The Artist General's Letter To The New Yorker
December 14, 2022
Dear The New Yorker,
Where do I start? Great Grandpa Brdecka built Archer Avenue Big Store in Brighton Park on the Southside of Chicago. See, he fled Austria-Hungary during the early 20th Century right before World War I, but even though his immigration paperwork said Austria-Hungary, his brother’s said Czechoslovakia. Geographically speaking, the men in my family, both my maternal and paternal great grandfathers (one grandfather), immigrated from the four corners of what is now the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Austria, and Hungary. Meanwhile, my maternal and paternal grandmothers and their ancestors came from Ireland and Poland respectively. If I recall correctly, all my great grandparents had accents and I couldn’t understand a word they spoke and my mother’s dad had an accent. Pretty much everyone in my family that was first, second, and third generation American spoke English and English only, because back in those day, you’d get your ass whipped for having a funny accent. My father and his father had Eastern European names, which is why my name is Matthew. My father didn’t want me to get my ass whipped for having a funny name
Great Grandpa Brdecka came to America before he was even a teenager, and he came alone. When he was young, he sold Vienna Beefs and balloons, and then he built a small department store on Archer Avenue, which grew and grew into Archer Avenue Big Store. My grandfather worked at Archer Avenue Big Store like his father. My father worked at Archer Avenue Big Store like his father and grandfather. And I remember running around Archer Avenue Big Store pretending like I worked where my father, grandfather, and great grandfather worked. My family ran a department store like Sears or Walmart, and it was the coolest thing in the world to me as a kid. We were the epitome of the immigrant success story fulfilling the American Dream. However, our family dream became a family nightmare during the second half of the 1980’s.
My grandfather drank every night after work, because he hated working the family business, so my father drank every night after work, because he hated working the family business. Of course, my father partook in the sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle of the 1970’s, which is how he met mother, and I became Barney Stinson. Naturally, my spoiled and immature father did not exactly mature past his late teens and early twenties, so even though he was a brilliant man with a Mensa IQ, he remained developmentally a child for the remainder of his life. He was not mature enough to marry my mother and be a good husband. He was not mature enough to sire my siblings and me and be a good father. The alcohol, weed, and acid fried my father’s brain like cracked eggs in a frying pan. For years, my father showed up to work the family business at Archer Avenue Big Store, but he didn’t really work and took whatever he wanted off the shelves. We weren’t rich like the Trumps, but my father could have whatever he wanted from Archer Avenue Big Store and go to pretty much any college in the country, and he pissed it all down bar bathroom urinals.
I remember pops taking my brother Johnny and me to bar after bar or gin mills like pops called them. Life on the Southside of Chicago during the 1980’s was a lot different than it is today, but it’s very much the same. Of course, the Roman Catholic Churches drive the immigration and migration in Chicago, which is still the most segregated city in America, but the main reason is the churches. My ancestors fled Europe and moved to the Southside where the Roman Catholic Church united immigrants from all over Roman Catholic Europe. Even though I am American, I am Roman Catholic-American. Roman Catholic is both a race and religion like Judaism. Or at least that is how I look at it. After the Poles, Czech, Hungarians, and Lithuanians moved out of Southside neighborhoods like Brighton Park, who do you think moved in? The Hispanic Americans and immigrants! Why? The Roman Catholic Church. Like I said, even though life on the Southside of Chicago is very much the same today as the 1980’s, it’s very different. Take for example my father dragging my brother and me around from bar to bar, which pales in comparison to being able to buy pops booze and cigarettes from the convenient store down the street when I was six years old. Kids these days grow up with iPhones in their faces; I grew up spinning around on barstools with cigarette smoke suffocating my lungs like the stench of rotting wood and stale spilled Old Style suffocated my nose. Johnny and I were basically our father’s drinking buddies and drunk driver. Well, we didn’t literally drive our father home, but we walked him home drunk. And my father wondered why the Department of Children and Family Services took us away. My father blamed the State of Illinois, DCFS, and everyone else on the planet for his failures as a father and a husband until he died on November 4th, 2020.
