I haven’t felt this much raw excitement since last spring, when we got our weather radio. When the hubby brought that home, I said, “What! A radio that’s a hazard alert system AND the perfect bedside alarm clock? Bring that bad boy over here!” I was a little overwhelmed by the size of the frequency band. But then I programmed it for local area reception. And now whenever there’s a storm, I’m just like: “Oh, is there a super cell in our area? I didn’t even notice. That’s cuz I’m already down in the basement, getting my mind blown by our weather clock.”

You want to know what’s crazy? I didn’t even WANT a new mailbox at first. When my husband brought it up, I got defensive. I was like, “Oh—so you’re not into the mailbox anymore?” And he was like, “No, I’m just saying it could use some work.” And I was like, “How tight do you think it should look after all those years on the curb? Do you know how much action that thing has seen? And why do you even care—Is House and Garden coming by to lay it out in a big glossy spread?”

But that was before I rear ended it, trying to back out of the driveway while I was ordering pad thai for takeout. After that, the door was so loose it wouldn’t shut. The whole thing sat crooked on top of the rusted pole. For a while, I actually stopped checking it—even when I knew it was stuffed to obscenity with holiday catalogs! In all honesty, I was starting to feel like it was just a glorified letter hole.

Finally, I just said to myself: “Why shouldn’t a woman want to feel good about her box? That’s the first area people look at when they come to your house!” Well, some of you might think that sounds tacky. Or even superficial. But dig this, Judge Judies. If you took the time to examine your boxes more often, you might be surprised at how rundown they look. And when it’s gotten to the point where shit falls out of it several times a week—and gets lost in the snow until the next thaw—it is high time for an upgrade.

Obviously, there’s no suburban destination that is hotter than Home Depot. Especially if you need a big bucket of latex primer. Or a vinyl discharge hose. But a nice mailbox should be custom made. That’s why I’ve been snooping around to get some fresh ideas. Like, a woman in my office said she covered hers in rustic wood slats.  That box was hand crafted by the Amish! There’s a retired physician up the street who ordered one in the shape of a north woods vacation home. She was like, “Oh snap! Grab a fireside throw and some cinnamon scented pinecones and let’s cozy it up!” Around here, people love the outdoor scenes. I know of one box that’s decorated with a picture of a garden rabbit sitting next to a watering can. I said, “Is that bunny engraved, Mrs. Peterson? Oh no you didn’t!”

Then there are the really bold ones. We call those “statement pieces.” The other day, I saw one made entirely of stone. Seriously? I have never seen one that smooth. Call me old school. But what kind of person wants to come home from work every day and say hello to that hairless cat. Know what I mean? Contrast that to the model I saw at a silent auction. It was covered—literally, from top to bottom—with tufts of moss and grass. My first thought was, “Wow, THAT is a fuzzy piece.” The lady standing next to me bid on it, too. Not everyone could rock a mailbox with that much turf. But this is suburban Wisconsin.  Where people are just into that natural, organic vibe.

No matter what we end up with, I hope our postal carrier likes it. I thought our mail fell out because of the broken door. It’s also possible that the mailman threw it down there. I don’t think he’s a vindictive person. But I heard from the woman next door that he prefers his mailboxes to be BIG. According to her, he doesn’t like having to bend a package.  Or squeeze it into a standard-sized unit. And postal truck drivers don’t have time to walk stuff to your door anymore. They just want to drive up and stick it in.

So my neighbor went for an oversized one. She had to special order that hefty Rubbermaid too, because the local store didn’t carry a trunk with all that junk. I get that. We all want our mail carriers to be happy. Especially now that they might drop some service routes. As for the mailman, he can’t get enough. The day she put it out there, he wrote her a personal thank you note. Stuck it right in her new box. He told her it looked like a work of art.

I mean, talk about bringing sexy back! Am I right, ladies?

————

Erin Clune is a writer from Madison, Wisconsin. She has written for a variety of publications, but writes most regularly for public radio. Locally, she writes a food segment for WPR’s Wisconsin Life. Her essays have aired nationally on To the Best of Our Knowledge and All Things Considered. She also posts humorous essays on her blog, “Life After NY: Musings from the Third Coast,” which can be found on the internet. There she pokes fun at a variety of cultural trends, as well as some of the challenges involved in relocating back to her Midwestern hometown as an adult. But mostly, she laughs at herself. Because there’s just so much material!

This same savoir vivre applies to music. Oh sure, the young slackjaw of thinks he or she has got hold of the Devil by his cojones. Picking the most salacious, or the most violent, the most non-sequitured or even the most depressing popular Tonkünstlers they can find, they think they have got to a place so vilely sacrosanct that no human has ever peeked into before. Silly, silly cods. What is Lady Gagoo? Hushler? Or even the debonair Maurice Chevalier? Do you think these playthings can teach you the innermost depths of human depravity and moral turpitude?

How often have I heard the wistful sigh of a barbaric young heart, knowing full well it will never be satisfied with Kleinigkeiten, wheezing, wishing they could but begin to plumb the depths of the Classical maestros? But where to start! It’s all so complicated, so overwhelming. Which composer? Which orchestra? Why is a fiddle called a violin all of a sudden? Fear not, young browbeater! Yes, I, head of the vanguard, have prepared for all the young marrow guzzlers out there a little slice of salvation. Though no mere player, I am an expert in my own amateurish and obsessive way. I have spent a lifetime collecting names, dates, and plagiarized impressions for just such an occasion. Swallow then, the following catalogue of idée reçues concerning the greatest composers, in full knowledge that the gulp you are about to take will launch you from dribbling barbarism to full-fledged bourgeois philistinism!

