’s interest in my eating oranges or by the fact that I spent a good deal of time analyzing these two encounters? Does he disapprove of my eating an orange at my desk for some reason? Did the smell of oranges rekindle a long forgotten memory, a lost love perhaps? Is he hinting that he is hungry and wants me to offer some of my orange to him? Or could he just be messing with my head? Asking me about oranges until our relationship descends into the realm of madness, where he will have the advantage. I really don’t know. Once Rick tried to convince me that the Grand Canyon was in Montana, but that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Happy Groundhogs Day,

Robert Recklaus

- - -

From: “glitter kitty”
Date: Wed, 2 Feb 2000
Subject: ?

http://penn.netroedge.com/~mrt/cgi-bin/t.cgi?field=mcsweeneys.net

please admit that you think this is funny.

love,

ross

- - -

From: Hlnrss
Date: Wed, 2 Feb 2000
Subject: More from Michiko

Those pricks in edit!

Paragraph #2 should have contained the following text:

“It’s also the sort of book Franz Kafka, Steven Spielberg and Erma Bombeck might have written together if Mr. Kafka had ever heard of Lake Forest, if Steven Spielberg were a nicer person, and if Erma Bombeck were not the sort of writer who wore white suits and ice-cream colored shirts.”

They never do this to Christopher Lehmann-Haupt.

Sincerely,
ichiko Kakutani
The New York Times

- - -

From: Hlnrss
Date: Tue, 1 Feb 2000
Subject: No Subject

Dear McSweeney’s,

Yesterday, when I got on the M4 bus there were, as usual, no seats. Or, there were the usual number of seats (68, I think) but all were occupied by people who seemed set against relinquishing them. I cleverly positioned myself next to a seated middle aged woman who I suspected would be getting off soon . (Why is this an unaskable question: How soon will you be getting off the bus?) Her body language indicated that she would be getting off at the next stop. Her hips were shifting from side to side and her hands were fumbling around in her pockets for what I assumed was her door key which she was planning to have at the ready, so as to elude attackers, not to mention the cold.

What she produced was not a key, but a list (it was in her bag, not in a pocket after all!) and, to my chagrin, she settled back into her seat to read it. Given our proximity, I could not help but read it myself. It was a list of art supplies, which surprised me, as the bus we were on was going uptown. There are no purveyors of art supplies uptown, to my knowledge, but, not being an artist, I can not speak definitively. She looked to be an artist (bone-thin, undyed gray hair, boots splattered with paint) but who knows? Maybe she was just politically active.

In any case, here’s the list which I memorized in the twenty minutes I was made to sway uncomfortably beside her . It may prove useful to readers considering careers in art:

magnifier
scalpel & blade
tweezers
small blotters
paste
paste recipe
patching papers
dropper
needle
mending papers
Schweidler book

Don’t mention it,
helen ross

- - -

Date: Tue, 1 Feb 2000
From: Sam W Stark
Subject: How To ‘Make It’ in Journalism

I found a signed copy of John Train’s “Valsalva’s Manuever: Mots Justes and Indispensable Terms,” in a trash can. The reason for its being discarded are plain: there is a careless scribble on the front jacket in the same queer purple felt-tipped ink that the author used to sign his name. Between the obligatory “Multitudes” section (“a deceipt of lapwings,” “a dopping of shelducks”) and the marginally more useful section entitled simply “Shit” (a fox’s “billitings,” a coney’s “croteys”), I found the “Publishing” section, from which I provide a few useful terms, along with my own suggestions for their proper application at, for instance, a party thrown by a magazine for women.

bing: exclamation point [Simply replace the mark— which has no spoken correlate, save yelling— with the word. E.g. whispered, late: “She’s kind of cute, bing.” Unfortunately, easily misconstrued as “She’s kind of cute, Bing.” Also, it should be pointed out that the word in Cantonese means “pancake.”]

bladder: the shape containing the words coming from the mouths of cartoon characters. [E.g., “I’ve got a bladder like a woman.” I’ve drunk too much; I should be quiet now.]

cruise the queues: examine unpublished stories in the computer. [To try to identify that editorial assistant with whom you’ve only had flirtatious e-mail correspondence. Must be pronounced in a masculine voice, but not TOO masculine.]

grabber: The opening words of a column or article, in which the writer tries to capture the reader’s interest. nut: Transitional paragraph (usually about the fourth) where the lead passes into the body of the story. [These two should be used in succession, dropped at the appropriate times so she knows you know what is going on. For instance, she says, “Hey, I like your sneakers,” and you say, perhaps out of the corner of your mouth, “Whatta grabber!” (or better still, “Whatta grabber bing.”) A drink later— She: “God, I hate this bar.” You: “Nice nut bing.”]

