tim sniffen writing & drawing

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Talking Down Your Hysterical Witch-Hunting Government With Thomas Brattle

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Recently I finished The Witches by Stacy Schiff, an excellent account of the Salem witch trials. The book describes a letter from Boston merchant Thomas Brattle which was instrumental in beginning to unravel the bizarre logic that had overtaken the town.

I tracked the letter down and it’s still an impressive piece of correspondence. Yes, overwritten in that Colonial style, but to hear someone take on their government—running the risk of being hanged, or crushed to death—remains quite a feat, 325 years later.

As we say farewell to the witching season, have a listen to this recording of Thomas Brattle’s letter to the Salem clergy.

Past Thanksgivings have shown that, come the mandatory table-side speeches, a simple road map will help avoid months of penitence and spin. Consult these notes as needed. Remember, if Uncle Brendan is rubbing his ear, you’ve gone too long.

Do not follow Gretchen. The summer program at Julliard made her nearly unstoppable, so just let her close. If you learn that she’s prepared a song or poem, absolutely do not follow Gretchen and leave several people between the two of you to lower the bar.

Above all else, SWM. Start With Mom. All other permutations end in disaster. Go clockwise and don’t jump around unless you want another Cousin Ivan situation from 2011.

The display of any real feelings towards Dad will only cause discomfort. Stay specific and technical. “My sump pump would still be on the fritz without you…” worked well last year.

Cousins: keep it positive, keep it vague. Clumping is permissible. “Cousin Bill, Cousin Kitty, Cousin Andrew… so glad you’re in my life.” They’re not expecting much and most of them know they’re only here because Aunt Grace controls the invites and she’s still desperate to be the family peacemaker.

You have nothing for which to thank Uncle Garrett and he knows this. Go meta. “Uncle Garrett… there are no words.” Let him spend the rest of the year unraveling that.

[Halfway mark reminder to visually confirm Martin isn’t hoarding the Whiskey-Chestnut stuffing. I wish this weren’t the world we live in but left unattended he will consume all of it, goldfish-style, to the point of endangering himself.]

Thanking a pet is a nice palette-cleanser. “Let’s thank Marlowe for leaving our shoes in one piece this year!” is an easy laugh and good for an energy bump heading into the runout.

Gramma Nicole wants to be thanked for her birthday present in detail. Research beforehand because in the moment there’s no room for hesitation and that woman will smell your fear.

Aunt Dawn will be waiting for an easter egg; don’t disappoint her. Last year was X-Men and this year is James Bond movies. You Only Live Twice seems like the way to go.

It doesn’t matter what you say to Grampa Kurt because he’ll interrupt to say the only person you should be thanking is Jesus. There is no altering this pattern; it is lunacy to fight it. As Moriarity told Holmes, If we must play the game, let us at least play it well.

Feel like a victory lap? Thank the memory of Gramma Stein. It’s like thanking Mom twice and it will destroy Gretchen from within for not having thought of it.

You’re nearly there. Raise a glass and offer the one-word all-encompassing concept of your choice: ‘Family’, ‘Home’, even ‘Tonight’. Not ‘America’. Not now.

If there is glass-clinking, under no circumstances allow Uncle Garrett to clink your glass.

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Can an essay capture an event so completely life-changing? Probably not. Where to begin? What clumsy collection of words would ever suffice?

Still, if this can convey even an echo of what I have witnessed, it will be worth it. Otherwise, you might never know.

It came at a time when I had resigned myself to never seeing Hamilton. At some point, the odds become too steep and you convince yourself that it wasn't meant to be. I could survive without it; I would have to.

But one morning there it lay on my doorstep, a rolled-up parchment tied with pale lavender ribbon. My lottery number had been chosen. The committee had reviewed my essay, the first check in the payment plan had cleared. I was going.

In the weeks that followed, I took time to prepare. I scheduled hearing and vision exams and began meditating to ensure my attention span was in top condition. I read the book, of course. In retrospect, nothing would have prepared me for what was ahead.

