A few weeks ago, I learned that somebody had been pretending to be friendly with me for quite a long time. This person was uninterested in explicating feelings or having any rational point of reference. What mattered most to this person was hostility. As you will soon see, the email was ridiculously petty and obstinately worded.
Therefore, my audio series — Hate Mail Dramatic Reading Project — must continue.
The following clip represents my dramatic reading of the hate mail in question, read in the style of a Miss Manners schoolmarmish tone. During the course of my reading, not only did the email feel like a pointless lecture, but I began to wag my fingers midway through the delivery. I have spent most of the afternoon keeping my hands in a folded position to prevent such gestural mishaps from occurring. And should you find yourself uncontrollably pointing while you are listening to the file, I apologize in advance for any finger-related inconvenience.
I plan to continue reading more hate mail. Again, I will be happy to read any specific hate mail that you’ve received. (If you do send me hate mail for potential dramatic readings, I only ask that you redact the names of the individuals.)
Click any of the below links to listen.
Hate Mail Dramatic Reading Project #6 (Download MP3)
Previous Hate Mail Dramatic Reading Installments:
#5 A hate mail read in the style of Richard Milhous Nixon
#4: A hate mail read in the style of a drunken Irishman.
#3: A hate mail read in the style of a quiet sociopath
#2: A hate mail read in a muted Peter Lorre impression
#1: A hate mail read in a melodramatic, quasi-Shakespearean style
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
School marm became more of petulant school girl towards the end there…
ya know, these posts remind me of Lenny Bruce when he would read court transcripts during his stand-up act.
You don’t sound at all like my idea of Miss Manners – but the email was obnoxious, in a ridiculous way (or vice versa) and deserved the send-up.
Yeah, Miss Manners is more the quiet psychopath type.
One thing I notice about these hate mails is they start out seeming reasonable — the writer begins with a measured tone. But as they go on and on, the opinions expressed get whackier, and the pent-up anger bursts forth, and the opinions become unreasonable.
(This example’s not so bad — the writer comes across as prissy, but the hate mail lacks the foaming lunacy of several of the others. The drunken Irishman’s hate mail is my fave so far. It gets a 9.0; this one is maybe a 5.5.)
I’d like to send you hate mail for future dramatic reading, but I’ve nothing to rant passionately about.