Excerpts From A Letter By An Unnamed Soldier Who Is Currently Serving

 
by Anonymous

"Man, I don't know if it's worth it for any of us to be here."

"This place and people are so different, man. The personality of the people in this part of the world was so permanently destroyed by the invasions of Genghis Kahn a thousand years ago. Those invasions were so violent, so devastating that the people learned to consolidate themselves into the groups that mattered most –families, clans, and tribes–and to hate and fear everyone else."

"These people have a thousand years of this culture--Mongol, Hindu, Arab, British, Soviet, and now U.S. invasions--and, for the most part, your average citizen of Central Asia wants no part in change."

"On the other hand, because of September 11th, the U.S. government will never allow another Taliban type government to take hold here, which is probably a legitimate goal."

"2500 years ago a low level officer in Alexander the Great's army stood here and just wanted to go home, 25 years ago a low level officer in the Soviet army stood here and just wanted to go home, it's my turn now to do what I'm here to do and miss those I left behind."

"Everything we do here that has anything to do with combat or the taking of people's lives is so detached from me."

"You can only hope it's the right thing, man–that the people at the other end really are 'bad' people. From everything I have been taught 'they' most certainly are– but from everything they've been taught I'm some ignoble Christian crusader here to rape and conquer."

"It's obscene that I go...to participate in the death of other human beings, then come back to watch 'The Office' on my portable DVD player. It could drive me crazy if I really thought about it–which I don't do too often."

"My biggest stresses, by far, are when the network is down or when someone is on the phone longer than 15 minutes and I want to call home. That's my war, man."
 

Letter to A Young Tortured Genius

by Christopher Cunningham

so you want to be the greatest writer ever huh?

first of all: love, the maintaining of an intense, meaningful relationship where two people have each other's back, and can trust each other no matter what, are willing to go to Room 101 for the other and have rats strapped to their heads, this is the essential connection that all writing seeks to make; like the saxophone seeks to mimic the human voice singing, the breath from the heart and soul translated into musical notes that transcend the limits of puny speech and mere language, so does writing attempt a Great Connection, a Great Communication, the forging of a link between writer and reader that is so like love that it is, at its finest, capable of drawing out the deepest emotions, causing weeping and laughter, sorrow, pain, soaring freedoms, the Pure Understanding. this is also the goal of love. it is the goal of ALL GREAT ART in the end: connection to the ethereral, the intangible, the impossible.

listen: you must shed this "DESIRE" that will, in the end, cripple you. this DESIRE to "be the greatest *blank*" is an illusion. you will never be the GREATEST WRITER, because there will ALWAYS be someone coming up behind you who will do something that will make YOU, the "greatest writer" (by whomever's standards...yours? hardly a capable judge. an editor? fallible as all hell. jesus? good fucking luck...) shudder in your skin and sweat blood and finally grab for the ol' Hemingway shotgun. this is the path of your desire to be the greatest. believe me. I've lived it. finally, you won't be able to outdo your OWN PAST WRITING, no matter how great, and it will kill you.

here brother: learn to be the GREATEST HUMAN first. learn to suffer the misery of COMPASSION, that is, the SUFFERING WITH another that draws GREAT WRITING out of you. throw yourself into love, the FULLNESS OF IT, and LET THE WRITING COME AS IT WILL. this desire will make you FORCE the words, and trust me, it will show. no matter how good you get at the TRICK of writing (that's all it is, really, a magic trick: a conjuring, an illusion like a house of mirrors that reflects the world back upon the reader thru his own eyes, allowing the writer to disappear, leaving only the mysterious puff of fog down a dark midnight alley glinting in the dim streetlights of Prague or St. Louis or Mexico City) you will always be forced to BE A HUMAN LIVING A LIFE.

man, you have to understand most of all that you will WRITE no matter what. you will carve hours out of the night that you never knew existed, all the while living your life with your women, your jobs, your hurts and your triumphs. if this girl means as much to you as you say, there is no need to sacrifice EITHER ONE. one is tangible and real, and one is a beautiful dream that you will never achieve except in the ABSTRACT. I've writ some shit that has made folks stare at me in amazement at how CLOSE TO THE BONE I'VE GOTTEN, and in the end, it's my relationship with my woman for twenty fucking years that matters. the TRUST AND PURE HONESTY OF LOVE. I used to think I had to sacrifice for my art. and I do. and so do you. but the sacrifice comes with the LIVING OF A LIFE IN THE TRAGEDY OF OUR MORTALITY, and doing it WELL. to leave a shining mark on the cave wall for others to find. to make a CONNECTION with another human being that is something done out of selflessness and compassion and the will to give, to sacrifice in a way that isn't negative but rather a positive expression of the best humanity can offer.

getting the artform down is the most important thing in the world to me. but the art lies in the connection generated by the CREATION. and you don't always need the creation to make that connection. the two are not mutually exclusive my man. take it from me. I've spent my LIFE, every waking moment in pursuit of exactly the dream you have, and it has brought me to this place where I can clearly see that the dream is not something attainable, but rather a DRIVING MOTIVATION to make a LIFE THAT IS ART. like Henry Miller said, something about how eventually he will get his life just right and then will never need to write another word, having acheived the PURPOSE OF THE WRITING.

