Lucas Membrane

Update

2010-09-06T21:52:00.003-04:00

This is month-old news now, but, in case you hadn't heard, I sold my book to Simon Pulse. Here's the official announcement:

Lucas Klauss's debut WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE, a story of boy (from an apocalypse-obsessed, atheist family) meets girl (daughter of a missionary, church-goer) and all the complications that ensue, to Anica Rissi at Simon Pulse, by Kate McKean at the Howard Morhaim Literary Agency.

It's slated for publication in Spring 2012.

Also, there will be a new site/blog/Tumblr/mp3 dump/passcode generator/Murphy Brown fan fiction community/JetBlue In-Flight Snack Box viral marketing hub/clone sex discussion board/experimental dolphin-and-porpoise social media venture/real neat-o hangout room with a working slot machine in this space early next year. Something along those lines, anyway.

I'll let you know!

Something else

2009-12-11T09:00:00.003-05:00

For approximately four years and four months, I have really enjoyed writing this blog. When I first moved to New York City, it was the way I tried to explain to myself and to anyone who cared to read just what the hell was going in my life. In the second and third semesters of my MFA, it was a form of writing that didn't make me feel like a total goddamn fraud. As I entered my thesis semester and, later, continued writing my novel, it became a dedicated outlet for the strange and funny ideas that didn't fit elsewhere. And then, over the next two years, it was a daily attempt at real humor writing, something I felt I was actually, finally getting the hang of.

Now I feel like I'm entering a new phase. I recently acquired a for-real literary agent. My old pals Dusty and Lindsay, for four years and four months now my comrades in slightly alienated New York living, are moving to North Carolina. And, at least for the moment, I tire of blogging.

Life does not change in neat four-year increments, of course. But it is a convenient way of thinking about things. High School. College. Becoming a Writer. Each lasted about four years, and during each of those four-year increments I was New and Scared, then Slightly More Familiar But Still Scared, then Pretty Familiar and Less Scared and Kind of Happy, then Very Familiar and Still Scared But Also Kind of Confident and Happy.

The main difference this time is that I don't know exactly where I'm going next. After high school, I was going to UGA. After UGA, I was going to New York City. But now I'm still in New York City, and I plan to be here for some time, and there isn't a definite Next Thing. I hope that a big part of it will be the publication of my book, but that's not a sure thing; in fact, it's an unsure thing. I know I'd like to perform more, but I'm not sure in what capacity. I'd like to write different things, but I don't know form they'll take.

So I need some time. To think and work. And writing stories about overly polite werewolves and demonic high school mascots takes time, and think, and work. Sometimes a surprising amount of time and think and work! In the coming months, then, I'll be revising my novel, continuing to perform sketch comedy, and ... doing something else other than blogging.

Sorry if this seems sudden! I wasn't even sure I was going to do this until this week. And I'm not giving up blogging for good! I'm sure I'll bloviate here again, or maybe in some other form, and maybe even sooner than I think. When I come back, I'll let you know.

And to anyone who has looked at this thing at some point over the past four years and four months, thank you. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you had fun reading it.

Treasure pool rules

2009-10-05T11:00:00.001-04:00

Appropriate swimming apparel ONLY. This means: full-body bathing costumes, silken relaxation robes, or bikinis made of diamonds.

NO sliding gently into the pool. You MUST dive in.

While beneath the surface, you MUST swallow coins and, upon surfacing, spit them out of your mouth as if they were water.

You MUST backstroke lazily across the surface of the pool.

Toddlers MUST wear gold-plated swim diapers.

Children under 12 years of age MUST be accompanied by a responsible servant over 18.

Swimmers under $1,000,000 in assets WILL be escorted off the premises by a gruff, enormous man.

NO personal music devices. The overhead speakers playing "We're in the Money" on a continuous loop MUST be audible at all times.

You MUST smoke.

You MUST drink.

You MUST chortle and guffaw.

You MUST act lecherously toward the lifeguards.

Roughhousing, horseplay, and general chicanery are encouraged.

If you are caught stealing coins, jewels, cash, or any treasure found in the pool, you WILL be publicly shamed.

No black people.

The final journal entry of Sir Victor Eely Cosgrove, Antarctic explorer

2009-12-10T09:00:00.002-05:00

January 12, 1907

Alas! And Damnation! It seems that the name of Sir Victor Eely Cosgrove shall not be remembered in History as the first man to set foot at the Southern Pole of the Earth. Despite every man's valiant efforts, especially my own, the few of us of the Cosgrove Expedition who yet survive have reached the End. Or, rather, the End is upon us.

For we could have done little or nothing to forstall it! Our Thermometers have recorded ungodly temperatures of negative sixty-one degrees! There is no Vegetation whatsoever! All of our dogs, horses, pigs, cows, goats, parrots, and honeybees have perished! Even the Elephants died!

How could any man, even one as learned as I, prepare or plan for such truly Hellish conditions? Trust my Word when I say that I scoured our extensive traveling Library for weeks, searching for any helpful accounts or words of advice, while my men waited patiently outside for my Wisdom. Of course, I found nothing of immediate use, as I had included selections primarily from the Prose and Poetry of my personal collection. I did, however, gain moral Strength from a two-day excursion up the great heights of Tolstoy's War and Peace.

Invigorated, I delivered a great Oration from the steps of the Library. The chill, unceasing wind seemed to cut my face as I spoke, but I carried on, for a Leader of men must give them reason to follow him. As I came to the conclusion of my Speech, I also came to the realization that the more cowardly three-quarters of my men had deserted! While I was in the Library, devising our Strategy, these spineless creatures quite simply slunk away!

I am proud to record that in that moment, I laughed. For a true Leader and Explorer carries on no matter what, but is grateful when any hindrance, including twenty-six of his least trustworthy crew members, leaves him so that he may carry on with greater ease.

Additionally, they had left behind the hot-air Balloon! And the Cannons! And the Great Ice Drill! And the surviving Yak! What fools! These Instruments would be essential to our scientific Exploration and to the suppression of any Native Peoples, and the Yak would be useful for Nourishment. I ordered the remaining members of the Cosgrove Expedition to don their chain-mail and follow me to the Center of the Continent, where warmer temperatures, food, the company of men, and Fame awaited us.

So any reasonable man would have assumed. How was I, or any mortal, to anticipate just how damned big this Continent is? How could any man conceive of such endless, flat snow, and nothing more in any direction? Even as I look out upon it at this moment, I cannot believe my eyes. I am stuck in Hell, and for no Sin at all!

And let me record this statement for History: Cannibalism is not a sin! As long as one's brothers are willing, and Theo and Henry both were more than willing for me to shoot them, then how can it be sinful to consume the flesh of one's brethren? It is Kindness. It is Leadership, for the Leader must carry on, no matter what. He must carry on until he is alone at the end of the World.

The cold is stiffening my fingers, and I find it difficult to write. Lord, please remove me from this earthly Hell, and take me to Heaven, though I have not believed before this Moment. The hot-air Balloon is almost full of Gas, and I will ascend in it, so that you may pluck me from the Sky.

