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Samuel Pepys Visits the Wisconsin Dells

by Dale Dobson

Friday, July the 30th Today encountered unbearable traffic in the Chicago district, where labourers obstructed nearly every roadway suitable for passage, and I fear no traveller with less than half a tank of petrol may safely pass that way, except…

Polish Fact

Some Noted Polish Films
Ashes and Diamonds
The Saragossa Manuscript
The Decalogue
The Pianist

Learn a Foreign Tongue!

Learn Yiddish!
Der Tog nokh der Morgn.
The Day after Tomorrow.

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Literary Flimflam
Wednesday, November 29, 2006   |    Fiction

Letter to Chris Noth: “Mr. Big,” Detective Logan, and Owner of NYC’s The Cutting Room

by Wayne Gladstone

Can I just tell you what an honor it is to be speaking with you? Well, not speaking, but just knowing you’ll read this. We met briefly at your club last night and, wow, all I can say is good job, man. I mean, really. I was totally digging that 10’ by 15’ painting of you hung over the door. I liked how it was you, but younger. And thinner. With more hair. I thought that was cool. I mean, it’s your place, right? Why shouldn’t there be a larger than life glamour shot from the door frame to the ceiling? My friend says that was lame. That only a self-obsessed douchebag would feel the need to do that. But don’t listen to him. He’s just mad because our band didn’t get to soundcheck before the gig. Hey, not that I’m complaining. We totally understand why your private party for Sex & The City extras, acting buddies, and random skanks had to go two hours late while we stood with our gear in the street. I mean, it was a private performance by Suzanne Vega. Dude, we get it. That is so fine with us. And we are completely over our 40-minute set being cut in half so that you could use our instruments to jam with the gaffer and writer’s assistant from Law & Order before the soundman went home. Again, totally your prerogative. By the way, I meant to tell you, you played Mustang Sally really well. Those sure were the right three chords.

I think I’m a fan because we have so much in common. I’m part Jewish too, but like you, I also have none of the wisdom, passion, or comedic ability so often attributed to our people. And I’m also under six feet, but if I had a bio on line, I would totally tell people I was like 6’ 1” or even 6’ 4.” I mean, you stand next to elfin Sarah Jessica Parker and smurfy Annabella Sciorra all day. Who’s gonna know? Is that why it’s always Vincent D’ Onofrio or you on Law & Order Criminal Intent, but not both? That D’Onofrio’s one tall dude. Smart.

That reminds me. My girlfriend says there are absolutely no hard feelings. I explained to her that, from behind, you probably thought she was in her 30’s or at least mid twenties, because a 51-year-old dude, knowingly, hitting on a 23-year-old would just be creepy. But hey, that was a pretty good line, though. About why they call you “Mr. Big.” Have you used that one before?

Well, anyway, just wanted to get that all down. I’m sorry we didn’t have any “chronic” on us. We totally would have loved to take “mad bong hits” with you, but it was late. Yeah, like I said, we pretty much just went straight home after that. There wasn’t like an after-party with killer weed and hot NYU chicks on Avenue A or anything like that. All right, man. Gotta go, but keep up the good work. And no problem. You can give us our cut of the door the next time we play. We totally understand.

A fan

Wayne Gladstone lives in Maine with his wife and children. Some of his work has been featured in McSweeney's and Opium. But all of it has not been featured in The New Yorker. If Wayne Gladstone were a restaurant, he would be a defunct roadside Roy Rogers sharing space with a wildly successful Bob's Big Boy. Visit Wayne at