The day arrived. I called my parents in the morning and told them I loved them. My wife accompanied me to the theater and hugged me goodbye as I passed from her arms into the lobby. My paperwork was approved and I was shown to my seat. All around me sat celebrities, foreign dignitaries, high-ranking military personnel. No attention was given to them: we were in the presence of something greater.

There was a brief pre-show announcement. I couldn't afford to take chances: I wrapped my phone in a scarf and crushed it. The glass shattered in my hand with a satisfying muffled crunch. Everyone else had done the same and ushers moved through the aisles holding wastepaper baskets to collect the debris.

The lights dimmed and a great hush fell over the crowd.

The curtain slowly rose to reveal the entire cast, all of them looking towards a single figure downstage center. It was him: Lin-Manuel Miranda. It hurt to look directly at him; The air around him was blurry with waves of humble creative genius. While the overture played, he scribbled in a notebook and jotted down lyrics for three songs in his next project.

Finally he tossed the notebook aside and spoke.

The words. The words were everywhere, Lin-Manuel's genius words. They filled the theater, they ignited my time-dulled sense of what was possible on Broadway. The words caressed my brain and flowed over my face like hot, relevant syrup. Subtle changes in tempo gave us words slow and sensual, words urgent and unstoppable, all filtered through the amplifying prism of America. The crowd was mesmerized. Rhymes came with such speed and dexterity that I can only describe it as being spanked raw with a dictionary. My previous understanding of cadence and sentence structure were gone, replaced with Lin's truth. All language was one, all things had become possible. Lin rhymed 'Constitution' with 'door' and we cheered.

[For the record, I'm not some mindless sheep jumping onto the hip-hop train along with public opinion. I saw Into The Heights.]

Intermission arrived. We all sat stunned in our seats, unable to move, unable to leave the temple that this theater had become. Many were rocking and weeping; others soiled themselves. I tried to recall the details of my life before this moment, but nothing came: All I was, all I ever would be, was a person seeing Hamilton.

The second act roared to life and made a mockery of all we had seen before. Miranda was using words that didn't exist; He was rewriting the rules of the spoken word before our eyes and we loved him for it. At one point he sang:

    LOTSA DIFF'RENT PATHS TO FAME AND POSTERITY,

    BLAFFA DIGGUM PLANTS IN A CAMEL MOCKUMENTARY.

I wrenched my eyes from the mesmerizing action to consider the set itself, made entirely of Tony awards. Thousands of them, glued together to form chairs, pubs, an island in the Caribbean, the White House. The reflected light was nearly blinding, but not as blinding as the words rawdogging my brain at every turn.

The show rocketed towards its conclusion and employed every possible theatrical device, boldly reimagined. Lyrics spoken faster than the human brain could comprehend. A flurry of costume changes for both cast and audience. Fireworks shot from the mouths of enormous papier-mâché founding fathers. A storm of eagles circled overhead and a cyclone made of tattered American flags lifted Lin-Manuel, chanting the alphabet, into the air before us. With the vocal power of an army of angels, the entire 500-person cast sang with one voice:

    IT'S NO FUN TO HAVE A BULLET IN YOUR ABDOMEN,

   THIS WAS THE STORY OF ALEXANDER HAMILTON.

A blinding light, a roaring wind, and then darkness.

The audience exploded into applause. We were screaming. We were crying. I was spent; It was like America had taken physical form and made three hours of crazed, carefully-researched love to me. The stage lights returned for the cast to take their bows, shiny with sweat and the sheen of revolutionary theater. People applauded until their hands were bloody and ruined; I saw bone poking through the palms of the older woman next to me.

The last bow came from Lin-Manuel himself, exhausted and radiant. People threw flowers, gold, undergarments, infants. He caught them all, freestyling about each as it flew towards him.