One final note: I predict that no Man will ever reach the Pole. Or, if he does so, it will only be accomplished with more, and sturdier, Yaks.

Top Ten Favorite Albums 2K9

2009-12-09T14:00:00.000-05:00

Man, this year was rough. I won't bother to recap all the shared harshnesses of 2009, but it feels like the whole world just needs to gulp some Nyquil, fall into bed with its clothes on, and rest this shit off.

Thankfully, there was some excellent music to get us through. Though my list of favorite album candidates wasn't as large as it was last year, the albums that made the cut were not only great, but almost endlessly replayable. Which was a good thing, because a lot of hyper-hyped music really fizzled for me throughout 2009.

BUT. Let's move past the disappointments. Because a lot of good shit happened this year, too.

For example:

10. Dirty Projectors, Bitte Orca. "Stillness is the Move" is what saved this album for me. The fourth track on Bitte Orca, it sounds like what would happen if a disgruntled studio tech stripped four pretty good pop songs for parts and rearranged them to amuse himself late at night. The composition somehow pronounces each element of the music while simultaneously fusing them into a greater whole. The thing is: this is pretty much how the whole album sounds. I just didn't comprehend it, even on a subconscious level, until I'd been hooked by this song. And it's what makes this album frustrating, endearing, memorable, and even kind of danceable.

9. The-Dream, Love Vs Money. After reading a Rolling Stone article hyping this dude, I was skeptical, but I checked him out nevertheless. As it turns out, he's got the goods: sticky beats, anthemic choruses, and affectingly lovelorn lyrics. Dude even dares to turn the middle section into a miniature concept album with a three-song stretch about a relationship gone vile, but damned if he doesn't pull it off. Love Vs Money is seemingly generic, but actually impressive.

8. Regina Spektor, Far. I can see why some folks wouldn't like Regina Spektor's music. Her lyrics are often cutesy, and the frequency with and degree to which she contorts her voice reminds me of this dude I had classes with my sophomore year at UGA, who would walk the halls of the English department, loudly and skillfully whistling unidentifiable music that was probably from fantasy role-playing games. I mentally threw daggers at him all that year, with attached messages that read, "YOU CAN WHISTLE REAL GOOD WHAT'S THAT FROM? LET'S BE FRIENDS!"

Anyway, unlike my English dept. friend's show-offery, Spektor's contortions make sense in context. Along with her cutesiness comes a wonderment: at the small, meaningful gestures people make, at the strange details that stick in our heads, at the way we make each other feel. Her vocal wanderings indicate a sense of being overwhelmed by it all, and that the only way to release the tension is to just open your mouth and sing. I can see why some people would mind that, but I don't.

7. Yeah Yeah Yeahs, It's Blitz!. "Shake it, like a ladder to the sun." Those are some of my favorite lyrics of the year, and they kick off the Yeah Yeah Yeahs It's Blitz!, and the music that follows them fulfills that imperative. On their third album, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs grow confidently, expanding their sound to include an electro-dance influence that fits perfectly with their growly, shrieky, melodic rock. With an attitude like theirs, within twenty years they will have expanded their sonic empire to include New Wave, R&B, and even Bluegrass. I welcome our future aural masters.

6. Neko Case, Middle Cyclone. Neko Case is a powerful alt-country sorceress and I am in her thrall.

5. Mika, The Boy Who Knew Too Much. I liked Mika's previous album, but it seemed too silly to connect with on an emotional level. So why did I love this album, when it is just as silly? Well, the silliness seems a lot more personal this time, for one. On "We Are Golden," the best song on the album and one of my favorite songs of the year, Mika sings about "teenage dreams" and "We are not what you think we are/We are golden, we are golden" so passionately over such triumphant musical arrangements that you get the sense that he's wanted to sing this song for a long time.

And if the rest of the songs don't have quite the same personal urgency, they do have ridiculously catchy hooks. This is pop music that is proud to be pop music, which makes it a pleasure and a thrill to listen to.

4. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart. It's the twee-est album of the year, so of course I love it. But, of course, if it were just twee, I would hate it. Get over the dorky, jokey song titles (e.g. "Young Adult Friction," "The Tenure Itch") and just listen to the music, and you'll hear some really lovely guitar melodies and an engaging vocal dynamic between the male and female singers. Like Mika, the Pains wear their hearts on their album sleeve (sorry, I had to!), and they aren't ashamed of it.

3. Phoenix, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. Were there any better songs this year than "Lisztomania" and "1901"? I submit that there were not! And Phoenix created them both, and put them side by side as the openers to their album. Was that a mistake? Well, most people probably don't care, but for 1,000-year-old men such as myself who insist on listening to albums from start to finish, it may have been. Even though this album features fantastic songs such as "Fences," "Lasso," and "Girlfriend," they all pale in comparison to the two best songs of the year that precede them. It's as if the first two tracks on Stankonia had been "B.O.B." and "Ms. Jackson." Of course, Stankonia came out nine years ago (sidenote: SERIOUSLY?), when people still bought CDs.

Whatever. This is a ridiculously good collection of songs, no matter what order you put them in.

2. Röyksopp, Junior. Röyksopp makes music that sounds like the future. That's the most concise and accurate way to describe what they do, and it's probably their mantra. "Okay," they say to each other in Norwegian, as they settle themselves into the cold metal chairs in their taxpayer-provided MüsikStudiø in Bergen. "Let's make some shit that sounds like the future."

The result is, as you might expect, atmospheric and slickly produced, but it's also poignant. Other than the peppy opening track, "Happy Up Here," the songs on this album suggest loss and longing and even, occasionally, transcendence, much like Sigur Rós's music can. The difference is that Sigur Rós sounds like what has already happened to you, while Röyksopp sounds like what will happen to you.

1. Passion Pit, Manners. This pick came as a surprise to me. Going into my end-of-the-year relistening jaunt, I had fully expected to come out on the other side with Phoenix's album still at number one in my mind. But it had been a while since I had fully listened to Manners.

It's still a really exciting album, nearly a year after its release. Lord knows I love a good jam, and Manners features the jam of the year, "Little Secrets." (Note: Their MySpace URL name is passionpitjams. Cool!) I remember Ta-Nehisi Coates, one of my favorite political bloggers (who also blogs about culture), said that he liked Passion Pit but that this album was all high notes. I disagree. True, some songs on Manners are just plain gleeful, but many of them also have a strong undercurrent of anxiety. I say this without being able to recite even a significant fraction of the lyrics; the tension is all there in the slow, steady, stretchy beats and in lead singer Michael Angelakos's yearning voice.

This is a complex, inspiring, unique album, and it's my favorite of the year.

A confession

2009-12-08T10:00:00.004-05:00

To: Vanessa Gray
From: Neal Cartish
Subject: hey

Vanessa,

How was the concert? Did you see Morrissey's tonsils, like you hoped? Haha, I hope so.

Anyway. I know email is maybe a weird way to do something like this, but I really have started to like you a lot, and I think you kinda like me a little too (hehe). And so there's something about me that you need to know. It doesn't change anything about us, or what we have or anything. Basically, I have SHCD. That's Spontaneous Human Combustion Disorder, in case you weren't familiar with it.

