Boo!

Club Marketing by Ivy Dillinger



Something old and something new for Halloween. Enjoy the day!



Best,
Ivy

The Back of Bock's Hand

Stenography by Maven Quibble



(The scene is a courtroom. We’re in the middle of a high-profile murder case. Everyone’s paying very close attention to the following exchange…)

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
Mr. Bock, isn’t it true?

BOCK
True? I don’t understand.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
Isn’t it true, Mr. Bock, that you testified… testified to knowing the alley behind Angelo’s Pizzeria… “like the back of your hand?”

BOCK
Yeah, I said that. I do.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
You do know the alley.

BOCK
Yeah.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
Behind Angelo’s Pizzeria.

BOCK
Yeah.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
Like the back of your hand.

BOCK
Yes.

(The defense attorney pauses, then takes a slow stroll toward the jury.)

DEFENSE ATTORNEY (without looking at Bock)
Mr. Bock, what’s that on the back of your left hand?

BOCK
The back of my hand?

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
Your left hand, yes. There’s something blue on it.

BOCK (glancing at his left hand)
What the?

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
You seem surprised. Are you surprised?

BOCK
I don’t know what that is.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
It’s a temporary Smurf tattoo.

BOCK
Smurf tattoo?

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
Precisely, Mr. Bock. And you didn’t know it was there.

BOCK
I didn’t put it there.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
Not the point, Mr. Bock. You say you know the alley behind Angelo’s Pizzeria like the back of your hand, yet you don’t know what’s on the back of your hand.

BOCK
I do too know the alley! And the back of my hand! What’s with the Smurf talk? This is crazy!

DEFENSE ATTORNEY
You, sir, are a liar, a punk, and a dum-dum.

(The entire jury stands and applauds.)

Laura, Vic and the Pillow

Fiction by Ivy Dillinger



Because everyone in New York is despicable, Laura, Vic’s cranky neighbor, is moving to Spain as soon as possible. She holds rosary beads a lot and prays every night and frequently says "bastard." She complains with precision. Mr. Irons, the landlord, is "creepy." "His eyes are like a rodent’s and his oily moustache makes him look like a greasy sex offender." Laura runs a tanning salon. Her customers are gay and rude. Laura’s 40.

Vic, who lives in 3A, was home watching college football. Laura, who lives in 3B, knocked on his door. Vic became nervous. Ringing phones and unexpected knocks make him nervous. He’s working on it. As a self-improvement exercise, as a way of breaking a destructive habit and escaping his comfort zone, in the hopes of gradually improving his life, Vic decided against peeking through the peephole. Time to live spontaneously. He took a deep breath, reminded himself to appear friendly and welcoming - or at least not frightened – and opened the door.

Vic is 60.

Laura was chewing gum. "Your safety chain," she said. "It’s off."

"Right."

"That’s dangerous."

"Okay."

"How do you know who’s knocking? I could be someone coming to get you. I could kick the door in."

Vic unfolded his arms – he remembered the negative body language thing he learned in that book by the self-help guru with the toupee. He said with a smile, "I suppose so. You’re right."

"Can I borrow a pillow?" Laura snapped a bubble.

Vic didn’t want to lend her a pillow. Her hair – in his opinion – was ratty. He didn’t like the idea of ratty hair on his pillow. (To be fair, her hair isn’t that ratty.) He said sure, then hated himself for his weakness, then reminded himself that he’s not perfect and to be more forgiving of his miscues and to not hate himself. He took a deep, slow breath to calm himself.

"The movers took everything," said Laura. "I forgot to remember to keep a pillow."

"Take this one, it’s fine."

Laura examined the pillow. "Got anything firmer?" Vic did, but said he didn’t, then Laura thanked him and returned to 3B. Vic felt wonderful about saying he didn’t have a firmer pillow. A small step, but each one counts.

That night, as the initial entry in his new journal – his first journal in over forty years – he wrote: "Take THAT, nitwit!"

Speaking French with Michael

An Interview by Ivy Dillinger
Author of Fulmination



"Sublime" is one of those words whose meaning always slips my mind. In beginning to describe Michael Showalter, writer (and director and star) of The Baxter and co-star (and co-creator) of Comedy Central’s Stella, it was the first word that popped into my head, so I looked it up to make sure it applies.