I’m sure my father read The New Yorker, but I didn’t even hear of The New Yorker until my late twenties and didn’t read The New Yorker until my thirties. Unfortunately, my father didn’t read to me. He took me to bars. My mother didn’t read to me. She wasn’t there. Needless to say, I grew up with serious English grammar, reading, and writing learning gaps, which I still haven’t completely reprogramed, and I am a writer. Why am I writer if I am naturally horrible with English grammar, reading, and writing? Mathematics, physics, and engineering were too easy for me. I choose to ignore Gary Vaynerchuk’s advice, and I double down on being awesome at everything. Hence why I am awesome at everything, especially humility. My father was given everything and he was a weak spoiled coward with no discipline, honesty, and integrity. I grew up in group homes and foster homes. I had nothing. I had no one. I bled and cried and learned how to fight back. I became a United States Marine, an Ohio State alumnus, and an author, so I could write about my awesome journey and awesome life. Ultimately, if I became a strong disciplined man of integrity with honor and courage, didn’t my father raise me right? Didn’t my mother raise me right? I choose to honor my father and mother against all odds, because…
I live for the story. I mean that in the most literal form. What’s the difference between literally I live for the story literally and literally, I live for the story, literally? No seriously though, I manifest my will or my reality onto our shared reality, and then I write about my surrealistic reality in an entertaining and educational manner. For example, I am writing my way into lecturing Masculinity in Contemporary American Literature and teaching creative writing at The Ohio State University where my students will read and juxtapose I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell with Mate: Become the Man Woman Want or The Mystery Method with The Game. Of course, my students will read from my encyclopedia of drinking and knowing things during my ten years (not tenure) enrolled at The Ohio State University. My Ohio State students will read books about my tenure picking up hot Buckeye Babes from the Clinton, Bush, Obama, and Trump administrations at The Ohio State University, sitting in their seats, literally. It’s a new literary genre I call surrealreality. Revolutionary writer are the first two words on my résumé for a reason. Like I said, I live for the story in the most literal form.
I am primarily a nonfiction writer, but I write poetry, prose, memoir, personal essays, novels, and even literary series. I write about growing up Roman Catholic in Chicago during the 1980’s and 90’s. I write about my decade in the Marine Corps. I write about my decade enrolled at The Ohio State University. I write about living on the corners of High and Long in downtown Columbus, Ohio, which isn’t as glamorous as Carrie Bradshaw living in New York City, but it’s a hell of a lot more intriguing, because I’m actually more like the Hank Moody of Columbus, black t-shirt and all. But Hank wrote fiction and Carrie wrote the female version of my anthropological human experiments. Of course, I have only been to Manhattan a couple times to investigate Q-Anon conspiracy theories like the United Nazis, but I have watched every episode of Sex and the City multiple times. I never thought I would be applying for a position at The New Yorker. Until my trips to Manhattan to investigate Nazis, the closest I came to New York City was thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail through New York State when I saw Manhattan from like thirty miles away. Having to leave my BMW in Manhattan and take an Uber to Jersey was the furthest thing from my mind when I went out for a run a few days later in Albany, New York and came back to a shot guest service agent. Those New York Nazis don’t really like me that much.
In fact, it wasn’t until I lived in downtown Columbus for a few years before I considered moving to New York. Growing up in Chicago, I wasn’t really a fan of New York. The Chicago and New York rivalry was a huge part of my childhood. Whether it was sports, film, music, art, or pizza, I hated everything New York. I lived in Chicago when the Bears sung the Super Bowl Shuffle and Saturday Night Live had skits about the Chicagoan Super Fans. I lived in Chicago when Jordan and the Bulls kicked the Knicks’ asses every postseason. I lived in Chicago during the John Hughes and Blues Brothers days and Field of Dreams. As a kid, Chicago kicked New York’s ass at everything, even pizza. Clearly, if I only spent a couple days in Manhattan, I have never had real New York pizza, but I have had New York pizza from New York State and Jersey, and it was like eating catchup poured on cardboard and sprinkled with burnt cheese. I have never liked thin crust pizza, and that stuff was like eating crackers instead of crust. Now, I know not all New York pizza is New York pizza like not all Chicago pizza is Chicago-style, but I like doughy, not crispy crust. I like lots of sauce, not a little. I like lots of cheese, not a little. I like lots of sausage, onions, mushrooms, and olives. I like my pies of pizza to be like pizza pies, basically an apple or peach pie but with pizza ingredients. I want a pizza that’ll give all the Super Fans heartaches as they yell, “Da Bulls. Da Bulls. Da Bulls.”
