This Is The Mews Humor Issue, Dammit

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The Totally Not Strung Out Cairn Terrier Humor Mewscot

*****

Kick Back With A De-Caf Vegan Boilermaker, A Worldmusic Cd, And La Cosa Laffa Nostra.

I'd like to think that just because we're writers, we're funny. And I'd like to think that creating humor requires more sophistication than just, say, blowing up a toilet with a cherry bomb. Well...okay, that is kind of funny. I'll give you that one.

But I tend to navigate away from people who thought "The Vagina Monologues" was THE most hilarious, unexpected and titillating name for an off-Broadway show. So crazy! So edgy! There's edgy, and then there's...middlebrow edgy.

Here's some more Stuff That I Don't Find Funny, and That If You Think It Is Funny, Then The Infrastructure Of Your Life Is Depressing and Uninformed:

Mucus

Teen movies where someone is tricked into taking a laxative and pooping at an embarrassing time

Dyed hair

Computer generated babies

Computer generated dogs

Droopy pants on teenagers

Mass produced ceramic art featuring grumpy old women with loud jewelry

Commercials where the dad is treated like a brain challenged loser

Sit-coms where teenagers are gratuitously mean to each other

Any bad thing that ever happened on a reality show, which basically means anything that ever happened on a reality show
******
Stuff That I think Can Be Funny:

Long, painfully detailed expository tales of a sexual episode gone horribly, horribly wrong

You tube's Ancient footage of Richie Blackmore and Deep Purple on Playboy After Dark

Cats pushing stuff off a table and watching it go down and not caring

Fred Thompson's indifferent, narcoleptic campaign for the Republican party presidential nomination

The surprised look on my cairn terrier's face when he farts and has no idea where that sound came from

Disturbing foodstuffs at the East West market. I'm not talking about the chocolate pocky sticks, those are fine - I'm talking about the Lungfish in Snout sauce.

Laminated Geology charts from the Creationism Museum gift shop.
******
But you may see it differently. You might hate it when people rank on Richie Blackmore's highwaisted seamless latex goldflecked tights, and you might have a whole shelf full of irrepressible Franklin Mint 'Maxine' dolls wearing tiny sequined sweatshirts and bunion pads.

And that's fine too.

- Frances Pelzman Liscio, MEWS Humor Issue Editrix-In-Chief

Writers' Block
by Harriet Halpern

I want to move to the writer's block,
To that place where published authors dwell,
Where agents will come to fight over me
And whatever I write will sell.

Oh how I long to live on that magical street
Where stories and poems freely flow!
Are there rooms for rent on the writer's block?
Does anyone happen to know?

******

Two Totally Not Guilty Cats Nonchalantly Not Doing Anything Wrong.

* * * * * *

Suggestions For MLB’s Collective Bargaining Agreement
by Steve Hofstetter

All teams that receive luxury tax benefits must use part of the proceeds to purchase Baltic Avenue.

Steroid testing consists of more than just asking players, “Hey man, are you on steroids?”

Karl Marx to oversee new revenue sharing program.

If your team is down by ten or more runs, all stadium concessions are half price.*
*Void in Colorado

Starting pitchers must be removed via oversized hook and a loud cry of “yoink!”

Pete Rose banned from crappy Maaco commercials.

Milwaukee Brewers games consist of one inning of play and eight innings of sausage race.

Darryl Strawberry limited to just five more second chances.

In an effort to speed up the games, the ceremonial first pitch now counts.

Players who say “it’s not about the money” must play for free for the next week.

Any game tied after the eleventh will be settled by a spirited game of “Rock, Paper, Scissors”

*****

...And In Other Sporting News:

Hey Diddle Doped?

Cow’s Inexplicable Jump Over Moon Raises Eyebrows

Escalating Moos for Congressional Subpoenas

(Rutland, Vermont) The record books remain clear: the cow jumped over the moon two weeks ago in the sleepy farming community of Saint Albans, Vermont. Forty-seven neighbors, eight horses, one cat, two dogs, and three herds of disbelieving cattle witnessed the spectacle. However, the venerable cow, Thelmalina Buttersfield, most recently of Farmer Brown’s upper pasture, has found herself in the midst of the agricultural community’s greatest doping scandal.

Ms. Buttersfield allegedly missed the mandatory test for artificial growth hormones one week prior to her unprecedented jump and quickly disappeared after landing at an undisclosed location. She was unavailable for comment until this morning, when her attorneys stated that “Thelmalina is enjoying a much-needed respite in her native English countryside.” When pressed for a return date, amid the crowd’s murmurs of subpoenas and Congressional hearings, her representatives explained that it will be impossible to determine due to the current ban on all British beef entering the country. There was no further comment in reference to allegations that all of her assets had been transferred to a Swiss bovine account.

The United League of Competitive Cow Jumping is expected to challenge the record’s standing, on the grounds that the holder was not certified organic.

(Special Report by Christina Loccke, Court Illustrator: Danielle Oteri)

*****

I Prefer My Cups with Saucers

By Joan Garry

Mothers have neither a job description nor a manual but I am quite sure that if they did, under this task it would say “See Father’s Manual (if applicable).” Your son needs a cup.

I remember the moment vividly. Our ten year-old son Ben starts Little League, comes home and makes the request: “ I need a cup.” “OK,” I say with a big smile. I am confident. I can do this.

The next day, I head off to the store. I make the mistake of taking my teenage daughter. We are both clueless. Beyond clueless. We don’t know the difference between a jock strap, an athletic supporter or a cup. But we refuse to seem ill informed. So we march into Sports Authority and come face to face with a huge wall of Cups ‘n Things.