The Greats

Monteverdi, Claudio. Italian Renaissance man. In 1492, sailed with Columbus as cook. Accidentally discovered Opera, and consequently, all of modern western music, while trying to perfect the “rat-meatball”, a favourite aboard the Santa Maria. His music was polyphonic, that is, very, very funny.

Vivaldi, Antonio. A real sympatico character. Enjoyed his spaghetti in all weather. Worked in an all-girls atmosphere, which no doubt led to the stormy and dramatic allegro openings of his concerti; these tend to draw out in the middle with a limp largo, but happily finish off with another allegro, much to the chagrin of the ladies. You could say he was basso continuo himself. Spent the last 200 years of his life hiding in music libraries throughout Europe, until he was rediscovered in the 20th century by a gang of elite Fascist poets; has since become a favourite among Kindergarten teachers.

Bach, J.S. Famous German organ grinder. Had a monkey named “Fugue” which was his inspiration, and the love of his life. Dedicated all of his music to said monkey, including the unfinished documentary/bio-pic “The Art of Fugue”. Never wrote a bad piece of music. Is perfectly listenable today, provided you are equipped with an abacus and a six-pack of premium high-octane. Style was Baroque (pronounced BAR-OAK), which means composed in frills and powdered wigs. Also contrapunctal, which is a latinate term for “com-pli-muh-cated”.

Bach, C.P.E, and E.T.C.  The monstrous offspring of J.S. and his monkey. A clan of about a thousand sibling composers, all half-simian, scratching ticks, as well as notes, onto music sheets in the hopes of inventing the Classical style. Succeeded.

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus. A genius. Also a Wunderkind, which is a type of German chocolate given out at Easter. The first composer to successfully die young and miserable in a ditch. Style was Classical (pronounced CLASS-ICK-AL), which means composed in frills, powdered wigs, and a smattering of rouge. Made masterful use of the Sonata-Allegro form, a simple sequential structure that consists merely of introduction, exposition, synthetic proposition, diachronic recapitulation, modulation, parabolic hyperbole, squash, functional analysis, and finally, the coda-cola.

Beethoven, Ludwig van. Another genius. His father was originally from the low-lands, and his mother was a bull-dog. Decided in his youth that he didn’t much care for music and went deaf to make the job easier. Famous for his elegant table manners. Once kicked Goethe in the shins. Style was the germ of the Romantic (pronounced BLARGH), which did away with frills, powdered wigs, and all such sartorial nonsense; made due instead with a beaver top-hat and chamberpot.

Schubert, Schumann, Shoeshine etc. A series of stand-up comedians who perfected the Kunst-Lieder, a kind of musical limerick. “There once was a chap from Gesundheit…”

Mussorgsky, Modeste. Russian composer whom the classicists allowed into the party only on the condition that he not touch the silverware. Part of the “Mighty Handful”, a Russian temperance movement that enforced alchohol and consumption. Composed Pictures at An Exhibition, a celebration of seedy pornographic cinemas, and A Night on Bald Mountain, a musical exposition on hair-tonic and vodka. Once kneed Dostoyevsky right in the samovar. His Opera, Boris Godunov, wasn’t.

Wagner, Richard. Contrary to popular belief, did not found the S.S., only occasionally sent them fawning love notes and locks of hair sprayed with the scent of Teutonic perfume (Sauerkraut). Believed in German Opera at a time when the world considered the Germans to be fatuous, long-winded, anti-semitic, violent, and bland. He sure showed them. His sixteen hour masterpiece, Der Ring des Nibelungen or How I Met Your Mother, has never been successfully staged with sock-puppets.

Mahler, Gustav. Composed while sitting in a tub of custard.

Bel Canto Italian Opera. Stereotypically presented as a gang of fat, bearded Italian clowns belching for hours with the backing of a tuba. In actuality, however, the costumes have a few variants.

Schoenberg, Webern, Berg, and Grover. The original cast of Sesame Street. Changed music forever by inventing Twelve-Tone Atonal composition, and the Sing-a-Long. Music has since reverted to being pleasant.

————

Jason is a librarian from Ottawa, Ontario who has not yet figured out how to separate business from pleasure. He hopes to learn. He enjoys checking out the stacks and—once in a while—a book or two. (http://super-grammaticam.blogspot.com)

But Bieber. My first Saturday here I’m sitting in a café, uploading pictures onto my computer, so I can upload them onto my Facebook page, so I can stare at them while I’m looking over my life according to online social networking wasteland.  I sit in the corner, desperate to look busy. A friend here told me that Korean baristas will feel sorry for you if you show up at a café alone. “They think you don’t have any friends. They’re genuinely sorry for you.”

I’m focusing, uploading pictures on my profile page, trying to look like someone who has a lot of friends when Justin Bieber’s song “Baby” comes on for the third time in one hour.  Normally, I wouldn’t care.  Or I would, because I imagined I’d be sipping green tea on a bamboo coffee table, sitting cross-legged on the floor and smoking ridiculously cheap Marlboros while listening to Korean hip-hop.  But no.  Here, it’s Bieber.  Nobody can escape the international, clean cut, high school-aged sensation.  Across the room from me, a Korean man mouths the lyrics and nods his head from side to side as if he’s half-heartedly trying to shake water out of his ear. I’m  not sure, but I think I’ve been tapping my foot since the song started, although I won’t admit it if you ever ask me in person, especially in front of other people.  “Bieber?  Don’t really know him.”