Long wooden tables were brought onstage and all were invited to sit. A colonial-style feast was served while Lin-Manuel led a discussion of the greater lessons and themes of the show. A bonfire was built in one corner; We were encouraged to add the soundtracks of other, lesser shows, rendered irrelevant. I tossed in Company. I hated it now.

As we finished the last of our tankards of ale, the house lights came on. Lin-Manuel hugged each of us and thanked us for bearing witness to his work. Grief counselors waited in the lobby to assist those grappling with the reality that nothing after tonight would hold any significance.

I stood before the theater a long time, then began the journey home.

I approached my house. I could see my wife's familiar silhouette in the window, waiting. But that woman was a stranger. She hadn't seen Hamilton. I walked away.

I roam the earth now, reflecting on what I've experienced. Yes, I miss the cast of my former life. I hope to see them again someday and find some common ground, especially if tickets open up in 2017 or the national tour begins.

Until then, there is only the rare glimpse of a familiar face within the crowd. Were they a few aisles back? In the balcony? It doesn't matter. We approach each other and share a smile or a firm hand on the shoulder. We flash our torn ticket stubs, quietly nod, and walk away.

[Forgive the delay! It’s taken me a few days to write it all down… and convince myself that it all really happened.]

From the moment I stepped onto the red carpet I knew it would be a night like no other.

Celebrities were everywhere. Steven Spielberg was on my left, Tom Hanks was on my right. Ed Norton was ahead of me and Tilda Swinton somehow hovering above. Al Franken was taking pictures and Billy Crystal was interviewing the crowd. He threw us a couple of softballs and then we walked into 30 Rock.

The excitement in Studio 8H was infectious. Last-minute rehearsals were in progress and props were still being painted. Jonathan Franzen and Michael Chabon huddled in a corner, tweaking Weekend Update jokes. Amidst the chaos, Lorne Michaels appeared to be everywhere at once: coaching the actors, reassuring executives, writing cue cards, operating the cameras, herding animals, scouting fresh comedic talent and making last-minute hires to the cast. Observing him in action was a wonder.

The show was starting. We rushed to our seats as John Williams prompted the Saturday Night Live Orchestra to launch into that familiar theme music. A cannon boomed in the distance and whirring motors pulled the huge studio skylights open as Steve Martin parachuted through them and directly onto the stage. Cheers from the crowd.

With the audience focused on the show, I stole a glance to either side. I’ll never forget the feeling of seeing my heroes with the same joyful, disbelieving expression as my own: Can I really be a part of this?

Steve nailed the monologue and concluded by asking every past host of the show to come onstage and join him. Together they formed an enormous human pyramid: at the very top, waving an American flag, Sinead O’Connor looked like an angel.

The program was a stacked deck of beloved sketches. As promised, over the course of the evening every audience member was invited up to perform. For my part, Sandwich Doctor was well-received and suffered only a minor wardrobe issue, which Salma Hayek saved by putting a big foam olive on her head and turning cartwheels across the stage. The crowd ate it up and we returned to our seats.

The night flew past with unstoppable momentum. Only once was the energy of the evening disrupted as Chevy Chase forced his way onstage to pace back and forth, leering and hissing at the crowd. People screamed and booed and rotting produce was distributed to fling until he retreated, sneering, towards the fire door and into the night. Everyone cheered and Christopher Guest, Jim Belushi and Victoria Jackson picked up No Pants United Nations right where they had left off.

The show culminated in Eddie Murphy, standing center stage and smiling wisely. We were in awe. After five minutes of reverent silence everyone burst into applause and the orchestra surged back to life with the Ending Credits theme. Those familiar with the lyrics sang along. The show was over.

It was time for the after-party. What could possibly await?

A line of ornate carriages had assembled in front of 30 Rock. As we climbed into ours, Martin Short greeted us from his driver’s perch before urging his team of white horses towards the Plaza Hotel.

Manhattan was blurry lines of color through the carriage windows. We could see Bill Murray in the adjoining carriage, goading us into a race. Bill won, of course, thanks to an improvised shortcut through an abandoned subway tunnel. We laughed and hurried inside, arms locked together to keep warm.