“Uh oh,” I say. “Look at the all the different kinds of things and all the different sizes.” Our ever-patient sixteen year-old, picks up the first thing she sees and says, “Here get this one. Now let’s get out of here.” This works for me; we head out pronto.

We arrive home with confidence with Ben’s supporter and Ben supports us. He tries it on, smiling, and parades around the house. He starts dancing and it looks like he is wearing a highly unattractive thong.

Our male au pair informs us that it looks rather tight and then he casually asks: “Do you have the cup too?” The cup? Oh no. We have to go back.

Once we finally get the cup (which Ben kept inside his baseball hat through most of the season) we believe we are out of the woods.

Until yesterday when he informs me that he has lost the cup. He needs one for tomorrow’s hockey class.

So I head back to Sports Authority. This time, the teenager stays home and I bring Ben and his twin sister. She’s very level headed. I’m sure she will be helpful.

We get there and begin staring once again at that wall. My head starts to spin and Kit, ever the earnest one, begins to narrow things down. “ What color do you like Ben? Let’s try to figure out the size”, she says. I feel useless. Kit continues on. She picks up one package and says “Woa, I think this is much, much too big Ben; your penis is not that big.” Now I am totally speechless. Ben responds calmly (and without a single ounce of defensiveness) “ No Kit, it’s not about the size of my penis- it’s about the area.”

The area. That makes sense, I think. But how in the wide world of sports do we measure the area?

And then there are so many choices of the supporter itself. You have your compression pants, your slide shorts and your plain supporter. I pull myself together just in the nick of time because Kit is beginning to giggle.

Then one catches my eye. It says “Youth – NONE.” My mind races. Could this be for men without penises? Couldn’t be. Then I look more closely. It’s just the cup. Supporter sold separately. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Just then my cell phone rings. My partner Eileen calls and says the pizza is ready. “ I’m going to be late,” I tell her. “ I am swimming in a sea of cups.” She sounds so happy and calm. She has no idea what I am going through.

When we get home, Ben is kind and so patient, appreciative of his mom who worked hard to do the right thing (and his other mom who ducked and stayed home to order pizza). Tomorrow at hockey class, I will be able to rest easy knowing that he is safe from top to bottom. Protected.

As I watch him skate the next day, watch him adjust himself many, many times, I realize that one day, very soon, we will look back fondly on our ability to control Ben’s little world (or his little area). I may have made a mountain out of a molehill (please forgive me Ben for that pun) but there are mountains ahead and I like to believe that we will give as much care and thought to those as we did to the blue plastic one with the compression shorts.

Today we can protect him. I know it won’t always be the case. But soon, as we stumble our way through the condom conversation or the drunk driving conversation, we can look back on the evening we all erupted in peels of laughter as Ben danced through the living room wearing only an athletic supporter. We will remember that stumbling through and giving it your best shot to protect your kid is what this parenting gig is all about.

I decide one more thing at the ice rink. Eileen gets the condom conversation.

*****

Back To Christine

by Anthony Buccino

He doesn't know where it came from.

He was dealing with a terrible two year old

And it arrived when needed

As if on a beam of light.

"If you don't be good…” he warned,

Then hesitated,

“I'll send you back to Christine!"

And neither of them knew Christine

Nor where sending the little one back

Would end up

But it worked and the boy cried,

"Don't send me back to Christine!

I'll be good, Daddy! Please!"

Oh, dear old dad got a lot of mileage

out of that Back to Christine line.

It came in handy for years

To help keep the boy in his place

Until the day he left

To find Christine

*****

The Sad, Sad Coffee of Life (photo by Eric Levin)
*****

[The following story intrigued me. I couldn't tell if the author is talking about trying to break up with her boyfriend named Win, or if this is an allegory of rage at microsoft Windows]

A No-Win Situation

By Martta Rose

I arrived back from the local pub last week to discover that I had been followed. My apartment was full of men of different shapes and sizes. There was a shortish, plump one with thinning hair who was talking agitatedly into a cell phone and a taller one with a pointy goatee just standing around quietly surveying the place.

A skinny guy with ill-fitting glasses sat quietly on the couch reading "Inca Gold" by Clive Cussler. There was a very tall, very good-looking blonde one with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. That was my boyfriend, Win. This made it sort of difficult to break up with him but what else was new? I have been trying to break up with him for six months now.

The plump guy had come over to sell me some stocks. It turned out, however, that he had brought along the wrong briefcase. Instead of the one that contained his stock portfolios and calculator, he had brought one containing some French ticklers and K-Y jelly. He was jabbering on the phone to his mother, asking her to please, please look in his bedroom for the correct valise.

Mr. Goatee was just there to offer the stock salesman moral support although I failed to see how a guy with a mismatched socks and a "Same Shit, Different Day" T-shirt could offer support of any kind to anyone.

The guy on the couch claimed I had borrowed one of his Cussler books, but had failed to return it. I told him that he must be mistaken, I don't like Clive Cussler, never read even one of his books, and he must have me mixed up with someone else. But no, he was very insistent that it was me who was pillaging his great literary collection and then proceeded to go into great detail about the plot of "Iceberg," the book presumably in my possession.

At this point, I thought I would die but I figured trying to get my boyfriend's attention so that we could have "the talk" would buy me a reprieve.

"Honey, I need to talk with you."

"Uh, I'm kinda busy," he said.

"With what?"

"This guy was telling me about some great stock portfolios."

"But he doesn't even have the right briefcase."

"I know but we're taking a ride over to his mom's house. Wanna come with?"