But I’m not so different from Bieber, I realize.  It may be a stretch, but his Wikipedia page says his mother’s name is Patricia. My name is Patrick, no? Just like Justin Beiber’s mom. What else?  Apparently as a youngster, Beebs was a percussionist.  I, too, am a percussionist, first playing piano and then beginning drum lessons after 8th graduation when I received my fist drum set, a CB700 beginner’s kit.  The cymbals looked like cardboard circles covered with tin foil and sounded about as good.  Nevertheless, it was mine and I loved it and beat the hell out of it until my parents got me “practice pads” and moved the drum set into the un-air conditioned garage in Phoenix.

Then I read this: “though a product of a middle-class suburban upbringing in Stratford, Ontario, Bieber’s manner of dress and speech (“Wassup man, how you doin’?” or “It’s like, you know, whateva’ “) suggest he’s mimicking his favorite rappers.”  Well, I too am a product of middle-class suburban upbringing.  In 8th grade, the year of my ascension at catholic grade school into campus wide superiority, I donned a starter brand Los Angeles Raiders jacket, via my obsession with Colors, an early Sean Penn movie about the Blood and Crips rivalry in the streets of LA.  In other words, I get what Bieber is saying.

And then I began another lie to myself – because I’m obviously American, or western, or a tallish Caucasian, I’m the minority, for the first time in my life.  And possibly, even stranger, I’m the only one sitting alone in the café.  But Bieber has come to my rescue.  While Korea is apparently obsessed with his music, I tell myself I have clout because I’m a real life American person.  And like in high school, as long as I was seen in the right scene, associated myself with the right people, I somehow had enough cred or “you know, whateva.”  Cred for what, I don’t know, probably nothing, but I told myself it was there and I had it, invisibly, while waiting for my photos to finish uploading.  Enough cred to get a job writing ESL children’s books for a language school because I speak English.  Enough cred to sell my own vocabulary just like Bieber sells his voice.  Mr. Stevens, a balding 27 year old who taught college algebra at my high school, coached the soccer team, and referred to me only as “Haas”, once said to our class, “Gentleman.  Potential means you haven’t done shit.”  Thanks, “Stevens.”  Maybe true back then, but now I roll with the likes of international pop stars.  Well, we don’t roll together, but we’re buds in a way because I get where he’s coming from and since he’s world famous and I work in an office in South Korea, our obvious western affiliations and masked teenage angst bind us spiritually.

There are over 70,000 hagwons, for-profit private language institutes, in Korea, and some are even popping up in the United States. And they seem to take any native English speaker with a college degree to drill vocabulary to classrooms of over-extended children. But it’s not my deal.  I’m new here. I’m just the writer.  I’m 32 going on 16, recently relocated to “the most colorful city in South Korea.”  I’ve seen carts of puppies stacked next to wire-meshed carts of chickens in the market downtown.  Massive pig hooves floating in bowls of water and piles of squid like soggy, deflated balloons.  Men and women my grandparents’ age squatting over vegetables and fruits, occasionally spitting onto sidewalks packed with sandaled pedestrians and, unbelievably, men on scooters weaving against the flow of pedestrian traffic.  The air smells like stagnant sewage, and then, almost suddenly, the sweet smoke of chestnuts roasting on sidewalk grills. Mountains surround Daegu, covered in pine trees, tipped off with clouds.  Crammed together like the dashes and zeroes of Hangeul words is a sense of mind numbing uniformity mixed with shocking particulars. Every new street is breathtaking, even if it’s the same as the one a block away.  Here, it’s Bieber, hour after hour, street after street, the same difference.

I turn my computer off when the song ends, drop my empty mug off at the café counter and step outside, trying to decide which way to go.  Both directions are equally anonymous.  I’m hungry, like usual.  What would Bieber do, I ask myself.  I swing my shoulder bag around my back, start walking into the cacophony of a side street, listening to the cacophony of a language I can’t yet understand. Then this:  an old man in a shiny, synthetic thread business suit stops me with a broad grin, says, “How are you fine.  A good day.”  And then he opens up his hands as if he meant, “What, do I have to spell it out for you?”

————

Patrick Haas still lives in South Korea, writing children’s storybook for an ESL school and using his free time to work on his essays.

Tilley was flying out of Portland (she thought) on a Sunday evening to visit her niece in Annapolis and got through Security before a yellow sign saying ATC Delay popped onto the message board. She settled down next to a lady from Skowhegan who was headed for Washington, and the two of them were comparing nieces–and worrying whether the T in ATC could mean Terrorist– when the loud speaker announced that Flight 265 to BWI was being held up by weather over the Chesapeake Bay. Clearance was expected within the hour.  Soon lines formed at the departure desk, and the loud speaker issued bulletins at regular intervals, like parts on an assembly line: Boarding was expected at 8:30, then 9:30, then 10:30. Then came news that the plane for Flight 265 was still in Baltimore and was to arrive the next morning, which rather quickly changed to “We are so sorry but the plane has been diverted to a different terminal.”  Nor was there any other plane available—however, for those passengers who had not already retrieved their baggage in the Lower Concourse at Desk 7, a charter bus was coming from Kittery and leaving the jetport for BWI at 10:00 in the morning.   And incidentally, special rates for Distressed Passengers were available at each of the airport’s hotels… but  oops, the late news is that all those hotels are full and the taxi service to other local hostelries at this hour is limited. Moreover persons trying to remove the arm rests from the bench seats so they could stretch out for a nap are to desist because they are in violation of security regulations, and would the person who left his L. L. Bean loafers and underwear in a bin at the Security Area report to the Courtesy  Desk located in the Mezzanine next to the fish tank near the Sushi Corner, which—before anyone asks—has no official connection to the fish tank, and—we are truly sorry about this—the bus scheduled for tomorrow morning has caught fire on the Turnpike below Biddeford and all planes leaving the jetport for the next three days are already booked solid  so ticket refunds are being issued in the baggage area by the young man in the red jacket leaning forward on his hands, head down, weeping, and saying “I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know what to do.”  His computer has crashed. We appreciate your patience.  And…this is our last announcement, National Car Rental, located in the underground garage across from the main entrance, reports that it has five vehicles left on its lot….