Just to kind of explain, SHCD is

Awkward Semaphore Conversations: Toys

2009-12-07T11:00:00.000-05:00

Excuse me. Santa?

Ho ho ho! Yes, little Nartibart?

Santa, I was just wondering, and I don't mean any offense or anything at all, but why do we always make so many hobby horses and rag dolls and jack-in-the-boxes every year?

Ho ho ho! Why, little Nartibart, the answer is simple: because children love them!

Well, that's the thing, though. I don't think they do? They like Pokemon and little computer animals and stuff. I think they'd be totally bored with these old...

Poke-a-what? Oh, Nartibart, you are silly! Children adore rag dolls and little wooden soldiers and spinning tops! They always have and they always will!

Santa, have you even seen any new toys in the past hundred years? Toys are completely different now! They talk. They light up. They aren't made of wood. When you deliver these old trinkets you're embarrassing yourself! That's why all these parents are buying their own gifts for their children nowadays. I'm just trying to...

Ho ho ho! Nartibart, I know what you're trying to do! You're trying to usurp me! Well, it's not...

No, Santa! That's not my intention at all. I just wanted to...

Shhh, Nartibart, shhh. Maybe this revolver is advanced enough for you? There. That should put some sense into you, you silly little elf!

Santa...?

Ho ho ho! Don't pout! The spirit of Christmas will heal you, I'm sure. Now I must be off! To the Whirligig Room!

Yes/No/Maybe: Abbreviated

2009-12-02T14:00:00.002-05:00

Ayn Rand and the World She Made by Anne C. Heller. Yes.

The Damned United. Yes.

The Radio City Christmas Spectacular this past Monday. Yes.

xx by The XX. Maybe.

38-24. No.

Tnet Holiday Gift Guide

2009-12-04T10:00:00.002-05:00

Whether you're shopping online or in the store, finding the perfect holiday gift can be tough. With a seemingly endless choice of gadgets in every category, how do you know which one is the best for your budget? Well, don't worry, Tnet is here to help. We've picked our favorite tech gifts for this season so you don't have to!

Check out our picks below. You'll be sure to find something just right for your friends and family.

Digital Cameras

Top choice for digital cameras this season goes to a newcomer, Cassie-O's DigiCamera 5000 ($300). Completely coincidentally, the CEO and Chief Inventor for Cassie-O Products is Cassandra Oaks, the eleven-year-old daughter of Tnet's CEO and editor-in-chief, Ken Oaks. Cassie, as she prefers to be called, is a remarkably talented young lady, and her DigiCamera 5000 proves it.

The Skinny: Cassie-O has added all sorts of innovative features to the bland silver-box cameras we see often nowadays, including a glued-on compass ("To tell which direction your shooting [sic]," to quote the manual), a duck call tied to the camera strap ("To make people laugh so they smile when you take a picture"), and a small American flag (unexplained). As a bonus, the design and basic functinality of the camera is very similar to Nikon Coolpix 400EXR, so users of that popular brand will already be familiar with how this superior camera works. And the price is great!

Earbuds

We were all set to choose the outstanding Klipsch Image S4 earbuds as the best choice in earbuds for this holiday season when Tnet CEO and Editor-in-Chief Ken Oaks called us in for a meeting. After explaining that we'd taken a big hit in advertising revenue this year and that, as a consequence, one of our departments would probably suffer job cuts and it could be Editorial, he introduced us to the bright shining star that is his eleven-year-old prodigy daughter, Cassie. And then Cassie showed us her inventions! We were all blown away by how amazing they were, especially her Cassie-O Best Headphones of All Time ($100)!

The Skinny: Quite simply, the Cassie-O Best Headphones of All Time are aptly named. Building upon an earbud model fairly like the Bose In-Ear Headphones, Cassie-O has added a revolutionary listening enhancement device called Music Louders. Attached to the headphones with a secure masking tape seal, the Music Louders are squishy plastic cones, not unlike your everyday cooking funnel, that fit around the ears. In Cassie-O's theory, the Music Louders make the music louder and clearer because they're bigger than the standard "teeny-tiny" earbuds. This would be a groundbreaking advancement from a powerhouse like Sony or Bose, but from an eleven-year-old girl, it's truly astonishing. Each of us here at Tnet bought at least three!

Laptops

Now, we've talked a lot about how Cassie is stunningly precocious and potentially the female Einstein. But did we mention how pretty she is? We can't post a picture because Ken Oaks doesn't want Cassie's photo on the internet, so you'll have to take our words for it: she is the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. She also has excellent manners and gets straight A's and likes the Boston Red Sox. What a well-rounded, amazing child! We do wish our children were more like her. Anyway, Cassie-O's Future-Cool PowerLaptop is our pick for best laptop gift of the season!

The Skinny: Cassie-O is known for its cutting-edge products, and the Cassie-O Future-Cool PowerLaptop is no exception. We think Cassie summarized her approach to the laptop better than we ever could, so here's a direct quote from her amazing presentation: "I thought that, I thought that if a big computer, if you could take that and carry it, then it would be better because, because ... because it's more processors."

Exactly! Instead of shrinking the laptop smaller and smaller, as neanderthal companies such as Apple are prone to do, Cassie-O has taken a completely different, astonishingly insightful direction. By creating a kind of desktop computer harness that allows a PC user to hoist his or her home computer on his or her back, Cassie-O combines the computing power of a desktop with the easy portability of a laptop. It's so simple and yet so brilliant! Ahhhhh!

It probably won't surprise you to learn that Cassie-O has swept Tnet's holiday gift picks this year across every category. She's even inspired us to create new categories! That's the level of gadget-building genius we're talking about here. Here, in short order, the rest of Tnet's holiday gift picks:

Best Flat-Screen TV: Cassie-O 36" Microwave-and-Television Combonater
Best Gaming System: Cassie-O Cassietendo with Treadmill for Running So You Don't Just Sit There While You Play
Best Printer: Cassie-O Hieroglyphic Stamper (includes hieroglyphic translation guide so you can ink-and-stamp anything on your screen into hieroglyphics!)
Best Kaleidoscope: Cassie-O Sparkly Kaleidoscope
Best Shoe Protector: Cassie-O Shoe Protector
Best Dragon Whistle: Cassie-O Red Dragon Whistle/Cassie-O Green Dragon Whistle (Tie)

Just one final note: It's easy to get caught up in all the gift-choosing, gift-buying, and gift-exchanging of the season. While you're doing all that, try to remember the important stuff, like the fact that you have a great job and an inspiring CEO and Editor-in-Chief. Also, please remember that Cassie Oaks is the most intelligent and beautiful child to have ever lived.

Happy Holidays!

Favorite Web Videos 2K9

2009-12-03T14:00:00.000-05:00

2008 was a great year for online videos, but 2009 was somehow even better. Below, the evidence. [Note: I originally saw most of these videos on Videogum, which continues to be one of the best sites on the internet.]

From the tiny pumpkin mask, to the black unitard, to the Ghostbusters theme, to the moves, this is perfectly executed in every way.