"No, thanks, I'm set for French ticklers. You go. We'll talk later."

During the past six months, Win and I had grown further and further apart, the irony being that physically, he was always here. But whenever I wanted to talk with him about ending the relationship, he was always watching something important on TV, fiddling with his computer, on his way out the door or, worse yet, doing something incredibly nice like bringing me fresh sunflowers. And then, I would forget why I wanted to break up with him.

A delicious hot and spicy smell of onions, garlic and peppers was emanating from my kitchen. Upon investigating, I found still another man stirring what appeared to be a pot of chili. I was hungry and went to take a taste. Instead, I was harshly slapped.

"Don't touch!"

"How dare you! This is MY kitchen!"

"That may be, but your cooking sucks," he said. "Ever notice how your boyfriend always seems to disappear around dinner time?"

I couldn't argue there. Probably the only way we'd ever have dinner together was if we were held at gunpoint. I decided to take a hot bubble bath instead.

I lit a candle, lay back in the tub, the aroma of mangoes filling my nostrils, the steam cleansing the impurities and assaults of the day, my toes tracing the pink tiles on the wall. I fell asleep and dreamed that someone was caressing my shoulders and feeding me chocolate-covered caramels while I lay in a grassy field somewhere in Vermont. In the distance, a cow's low, plaintive moan could be heard. It seemed to grow more melodic as time went by.

Awakening slowly, I realized that it was not a cow I was hearing at all, but a saxophone. Three men I had never seen before had decided to join me in the tub, one of them serenading me softly with "Harlem Nocturne."

"What are you all doing here? Can't I get any peace?"

"Sorry, but you asked us here," said the one directly to my left, holding an empty box of Russell Stover. He had way too many piercings and tattoos for my liking.

"Why would I do that?"

"To avoid the unpleasant task of breaking up," said the masseuse, who was not much to look at but had the most amazing hands.

"I've been meaning to get around to that…"

"But you haven't," said the chocolate bearer. "So now you must put up with some minor inconveniences. It could be worse, I might add."

"I just want my life back!" I shouted.

Just then Win walked into the bathroom, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was sharing a tub with three naked men.

"Your candle went out," he said. "Let me relight it for you."

"Win, sit down a sec. I need to talk to you."

"Hon, can it wait until later? My hard drive just crashed and I gotta get to the computer store before it closes. I promise, we'll talk later."

"There might not be a later," I said, but he was already out the door.

I turned to the guy on the sax. "Do you know any blues tunes?"

*****

The Sad, Sad Photo Session of Life (Photo by James Mignogna)

*****

I Fell In Love with a Monkey

by David Henry Sterry

Sally and I were hired to act in a Michelob beer commercial. The theme of the spot was evolution. I was cast as a Neanderthal Man. Type-casting. Four hours I sat while a crew of highly-skilled make-up artists glued thin layers of skin-colored latex over every inch of my face, transforming me from end of second millennium American Homo Sapien into a caveman. They sculpted a gigantic forehead with a scary hairy monobrow, wee sunken eyes, a flaring nose cauliflowering across my cheeks, thick rubber caveman lips, and huge wooly mammoth-eating fake teeth. My hair was almost fur, extending from the thicket atop my head to my jaw lines, and down both cheeks.

When I looked in the mirror I didn’t recognize myself. I looked for a long time but I couldn’t find myself in there anywhere. Until I looked all the way inside my simian face. There I was. I felt the strong desire to grunt and snarl and hump someone from behind.

Finally, I’m ready for my introduction to Sally the Monkey. Her trainer comes up to me, very serious, doesn’t even notice that I look like a 2,000 year old Neanderthal Man-

“Don’t make eye contact at first. Let her come to you. Get down on her level and don’t make any quick movements. Be very calm and very still. They sense fear. A chimpanzee can jump six feet straight up in the air, and they’re ten times stronger than a human being. For example, Sally’s jaw is so strong she could snap your arm in two like a twig. But it’s really important she doesn’t feel any fear coming off you.”

Suddenly all I can see is my bloody hand dangling out of her mouth.

Sally the Monkey comes out of her trailer, hand-in-hand with another trainer. I squat down to her level. Avert my eyes. I can feel Sally’s monkey stare as she inches slowly towards me as only a wary monkey can. Sounds like a bass drum has been transplanted into my chest cavity. I’m so scared I have no spit. There’s a small crowd gathering, all quiet tension, waiting to see what Sally the Monkey will do to David the Neanderthal. Finally she’s right in my face. Since I’m not making eye contact for fear of having my Adam’s apple ripped out, I smell her before I see her. She smells animal clean, wild, untamed, and of the earth. I feel myself calm with smell of her. Slowly, ever slowly, I turn towards her, raising my head like a simian Southern belle, bringing my eyes up to meet hers.

Sally the Monkey’s stare almost knocks me over. Wise, curious, clever, keen, deep, sharp, smart, mysterious animal passion beams from Sally into me, jolting my soul and rattling my bones. Her face is a picture of puzzlement, brows knitted, head tilted to one side. As she stares into my half-man, half-monkey face, I find I can read her thoughts. She’s speaking to me with her eyes-

“What are you?… You’re not one of them, but there’s no way you’re one of me… Really, what are you?”

Sally the Monkey sniffs me suspiciously, moving her mouth to my jaw. The tension is pulpy, and as I feel her hot breath on my lips, I’m trying desperately not to visualize her biting my nose off. She brings her lips to my cheek, puckers, and covers my face and lips with tiny sweet little monkey kisses.

I’m overcome, undone, head-over-heels in love with Sally. She puts her arms around my neck and hops into my arms. The crowd oohs and ahs, witness to the start of a great interspecies love story.