Of course the story got a little garbled in its various tellings, but it’s clear that Beanie jumped up at the mention of the rental cars and headed for the National Rental desk with Tilley right behind her.  Luck was all on their side.  The genial man at the National counter found them a vehicle and a motel room (“the last one!”) at the Portsmouth Circle.  Suddenly everything was smooth a silk. An hour’s ride, a midnight check-in, a cozy room, and then a 7:00 breakfast had them heading south at 75 MPH in a new Chevy Malibu whose dash board wizardry signaled a gateway to a whole new world. They were in GPS heaven and a definite Thelma and Louise dynamic was in play.  Traffic was light. The bright fall day opened before them like waves of surf rolling across a soft sunny beach.  Then all that changed below Exit 11 on the New Jersey Turnpike.  Brake lights flashed, and after an hour of creepy crawly frustration, everything stopped.  “You know,” said Beanie. “I’ve had enough of this. I got a cousin west of Philly, outside of Willow Grove.”  The upshot was a zigzag tour of northerly Pennsylvania and arrival at Cousin Malcolm’s place, set back in a wooded area behind a neighborhood strip mall of the Dollar Store variety.

Malcolm was swinging an axe when they drove into his yard, his long white beard moving from side to side with each stroke. “That’s some beard,” said Tilley. “Just the beginning,” said Beanie. Malcolm was happy enough to see Beanie and courteous to Tilley, but he was in Day Two of a clean up after a flash flood, made evident by the washed out flowerbeds, the trench alongside the road, the tree roots sticking up in the air, and the wooden outbuilding half off its cinder block foundation.  He wasn’t really up for visitors but, yes, he could use the help, and by the way did either of them know anything about guinea hens?  They didn’t.  Well, the hens were lost.  Disappeared in the storm.  Blew away apparently. Maybe they could hunt for them.  Why, sure.  Anything to help.

Well, in the event, they found the guineas, at first just five of them, at the strip mall a mile and a half down the road.  On the third morning of their stay, Beanie had gone to Safeway for  frozen waffles and yogurt and on the way back she noticed some odd lumps resting on the bikes set up for sale on the sidewalk outside the bike shop and thought she saw one lump move.  Back at Malcolm’s, she said, “They looked something like dirty chickens sitting on the handle bars.” Malcolm jumped and shouted, “My God, they’re admiring themselves in the plate glass window.”  And right he was; there they were, bobbing and weaving and uttering little raspy cries in an iambic pentameter that would have done Shakespeare proud.  Calling them by name and scooping them up into kennel cages, Malcolm was at first beside himself with joy.  Then he stopped short, starring, and said, “But where’s Maud?”

“Who’s Maud?” asked Tilley.

“Maud,” he yelled. “Maud.  Maud.  You know, Maud!”  He was spinning in circles by now, looking under the bicycles.  Beanie whispered she thought Maud must be a guinea hen of some import.

“MAUD!” he yelled again.  From behind them then came an odd sound.  It had an extra dimension to it, like an echo, and a clear iambic cadence, and it seemed to form the words buck wheat buck wheat. Still, there was nothing there, just the sound, which was eerie to say the least. It was Beanie who said, “I think it’s coming from down there’ and she pointed to the storm drain set in against the curb of the sidewalk.  Malcolm jumped down, fell to his knees, and said, “My God, Maud, is that you? How in the name of Euripides did you get down there?”  (Among other things Malcolm was a Greek scholar with several monographs published on the Achilles’ attention deficit disorder.  He also had a PhD in bio-chemistry and was at one time a leading scientist in the nerve gas program at Fort Detrick, an experience he now abhors.)  Clearly exasperated, Malcolm told Maud she was too accomplished a bird to let herself simply be washed down a storm drain in something as simple as a flash flood. How could she let that happen?  Beanie and Tillie, on the other hand, were giving Maud high marks for finding a safe spot.  She was, in fact, sitting off to one side below the grate on a ledge of some sort. In any case, Malcolm and Maud spent several minutes yelling back and forth at each other, until Beanie, ever the practical one, asked, “Are we going to get her out?”

Much fussing ensued.  Using broken branches and a torn roofing liner, they covered the hole beneath Maud so she wouldn’t fall through,  then tried to lift her out through the hole in the side of the curb. Malcolm could reach the bird with one hand around her neck but he could not pull or roll her back up through the opening.  Either she squirmed too much, or she had taken a fancy twist on the way down and that twist could not be replicated in reverse. She was not silent during these efforts, and Malcolm got a nasty puncture wound on his arm. Tilley went for hydrogen peroxide and a first aid kit at the Dollar Store.