Two massive doors swung open and revealed the glittering Plaza ballroom: hundreds of tables, each one covered in sparkling silver and crystal, bordered a massive dance floor. The room was already full. Impossibly, more celebrities had appeared. Gene Wilder handed me a chalice full of shrimp and I wandered onto the dance floor.

Julia Sweeney was on the band platform recruiting various stars to join her for a song or two. Elton John and Lisa Loeb were sharing the piano for “Unforgettable” and the crowd was dancing appreciatively. Julia had a knack for arranging unexpected, intuitive combinations: Billy Joel and Sufjan Stevens, Harvey Fierstein alongside Aimee Mann. Hours passed and no one dared to leave the dance floor.

Still, nothing could prepare us for the evening’s finale.

Ringo Starr, Lyle Lovett and Dustin Hoffman were finishing up “You Can’t Take That Away From Me” when every light in the room went out except for a single blinding spotlight over the stage. Through a cloud of dry ice and throbbing bass, a figure emerged, lifted by hydraulic platform until it towered over the room.

The spotlight swiveled, revealing the figure to be Prince.

Mike Myers screamed and fainted.

“Thought I’d play some music,” Prince whispered, and the crowd exploded into cheers.

Prince proceeded to play the entire song catalogue of Elvis Costello. My strength was gone but still I danced. Waitstaff were tossing out steaks and bottles of water to keep the crowd from fainting. Laurie Metcalf waved them away, indefatigable.

The glow of dawn had appeared on the horizon. Prince was closing with Elvis’ greatest hit, the lyrics altered to “[What’s So Funny ‘Bout] Peace, Love and Live Satire?”

As Prince strummed the final note, confetti, fireworks and doves shot from everywhere. The ballroom was filled with light and noise. Thousands of rainbow-colored balloons drifted down from the ceiling. Each one held a one thousand dollar bill, and many were tied together to support rescue dogs whose new owners were waiting below to take them home. Doors swung open along every wall and laughing children ran in by the hundreds. Some were limping or coughing from illness: Prince smiled down upon each of them and they were healed.

The final note from his guitar had faded into silence. The party was over.

Lorne led us out of the hotel, through Central Park, into Sheep Meadow. A hot-air balloon was waiting to take him back to Canada. Everyone waved as Lorne climbed into the basket. Anthony Michael Hall was making a show out of climbing in alongside him, and after pushing him down, hard, Lorne untied the last rope and sailed into the golden morning sky. There were cheers, waves and a few tears. Everyone began to make their way out of the park.

I realized my son was smiling up at me.

“You’re the real star tonight, Dad.” His admiration meant more than all of this. I tousled his hair and congratulated him on the Ivy League college acceptance letter Will Ferrell had just handed him.

That's a great question, Chris.

Here's how I got hired:

There's a lone mountain peak on the outskirts of Boulder, Colorado. Around the base of this peak there grows a type of rare, gorgeous flower, with rich purple blossoms. 

On a night where you know the moon will be visible, track down one of these purple blossoms -- be persistent! They're often found near a fresh patch of downy moss -- and bring it with you to the very peak of the mountain. Bring a resume as well. Allow three hours for the climb.

Once at the top, in the undiluted moonlight, bring a pot of water to a boil and drop in the flower. When it has completely dissolved, allow the water to cool and then drink it, every drop.

In a loud voice, resume in hand, shout "YA-YOU, YA-ME, YA-US, YAHOO!" and leap off the mountain.

If you are worthy, Marissa Mayer will appear in her winged chariot and whisk you away to the Yahoo! HR department for a job interview.

Sorry to hear about this. Feel free to send me an email at:

You are welcome to send this email to me. I should warn you: I do not work for Yahoo!, and I have never worked for Yahoo!.

But I can promise you, I will draw something based on the feelings your email evokes, and publish it here.