The whole rest of the shoot, Sally and I are like sweet and potato. Whenever she sees me, she runs up to me excited as a bride, jumps up in my arms, and covers me with kisses. I carry her around like she’s my sweet lovemonkey and I’m her ape loverman, holding hands and going bananas, swooning and spooning. I’ve never known a woman who was so openly, unabashedly, good-naturedly affectionate, who lit up so in my presence.

Animal work laws are very strict, due to years of abuse. On the part of the humans. So animals work very strict 12-hour shifts. This may seem trivial now, but it will prove crucial as our story unfolds.

In the commercial I, Neanderthal, will be sitting next to Sally, Monkey, while an actress, playing a Homo Sapien waitress, flirts with me. We block the scene without Sally. The actress walks up to me all stiffly and skitsy, just lobbing her line in my general vacinity, like a lazy newsboy tossing an errant morning paper:

“Hey good looking, come here often?”

It was bad. Bad, bad, bad. The director stopped everything, walked over to her all cocksure and said, “I need you to hot it up, honey, make with the goo-goo eyes, like you did in the callback, babe.” She promised she would, shot him an obligatory sex-baby look, which evaporated into disdain as soon as the director turned and walked away. I noticed she was a bit aqua green in her gill area as she thought about how Sally’s powerful jaw could snap her arm like a dry twig.

The lights were tweaked. The camera focused. Hair, make-up and wardrobe were fluffed, patted, and tucked. Finally everything was ready, hundreds of highly-paid technicians and advertising geeks all set to make commercial magic.

Sally was brought in, hopped up on her stool next to me at the bar, reached over and kissed me on the cheek as I whispered sweet little monkey nothings into her ear.

“Scene 4, take 1. Roll camera!”

“Camera rolling. Speed.”

“Sound?”

“Speed!”

“And… Action!”

The actress walked towards us like a nervous cat at a dog show. Even I could feel her fear, and I’m certainly no monkey. She started to make the most tentative of flirty eyes in my general direction.

Well, Sally the Monkey went bananas, jumped up on the bar, bared her teeth, and hissed, looking like she was going to rip this poor spooked woman’s heart out, show it to her, then eat it.

The actress’ scream curdled blood as she ran raging wailing and weeping through the set, and out the door.

I thought the advertising geeks should have used that in the commercial, because it said more about evolution than any of the lame shit they can come up with.

But no, they decided to write just the waitress out of the commercial.

So now it was getting to be 6:30 PM, and because the advertising geeks had been so busy figuring out which swanky restaurant they were going to eat dinner at that night, they were way far behind schedule. So they sent some junior assistant flunky over to Sally’s trainer and he asked if they could get Sally to work overtime, because if they don’t get all her shots, they were going to have to bring everybody back and go way over budget.

The trainer says he doubts Sally will want to work overtime but he’ll see what he can do.

The geeks huddled furiously, whispering toxically. It was now 6:45 PM. A much better-dressed executive walked up to the trainer. They’ll pay whatever he wants. Name the price.

The trainer smiled. Slowly reminded the executive that Sally’s a monkey, and not particularly financially motivated.

“Well then we’ll give her all the damn bananas she wants,” said the better-dressed executive.

“Well,” explained the trainer patiently, as if he’s talking to a dumb animal, “Sally already gets all the bananas she wants, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Finally it was 6:58PM. The best-dressed executive hustled over to the trainer.

“Listen, I don’t care what the damn monkey wants, we need to get three more shots off before she leaves, is that clear?”

You could see the trainer was just about to lose it, wishing to God that he only had to deal with reasonable animals.

But before he could say anything, it became 7 o’clock, exactly 12 hours after Sally started working.

Sally then stepped up on the bar, and slowly, dramatically, like the consummate performer she was, raised her left arm over her head, and slapped her wrist where a watch would be, the international sign for:

“Look what time it is.”

She then jumped down, and started pulling me toward the door. As the highly-paid technicians tried desperately not to laugh, and the advertising geeks shat themselves, Sally and I proceeded through the set, and straight out the door, hand-in-hand, like a monkey bride and Neanderthal groom heading for our abba dabba honeymoon.

They had to bring everybody back the next day, and Sally the Monkey became a hero. She got us all another day’s pay, and with incredible style, panache, and savoir faire, she told the oppressive exploiting fascist Boss to stick it. Power to the People! Power to the Monkeys!

When I asked the trainer, he told me that monkeys have an acute sense of time. Because she worked so often, Sally knew exactly when 12 hours were up, and had figured out that by making the sign for time, not only would her day be over, but she’d also make everyone laugh real hard. All day, whenever it was time for a meal, or a break, everyone from actors to Teamsters would raise their left hand up over their head, and slap their wrist where a watch would be, in silent homage to Sally the magical monkey. Much to the amusement of everyone except the advertising geeks, who seemed basically jaded and disgusted by pretty much everything except what swanky restaurant they were going to eat at that night.

As for me, I fell in love with Sally that day. One of the great regrets of my life is that I never got to consummate the relationship, because I know she would have been a powerful, wild, romantic, spiritual and highly rocking lover. But alas, we were from different worlds, and ours was a love that could never be.

*****

The Ice Floe Alternative

By David Holmberg

Like castration for sex crimes, the Ice Floe Alternative (IFA) has a rich and complex history. Here's an example: in the late 19th century an ice floe crowded with oldsters from a county home in Missouri sank when it was struck by a whaling vessel. That's a fact. Did the survivors found Greenland, as some have theorized? Don't you believe it!