It does.

Sublime’s verb version - "to pass or cause to pass directly from the solid to the vapor state" – reads, in a way, as a scientific definition of laughter. Its adjective version has synonyms like "noble," "superb" and "spendid" – all applicable.

He has terrific hair, roguish allure, otherworldly timing, and the picturesque charm of a napping golden retriever. And, of course, he’s extremely generous: in taking some time to speak a little French…



IVY
Michael, when it comes to reading, are you more of a fiction guy or a nonfiction guy? Any recent books you'd recommend?

MICHAEL
I pretty much read only nonfiction. Occasionally, I'll read a Harry Potter book. I like facts. I like to feel like I'm learning something that I can repeat out loud at a party and make interesting conversation with. Right now, I'm finishing a book called The Devil's Candy, which is about the making of the movie Bonfire of the Vanities. Next I'm going to read that book Stiff about dead bodies.

IVY
What do you say when someone sneezes?

MICHAEL
"God bless you."

IVY
May I trouble you for two random sentences off the top of your head, followed by a haiku?

MICHAEL
Sadly, I don't know how to make a haiku.
I suppose I could google it and find out.

I just googled it.
So now, I am writing one.
I hope it's good.



IVY
If you could take credit for writing a famous opera, or a famous play or film or novel, or a famous math theorem or political speech or advertising slogan, which would it be and why?

MICHAEL
Well, I don't think that I'd really like to take credit for someone else's work. I wish I could play the piano. How great must it have felt for Billy Joel to sit down at a piano and play Scenes From An Italian Restaurant? I'd love to have that skill.



IVY
You see a guy selling Italian ices. Which flavor do you choose?
a) chocolate
b) lemon
c) grape
d) cherry

MICHAEL
b) lemon
d) cherry
c) grape
a) chocolate

IVY
What would you estimate - in percentages - to be the ratio in Brooklyn of shy, thoughtful, interesting people to sexually attractive dullards to elderly Dodger fans to the criminally insane?

MICHAEL
That's a tough one. Brooklyn's a very large borough.

IVY
Do you cook?

MICHAEL
I cook spaghetti.

IVY
Please conclude this interview with advice for babies.

MICHAEL
Don't blame your parents. They love you very much.



Michael’s additional film credits include Kissing Jessica Stein and M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs.

Visit Michael Showalter on the World Wide Web.

A Conversation You Wouldn’t Expect

Imaginative Eavesdropping by Maven Quibble
Author of How To Win 11 Billion Dollars!



TOM
Pass the marmalade.

KATIE
Sure.

[Silence as Tom spreads marmalade on his rye toast. He takes a bite and speaks:]

TOM
You know what bugs me? What’s really freaking me out?

[Silence.]

TOM
Well?

KATIE
Go ahead, I’m listening.

TOM
No, you’re supposed to say, "Tell me, Tom, what’s really freaking you out?"

KATIE
Are you kidding me?

TOM
I don’t kid. Unless it’s scripted. Then I kid like nobody’s business.

[Katie sighs.]

KATIE
Tell me, Tom, what’s really freaking you out?

TOM
This Lenin stuff.

KATIE
Lenin? The communist?

TOM
Bingo. He’s been, I guess, "mummified" is the word. Mummified in Red Square since the twenties. On display in a mausoleum. Tourists check him out all the time.

KATIE
I know, I’ve seen him.

TOM
Really?

KATIE
We did a Creek where Dawson gets pissed and moves to St. Petersburg. Lowest ratings ever. Cool experience though.

TOM
So Putin… He’s like, the current head guy in Russia…

KATIE
I know.

TOM
Putin’s considering getting rid of him. Burying him for good.

KATIE
Really?

TOM
That’s what I hear.

[Katie sips her chamomile and thinks.]

KATIE
I don’t think that’s a good idea.

TOM
Why not?

KATIE
Lenin’s a big part of Russia’s history. Sure, he was a fanatic, and unnecessarily ruthless, and a real dick, but he wasn’t as bad as Stalin. And he needs to be remembered. When you don’t acknowledge your past, especially the bad parts of your past, it’ll definitely lead to similar problems in the future. In my opinion, that’s one of Russia’s big problems. They seem to not want to learn from their mistakes.