Like I said, I loved the Bulls and hated the Knicks, and the Chicago-New York rivalry existed in my mind until I considered myself an Ohioan instead of a Chicagoan. Why did I stop giving a damn about Chicago? First of all, I haven’t lived in Chicago since Bill Clinton was President, and I also loved Columbus, Ohio. It was my city. And I loved my city until the mentally libtarded Marxist Cult members insulted Italians and our American heritage when these Nazis tore down the statue of Christopher Columbus. How do you tear down the state of Christopher Columbus in Columbus, Ohio? I don’t know, but with BLM burning down downtown and breaking into my downtown apartment on a nightly basis and the removal of Columbus’ statue were the signs for me to leave. I’ll be back to Columbus when it’s my turn to take back my university, my city, and my state. We will lay siege with our pens and the word of God will be our swords, which is why?
I dropped out of The Ohio State University in 2004 to enlist in the United States Marine Corps and served nearly a decade, so I was not afforded the opportunity to live that post-graduation lifestyle in a neighborhood like the Short North of Columbus or Wrigleyville of Chicago. I lived my 20’s like a Marine in his 20’s. I lived my 30’s like the 20’s I could NOT live downtown and in the Short North, while I was a Marine in his 20’s. Does that make sense to you? It makes sense to me like Columbus being a pretty big city with the square mileage size of Chicago and the population size of San Francisco. Living in downtown Columbus gave me the experience of living the cosmopolitan lifestyle without it being a place I grew up hating and without being insanely overcrowded and ridiculously crowded.
Like Carrie Bradshaw, I lived in a small studio apartment and didn’t drive anywhere, but unlike Carrie who took cabs, I walked everywhere and did not take taxis or Uber. That’s the secret to having abs in your mid thirties. And even though I only walked my Shiba Inu through Central Park once, I walked my dog Reese through Goodale Park every day, and I had to maneuver through the concrete jungle of crackheads, panhandlers, broken bottles, and broken dreams. Libraries drive me mad, but a crowded coffee shop or Thursday-night sized crowd at a bar trigger the neurons in my Doctor Brdman brain like a lightning storm, and I write. Of course, I write everywhere I go. I write at the gym. I write at the beach. Hell, I wrote the entire time I thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. I miss walking around Columbus and writing. I wrote full-time for nearly three years, and then I traveled the country and wrote full-time for two more years. I free wrote for nearly five years straight, and I have created a system so that I can write over a hundred books at once.
Of course, I would love to write for The New Yorker. I would write The Q-Files #QResearch, which are my Fox Mulder-like investigations of Q-Anon conspiracy theories, starting at the John F. Kennedy Eternal Flame and ending at Golden Gate Park on the corners of John F Kennedy Drive and Great Highway like Q drew the map of America. #LookAtAMap Don’t believe me? Follow US-17 from beginning to end. If you go the northern terminus of US-17 there’s a dorm called The Q, but the view of DC from the Appalachian Trail’s White House Overlook of The White House’s17th Street view. Like I said, I just went to the beginning and followed the white rabbits from DC to Chicago to Kenosha to St Paul where my #LaptopFromHell was stolen from my Bourne-like Mini Cooper. Naturally, my dog Reese and I followed the white rabbits, driving in our Mini Cooper, walking around parks, working out at Planned Fitness, staying at Motel 6’s, praying Matthew 6’s like Q-Shamen, and reading Ingersol Lockwood as Matthew and Reese traveled across the country like Baron Trump and Bulger on their travels and adventures when we ended up at the Matthew Reeser Bird Sanctuary in Estes, Colorado. #FactCheckBirdBox.