Anecdotal evidence of the IFA is sparse. Survivors have usually declined to speak publicly for fear of retaliation by the relatives who initiated this admittedly controversial measure. Their concern is justified. You put someone on an ice floe and you think you're rid of them and lo and behold they show up on your doorstep again. What would you do? I, for one, have the courage of my convictions, however, and have just completed a lucrative speaking tour attacking the IFA. For I myself am a CIFI (Conspicuous Ice Floe Survivor.) Here's my copyrighted story:

One day not long ago, my ex-wife, my cousin who's a lawyer, my nephew who's an accountant, and my granddaughter who may be on drugs, all wished me bon voyage on what I thought would be a pleasant 75th birthday cruise to Alaska. Who could imagine that our doomed cargo of superannuated castoffs was indeed that? We thought of ourselves as indispensable, part of

the fabric of our devoted families. Boy, were we dead wrong! We were actually superannuated castoffs with very few tomorrows. (Which, truth be told, was the caption for a rare group photo.) That was undoubtedly how our families saw us as they waved gaily from the dock. (Being gullible fools, we waved back.) Can you imagine the comments our loved ones made about us, winking and chuckling, as our ship became a speck on the horizon? Well, I don't know and I don't care and you shouldn't either.

Soon, the plan to banish us unfolded. In the Bering Straits, we were in dire straits, as a few of us were able to joke later over cocktails. A freighter rammed our cruise ship early one morning and we were roused from our tourist-class cabins and herded onto life rafts. Anticipating rescue, we were instead picked up by the complicitous crew of the freighter, and dumped on an ice floe a couple of hours later as the sun rose over a calm blue sea. Imagine our surprise and collective chagrin! Those who had cell phones tried to call their travel agents, but most were out of minutes or their batteries were dead. And who would believe their story anyway? You're old and you're on an ice floe and you're looking to be rescued? Sure, and I'm the Pope's altar boy; he's touring Patagonia but I'll leave a message.

I'll spare you the shocking details of our ordeal. Suffice it to say that we were saved by another cruise ship a few days later, and I'm alive and kicking and recovered sufficiently from frostbite to hit the lecture circuit. Make sure to check out my memoir on Amazon: "What Sort of Monsters Are We? Is the Family of Man Adrift?" I certainly was, thanks to my shamelessly scheming relatives. By the way, please don't buy their competing book, "We Ice-Floed Grandpa, But the Old Goat Came Back."

*****

My Glorious Days in Showbiz

Kathy Galletly

When looking back on my teenage years I will always remember the Capital Theater, my job as a candy consultant and my glorious days in show biz. Before Mick and Keith rolled into Passaic, the Capital Theater was an old movie house. When I was a senior in high school I had a part time job working at the candy counter. Talk about celebrity status! What prestige it carried. It was my favorite job. It was the best job I ever had. My Mom told all her family and friends that her daughter had a job in show biz!

During that time kids didn’t go to the mall, you spent the whole day in the movie. There were cartoons and double features .The admission fee was seventy-five cents, unless you had a couple of shady friends, then you would sneak into the movie theater via the side door. Two people would pay to get into the movie. One would distract the usher while the other opened the side door for the gang to sneak in. You always had the one kid that was afraid to move when the door opened so you had to give him a shove. Once in the door you grabbed an empty seat, blended in with the kids that paid and sat back to enjoy the movie. That is if you didn’t get stuck sitting next to the kid that was shoved; he spent the rest of the afternoon telling you how much trouble we were all going to get into. Then he would tell you he wasn’t going to hang out with you again. The real problem was that this was the kid who had the money for the popcorn and candy.

Getting the right candy and popcorn could make or break the whole movie experience. Now this is a job I took very seriously. I was not just a candy girl; I was a candy consultant, I was the queen of buttered popcorn! I was able to match people’s personality with the type of candy they bought. Buttered Popcorn became my own personal power tool. I was instructed to dispense two squirts of butter to a customer, but if you were my “friend” you got more; if the guy was cute there was no telling how much butter he got (I had no pride). Once the movie began, not many people came back for candy so you got to sit and watch the movie; I usually got to sit with the guy who had gotten the extra squirts of butter.

Not only did I dispense candy I counseled the broken hearted. Teenaged girls whose steady boyfriend came with them to the matinee and then to return in the evening with the local hot to trot charlatan would come to me with their sad tales. The questions were endless: Did I see them? What did she look like? Were they making out during the intermission or thru the double features and cartoons? Buttered pop corn after buttered pop corn drenched in tears.

Then on May 25, 1965 I was called into the manager’s office and told there was going to be a special event that evening. There was going to be a boxing match with Muhammad Ali and Sonny Liston and it was going to be televised at the Capital Theater through something called cable! They were expecting a huge crowd of men to see this event and I was getting an assistant to help me at the candy counter. This was my moment to shine! These guys were paying ten bucks a ticket and since I was made head honcho for the evening it was up to me to make sure their candy and pop corn experience was top notch! I made sure their pop corn was the freshest; the butter machine had to be able squirt butter at a moments notice. The hot dog grill had to be spic and span shiny, the candy within a fingers reach. As my assistant and I stood waiting; the adrenalin began rushing through my body. I looked at the clock; the usher looked over at me and nodded. He opened the doors opened and in they stampeded straight to the candy counter. Hungry men! My assistant stood back and watched in awe as I took command. Feverishly, I worked to get them their pop corn and candy. The big spenders who wanted their hot dog buns toasted; the double squirts of butter, the bon bons! My head was spinning, I had to keep up. If I did this right I could go up the ladder of success and be moved to a bigger theater, have control of a candy counter twice this size.