In the parking lot an hour later was a backhoe, several lengths of chain, a pyramid formation of wooden blocks set up as a fulcrum, eight men, three women,  numerous children, a furious bike shop owner, a county supervisor of some description, and a state trooper.  There was a fundamental Constitutional question to be settled, namely: does a tax-paying citizen have an inalienable right to lift, with the help of friends and neighbors, a publically owned grate cover off the top of a storm drain in order to save a bird whose function in the universe is to eat ticks and flower-devouring bugs  so that said flowers can be brought to market without the use of environmentally savage chemicals–not to mention the added benefit of discouraging  Lyme disease throughout the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.  The state trooper took about fifteen minutes of this talk and left, saying, “When I come back from filling my speed-trap quota, I don’t want to find any of you here.”   Maud was released in minutes.

There’s not much more to tell.  Malcolm and Tilley are in all manner of ways complete opposites.  He is bumptious, sloppy, affectionate, opinionated, and of an uneven temper, except where Tilley is concerned.  Tilley is neat, orderly, precise, dignified, and restrained in her expression of admiration or affection for others, except where Malcolm is concerned.  He told her, some weeks into their mutual attachment, that she had saved him from becoming too attached to Maud, whom he had been teaching how to respond to the phrase “Lucky Strike” by first dropping one wing as though she were crippled and then rolling over and to play dead.  Tilley smiled.  She knew she needed something tender and something a bit crazy.

————

Hugh Burgess lives in Maryland, which seems to foster his odd fascination with fake nonfiction as a vehicle for humor.

You say you’re into video games, I say, “Wow, I totally love them too!” If you’re into fantasy novels, that just shows we have a magical spark. Who doesn’t like role playing games?

I’m the ideal girlfriend for a nerd. I always watch SyFy original movies! Well, as long as I’m not busy that night. And there’s nothing better on TV. And I’ve had two or three glasses of wine.

I even watched half an episode of that little-known television show Firefly. Although I don’t see what the big deal is. So you shouldn’t be into that. It just seemed like it was a cowboy version of Star Wars or something. Though that guy in the brown coat was cute. But I do like Star Trek. I must have watched William Shatner fight that lizard monster at least ten times. On YouTube.

I’m even into comics! I’ve seen the Batman movies and they’re so great. Heath Ledger was so amazing! But my future boyfriend shouldn’t actually buy any comics. I mean, there’s only a finite space in an apartment.

We could go to Comic-Con together! It would be a lot of fun to go to the panels for the big blockbuster movies and gawk at the stars. I might even wear a slave Leia costume. Like a really sexy one. And you could go as Han Solo. But you shouldn’t dress up as anything else. That would be totally embarrassing.

I think glasses are sexy. I even own a pair of fake glasses. I love wearing them when I’m wearing my “I heart Geeks” shirt.  The word “heart” isn’t spelled out, instead it’s the shape of a heart with a pair of glasses inside the shape. OMG, it’s so funny! And it totally shows my love of nerds! Plus it looks really good on me.

As for a guy, I just want an attractive face and a nice smile. With glasses, of course! And naturally you have to be in good shape. You should definitely play at least one sport. I’ve always been partial to guys who play rugby. Though if you play soccer that’s cool too.

Nerds aren’t nerds without a little bit of social awkwardness. I love the idea of my man covering up a flub with a Simpsons quote. However, you should usually know just what to say. It would be horrible if I was showing you off to my girlfriends and you like, didn’t know how to act and were all embarrassing. Fantastic social skills are a must! You also shouldn’t use more than one pop culture quote a day.

My last boyfriend was the biggest dork! We met when I was studying abroad in England. While we were dating he watched an entire season of Doctor Who on DVD in just a few weeks!  And he had glasses. You see? I love nerds!

Even though you’re working out or playing a sport once a day, I expect you’ll take the time to be expertly groomed. You should have great taste in clothing and understand the difference between a $10 and $80 hair cut. I mean, I take care of myself so you should too! ;-)

Since I’m in a sorority it would be nice if you were in a fraternity. Then we can go to parties together and I know you love dancing because I love clubbing. I know of this really hot nightclub that has a sci-fi theme where the bartenders make green drinks. But it’s really exclusive. Only the best looking people can get in. It’s so awesome!

Also I don’t think you should really use a computer outside of work. Twitter, Facebook and Email are okay, but come on, you can check that on your phone! And I don’t like the idea of you playing video games.  If we’re staying in for the night we can order a pizza, watch an episode of American Idol and totally geek out.

Though my one turn-off is a guy that’s too fanatical. You know? Like a guy that’s just completely obsessed with a subject. I obviously want you to have passions! But, just don’t get too into a subject. Unless it’s me! ;-)

So whenever I hear that stereotype that nerds can’t get a girlfriend I think to myself, why not, I’m right here!

————

Laura Davy lives in California and is a Senior Editor for a travel website. She has been published in Every Day Fiction. When she’s not writing she’s looking for neighborhood cats to pet. She sincerely hopes that’s not creepy.

I mean, it involves God, and I’m hard pressed to think of a bigger endorsement than The Almighty.

What their signs should read is: Thank God for Head and Shoulders.  Or, God Hates Progressives, but not Progressive Insurance.

While it may be questionable what God’s relationship to a gecko is (the same doubt that surrounds his relationship with any of His creations) and therefore it’s unreasonable to suggest God sign off with Geico, clearly God enjoys saving money.  Who doesn’t?  Call or click for a quote today.

This co-opting of the supernatural for advertising is, ironically, entirely natural.  The devil and Red Hots.  Our Lord and Angel Soft toilet paper.  Every time you wipe your rear end, you’ll be reminded that cleanliness is next to Godliness, though He relegates some janitorial work for the body to his seraphim and cherubim.

