Bongskull Island

To the Editor:

By now you’ve probably wearied of reading messages from those waxing defensive at seeing their tastes in music/frat-boy ways mocked [“To the Guys in the Garden Apt.: I Think I Hate You,” Sloane Crosley, New Yorker’s Diary, May 22]. You’re probably also understandably surprised that so many meatheads: (1) can read and write, (2) read this column. I write to sympathize with the meatheads, with one qualification.

Saturday night is fair game, I’m afraid, for bongskulls blasting Coolio and reliving the glory of their Dartmouth days. The bounds of what’s reasonable fall well outside the 11 p.m. limit that Ms. Crosley implies in her piece. The straight world parties hard Saturday night; bohemians will have to cope (cf. Graham Parker’s “Saturday Nite Is Dead”). Saturday night belongs to the Meatheads. The worker drones. The stiffs. If it makes her feel any better, on Wednesday night these guys can be found revising a report of some kind, doing document review, Excel spreadsheeting, monetizing something, performing present-value analysis, in “due diligence.” The world needs Meatheads. The brawn of the American economy depends on them, as does the hipster/square dichotomy that is the subtext of her piece. Of course, the Counting Crows at 6 a.m. crashes the bounds of reasonableness in several ways. It seems to me that slinging cat poo in response, cathartic though it may be, is both passive-aggressive and ineffective. Call the police.

Matthew S. Weiler

Santa Monica, Calif.

To the Editor:

Even though I’m one of those people at times, and will be for months to come, it’s nice to at least read some good bitching. Because one day I’ll be that person. “Abercrombie clown car” had me laughing out loud, plus she said Coldplay instead of Arcade Fire (though she didn’t mean it), which made me love her.

It was all good and mostly insightful. So, thanks.

Sarah Love

Auburn Hills, Mich.

Editorial Is On The Money

To the Editor:

Your editorial “The 9/11 Memorial: Dignity, Not Dollars” [May 22] is eloquent and right.

Susan Gutterman


Back From the Dead

To the Editor:

Just a quick note to say what a wonderful and perceptive piece Charles Taylor wrote about Casualties of War [“De Palma’s Masterpiece: A Casualty of the Box Office,” Mr. DVD, May 15]. I’ve seen that movie a few times and have always been impressed by its ambiguities. (Sergeant Meserve is a first-class N.C.O., yet also viciously cruel; and, if I recall correctly, the upright Mr. Fox doesn’t care much about some cherry getting killed stepping on a landmine.) It’s about time someone praised it in print. I think Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket wins on cold irony—the scene with the men singing the Mickey Mouse tune as they meander through the bombed-out, smoking ruins of a town is a remarkable one—but Mr. De Palma’s is the better and more tragic film.

Alexander Rose

Manhattan Letters