As I stood waiting for the second surge of men to descend upon the candy counter the unthinkable happened, in one minute it was over, done. Muhammad Ali was the heavyweight champion of the world. Men leaving the theater unwrapped candy still in their hands, pop corn containers still filled, butter dripping out of the sides of their mouths. I ran through the lobby trying to console these men only to look at a sea of blank stares. I approached one forlorn man and shaking his head in disbelief all he could say was “Ten bucks and for what!” With that I put on my best smile, gently touching his arm and with a cry of desperation I asked “Please tell me. Was your candy experience memorable?”

The Capital Theater is no longer that famous landmark, gone from the pages of history. Mike Jagger has moved on to world tours; Muhammad Ali is still a legend and as for myself after high school I had left my career as a candy consultant. I entered the Dental field and became Dental Assistant hoping to heal the damage made to those people whose teeth were left with a trail of cavities.

*****

The Sad, Sad Car Paint of Life (Photo by James Mignogna)

*****

The Hint Fairy

By Richard Herr

Everybody loves the world of fantasy. Harry Potter is a huge success; The Lord of the Rings movies are big hits. However, I’ve found that there’s one magical sprite whose existence hasn’t been chronicled in any known fantasy story. This is a dear little pixie who makes her way through many houses on a regular basis. I’m speaking, of course, of the Hint Fairy.

The Hint Fairy usually makes her appearance during the end of November and the beginning of December, as we’re heading toward the holiday season. Of course the Hint Fairy also appears at certain other times of the year that are celebrated with gift giving. But her biggest season, just like in retailing, is during the winter holidays.

She’ll make her appearance in many classic ways. The family will be sitting around the dinner table, and the wife will say something like, “You know, that lovely green blouse you bought me last Christmas seems like it needs a final touch. Something like a necklace or brooch.” As these words escape her lips, the husband will feel a light breeze against his check as the Hint Fairy flutters her airy little way through the room.

At least he’d damn well better feel it. But more on that later.

Another example is the husband’s saying something like, “I was watching Ted, next door. He was using his cordless drill to install some drapery traveler tracks, those things you’ve always wanted. It made the job easy as pie.” Once more, flutter, flutter, flutter.

Or else the teenager will leave, in an otherwise impeccable room, a brochure for the latest computer game, open to the proper page for ordering. Flutter, flutter, flutter.

Now, I have to pause for a moment to address all those parents who are wondering what child is this with the impeccable room. Remember, parents, we’re talking about early December. He is trying valiantly to bootstrap himself up from the Naughty to the Nice List. You needn’t worry; come the New Year, the Evil Twin will be back. He’ll be his usual self: monosyllabic and world-class sloppy.

But the Hint Fairy continues her rounds, fluttering daintily here and there, dropping coy little suggestions into this ear or that.

Until about the middle of December. That’s when the Hint Fairy has reached full term and is ready to transform out of her pupal stage. She will roll herself up into a chrysalis and metamorphoses into the adult incarnation: The Hint Troll.

Gone is the delicate little fluttering creature. It is now replaced by the fully grown adult. The Hint Troll has lost the ability to fly, and so he--yes, the metamorphosis includes a sex change–-he must make his way through the world on foot, stomping his considerable weight around. This causes dishes to rattle, windowpanes to jiggle, furniture to shake and fingers to fly out and jab into someone’s ribs.

“You should see that Craftsman Drill Model P-32XF-39Z that’s on sale for $39.95 on aisle 5 at the Sears store.” Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

“There’s this really wonderful necklace at Thompson’s Jewelers. Ask for Muriel, the saleslady.” Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

“If I don’t get the Cruiser Battle P-32XF-39Z game, I’ll just die. Everybody’s got one, and it hardly costs anything.” Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. (In fact it costs three times the Pentagon’s yearly budget; it came out two weeks ago but hasn’t reached the store shelves, let alone anyone’s house; and the consumer testing company says that the software has more bugs than a pizzeria dumpster.)

And so, the sounds of the Christmas season build in volume. “Bicycle.”

Stomp.

“Earrings”

Stomp.

“Pre-Christmas sale.”

Stomp.

Silent Night

“Everything on sale.” Stomp. “Picture in picture.” Stomp. “Gold lame.” Stomp. “Barbie.” Stomp. “Ruby.” Stomp. “Frosty the.”Stomp. “Three gigahertz.” Stomp. “GI Joe.” Stomp

As these sounds reach their full volume, the noise rises in a crescendo of carols, traffic-jam-stuck car horns, hint-induced stomps and jingles, both sleigh-bell and advertising, in celebration of the full life cycle of the Hint Fairy. On Christmas Eve, the Hint Troll stomps his way out the door to his final resting place, preceding the Old Year by a week.

There is a sudden hush as one detects that the cycle of life has reached a completion, that the order of nature has displayed its irrefutable course, that the seasons have once more completed their rounds.

And then, at the start of the New Year, the signs of fresh life begin to peek out from the remainders of the previous season, like crocuses emerging beneath the melting snow. The new cycle starts over once more.

“Boy, you should see the set of bits that Ted got for his drill.”

Flutter.

Flutter.

*****

The Sad, Sad Picnic of Life. (Photo by Eric Levin)
* * * * *

The Life and Death of A Literary Legend

by Martin Golan

Now that New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) has ceased publication, I feel free to reveal the true story behind its life and death, a story that will surely astonish the legions of fans NYLR (formerly Etheria) attracted in its brief but dazzling moment in the literary sun.