The emotion with which George Brett sings "Just a great fuckin' meal" is what had me crying laughing, but then there's this whole odyssey that the video takes you on afterward. This is not your typical Auto-Tune joke.

Somehow this video is simultaneously hilarious and EPIC. At the end, as we see this determined little pug return home after a long, beautiful day of sight-seeing and stroller-pushing, there is the sense that we really have gone on a journey. An absolutely ridiculous journey.

Inspired and very well edited.

Dance like everybody's watching but you don't give a crap because you just like to dance.

A local commercial homage, this video somehow avoids being mocking or snarky or racist. It's just funny. Still love that little tune.

The absurdity of this video has many layers to it. But the sentiment is simple: "Heck yeah!"

Why even bother including JK Wedding Dance? Everybody has seen it. It's totally over.

But, watch it again. Before the millions of views, and the Office spoof, and the Today Show appearance, and all the rest, this was just a small gathering of family and friends, celebrating love and having a great goddamn time. The genuine joy of it all is preserved intact. So, though it is a cheesy and maybe even boring choice, this is my favorite video of the year.

Guess who has zero thumbs and partially as a result hasn't progressed very far up the evolutionary ladder?

2009-12-01T10:00:00.000-05:00

This guy!

Alibi Dry Cleaners

2009-11-30T11:00:00.000-05:00

We are not responsible for items left over 30 days. We are not responsible for stains and blemishes that are unremovable. We are not responsible for the murder of Jake Arpino. We are not responsible for the murder of Horoshi Tanaka. We are definitely not responsible for the apparent murder-suicide Yvette Kirkland, that shameful whore. We are obviously not responsible for the rising heroin usage in the neighborhood; in fact, we have a "Say No to Drugs" sticker on our window, see?

We are certainly not responsible for any of the criminal events that occurred on Prospect Place between 1:22 A.M. and 2:03 A.M. on October 11, 2009. Nor are we responsible for the horrendous murder of Detective Trey Esposito, who was the principal investigator into the events of that evening, and whose death was a tragic and regretful one.

We are of course not responsible for the supposed election fraud at several sites in City Council District 11, which recently elected the great and honorable Eric Shimizu as its Council Member, long may he serve.

We are stunned that anyone would consider us responsible for the high-stakes, high-speed motorcycle races down Eastern Parkway that are rumored to award $50,000 to the winner and quick death to the last-place finisher.

And we would be simply outraged if we were somehow considered responsible for the upcoming "Night of Blood" in which dozens of members of prominent drug cartels throughout the city will be assassinated by ninjas.

We are far too busy dry cleaning clothes for us to responsible for any of this.

Additionally, items left over 30 days will be donated to Not-Yakuza Cares, an upstanding charity organization that is also not responsible for any of the above occurrences or money laundering.

Post-Thanksgiving Friday Video Friday: Jackie Snad and Clancy Bachlerat Sing Thanksgiving Songs

2009-11-27T17:00:00.001-05:00

Post-Thanksgiving Friday Video Friday: The American Budget Network with Andy Daly and the Avett Brothers

2009-11-27T15:00:00.000-05:00

Post-Thanksgiving Friday Video Friday: Neil Young Sings Fresh Prince

2009-11-27T13:00:00.000-05:00

Post-Thanksgiving Friday Video Friday: Zero-Budget Superhero Movie

2009-11-27T11:00:00.002-05:00

Happy T

2009-11-26T11:00:00.001-05:00

Make sure you get them before they get you.

Yes/No/Maybe: Damn fresh

2009-11-25T14:30:00.001-05:00

Eastbound and Down. This show isn't great yet, but it has the potential to be the true inheritor of The Office. Like Gervais's original series (and I'm Alan Partridge before it), it's a show that centers on a man (Kenny Powers, a John Rocker-esque baseball star in decline) who is so narcissistic and awful that he wouldn't be sympathetic or even watchable if he wasn't so hilariously pathetic. It's Kenny Powers's transparent weakness, constantly contrasted with his delusional boasts, that gives this show its emotional weight. And it's that emotional weight that is crucial for a show like this to succeed, because, as in The Office, all the best laughs come from the most painful and embarrassing moments.

Unfortunately, this first season relies a bit too much on broad gags. Kenny Powers saying and doing outrageously terrible things is only funny insofar as it's tied to something deeper. And Will Ferrell just seems out place. But that's alright because, at just six episodes, this season feels like an introduction rather than a complete story, and the last couple of episodes set this show up to be something excellent. I hope the second season keeps up the momentum.

Also of note: 1. Andy Daly, who is awesome as the milquetoast principal, and 2. the music selections, consisting mostly of crunchy classic Southern rock (and this surprisingly touching Kenny Rogers song).

***

Fantastic Mr. Fox. Like many people, I started to fall out of love with Wes Anderson in the wake of The Life Aquatic. Mostly because his style, in that movie and in The Darjeeling Limited, overwhelmed the story and just wasn't as fresh anymore. But Mr. Fantastic Fox, while thoroughly a Wes Anderson movie, feels damn fresh. Why is that? I think it's because he's adapting a classic story and so he has tell the story, and also because the meticulous, twee, visually emphatic way he tells stories is perfect for a stop-motion animated children's tale.

Anyway, it's a gorgeous, funny, charming movie, for kids or adults. I loved it.

***

A Strange Arrangement by Mayer Hawthorne. Some reviewers are fuh-reaking out about how lovely and true to the Motown sound this album is. And, yes, true true true. But this has been done before, and very well, and very recently! Jim by Jamie Lidell, for instance, came out just last year. And, before that, This is Ryan Shaw by Ryan Shaw. Both great, Motowny albums! I'm just saying, A Strange Arrangement is definitely smooth, but it is not a revelation.

An opening excerpt from my YA novel

2009-11-24T11:00:00.000-05:00

Some exciting news, y'all:

As of yesterday, I have a literary agent. An actual literary agent to represent my YA novel. No joke. It's pretty cool.

So, now that things are moving forward, I wanted to give you guys a sneak peek at the book. To challenge myself, I wrote this novel from the perspective of a female teenager. I think that some of my best writing happens when I stretch myself a little bit, so I hope this opening chapter is reflective of that.

Anyway, here is the beginning of my YA novel, Girl Times. Hope you enjoy it.

Girl Times

Chapter 1

Brianna Warthington was just not having a great period this month. In fact, she was having a bad period. Like, supermegabad. Maybe even the worst period EVER.

Anyway whatever, she called her bestie, Rihanna Bakerson, who was an African-American girl, to talk about it. People at school called them "Rihanna Brianna Banana" because they were such good friends and because both of their names rhymed with the word "banana." Nobody cared that they were different races. Even if one of them had been a lesbian, no one would have cared, because that's just how teenagers are today.

Brianna stopped sexting her boyfriend, Conner Vasquez, who was half-Hispanic and all hotness, and used her Apple iPhone to call Rihanna. As she waited for Rihanna to answer, she lay on her bed and dreamed about all the clothes she was going to buy later when she drove her Saab to the Anthropologie at the Boulevards, Brianna's favorite place to shop when she wasn't shopping online, which she did a lot of, too.