Buk wanted to be the greatest, to kick Hem's ass, and even if he managed, in some ways, to do just that, he still sought LOVE FIRST OF ALL. it was PRIMARY in terms of motivation. the isolated loner puts pen to paper and sends it out into the world hoping for CONNECTION, for someone to say I HEAR YOU SCREAMING. this is literature, my man. get the words down, get them down down down, until the pages cry out, but never forget that by giving up your HUMANITY, you lessen the power of the art.

now having said all this, your partner MUST UNDERSTAND that SOMETIMES we cannot be bothered, that when they hear the MACHINE RUNNING they must find SOMETHING ELSE TO DO. there has to be COMMON GROUND, and if you feel like you are being hampered, you might try a deep examination of motivation, of purpose, of desire, of respect, etc. my lady would NEVER interrupt me or dissuade me from my art but likewise I have to FIND THE BALANCE and respect that there are TIMES WHEN I MUST SIMPLY BE A MAN living a hard human life, mowing the grass, growing some veggies in the garden, cleaning up dogshit, saying I love you, etc. it is ALL PART OF IT: THE MAKING OF ART. it all translates. leave nothing out. make nothing up.

TELL THE TRUTH FIRST. if you do that it will all fall into place. and brother: RELAX. burning up in a furious pyre does NOBODY ANY GOOD, especially you. tell the truth and get it down. be a GREAT WRITER. AND BE A GREAT HUMAN. be kind, be honest, gamble with class and dignity, crush the typewriter with lines like sledgehammers and doom, drink black coffee, sleep late and laugh when you can. this is all you can hope for brother. all else is gravy.
 

Letter to the Apartment Thieves

by Jordan Hurder

Dear Person/People who Robbed my Apartment,

I hope you enjoyed the time you spent at my apartment yesterday. The following things came up as I inspected the place after you left:

1. How much did you get for my bike? It was worth about $5000, but I'd imagine you hocked it for a couple hundred, at best. Congrats on that one- quite a score.

2. Why did you take my change? Seriously, there weren't any quarters in there, since I use them to do laundry. How much change could there have really been? $10? You must have been busy after you left, what with trying to hock my bike, getting rid of my electronics, and THEN having to hit up a Coinstar machine!

3. I couldn't help but notice that you took my alarm clock, but left 3 big binders of CD's that were next to it. This was an $8 alarm clock I got at Walgreens. After my car got broken into a while back, I assumed that CD's were hot property on the thievery circuit. Well, in any case, I hope you know what time it is from now on and that you have no trouble waking up at pre-specified times.

4. I want to extend a special thanks to you for stealing my cell phone charger. I suppose that a $15 thingy gets big bucks on the electronics gray market, but it was a huge pain in the ass trying to squeeze in as many calls as I could before my phone died.

5. Okay, I'm back on the alarm clock again... You looked through the carrying case of my high-tech bike light, but took the alarm clock and left the light? I'm kinda confused, but maybe it was just a nicer alarm clock than I thought.

6. That backpack that you took from my living room (thanks for leaving my DVD player, TV, and guitar, by the way. I guess you just went in there to see if there was a bag that was suitably strong to carry that awesomely amazing alarm clock you found)... I was selling it on eBay, and I had to cancel the auction... And the high bidder was kind of pissed. So just know that you not only hurt me, you hurt "swiftskier16" as well.

7. You are unbelievably messy. I hope you don't leave hotel rooms like that when you go on vacation. I assume you've never had the pleasure, but coming home to a room that has been "ransacked" sucks as much as you'd imagine it would suck.

8. Would you mind telling me what happened that caused you to flee so quickly? I mean, you already had my computer monitor in a duffel bag that you left on the ground outside my building... and you left my computer tower outside my kitchen window... and my subwoofer on the kitchen floor in front of the window. Maybe you took more than you could carry... I've been there before- one time at this vegan restaurant, I ordered so much food that I convinced myself I would stuff it all into my face, just because I went to the trouble of ordering it (just as you went to the trouble of breaking into my window)... although the difference between you and I is that I DID finish it, because I'm not a QUITTER.