TOM
But what about the guys who embalm Lenin? Won’t they lose their jobs?

KATIE
I guess they would, yeah.

TOM
Well that’s just fucking ridiculous. How fair is that?

KATIE
I guess it’s not fair, Tom.

TOM
Damn right, it’s not fair.

[Tom eats his toast; Katie sips her tea.]

TOM
How do you know stuff like that?

KATIE
Stuff like what?

TOM
Stuff like… You know, like why it’s not a good idea to bury Lenin.

KATIE
It’s just my opinion.

TOM
But it’s smart, you know? You sound smart, like you know what you’re talking about.

KATIE
What’s your opinion?

[Tom finishes his toast, then flashes a brilliant smile and laughs.]

TOM
I love that marmalade! That’s my opinion!

[He rises and kisses the top of her head.]

TOM
Got lines to learn, babe. See you later.

[Katie watches him leave. She pats her pregnant stomach, then watches a leaf as it falls to the ground.]

The Farm

Flash Fiction by Oliver Cassidy
Author of Blood Drive



I’m pleased to welcome you to the farm. It’s a special farm. You’ll love it.

We don’t have animals on this farm. We’ve got lazy people between the ages of eighteen and forty. They graze all day and whine. We feed them pudding and cheese. You can feed them anything you want. They’ll probably eat most of it.

You can take video and shoot pictures, no problem. They’ll mug for your cameras, do silly things, occasionally something offensive or obscene. We’d like to say they don’t know any better, but they do! Can you believe it? We stopped being embarrassed a long time ago.

Sometimes they throw things, stuff they find on the farm. Stuff left behind by visitors, mostly. Bottles, cans, batteries, etc. You may want to wear one of our protective helmets. Free of charge, no problem. Keep in mind that we’re not responsible if you’re injured.

Everyone on the farm is here by choice. You’ll notice we have no barriers - no fences, no walls, nothing. Anyone can leave at any time. Yet, amazingly, all stay, grazing and whining and eating pudding and cheese.

Enjoy your visit.

The Third Accident

Nonfiction by Robert McEvily



I’m parked – literally parked - on Interstate 80 West. The eighteen-wheeler in front of me has an Oklahoma license plate. I tell myself that Oklahoma City is the capital of Oklahoma. I remember reading a self help book, remember a chapter on the constructive use of time, times when you’re trapped, stuck in an elevator, trapped in traffic, waiting in line, all the rest. I start thinking of states and their capitals.

I’m on my way to a campground near Penn State University. Today is Thursday, September 29th, 2005. I’m with my girlfriend. The campground’s near Black Moshannon State Park. We’ve never been there before. On Saturday, Penn State plays Minnesota. Both teams are 4-0.

I don’t know why we’re stopped. We’ve passed two accidents already; I’m assuming it’s a third. The first accident looked like an eighteen-wheeler ran off the road. Maybe the driver fell asleep. The second accident involved a minivan. It was badly smashed, overturned. It looked fatal.

A fat, bearded man in a John Deere cap and a "Bush Cheney 2004" t-shirt exits a blue Pontiac Bonneville, Ohio plates, from the passenger side and slowly waddles to the guard rail and climbs over and urinates into shrubbery. I tell myself that Columbus is the capital of Ohio. The fat man finishes peeing and lights a cigar.

My girlfriend rolls down her window. She asks, "Can you see up the road?"

"Some guy’s saying two hours, some guy on the radio, but I don’t know how he knows that."

They speak a bit more. A man with a dog approaches from behind and asks the same thing. "Any idea what’s happening?"

I tune out and grab my pad. I start writing my account of what’s happening. I write, "I’m parked – literally parked - on Interstate 80 West." I keep going. My girlfriend gets back to reading her book. Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn. I keep writing, and I’m proud of myself. I’m finally prepared. I’m controlling my time. I’m being productive. I’m not "sweating the small stuff." Those friggin’ books are paying off.

The fat guy sneaks looks at my girlfriend.

"He’s creepy," she says.

"Bush Cheney 2004," I say. My girlfriend laughs.