The advantage of this campaign is that, for the future, there appears to be no shortage of dead soldiers.  While dead celebrities are something else—why, exactly, is Kim Kardashian famous?—we have plenty of global turmoil available to keep the bodies piling up.

Perhaps our biggest concern ought to be what will happen when those small numbers behind Westboro’s attacks pass on.  Who will protest their funerals?  What will the signs say?

Here’s one idea: Now you know what God hates.

————

Matt Kolbet has published variously on the Internets, including here at Defenestration and Clockwise Cat.  He enjoys satire, but secretly wishes it weren’t so necessary.

It might have started earlier, but that was when I noticed the first sign. I was chatting to my mother, the phone in one hand and a pen in the other. It was only when I hung up that I looked down and saw, in thin black strokes, that I’d absently drawn a round little banjo.

And that’s how it started.

It was a few days later that the second sign occurred. I was locking up the salon when I turned to Tina and Lois, my chief manicurists, and out of my mouth fell “See y’all tomorrow.”

I’ve never, in my entire life, said “y’all” before. I had absolutely no idea why I was taking it up now.

Tina and Lois seemed as surprised as I was at my choice of words, and as I climbed into my car I could see their heads bent together, whispering.

After that, I just couldn’t stop it happening. By the time I got home and kissed my husband hello, everything out of my mouth was in a twang straight out of Tennessee. I heard the words, I saw my husband’s raised eyebrows, but I could do nothing to halt the flow.

When I heard myself say “I’m fixin’ to make a mess of polk salad for dinner,” I had to head for the bedroom and slam the door.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands as my heart slammed against my ribcage.

There was no doubt about it.

I was turning into Dolly Parton.

I slid back onto the bedspread and hugged my knees, shaking my head to throw the thought clear. How could this be? I wasn’t even a fan! I’d grown up with her free spirited exuberance and infectious laughter bouncing out of my dad’s stereo, and had often been told tales of her dirt poor upbringing as one of twelve children in the Smoky Mountains, but when in my musing I actually used the word “younguns,” I began to rock back and forth on the bed.

Why me? I’m the opposite of free spirited—I only ever engage with my husband with the lights off, and I’ve been known to iron my underwear. Once, he kissed the top of my head and said with a sigh I didn’t quite understand, “There’s not much frivolity in you, is there, babe?”

No wonder he was tapping at the door, asking if I were ok. When I hollered “I’m a-coming!” I clapped my hands over my mouth in horror.

I reached for the bedside phone, shaking as I dialed.

“Mum! Something weird is happening to me.”

I could heart the anxiety in her voice.

“What is it?”

“It’s just…well, I seem to be turning into Dolly Parton.”

She was silent—a fair enough response, considering. But I wasn’t prepared for what came out of her mouth next.

“Ah…I was afraid that might happen.”

My eyes grew huge.

“What?!”

Her voice was gentle, as though talking to a small child, which is just what I felt like, to be honest.

“It’s in our blood, you see, my love. I don’t know what it is about us O’Hallorans, but at certain points the women do tend to morph, I’m afraid.”

I held the phone to my ear, and blinked, hard.

“I myself spent several months in the late 70’s as Nana Mouskouri,” she admitted. “I guess you were too young to remember, but I have to say, your father did have a soft spot for the glasses. I still bring them out for special occasions, if you know what I mean.”

“Mum!”

“Darling, lighten up! You could learn a few lessons from Dolly, you know. There’s not much you can do about it, I’m sorry, so best just go along with it.”

“Is… is there anything else I should know?”

“Well, just one thing: some husbands seem to absorb it too, and they can alter when their wives do. It’s not likely darling, but it’s possible.”

After I hung up, I sat on the bed in a daze. What if I woke up one morning and found myself lying next to…next to…Liberace? I slid off the bed and staggered to the mirror, and what I saw made my jaw drop.

My hair, usually kept pinned back tightly, had shimmied out of its moorings and risen in a teased halo so big it wouldn’t fit within the frame of the mirror. And you know, I have to say it quite suited me.

The changes still take me by surprise, but all these months later, I’m learning to live with them. Who would have thought that long, gaudy Dolly talons would prove so popular at the salon? We’re booked solid, and the customers seem to love my tales of red-headed hussies, possum stew and coats my grandmammy used to sew. As for the physical alteration, well, let’s just say that with the changes to my figure, I’m now comfortable leaving the lights on, if you get my drift.

But that’s not the most exciting part. The other morning, I went to wake my husband for his grits and gravy, and stopped, my hand frozen in mid-air. There, his face deep in slumber, was what I swear looked like the beginnings of an Elvis sneer.

————

Rijn Collins is a Melbourne writer whose latest stories have involved trichotillomaniacs, Finnish cowboys, taxidermy, Eastern European reality TV stars and those phobic about the colour red. Her writing has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines, as well as online journals such as Metazen, Jersey Devil Press and Lowestoft Chronicle. Her stories have been performed at the Melbourne Emerging Writers’ Festival and adapted for radio by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. She’s currently writing a novel, and trying not to include Elvis in it. So far, so good.

But no, these were definitely ghosts.