"Hey, bitch," Rihanna said funnily as she finally answered her own iPhone. She had probably been busy sexting her boyfriend, Dayashankar Red Crow, who has half-Indian and half-American Indian, and, like, Brianna's bf, one hundred percent from the subcontinent of Gorgeous.

"Hey, slut," Brianna said back. She and Rihanna called each other "slut" and "bitch" and similar things because they loved the thrill of it.

"So, let me guess," Rihanna said, "your period is, like, the worst period in history times a million."

Brianna laughed out loud, big time. "How did you know that?"

"Uh, give me a break, whore! You're my BFF! Our menstrual cycles are always in sync and right now I am having the WORST period anybody has ever had. Except you, I guess!"

Brianna laughed again. Then she turned up the music that had been playing this whole time, from Fall Out Boy's best album, and started dancing. She was so random sometimes, but she loved it! But then the dancing made her period feel even worse.

"Owwwwwwwwwww," she moaned.

"Oh, girl," Rihanna said. "You sound awful. You should come over to my house and we'll make a video for YouTube!"

"Yeah!" Brianna said. "Okay, see you soon, trick."

"Okay, whoreface."

They hung up their iPhones. Brianna took an Aleve with a sip of Coke Zero to help with her ridiculous period. Then she grabbed the car keys to her Saab and was just about to walk out of her room and tell her single mom, Cassie, who managed to work a full-time job and still be a great, cool mother that wasn't too fussy, that she'd be going to Rihanna's. Brianna was going to have a great time and maybe even forget about her period.

But right then, a vampire walked into her room.

"Hi," he said, his cheekbones sparkling, "my name is Othello."

Brianna wondered what would happen now.

Awkward Semaphore Conversations: Beverage selection

2009-11-20T10:30:00.001-05:00

Would you like anything to drink, sir?

Yeah, I'll have a Coke.

Is Krepty okay?

Pepsi?

No, sir, Krepty. I'm afraid we don't have Coke or Pepsi, only Krepty and Krepty products.

What are ... Krepty products?

Well, we have Krepty, Krepty Lite, Mr. Pampala, Fresto, Diet Fresto, Skizz, and V8.

Uh, I'll just have water, I guess.

Is Vater alright? It's just like water.

You know what? I'll just drink my own saliva.

We do have Kraliva if you'd prefer...

Oh, Kraliva is a Krepty product? Okay, I'll have a Kraliva.

Memo to President-Elect Obama from the U.S. Nucular Safety Commission

2009-11-19T09:00:00.000-05:00

To: President-Elect Barack Hussein Obama
From: Terry "Red" Barker, U.S. Nucular Safety Czar
Day: 11/19/09

Dear Mister President Obama,

Let me introduce myself and the rest of the gang. My name is Terry "Red" Barker, and I am the Czar of the U.S. Nucular Safety Commission. Bet you didn't even know we existed, right?! How about that? Now, before you go gettin' mad, let me tell you why and what for.

We are a top-secret underground government organization created by President George W. Bush in 2005. The three of us here at the USNSC, including myself, my wife Vice-Czar Becky "Double B" Barker, and my best buddy Associate Czar "Buckshot" George Halifax, did a heckuva lot of fundraising for Mr. Bush back in '04. Because we did such a great job, and to quote him, because we could "keep a real good secret," Mr. Bush gave us our very own top-secret underground government organization. Basically, we have been tasked with securing and protecting America's nucular weaponry.

Now, we knew it would be a challenging job when we took it, but it has been, shall we say, more challenging than we anticipated. Mostly this is because we haven't been able to secure the nucular weaponry. And that is mostly because we haven't been able to find the nucular weaponry.

I know that probably sounds pretty bad. Just typing it, it felt bad. But we've talked about it a lot here at the USNSC and we think that it's really not all that bad. I mean, think about it. If we can't find the nucular weapons and we're supposed to be in charge of them, then how is a terrorist supposed to find them?

But we don't want to rely on that forever. Terrorists are sneaky jerks. So we decided to finally reveal ourselves to you, even though Mr. Bush told us not to. On top of that, we thought there might be a chance you'd be overthrown, but it looks like that isn't going to happen in the immediate future. And we certainly did not want it to happen, so that's good. (George actually did at one point want it to happen, but not anymore, trust me.)

The point is, could you help us? When Mr. Bush gave us our official government ranch-style home four years ago and told us to secure all the nucular weapons without ever leaving the house, we thought it would be challenging but easy. After all, he gave us each a free Dell computer with internet, plus a U.S. map with all the nucular weapons locations marked on it. We weren't allowed to talk to our kids or family or anybody other than his voicemail, but we figured it was an honor that was worth the glory.

Then, sometime in mid-2006, Becky used her computer and realized that Mr. Bush had given us a map of all the NUCLEAR weapons in America. There's no way it was his mistake, but someone below him must have handed him the wrong map, and then he was so busy that he gave it to us. But we couldn't tell him, you know? He'd be so embarrassed. And he does not like it when he's embarrassed, let me tell you what!

So, Becky, George, and I figured out a plan. We used our USNSC funds to purchase the first official USNSC RV and paint it with the USNSC logo that George put together on his computer. We knew that Mr. Bush had said to not ever leave the house until his term was over, but we also knew that if he knew what we knew, he'd say it was okay for us to leave.

So we did. And here are a few of the places we looked for the nucular weapons in, using tips from the internet and from calling people:

South Dakota
Bangor, Maine
Area 51
Hawaii

Yes, Mr. Obama, we visited your island, but not in the RV! We bought a plane and did it that way. What a nice place. It must have been so much fun being from there.

Back to business, though. We tried really hard, Mr. Obama, and we just could not find the nucular weapons. We thought the nuclear weapon people might know where they were, but the nuclear weapon people would not answer our questions or let us into their bases, even when we told them who we were. We were angry about that for a while, but we figured we'd do the same if someone asked us about our nucular weapons.

Momentarily defeated, we drove back home and watched the 2008 election while we continued to look for the weapons by using the internet. I'm gonna be honest with you here now. When we saw you were winning, we freaked out a little bit. Not because you're an African-American. But because if Mr. Bush's friend Senator John McCain wasn't going to be president, then what was going to happen to us? What was going to happen to the nucular weapons?

So, for the first time, we called the White House. We didn't get Mr. Bush on the line, but we left a message for him. He returned our call the next day, personally, and told us to stay put because someone was coming to get us and also to not say anything about what had happened. We figured we were in some pretty deep dog doo, if you don't mind my saying so, so we got in the RV and left.

I'm not proud that we had to flee in the face of danger, but we were given a job: to protect our nation's nucular weapons. And now we'd appreciate a little help.

We understand you don't get as mad as Mr. Bush, so maybe you'll forgive us for what wasn't really our fault to begin with anyway? Also, could you tell us where the nucular weapons are, so we can begin securing them? Don't worry about sending anyone to help. Me and Becky and George can handle it.