When I was just an aspiring writer and not the literary light I’m constantly told I have become, I confronted the frustrations of getting published. As is now an oft-told tale of literary lore, it was those very difficulties that spurred me to start a magazine. It was the most inspired thing I’d ever done, far more inspired than anything I’d ever written. It was my greatest epiphany, my greatest creation – because the magazine I started, New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria), was a fanciful work of fiction. It never existed!

Yes, I know this will shock the countless literati who so embraced NYLR in its heyday. Only because I am now a major figure in the cultural landscape of America can I confess this secret without consigning myself to the slush pile for all eternity.

The idea for New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) came when I began submitting stories and poems to magazines and was rewarded with a flood of rejections. Like every writer who ever fretted over a cover letter, I rejected out of hand the possibility that the quality of my work could be a factor. No, I thought, it had to be something much more sinister.

That’s when I decided to start Etheria.

Here’s how I did it: I informed writing magazines and digests and Internet sites that list places to send poetry and fiction of a new magazine. I called it Etheria, an inside joke with myself, by making up a word that appears to be an obscure back-formation of “ethereal,” probably poetic, an antiquated Elizabethan orthography like “compleat” – when it’s little more than a pretentious variant I invented.

Then, in creating Etheria, I had the kind of revelation I wished I’d had in my writing: the name of my magazine should not be memorable but eminently forgettable, as generic as possible, precisely the opposite of what one seeks in a product name. It should sound like something you heard of or, better, should have heard of. So I renamed my nonexistent magazine New York Literary Review, adding “formerly Etheria” to make it more hauntingly familiar.

The next step was a Web site. I designed the logo myself – a huge tablet with a chiseled image that is vaguely Greek, terribly obvious from mythology but that one can’t quite place. Next to it was written “New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria)” and the address of a post office box I rented.

Underneath, in big letters, it said:

UNDER CONSTRUCTION

In two days my new post office box was bursting with manuscripts. Not a single person subscribed or purchased a sample copy. I was swamped with cover letters that said how much New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) had meant to the writer over the years. Many quoted from the description I had concocted:

Though we often publish established writers, we are always open to new voices. Don’t be afraid to give us your best, but if we can’t use it that doesn’t mean it isn’t good. Our standards are high, and the competition is keen. New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) publishes the very best writing we can find, and we strongly urge you to read several copies before submitting. But do try us, and if we reject you, please don’t take it as a “rejection.”

I was particularly proud of the last sentence, since it makes absolutely no sense yet would be meaningful to any writer. And that it was hard to have work accepted was definitely true, because New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) had never, and would never, publish anything.

I enjoyed my work as editor. I spent hours with manuscripts, not because I took time with any of them but because there were so many. I sent each back with one of three rejection slips:

1. Thank you for submitting your work to New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria), but it does not meet our needs at this time.

2. Thank you for submitting your work to New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria). Although it does not meet our needs at this time, please let us see more in the future.

Or a third, which I consider a masterpiece of the genre:

3. Your work is compelling, and we enjoyed it immensely. You have a wonderful grasp of the essentials of writing and a quirky, original style that sets you apart. It is rare that a work makes such a lasting impression on us, and we were all profoundly moved. However, though your submission was a gift we will cherish forever, it does not meet our needs at this time.

Good luck in placing it elsewhere.

I sent them out based solely on whim, which, from the vantage point of every unpublished writer, is how every magazine makes that decision.

In own my writing life, I added to my query letter that I was editor of New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) and had a poem accepted by a magazine that had rejected it twice before. I was invited to literary events: a seminar at Columbia on the state of literature today, a colloquium sponsored by The New York Times on the political responsibilities of magazine editors. As judge for a famous national poetry contest, I saw another endless stream of submissions.

The most interesting event was at the 92nd Street Y, where I gave a well-attended talk on whether there was a “Literary Magazine School of Poetry” today.

“We don’t publish much poetry in New York Literary Review,” I said, perhaps the understatement of the evening. I elaborated on the role of poetry, an ancient form born of romantic passion yet buffeted by a heartless business environment to which it is invisible.

“Sometimes it’s like we don’t exist,” I added, as a hundred heads nodded sadly in agreement.

Afterward I was besieged by people proffering the manila envelopes I was coming to dread. I said I could only accept submissions by mail and told everyone to subscribe to NYLR. Most said they were already long-time subscribers, while others copied down the address. No one subscribed, though I did recognize some handwriting in the deluge of envelopes that gushed in over the next few days. More than one referred to how much they had learned from my talk.

By now I was exhausted. I never realized how much energy it takes to open an envelope and slide a rejection slip into it; no wonder magazine editors all look so tired and world-weary. And don’t think my job was one bit easier because the magazine didn’t exist.

So I came to a sad but inevitable decision: it was time to fold NYLR.

On the Web site I posted this “Note To Subscribers”:

With great sadness, the next issue of New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) will be our last. We take great pride in knowing that we treated all submissions in a fair and evenhanded manner. We would also like to thank our subscribers, without whom we would not exist.

That afternoon I got a call from the owner of a trendy club in SoHo asking if she could host a party for the final issue. It was the kind of snooty nightspot I’d always been terrified of walking into. Of course I had to agree.

Everybody who was anybody in the cultural world was there, including a few celebrities whose names I knew but couldn’t recall. A woman with an enormous hat wept as she told me how compulsively she read every issue of New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria). Flowery speeches were made. One tearful man became so demonstrative he had to be helped back to the wine bar. The death of New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) was viewed as the collapse of Western Civilization, along with the loss of independent bookstores and at least three international crises, one of which the history professor on the dais with me never heard of. Poems were read in my honor. My favorite was the villanelle by a startlingly thin woman who explained how New York Literary Review had kept her alive during a painful breakup with a novelist who thought he was too good for her because he had been published in NYLR. “But I won’t hold that against you,” she said, smiling sweetly, as the audience chuckled.