After I got a quote from an exorcist ($300!!!), that’s when I had my third thought–live and let live. And times were good. Without a care in the world, ghosts scurried about between the walls. Ghosts climbed through the dishes in the sink sounding off a ceramic cacophony. Sometimes ghosts would even wake me in the middle of the night with their warm, furry, scratches. Positively otherworldly. Ghosts aren’t all bad, and they did some good too. I have this problem, see? During reruns of Everyone Loves Raymond, my mouth releases a constant spray of food, the result of clam chowder and top-rate comedy writing. Like clockwork, each mess I made disappeared in a matter of weeks, only to show up elsewhere in the form of ghost-pellets.

My long-term girlfriend, however, wasn’t convinced by my stories. The ghosts were clever enough to only operate at nighttime, and no one believes a drunk. My long-term girlfriend told me again and again that my house was infested. “With ghosts,” I’d add, and she’d storm off, unable to believe anything other than her own narrow point of view. Things got so bad that she considered moving out, and so I capitulated by calling an exterminator, though the quote they gave me was too high for full capitulation ($300!!!). And so I thought, live and let live.

Then things changed. Something must have pissed off the ghosts, probably my long-term girlfriend, because they started to act out. What could I do? Its not like I could flatten a ghost’s nose. Heck, I’m not even sure if they have noses. The ghost pellets started to turn up everywhere. I mean everywhere. I didn’t even have to look under my stack of festering trash bags to know what I’d find down there. They even got into my chocolate sprinkles. For three hours I sorted ghost-pellets from sprinkles before I realized—I don’t even own sprinkles. Unfortunately, I realized that after I fixed up a Sundae.

About a week or so after that, quarters and dimes began mysteriously disappearing from the change jar. And then my longtime girlfriend accused me of smoking, a vile and nasty habit she cured me of when we originally started dating. Because she doesn’t date smokers. So what if some change went missing? So what if my clothes reeked of smoke, and cigarette butts fell out of my jean jacket pocket? But those arguments aside, my long-term girlfriend still wanted answers. It was clear to me. “Ghosts,” I told her.

The next afternoon, I came home from a hard day of checking parking meters, vending machines, and the pockets of sleeping sidewalk men for loose change. I walked into the most horrific scene. All of my possessions—my clothes, my collection of rocks and semi-precious minerals, my newspaper clippings of chip-dip recipes—all heaped into a pile in the middle of the living room. And then I heard a voice, almost ethereal, emanating from the mouth of my long-term girlfriend. “Get out,” it said. “Ghosts,” I thought, “big-time.” I had never seen levitation before, but a one pound hunk of drusy quartz shot across the room, barely missing my forehead. The incident was no less spectacular that the mineral was helped along by my long-term girlfriend’s throwing arm.

Why it is that ghosts chose that house, I don’t know. Was there a violent murder there? Was it built over of an Indian burial site? Or, like some undead beacon, were ghosts drawn in by that stack of trash bags in the kitchen? The house stands empty now, occupied only by ghosts. Ghosts and my long-term girlfriend, and some new guy named Shawn. I walked by the house the other day. I noticed a fresh coat of paint and new window treatments. Definitely ghosts.

————

Ryan Currier has a fear of clowns and failure. I guess if he had to rank them it would go failure first, clowns second. He’s also afraid of being alone, but then when he’s around people for too long, it’s like AAAAAH, give me some me-time, you know? So I guess that’s a distant third. He believes every mystery pain is a sure-sign he’s dying and he lives in the Baltimore area.

The kids, of course, go absolutely wild.

“Hello friends!” says the Party Action Party Packrat.  His name is Pizza Pete, and you never see it in print without a tm at the end.

“Pizza Pete!” says Andrea, my daughter.  “Oh, Pizza Pete, I’m so happy to see you!  You’re here to take us to Party Action Party for the day, aren’t you?  You must be!”

By way of response Pizza Pete begins doing a jig on the rug.  Andrea gets to her feet and joins him.  Her little pink slippers become a blur as they dance.

Tommy has crawled onto the couch next to me for assurance.  He’s always been one to look for assurance.

“Is this okay, dad?”

I watch the five foot three inch cartoon packrat swing my daughter into the air.  She is laughing.  Her eyes are filled with embers of glee.

“I’m not sure,” I tell my son.  Tommy puts his head down on my arm.

The commercials for Party Action Party play out as follows: two children are sitting around watching television.  Pizza Pete bursts in wearing a backwards baseball cap, a purple shirt with a slice of pizza on it, and no pants.  After a brief and completely unnecessary introduction (the children always know his name) he whisks them off to the nearest Party Action Party establishment where they have the time of their lives with curly slides, ball pits, video games, and prizes.  Pizza is consumed.  Children screech and shout.  Party Action Party, they quickly decide, is a heavenly kingdom.

My daughter Andrea is lactose intolerant and has to take a pill before going there.

“Who wants to rage?” booms Pizza Pete, putting a foot on the coffee table.  “Who wants to party?”

“I do!” screams Andrea who has fallen to the carpet and is flailing around in her nightgown, displaying not a trace of modesty.  “I do!  I do!”

“Let’s go to…” Pizza Pet slobbers over the suspense, his whiskers quivering.  “Party!  Action!  Party!”

“Can we go with him, dad?” Tommy wants to know.

“I should make a phone call first,” I excuse myself and go into the kitchen.

***

Keeping an eye on the packrat I dial the number of the local PAP.

“Party Action Party,” says a lifeless voice on the other end.  “A place where kids’ word is law.  This is Lynette speaking.  How may I help you?”

“I have your packrat in my living room,” I say.

Lynette hangs up thinking it’s a prank call.

Pizza Pete is swinging Andrea back and forth by her ankles.  The little girl is shrieking with the fun of it.