So. Just send us a confidential government letter to Sandy's RV Camp near Terrence, Nebraska. Or, if you want, send us a few Blackberry phones and we can talk that way. Whatever is good for you, Mr. Obama. We know you weren't born here, but we bet you still care about nucular safety.

Give us a holler.

Sincerely,

Czar Terry "Red" Barker
U.S. Nucular Safety Commission

Yes/No/Maybe: Sadness-wallowy

2009-11-18T14:00:00.001-05:00

Precious. Going into this movie, I was worried. Would it be another Slumdog Millionaire? A movie praised so far beyond its actual quality that it was nearly impossible to engage with it as just a film and not as an object of hype?

Thankfully Precious is so forceful and immediately engaging and unusual that I pretty much forgot all that bullshit and was able to just sit and watch a great story. It is a testament to the fact that a moral work of art isn't necessarily an awful thing and can, instead, be thought-provoking, engrossing, and aesthetically serious.

Movie of the year? Whatev. It's very good.

Love, Aubrey by Suzanne LaFleur. This was written by a fellow New School Writing for Children MFA-er, so it's pretty cool that it's getting some Newbery buzz. (I, of course, already won one, but it'd be great to add another to the New School trophy case.) So anyway, without spoiling anything, the story features its fair share of emotionally wrenching plot developments, but it is never maudlin or sadness-wallowy. The plot moves right along, the voice is not only convincingly childlike but unique, and the end is hopeful without being treacly. Basically, it's a great book. Buy it for your favorite fifth-grader or your second-favorite fifth-grader! But don't buy it for your third-favorite fifth-grader; he/she just doesn't deserve it.

The Life of the World to Come by The Mountain Goats. People get all fanatical about John Darnielle, the alpha Goat, which must be really awkward for him because he seems like a pretty introspective dude. There was a really lame, uninsightful article in New York magazine earlier this year wherein the reporter profiled both Darnielle and one of his fans and then, at the end of the article, convinced Darnielle to meet the guy briefly. I had never experienced second-person embarrassment in journalism before that moment. Blech.

What am I even talking about? I am not fanatical about the Mountain Goats, but I really, really like a lot of Darnielle's music. He is a gifted lyricist, and Heretic Pride was one of my favorite albums of last year. This one, though? Hmm. It has that pinpointed melancholy Goatness that can make a grown man feel like a teenage Goth, and some of the usual poignancy, especially on "1 John 4:16" (p.s. all the songs are titled after and written about Bible verses). But the music itself feels a bit rehashed and ... I hate to say it ... dull.

Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis and Conan O'Brien and Andy Richter. After seven episodes, this concept should have gotten old by now. But it just hasn't.

Happy hour at the Abacus

2009-11-17T09:30:00.002-05:00

Brrrrr! It's cold outside! So grab one of these printouts, come inside, and warm up with us at the Abacus. It's Brooklyn's best and most complicated happy hour!

Well Drinks Just $3! starting at 3 p.m. and then increasing in increments of twenty-seven cents every four minutes until 4 p.m.!

PBR in a Can Only $1! starting at 3:30 p.m. and then stopping at 3:32 p.m., but re-starting at 3:38 p.m. only to stop again at 3:44 p.m. unless in the interim you won a PBR Extension Token by solving the one of the riddles hidden inside in the wood carvings in the East Wall! Ask your bartender if you need a magnifying glass and/or a Guide to Greek Mythological Symbols.

All Other Domestic Beers Are Just $2! from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. except on Tuesdays and Wednesdays when the cost is determined by the overall amount of cash in possession of all patrons of the bar divided by the number of patrons, the value of which is inserted into the Abacus Logarithmic Price Engager, a computer that produces the current value of each domestic beer based on the previously mentioned factors plus the overall American market value of domestic beer. Of course, this value changes each time a person enters or exits the bar or spends money. So stay a while!

Wine by the Glass Only $3! when you pay entirely in nickels minted during or before the year 1995.

We Have a Classic Jukebox! the music catalog of which is switched out in its entirety every three minutes and forty-two seconds and requires knowledge of the computer language BASIC to operate.

And Darts! which you have to play three games of Axis and Allies and then Settlers of Cataan to be able to use.

And Pickles at the Bar! which you must eat by using a pulley system.

So come on in, Brooklyn! Have a happy hour (or four) with us at the Abacus! You won't want to leave and you won't be able to because the exit is so fully protected with mind-boggling and physically challenging puzzles that only two people have ever completed them!

How to Be a Woman, Part 2

2009-11-16T09:00:00.000-05:00

Because one day I may have a daughter. And, if I do, by God she will be a woman.

Rule #155: A woman must have one killer dish, preferably involving cheese.

Rule #23: A woman must melt at the sight of a Dachshund.

Rule #202: A woman must have an emotionally and physically intense fling with a European man or woman (preferably Spanish) whom she never speaks to anymore but about whom she reminisces when she's having a shitty day.

Rule #310: A woman must flirt with nice elderly men.

Rule #62: A woman must drink beer, and with gusto.

Rule #63: A woman must flip the bird, and with gusto.

Rule #433: A woman must consider one obscure word to be "her" word, and she must employ it in everyday conversation as frequently as possible.

Rule #471: A woman must get really excited when "Hey Ya!" comes on.

Rule #77: A woman knows how to do at least one avuncular trick, such as "removing" her thumb and putting it back on, because it is just too goddamn cute when she does it, and cute moves mountains.

Rule #180: A woman wears whatever the hell shoes she wants to wear.

Rule #248: A woman does not have to explain her tattoos.

Rule #145: A woman must have a character she performs for herself in front of the mirror in the morning but never allows anyone else to see. Ideally, this character has a ridiculous accent.

Rule #374: A woman occasionally donates $50 to charity.

Rule #298: A woman must not have names for her breasts. Or, at least, she doesn't tell anyone what they are.

Rule #12: A woman has a signature dance move.

Rule #1: A woman must disregard most advice proffered by men.

Part 1

Kitty in the City: A Thanksgiving prequel

2009-11-13T09:00:00.002-05:00

For my mom's birthday last year, I wrote a mini-prequel to my National Book Award-winning masterwork, Kitty in the City. I now release it to the wider Kitty-loving public, in hopes that it will animate your Thanksgiving spirit on this blustery day, a mere two weeks from the holiday. Enjoy!

A Thanksgiving Feast

Kitty had never seen so many turkeys in his life. They emerged, steaming in the cold air, from the row of giant ovens as workers in crisp white uniforms lifted them in large metal tongs. The workers then placed them on a long table, upon which other workers quickly wrapped the deep-brown birds in crackling paper. Then, the turkeys were either placed on a display table near the front of the tent, or placed inside a black box contraption on the back of one of what seemed like dozens of bicycles, which flit to their various destinations to deliver the turkeys, which surely must have been delicious. After all, the sign above the tent said so:

MR. DAVENPORT’S QUICK AND DELICIOUS THANKSGIVING TURKEYS! FINEST BIRD IN ALL THE BOROUGHS!

Kitty’s nose agreed. The smell was maddening—sweet but buttery, and thick, as if the scent itself could be eaten. He had never smelled anything quite so mouth-watering in his one and a half years of life.