phat: Probably from “fat”: profitable; a layout with a lot of white space. [Harder, without sounding like a moron, as when she says, “I just love their minimal layout,” and you reply, “Yes, McSweeney’s is phat.” Better as an ice-breaker, in a boring conversation with a lot of dead air. “Phat, huh?” (A quizzical glance, the drink is pulled a bit closer to the chest in preparations for departure) “You know, a lot of white space…” (A nervous giggle. “Yeah, phat!” She’s yours.)]

quote boy: The person who digs out hundreds of appropriate quotations to stuff like plums in a pudding into books by businessmen and politicians. [Here, the scenario is complicated. You and a buddy are competing for the attention of an up-and-coming intern. You tell a story about your recent trip to Tibet, and your friend— damn him!— corrects a detail in your rundown of the political history, killing your story and making you look like a jerk. Here, you may regain your lost ground by cocking a thumb in his direction— “Have you met Dave? He’s my quote boy.”]

Your very own “quote boy,”

Sam Stark

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Date: Tue, 01 Feb 2000
From: “Edward Horton Kafka-Gelbrecht”
Subject: Ben Greenman

Dear McSweeney’s,

During the singing parts, I felt the great sadness of Elian Gonzalez’s plight swell up in my bosom. He is older and looking back on his sad childhood. We should always remember that there are children in many places around us. Children are much more sensitive, and should not be used very much in politics.

May the sad children among us always remind us of this fact.

Your friend,
Edgar

- - -

From: “Dan Kennedy”
Subject: Fancy Hotels and the General Lee
Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

Regarding the letter from “Yoz Grahame” entitled ‘There is a television in the bathroom’ dated Wed, 26 Jan 2000, in which Yoz Grahame (Checking in via email from his room at The Four Seasons in Los Angeles, no less.) says the following about the television show Dukes Of Hazzard: “I like the way that each plot point is repeatedly explained to you over and over again, often with the amazingly imbecilic characters as the excuse. Hazzard County is obviously a place where social Darwinism does not apply.”

Terrific. Nice. This is why people in Hazzard County hate people like Yoz. Writing on a (Company?) computer and spending six dollars on a bottle of water (Company money) and knocking everyday people like Bo and Luke and Daisy. Hope you feel nice and smart, Yoz. Check out time is at 11:00 and it’s back to your regular sized britches.

Dan Kennedy
New York (sept-may)
Hazzard (Summers)

- - -

Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2000
From: Annie Morelos

Dear McSweeney’s,

So what I want to tell you is that for your work, the big one you have been setting yourself to for what I remember as my whole “life” and what may be called “your legacy,” is one you need to do as though it is what you were born for. More and more I am believing that you are one of the best I know, and it’s time for other’s to know what I know. And they will. But you must do it as if you are talking, and you get tired in a way that only comes from talking too much.

The fact that certain things have happened to you or that you pursue certain things is not so much of interest to me (hence my so-so attitude). What is of interest to me is the voice with which you relay these occurrences. And they can be mundane or personal. In fact, the less “important” (where you mention heads of state, or certain locales where the news is being born, etc. etc.) the better. What I really like is when you run into the obstacles around you (supermarkets, your favorite foods, and the cat, to name just a few) and show yourself. This way, you aren’t touting anything. Not consciously, in any case. Really, you are quite frail, and so I am gracious.

I have realized over the past few years that I am really blessed for having most of what I know come from you. You are an amazing source of inspiration for me, though I never tell you this. And it is the smallest things that matter. For whatever reasons and not for the sake of nagging what you do is important to me. That you actually do it is even more important. You owe this to me. For all the reasons you admit to and some of my own, homegrown. The truth is that I could ask for no greater a role model for my own little life. Know this. But also know that you need to justify yourself to me just a bit more. Make yourself real or else you’ll be just another let down from my imagination. OK?

- - -

Subject: Super Bowl Party
Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2000

Dear McSweeney’s,

Mssr. McSwy, you missed the party. Not that I truly entertained any thoughts you might show, however this is what you missed:
1) 2 XL plates of food from Gourmet Garage. (w/ lots of olives)
2) Several bags of chips.
3) Several devout readers of McSwy’s, many McSwy’s letters contributors, many people from trade publications, a few from other publications, Charo, Lou Diamond Phillips, and NL umpire Eric Gregg all attended.
4) Two televisions in the front of the bar, one small one in the quiet, yet joyous backroom.
5) One plate of chicken wings.
6) One large bag of oreos.
7) A football pool. Monique Daviau — you won on the final score but you had already left. E-mail me your address, and you will receive a sizable check that will help you cover laundry and transportation for at least one-half month.
8) Electronic shuffleboard.

Several times throughout the NFL season, the picks contained stories of drunken fools. This party had none of that. It resembled a Kenosha rec-room. There was no reason for fear. There was nothing broken. Our hosts were polite. Our guests were polite. The walk home was chilly and slushy. Later, my dog kept on licking my wet jacket and insisting on climbing into my bed.

Thanks to all the readers. I am done for the season.

Your faithful servant,

Jeff Johnson