9. Please explain this logic... you took every electronic appliance in my bedroom, including the AC adapter for my cable modem and my ethernet cable... but you left my cable modem on my desk, along with my old cable modem that you found when you dumped my desk drawers out on my bed. ???

10. Here's a treat you may or may not have discovered yet: in the top pocket of the backpack you stole, there are some sticks of "Terrapin" brand lip balm- positively the best lip balm ever made... and now totally off the market. The warehouse where I work has literally the only remaining stock of Terrapin lip balm in the world, and you now have a few sticks of it. You know, for if your lips get chapped from all that burglarizing. It's no alarm clock, I know, but what're ya gonna do?

Okay, that about sums up my thoughts on the matter. Have a wonderful weekend, and I'll see you in hell.

Love,
Jordan

Letter to The Editors

by justin.barrett

editors,

here is something i think might interest you: the first instance of an attack ad in a Presidential Campaign, from the very first presidential campaign where little known Luther Standish Treaty ran an unsuccessful campaign against George Washington. thought you might be interested in it...


The First Negative Advertisement in a Presidential Campaign; a Handbill Circulated in 1788 by George Washington's Opponent, Luther Standish Treaty, in the First U.S. Presidential Election

-- courtesy of Stuart Collection of Oldentime Stuff and Archives

Dear Senator McCain

by justin.barrett

[please address all hate mail to Fritz -Eds.]

20 October 2008

Dear Senator McCain,

My name is Fritz Miller and I'm the Executive Vice-President of a fairly large waste disposal company. I make over $250,000 a year ($2.5 million to be exact) and will receive a tax increase under Senator Barack Hussein Obama's proposed tax plan. NOTE: unlike your Vice-President choice, I am capable in my duties and deserved the title, just in case you were worried about whom you might be reading.

Senator McCain, I've paid particular attention to your recent speeches, and your last debate, where you mention "Joe the Plumber". It seems he has some questionable background issues (including unpaid taxes, being an unlicensed plumber, and actually making only $40,000 instead of the more than $250,000 he claimed to Obama), so maybe, if you're looking for another "regular guy" to make an example out of, you can use me. "Fritz the Garbage Man" you can call me. Tell the world how my meager earnings will be taxed to the hilt by Osama (oops, Obama [smirk]); how my accustomed "middle class" lifestyle of fast cars, fancy dinners, extravagant vacations and multiple mansions will be severely curtailed; how my "regular guy" capitalist principles will be crushed by Obama's socialist ideologies; even how my “guy next door” house will likely be blown up by Obama and his terrorist minions.

"Fritz the Garbage Man" will capture the attention of your audiences. I am an "everyman" with only two Ferraris and a yacht. I am the quintessential "Joe Sixpack", though I prefer to drink 25-year old scotch or $200 bottles of Bordeaux to that domestic light beer swill. “Fritz the Garbage Man”. It rolls off the tongue.

By the way, like you, Senator McCain, I, too, don't know how many houses I own. Seven, I think; plus or minus two.

It is true, Senator McCain, that Barack Hussein Obama is smarter than you; better looking, younger, and leaner. His smile seems genuine and warm. His teeth are white and eyes aren’t jaundiced with age and cynicism. His arms are strong, his legs powerful, his mind inquisitive and taut. It is also true, Senator McCain, that you are on the last lap of the track meet that is your life, and you hit the wall 8 years and many laps ago. However, I still believe in you. We (that is, we 42%) believe in you, despite your erratic behavior of late; despite your absurdly inappropriate choice for running mate; despite your age and health and temperament (which some say in unbecoming of a President, but which I say is not only becoming but will make all those dictators respect us, because we can show them that they aren’t the only ones who have an unhinged, Type A asshole manning the ship). So, smile away, in your smug and corpse-like way. Make uncomfortable jokes about your advanced age. Spout hateful and ugly lies ad infinitum. Continue it all. We love it.

And don’t fret those falling poll numbers, Senator McCain, for you’re like the Red Sox since 2004 and you’re better from behind. You’ve got Barack Hussein Obama right where you want him, just like the Red Sox had the Tampa Bay Rays right where they wanted them when they were down three games to one. Never mind that the Red Sox lost. Ignore that, much like you are ignoring the real issues in this campaign. The Red Sox very likely did win, but the liberal mainstream media didn’t report it. Believe, Senator McCain, believe!

Lastly, Senator McCain, “Fritz the Garbage Man”, should you lose this election (and by “should”, I mean “when”; and by “lose” I mean “get annihilated in”), is ready and able to sweep up the pieces of your dignity and self-respect—or that is to say, have one of his employees sweep them up—and store them in a landfill facility with your bungled, ineffectual, idiotic campaign. McCain/Palin 2008 2012!