***

We get in the car with the kids in back and Pizza Pete riding shotgun.

“I want to listen to the Banana Hannah tape,” Andrea demands so I put it on.

“How you doing?” Pizza Pete asks me while the backseat sings the Banana Song.

“I’m well,” I tell him.

The sun is blinding in our neighborhood because there are no trees.  Each house is cream colored, each lawn stiff and green.  It only takes five minutes to get to the highway.

Banana Hannah sings something about the mistakes that can be made between cupcakes and birthday cakes as we go.

“She’s quite a fox,” Pizza Pete tells me.

“I wouldn’t know,” I tell him back.

“Next exit.”

***

As soon as the car is parked Pizza Pete grabs my kids by the hand and races across the parking lot.  I lock the car and follow them inside.  Party Action Party is exactly the same as it was the last time I was here: bright, loud, and vomity.

“Welcome to Party Action Party,” says Lynette at the front desk.  “A place where kids’ word is law.  How many are you with today, sir?”

“Just the two,” I say motioning to Andrea and Tommy, now kicking a discarded slice back and forth over by the trashcans.  “And—”

I think better of mentioning the escaped packrat again.  He’s no longer with us anyway.  He is no longer with us but his presence is felt.  He leers down from every poster on the wall, each piece of merchandise, and the many stacks of greasy paper plates they have yet to dispose of.  I pay for the tickets while avoiding his gaze from the center of Lynette’s crooked visor.

Tommy takes my shirtsleeve as we push through the bubbly plastic gates into everlasting fun.  Andrea has abandoned us for the Spider Stomp game.  Tommy has always been one to be abandoned.

“Thanks for taking us here,” he says softly.  “I really like it here.”

There is an animatronic Pizza Pete holding a guitar near the food plaza.  It is short-circuiting.  Its vast black eye winks and dilates to the cries of children.

————

Michael Giddings is from Brooklyn. Most of his stories concern the specific laughs of ancient cartoon characters. Muttley, for instance. He is the proud father of short stories such as “Raccoons & Bacon,” “Gabie Goes to Japan,” and “Banana Hannah.”

Entering the store, he was greeted by a salesman. “Hello sir, my name is Walt, may I help you?” asked the salesman.

“I’d like to try on the walking shoes in the window,” said Gary.

“Well I want to try on your shoes!” snapped back the salesman, fixated on the clogs.

The manager noticed, and squinted with disapproval, saying, “I’m sorry sir, about our associate’s unprofessional behavior.” He told the salesman to go sit in the corner and think about what he’d done. “We’re interviewing for his replacement, and we’re down to two candidates,” confided the manager. As he helped Gary with his shoe needs, the interview process in the back room could be overheard:

“So you had plastic surgery to change your face into a foot-measuring device, but do you really want this job?” and “Well what about this resume from Mrs. Hubbard? Anyone who lives in a shoe must be dedicated, and with all those mouths to feed.” The store immediately hired the man with the foot-measuring device face, who was on the floor practicing, and fired the salesman Walt, who walked dejectedly out the door. Gary chose to purchase a snappy hiking boot, and left the store, in search of adventure.

Meanwhile, Gary’s ex-wife Gabriela visualized her thoughts soaring into the clouds. She thought, “Today I will wear my brown patent leather shoes.” She went to the window and saw her words in a billowy cloud: ‘Today I will wear my brown patent-leather shoes’. The cloud formed into a storm, and raindrops began to fall, escalating into a deluge. Gabriela looked out the window to see her patent leather brown shoes floating down the street in a flood of storm water.

She jumped out of her house and followed the stream down the street, as it carried her brown patent leather shoes through the open front door of the seedy Capri Village Apartments, into the bleak lobby, dusty potted plants upturned and pulled into the onslaught of water. The shoes and potted plants ended up in the apartments’ turgid, half-filled, cracked pool, situated under a decaying diving board.

Days later, after the storm had cleared, 3 people sat by the apartment complex pool: 1. Gary, enjoying the single life, sun burnt and overweight in his Speedo and wooden clogs. 2. A middle-aged platinum blonde cocktail waitress named Wanda, on a chaise lounge, wearing white enamel-trim sunglasses, and smoking a cigarette entrenched in a bizarre imitation gold-plated holder. 3. Walt, the fired shoe salesman, who also lived in the Capri Village Apartments. On most days, Walt would sit in his Barcalounger, drapes drawn, watching cable sports programs, after having bought a large plastic bottle of discount vodka at the generic drugstore in the hazy morning, wearing plaid shorts, and black socks that squeezed his white, puffy, blue-veined ankles. However, today Walt had decided to sit by the pool, hoping to strike up a conversation with Wanda, to whom he had become attracted.

Wanda eyed the brown patent-leather shoes floating into the deep end of the pool, near the 8.5 foot sign, soon gathering them in with a nearby insect net, adopting them as her own. Gary, recognizing the brown patent-leather shoes as Gabriela’s, felt tears of regret in his eyes as he thought of her. “I must have those shoes!” he yelled, grabbing at Wanda’s insect net.

Walt, sensing his opportunity, stepped in. “Leave that net alone, those are now Wanda’s shoes!” he screamed, pushing Gary back. Gary lost balance on his wooden clogs, and fell into the foul swimming pool.

Walt and Wanda would soon develop a steamy, long-term romance that would become the talk of the Capri Village Apartments. Wanda described the shoe incident to her fellow waitresses at the cocktail lounge, including the new waitress named Gabriela.

————

Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer. He is in the orange hallway (www.orangehallway.com)