Neither, apparently, had anyone else. Dogs, cats, pigeons, mice, rats, and even somewhat mangy people crowded around the enormous white tent in Washington Square Park, desperate for a better whiff. A line of somewhat more snappily dressed humans wound through the park. Each person hoped to be lucky enough to taste one of Mr. Davenport’s turkeys.

Kitty hoped he would have the same luck. However, the broom being once again deployed in his direction indicated otherwise.

“Get!” said the man with the fur on each side of his face. Kitty jumped out of the way of the broom as the man swung it wildly at the crowd of animals that kept closing in and then fleeing at the man’s attacks. Several men armed with similar brooms and attitudes encircled the tent, protecting the delicacies inside from those who could not pay for them.

Kitty thought of his mother. Though the broom-men were offensive, Kitty and his mother shared an affinity for most other human customs and language; in fact, it was she who had secretly taught him how to read human words and understand human speech. She had often tried to replicate the humans’ tradition of Thanksgiving, though the number of mouths to feed combined with their rarely ceasing condition of poverty usually thwarted their efforts at a feast of even relative size. Still, though, Ma Cat would try every year, and, sometimes, like last year when she found two thick slices of partially eaten ham in a garbage can, she succeeded. She wouldn’t even eat from the feast—she would just enjoy the warmth of her family’s happiness.

Kitty knew, then, that he had to obtain one of Mr. Davenport’s turkeys. Never mind that he was just a cat. Never mind that he had been swiped at over and over by increasingly angry humans. Never mind that it was simply impossible. He had to bring one of those turkeys home.

“What ya sniffin’ at, puss?” came a growly feline voice from directly behind him.

Kitty turned and was immediately laughed at by a cadre of filthy young felines … and his brother, Feral, who topped his laugh with a mocking smile.

Kitty turned back around, hoping to be ignored, though he knew his efforts were futile.

“Givin’ us quite a view, sir,” said Feral’s growly friend. “Why, I’d say that scent tops anything this Mr. Davenport can offer.”

Kitty turned around again to find Feral and his friends rolling on the stones in laughter. Though he put on an angry face, he attempted to simultaneously cast a sympathetic eye toward his brother, who occasionally took mercy on him, though those occasions were becoming much more occasional.

This time, Kitty seemed to have gotten lucky. Feral quieted his friends over their protests, and the group of rowdy kit-tweens joined the masses in their devotion to the Scent.

“What I wouldn’t give for a taste of one of those birds,” Feral whispered, seemingly to himself, though he now stood immediately next to Kitty.

“Get in line, I guess,” Kitty said with a laugh.

“What? No!” Feral said. “You would say that, you puss. Cats don’t stand in line—they just take.”
Kitty couldn’t believe his brother had taken him seriously, but, then again, Feral took any chance he could to make fun of Kitty … or anyone else over whom he could muster even the slightest advantage.

“Well, good luck,” Kitty said, as the furry man approached them again, his eyes and his broom even wilder than before.

“Luck. Ha! You really are a puss.”

Feral and Kitty and several other animals danced out of the way of the broom as it passed. Soon afterward they had crept back to their spots. Kitty looked back at the crowd, which had grown considerably since he had arrived. That must be why the men look so enraged, Kitty thought. They were now dealing with a rather sizeable menagerie with increasingly large appetites.
“I’m leaving,” Kitty announced, seemingly to no one especially, but making sure his brother overheard. “This is dumb.” He turned tail and began to poke his way through the crowd.

“You’re right, Kitty,” Feral said as his brother passed. “This is dumb. That’s why we have a plan.”

Kitty stopped. “What plan?”

Feral’s smile crawled across his face. “We’ll storm the tent. All of us.”

Kitty’s jaw began to drop, but he righted it before his brother could see … he hoped. “That’s insane.”

“Oh, really? Do you see how many of us there are? And how many of them?” Feral nodded toward the broom-men. “It will be insane, in a way. But very satisfying. Stick around, brother!”

“You’re crazy,” Kitty said, disgusted. He flicked his tail and began to walk away, again.

“I know,” Feral said, and he turned conspiratorially toward his friends.

As Kitty pushed through the crowd, he reflected on how sick his brother had become. Though Feral had always been a troublemaker, and he and Kitty had fought frequently, there had always been an element of humor about it, as if all of it were simply a strange joke on Feral’s part, and that he would eventually come around. Lately, though, Feral had been carousing with scruffy and scabby types—cats who stole, cats who clawed, cats who didn’t care. And some of them, Kitty had seen, carried the unmistakable brand of Boss Cat, the most feared mob cat in the city.
Best to get away before something bad happens, Kitty thought. He could search the garbage pails along the way and hope for a generous scrap to bring home. It might not be much, but it would be something, and more honestly earned than a stolen turkey, however delicious.

As Kitty walked through the park, he happened to stroll parallel with the line of humans waiting for their turkeys. Each of them seemed to be anxiously standing on their toes every few seconds to try and catch a glimpse of the line’s speed, and, perhaps, to catch a fuller sniff of that intoxicating turkey. At the end of the line, nearly at the edge of the park, stood a short, stocky woman bundled carefully against the cold in what seemed like every single piece of clothing she must have owned. Her breath, fogging the air in front of her pinched face, seemed to puff out of her as if she were a tiny locomotive. She was, Kitty realized, quite determined to stay as long as she had to, simply to obtain a turkey, something that, Kitty was fairly certain, was not all that difficult for humans of modest means to obtain. And yet there she stood, and breathed.

Kitty stopped. He looked at the cold, mostly empty streets that awaited him on his journey home. He looked back at the tent, and the crowd of desperate animals that had grown to even greater size, and he looked at the woman, standing alone at the end of the line.

Until Kitty joined it.

Feral took my joke seriously, Kitty thought. Why can’t I?

And for several quiet, proud minutes, Kitty stood at the end of the line, waiting for his turkey from Mr. Davenport.

Then a man arrived, and took Kitty’s serious joke very seriously indeed.

“Get!” the man said, kicking at Kitty with the toe of his leather boot. The man had a bushy moustache and a face like a pile of pale old ham scraps from the garbage.

Kitty dodged the boot and returned to his spot. He bared just a fraction of his sharpest teeth and then turned toward the front of the line, away from the man.

“What is this? An uppity cat? Cats can’t stand in line! Get!” The man kicked at Kitty again, more fiercely this time, and the tip of the tip of the boot connected with Kitty’s hindquarters. Kitty yelped.

Just then, the woman in front of them began the process of looking at them, which involved slowly waddling in place until she was facing the opposite direction of which she had been facing just seconds—several seconds—ago.

“What’s the problem?” she said in a voice like an uncomfortable parrot.

“The problem is this cat,” the man said. “He’s trying to stand in line. Cats can’t stand in line! Get!”

Kitty dodged this attack. However, the man did not dodge the woman’s attack, which was something like a full-body headbutt. She had, essentially, leaned toward the man and thrust herself upward at his chest. The impact was ultimately rather gentle, and the man was surely uninjured, but he reacted as if the woman had struck him across the face.

“How dare you!” he exclaimed.