Fact check bird box means multiple things and has multiple purposes. Most of the time it means to fact check my writing, meaning I have video and photographic or physical evidence, so you can follow the white rabbits to fact check me, but it’s like the movie bird box. It will drive you insane. Naturally, #FactCheckBirdBox also means to fact check an idea, concept, or theme from the novel and or film Bird Box. More often than not, if I am fact-checking the novel or film, I am also juxtaposing Bird Box with the fact-checking my words. So, if you travel to Estes, Colorado, you will see Matthew Reeser Bird Sanctuary and a statue of an old man and his dog in town like we were inter-dimensional shapeshifting time-travelers like Baron and Bulger. My mind was blown when we went to Denver and saw what I dreamt a few months earlier when BLM burned downed down my neighborhood and chanted their necromantic black magic. Damn witches. #Blucifer Their words, not mine. Speaking of BLM, I went to dozens of Black Lives Matter murals from DC to Denver to San Francisco. And yes, whether from my phone or city cameras, you can #FactCheckBirdBox, I walked around and prayed Matthew 6:9-13 to undo their black magic and bring light to the darkness just like the Q-Shaman said, #DarkToLight which blew my mind, because I had no clue who Yellowstone Wolf AZ was before January 6th, and on January 6th, I was at a giant cross (with Psalm 91 stapled to it) facing Mount Diablo and San Mateo and San Francisco and the child sacrifice statues in town with 6 children swinging in a magic circle 6 feet apart. If the pentagram arm necklace doesn’t creep you out, leading up until Christmas, every child has a hat and a 7th hat is taped to one of the child’s arm like a Moloch child sacrifice, which is weird, because Molok is name mythologized by native tribes when there’s a summit called the Devil’s Pulpit and the Standard Oil-Rockeller lighthouse’s light spins on top the pyramid mountain like the all seeing eye on the back of our dollar bills. I faced the Rockefeller’s pyramid temple to Moloch, while Yellowstone Wolf AZ was in The United States Capitol, which is landscaped like the owl false god Moloch. Jacob Chansley may be in prison, but Roe v. Wade was overturned. Child sacrifice was overturned. Jesus flipped tables, so #WeThePeople could flip pyramid temples to Moloch. The eye of the devil sees no more. I threw the black cube out the Mini Cooper going about 120 somewhere near Pyramid Lake, where I camped for 3 days and 3 nights. And all of this can be fact-checked with my videos, photos, iPhone gps, and even surveillance cameras. Hence, #FactCheckBirdBox.
Speaking of pyramids and investigating conspiracy theories, my Q-Research led me to Paul Manship’s Prometheus statue, 30 Rockefeller Plaza, and Nazi occult symbolism at Rockefeller Center, which wasn’t far from the Chase swastikas at One UN Plaza across from the UN (United Nazis). With the infestation of Nazism in New York descending upon me like Madison Square Garden in 1939, I departed New York as soon as BMW Manhattan fixed BrdMan’sWhip. #FollowTheNaziBlue During 2020, I investigated Democrat-run capitals like Springfield, St Paul, Denver, Salem, and Sacramento. However, due to the Nazi policies of Warren Wilhelm Jr, aka Mayor de Blasio, I refused to investigate New York City and Albany until after they stopped the vaccine passports, so I left Manhattan and headed to New Albany to stay in another Motel 6 to pray Matthew 6:9-13. After checking in, I ran to the New York State Capitol to conduct Q-Research, so I stopped along the 6-mile run to occasionally photograph architecture and nouns of importance. I ran back to the hotel, took a shower, and went to walk Reese, when a female cop stopped us in the stairwell, and I could see a body on a gurney. I was robbed in St Paul by the CIA, FBI, Illuminati, or Nazis for all I know, and my hotel staff was shot in Albany, New York. Who doesn’t want to read The Q-Files?
I would like to write The Q-Files for The New Yorker, but I do not wish to move to New York. In fact, no one could pay me enough to live anywhere near the New York Nazis. I don’t want move to New York and deal with the Nazi-Democrat policies murdering people with heroin, crack, and fentanyl like Zkylon B. I don’t want to live anywhere near people who visit that Klanswoman Margaret Sanger’s Planned Parenthood for black Americans, which is literally killing more black babies than are born in New York. I do not want to move to New York where psychopathic Nazi-Democrat doctors get off by chemically and surgically castrating children, and post transterilization stress disorder (P.T.S.D), which often leads to suicide, thus removing the gender dysphoric like manmade selection instead of natural selection. I do not want to be anywhere near psychos that promote child murder, child sacrifice, mass sterilization, and mass genocide. As a political scientist, it’s my job to study these psychopathic Nazi-Democrats, but I do not want to be anywhere near one of these triggered mask-Nazi Karens. As a political scientist, I saw 2020 coming decades ahead. I mean obviously I didn’t see 2020 happening exactly the way it did, but all the pieces I couldn’t quite put together came together in 2020 like 20:20.
Let’s face it, New York is dying, because the city is not reinventing itself like it has over and over again since New York was New Amsterdam. Where is the new art? Where is the new comedy? Where are the provocateurs? Where are the New Yorkers who push the limits of art? Does a controversial conservative cocky writer from Chicago everyone loves to hate need to show New Yorkers how it’s done? Because I am confident my knowledge, skills, and experience as an artist, political scientist, and counter-propagandist combined with my educational background give me the knowledge and skills required to write The Q-Files. I look forward to meeting and discussing my qualifications in more detail. Thank you.
Matthew Joseph "Doctor Brdman" Brdecka Artist General The Artistic Lifestyle drbrdman@theartisticlifestyle.com www.TheArtisticLifestyle.com