Later, finally, things start to move. Everyone’s doing twenty, then forty, then the speed limit and over. I keep waiting to pass an accident, but we don’t. The third accident doesn’t exist. "What the hell caused that?" I say. My girlfriend just shakes her head, continues reading.

I know it’s not much of a mystery, but it bothers me. It bothers me we were parked on a highway with no explanation. It bothers me to think, if a sign said, "DRIVE THIS WAY," I’d drive that way and not ask why. Where the hell would I be heading? Who am I trusting?

My girlfriend glances up from her book. She says, "We’re almost there." I smile, take a deep breath.

Something Disgusting

Nonfiction by Robert McEvily



She wasn’t the type for typical expressions of attraction. But I knew something. How could a woman resist a secret admirer?

We’d had the same job – started on the same day – and worked in adjacent cubes on the 27th floor. Jersey City. I was nuts about her from first sight. Completely nuts, hopeless case. My first day, I was right on time, but she was there at 8:30. In just that half hour, she'd managed to completely organize her desk, make some friends, and generally make it seem like she'd been working there for years. By 11:30… me? I still hadn't found a pen.

She was so cute I had an instinct to squeeze her. Her teeth were impossibly white; they matched the whites of her big green eyes. She was sexy, lick-able. Muscular calves and the shoulders of a swimmer. I had other instincts too. I repeat, lick-able.

It didn't take long. Three months after the first hello, I'd had enough. It was too much; I couldn't concentrate. Sleepless nights imagining the two of us holding hands on the beach; the torture of watching her laughing with other men; the endless, endless longing. I'd imagine us married; I’d write her first name along with my last, over and over, like a punished schoolboy.

The plan was simple. I would buy a small teddy bear and a small box of chocolates and leave them on her desk, along with a note. Naturally, "a secret admirer" would sign the note. Perfect. Lame, but perfect.

The morning receptionist didn't show until 8:45, so I used my sensor card to enter the floor. It was eight. I made my way to her desk and placed Teddy and the note just so. Again, lame, but perfect. I took a moment to stare at the arrangement and felt the lame but perfect excitement of being the only one in on a secret. Then I slipped back into an elevator and floated down to 26 and slipped into the men’s room. At five past nine, I’d stroll to my desk and say good morning and play dumb. She’d think, it’s not him, it can’t be – how could he have left this for me if he’s just arriving now? SO perfect!

Five past nine, I stroll to my desk – she’s not there. Not in yet. So I go back to the bathroom. Then I re-stroll to my desk at 9:20 and she’s still not there, so I go back to the bathroom again.

Sitting on a toilet bowl with your pants up isn’t exactly embarrassing, but it’s potentially embarrassing because if anyone notices that your pants aren’t scrunched around your ankles, it’ll look weird. There’s no reason to be sitting on a toilet bowl with your pants up. That’s my first thought. My second thought: Why didn’t I put paper towels down first? These are my fucking favorite pants! But my thoughts quickly shift to why I’m here: Her.

Most days she’d leave at five, and I’d wonder where she lived and what route she’d take to get there. She’d say goodbye mostly, but sometimes she’d be in a rush, or one of her girlfriends would grab her, or some jerk would want to say something to her and sweep her along and she’d leave without a word to me, and it would sting like a jab to the ribs. I’d look at her empty chair, the angle of it. Just moments before she was in it, she was right there – she spun and rose and left it in that position. I’d look at her top Post-it and see the imprint of a previous note. I’d look at the styrofoam cup in her garbage, the one she’d drank coffee from. I’d want to brush her keyboard, knowing her fingers were just there.

We’ve been dating now for four years and of course there’s no such thing as continuing the initial excitement. It’s a notion for teenagers and fairy tales. But it’s disgusting how I care for her, how I worship her, how it never changes, how a day never passes where I don’t either bury my face in her ass – deeply inhaling, soaking up nirvana – or imagine doing so. Her ruby boots squarely on my face – I need it. It’s disgusting how lucky I am and how necessary it was to write this. And so what if you think it’s corny. And so what if I didn’t finish the pointless details of the secret admirer narrative. So what I say! This is something disgusting!



NOTE FROM IVY:
The preceding piece originally appeared on "The Ruby Boot," a now-defunct webzine, on February 10, 2004.