Sincerely,

Fritz Miller

A Letter from a Beer Drinker

by Nathan Graziano

Note: This is an actual letter I sent a little over a year and a half ago. Sadly, very little has changed in my life in this time. I remain the same fatuous lush who, in a moment of unequivocal bliss and beer-bloated bluster, sat down to pen this shit. And who says the epistolary form is dead?


June 11, 2006

Magic Hat Brewing Company
5 Bartlett Bay Road
South Burlington, VT 05403

Dear Good Folks at Magic Hat,

In my sixteen years of beer drinking—I’m thirty-two years old and, regrettably, I imbibed before the laws in this fine country deemed me responsible enough consume…shit, look, I’m already digressing. As I was saying, in my sixteen years of boozing, nothing really good has come of it. It would be taxing to recall a single “good” (I realize this is, indeed, a relative term) incident that has come from what my wife, family and friends refer to as my “excessive” drinking.

That was until today.

This morning I picked up a Summer Variety Show twelve-pack at the supermarket in anticipation of the Red Sox double-header with the Texas Rangers. I’ve long been a fan of your beer, and once received a free pint-glass at a promotional venue at a local bar. Again, regrettably, I don’t recall when this was, or anything about the night when brought it home (although it may have been the same night I contracted that pain-in-the-ass venereal disease). So the pint glass simply appeared in my life. Just as mysteriously, it vanished. The pint glass is now gone. Perhaps, it broke. Perhaps, I smashed it in a drunken storm. My point being: I miss that damn pint glass.

I, again, apologize for digressing. It’s the result of exuberance, as well as being buried seven beers deep into the aforementioned twelve-pack.

Where were we? Yes. The double-header. The first game is not looking so good, as the Sox trail 4-2 in the top of the ninth.

Anyhow, I purchased the twelve-pack today, looking forward to some tasty beers, as well as twelve illuminating remarks that you so cleverly print on the inside of the bottle caps. As a self-proclaimed existentialist, I generally rebuff pithy philosophy and universal “Dr. Phil” life advice; however, I have not found your bottle cap aphorisms either didactic or offensive. Having established my receptiveness to the bottle cap witticisms, you can only imagine my surprise when I opened my first beer—a 374—and read, You’re a winner! (the exclamation point is my own insertion). When I read this, I squealed; a girlish noise that my wife confused with the terror of, say, discovering blood on my genitalia.

But she could not have been more wrong. It was anything but terror.

Once again, allow me to digress. The only other thing I’ve ever won was a raffle at fraternity gathering I attended at Dartmouth College (sadly, I was not a student there, which you probably find shocking). The fraternity—and seeing I was a member of a different chapter, I will refrain from saying it was Sigma Phi Epsilon—had hired three strippers. The names of all of the males in attendance were handwritten and placed into a glass jar (not to be confused with my pint glass). Three names from nearly fifty were selected. The winners were awarded the honor of pulling a stripper’s G-string off with their teeth. My name was drawn. Sadly, I was so intoxicated that I could not get a firm bite on the G-string, and the young woman had to feed me the fabric, like I was a nursing child, then I fell pathetically face-down on the ground. It was not exactly what one might consider “erotic.” This was my only other experience with winning.

That was until today.

After being informed of my good fortune by the bottle cap, I dialed the phone number, as instructed, and talked to very pleasant young woman at your brewery who congratulated me. Twice. I counted. She explained that I had won a t-shirt, and I could either pick up my bounty at the brewery or mail my winning bottle cap with my address and T-shirt size to your fine establishment. I’ve chosen the latter, seeing as I live two and a half hours away in New Hampshire and have no immediate plans to visit Burlington. Although, good friends of my wife and mine used to live in Burlington and I’ve always found it to be a fine city; however, there are a few too many String Cheese pseudo-hippies who have failed to come to terms with two obvious facts: 1.) Jerry is dead, and 2.) Phish was never an adequate substitute.

So, my new friends, I proudly announce that my T-shirt size is a large (grande in case the manufacturer is French) and my address is:

Nathan Graziano
301 Porter St.
Manchester, NH 03103

By the way, Big Papi just hit a three-run walk-off homerun for the Red Sox. This is fixing to be the best day of my life.

Sincerely,

Nathan Graziano


End note: The t-shirt was received two weeks after this letter was mailed. It is an exceptional t-shirt: gray, heavy, durable, made of 90% cotton and 10% polyester, assembled in some sweat shop in El Salvador, and pre-shrunk, so it has not shrunk—even slightly—after multiple cycles in the dryer. However, I have found that I sweat excessively while wearing my prize and need to be especially vigilant in regards to physical exertion when wearing it. Ironically, I tend to sweat while drinking beer so I can’t wear it while tanking up.