“How dare you!” the woman responded. “This cat was doing just fine before you got here. Now, either get in line behind him, or get yourself!”

“Unbelievable!” the man said, before he turned heel and walked away, his angry breaths clouding the air with astonishing rapidity.

Kitty, never more embarrassed at his inability to speak human language, simply nodded at the woman, hoping that this simple gesture would communicate the depth of his gratitude. She seemed to understand and attempted her own nod, which ended up looking much more like a bow.

Afterward, various humans approached the end of the line, expressed sentiments similar to those that the man with the ham-face had expressed, and ultimately left the line in bewilderment. “Cats can’t stand in line!” became the refrain of Kitty’s waiting.

Meanwhile, the line moved, however slowly. And the crowd outside the tent grew larger and more incensed, disconcertingly swiftly. Kitty and the woman and nearly everyone else toward the far end of the line strained their necks to see what the commotion was. The grumbling chorus grew until it was a raucous cacophony of hunger and madness. Humans in line began shouting, too:

“What’s all this business!”

“I’ve been waiting here for two hours at least!”

“Hey! They’re getting turkey!”

Indeed, though Kitty was having great difficulty seeing what, exactly, was happening, he could at least make out that the crowd had shoved itself forward as one toward the tent, overwhelming the broom-men. Dogs and cats and pigeons and rats and mice and men and even what looked like a goat shoved as one, and a few had broken through into the tent’s kitchen, successfully swiping a few choice, golden birds.

And many of the people in line were joining them.

Kitty was agog. Now not only would he and his family have none of Mr. Davenport’s turkey—no one would. No one who had waited, who had done what they were supposed to, what simple decency proclaimed was the right thing. No one who had stood in line despite his felinity, who had, with the assistance of a kind human, fought against the tyranny that said cats were not deserving of the same kindness and respect and delights that humans enjoyed—no one who met those conditions would receive his due.

Feral would—Kitty was sure of it. He was sure that Feral was just then enjoying the undeservingly sweet fruits of his malicious labors. It just goes to show, Kitty thought, that everywhere is like the Lower East Side … even Mr. Davenport’s wondrous tent.

And then a shot rang out. And another. And a shrieking choir of sirens erupted.

The bobbies had arrived.

The resulting scene was pandemonic. The wall of animals and humans that had so recently pushed itself into the tent had dissolved into its thousands of constituent parts, most of which fled the scene. The men in blue arrested as many as they could, though, Kitty was somewhat chagrined to notice, Feral was not one of them—he had run off almost as soon as the police had arrived, flashing a proud grin at Kitty as he escaped into the chaotic streets.

Throughout it all, Kitty and the woman and a few dozen others stayed in their orderly line, moving up quickly, so that whereas the line had once been perhaps hundreds deep and hours long, only a manageable few remained. Though, for what, they did not know. Surely the mob had taken all the turkey. And if not, certainly the police would shut Mr. Davenport’s operation down for fear of inciting another riot.

And yet they stood—and inhaled.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Thirty.

The scene had cleared. A few line-standers had trickled away. Kitty kept his spot.

And then something else began to happen. A man in a derby hat and a pinstriped three-piece suit of apparent quality stood talking to the first person in the line. He twirled his cane, appeared to finger his moustache, and then he reached into a cart that stood behind him, attended to by several uniformed workers, and plucked out what seemed to be a Mr. Davenport’s Quick and Delicious Turkey.

All in line collectively gasped. Soon after, they began talking excitedly and craning their necks toward the front of the line, which grew ever closer to them. The woman in front of Kitty raised her hand slowly to her forehead and appeared to just barely keep herself from fainting.
Kitty, too, felt near collapse. He hadn’t eaten all day, and the turkeys’ scent had teased and pummeled his empty stomach for hours. And though his fur coat was warm, the air was unseasonably frigid, as if it were the dead of winter.

Just when he began to fall asleep on the stones out of pure exhaustion, Mr. Davenport arrived.

“Hello, madam,” he said in a voice that was both genteel and kind to the woman in front of Kitty. “I am Mr. Jeremiah Davenport. You have been waiting for quite some time. I apologize.”

So shocked was the woman that she seemed unable to speak. Kitty thought that, considering the woman’s screeching voice, her muteness was, perhaps, fortunate.

Indeed, she simply extended both her hands as a tear fell from her eye.

A smile of the most sincere generosity and care appeared beneath Mr. Davenport’s carefully oiled moustache, the right tip of which he tweaked between his index finger and thumb. He then reached into the cart behind him and handed her a turkey. It smelled delicious.

“Alright, boys,” Mr. Davenport said, addressing the workers behind him. “Thanks for your patience. Let’s wrap this up and get home to our families.”

The pitiful meow that escaped from Kitty’s mouth was, he thought, shameful, but had no control over it. It simply left him.

Mr. Davenport looked down with his kind smile and he chuckled. “This young lad wants a turkey, too! Haha!” The workers laughed along with him.

“He waited for it,” the woman squeaked.

“Excuse me, madam?” Mr. Davenport said, sure the woman was jesting and partially so because of the strange quality of her voice.

“He waited in line,” the woman said. “Right behind me. While all the others were … you know.” She gestured toward the tent, half of which was in shreds from the assault.

“You’re not joking,” Mr. Davenport said, phrasing his words in the form of a question, but voicing them as a statement.

He knows, Kitty thought. He knows!

“Yup,” the woman said.

Mr. Davenport chuckled again. And then he tapped his cane twice upon the stone, which seemed to set off a chain of laughter that rippled through him and up out of his mouth and into the empty canopy above.

“Hahahahahahaha!” he laughed. “Hahahahaha!”

Everyone stood in awkward silence as Mr. Davenport guffawed, unsure what to do except wait it out. Finally, his laughter stopped. And Mr. Davenport leaned over, reached his hand out, and stroked Kitty’s head.

Kitty purred.

Then Mr. Davenport stood up straight again and smiled. “What a good kitty,” he said. “There can be such bravery in small deeds. Such courage.” He looked behind him and gestured toward the cart. “Boys!”

Though the workers seemed certain that their boss had gone mad, they quickly removed one more turkey, carefully wrapped in crackling paper, from the cart and handed it to him.

“Bring me one of the bike boys!” Mr. Davenport declared, and within a minute, a young boy riding a bike with a large black box on the back stood expectantly, looking up at Mr. Davenport. “Take this turkey,” Mr. Davenport said, “put it in your box, and follow this young feline wherever he runs to. He, and his family, will feast this day.”

“Yessir,” the boy mumbled, grabbing the turkey package from Mr. Davenport and placing it inside the box.

“Thanks to you, madam,” Mr. Davenport said, tipping his hat toward the lady, who bowed toward him and Kitty and the workers and then slowly waddled away.

Kitty looked up at Mr. Davenport and meowed as long and loudly as he could, hoping he would take it as the gesture of gratitude that it was. Mr. Davenport smiled, seeming to understand.

“Off you go!” he said, pointing to the streets with his cane.

And Kitty ran home, with a boy, a bike, and a turkey behind him the whole way. Ma, he knew, would be very, very happy.