She raised a glass and toasted “the legendary magazine and the legendary man who created it.”

Glasses clinked. “New York Literary Review had something no other magazine has,” she said. “Hard to put your finger on, perhaps, but that’s why we loved it so.”

Before the evening was over I had an offer to teach at a prestigious liberal arts college. They said they wanted me to revitalize a moribund English department and bring the prestige of my magazine, which had long been a favorite of the department chairman.

They hinted rather broadly that I should revive New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) on campus. I said that if I did it would be a magazine the likes of which they’d never seen.

They said that was exactly what they had in mind.

*****

Don't

Marcia S. Ivans

You can mess with my heart

You can mess with my soul

You can mess with my mind

But don't mess with my hair.

* * * * *

Contributors To This Issue Of The Mews Online Journal, Humor Edition:

Martta Rose is a published poet and short fiction writer. A graduate of Syracuse University's Newhouse School of Public Communications, she attended the Broadloaf Writers' Conference in Vermont in 1995. She resides in West Orange with her fiance, Tom Kelly.

James V. Mignogna has known since his father lent him his old Nikon to shoot with on a childhood family vacation that photography would be one of the great constants in his life. ?Like so many shooters I know, I was given a PhD in photography from my father: ?Push here, Dummy.? ? In the years since, the list of photographers he has assisted continues to grow, most notably his ongoing mentorship with long time photo hero Mary Ellen Mark. Meanwhile he continues to amass his own collection of work, including a series of abstracts and street shots. James currently works in magazine publishing and is never caught without a camera.

David Holmberg is a former reporter for New York Newsday and a former senior editor of The Village Voice. He's also written for The New York Times Magazine, The Nation, and New Jersey Monthly.

Joan Garry is a a nationally recognized gay rights activist and she thought it was a very hard job until she decided to step down from her role as the

executive director of GLAAD to be a stay-at-home mom. Advocating for ‘the gays” may have been easier.

She and her partner Eileen Opatut have been together for 25 years and have three kids, Sarah (17), Ben (12) and Kit (12). Yes, Ben and Kit are twins.

During her tenure at GLAAD, Joan persuaded the NY Times to include gay and lesbian couples on its wedding pages, she created a national debate about the homophobic words of radio host, Laura Schlessinger and even debated Jerry Falwell about whether Tinky Winky was gay.

She is also the first woman in the state of New Jersey to legally adopt her

partner’s biological children and the first female singing member of the NYC Gay Men’s Chorus.

Comedian Steve Hofstetter has been seen on "Showtime's White Boyz in the Hood," VH1's "Countdown," ESPN's "Quite Frankly" and several other programs. Playing 300 colleges, clubs, and private events each year, Hofstetter is also an accomplished radio host and humor columnist, having written regular columns for Sports Illustrated, the NHL, and Maxim. See more at StevesNewAlbum.com or reach him at steve@stevehofstetter.com

Writer/editor/web designer Anthony Buccino has written three books of essays based in and around Nutley and Belleville, N.J. His poetry has appeared in Raving Dove, Rattlesnake Review, The Idiom and Pow Wow Press. He blogs about life in northern New Jersey as alter ego Uncle Tonoose and about transit in New Jersey at http://blog.nj.com/transit/ ; NJ.Com. With the help of his daughter Andrea, two paperbacks were published based on the research about the men from Nutley and Belleville who died in service to their country. For more information, http://anthonybuccino.com or http://anthonybuccino.blogspot.com/

Martin Golan's collection of short stories, Where Things Are When You Lose Them, has just been published, and his poetry and fiction have appeared in many magazines. But he is known mainly for his tenure as the founder, publisher, and editor of the influential New York Literary Review (formerly Etheria) in its glory days, a time when the work of many fellow Mewsies – and even of Golan himself – was regularly rejected by the legendary magazine.

For more information on him, go to http://martingolan.com/

Eric Levin is senior editor of New Jersey Monthly. He writes frequently about restaurants, Wagner, and golf. His photographs may be seen at www.ericlevin.net.

Kathy Galletly, a member of the Montclair writing group, is still yearning for her glorious days in showbiz.

David Henry Sterry is the author of nine books. His first memoir, Chicken, has been translated into 10 languages and is being made into a series by Showtime. His next book, Master of Ceremonies, drops August 1. He is also a book doctor and talent scout for Levine Greenberg literary agency.www.davidhenrysterry.com

Pamela Redmond Satran's next book, 1000 Ways To Be A Slightly Better Woman, will be published in April by Stewart, Tabori & Chang and is a BookSense Notable pick. The author of five novels and eight other non-fiction books, Satran writes for the New York Times and the Huffington Post and is the coauthor of the Glamour List column. Her websites are www.pamelaredmondsatran.com and www.coolnamer.com; she is the founder and guiding hand of MEWS.

Mr. Richard Herr likes to visit the humorous side of science fiction and fantasy. He has a collection of tales from an outerspace place called The Star Board Cafe. He is also working on a sci-fi story for young adults called Mars from Fred from Mars. He resides in Caldwell. 973-364-5114, richardherr@comcast.net

Danielle Oteri is an illustrator based in Northern Manhattan. When asked if she was any relation to Cheri Oteri, she explained, "Cheri Oteri is a distant relative. I've never met her althought I'm sure she would liven up Thanksgiving dinner." Indeed.

Christina Loccke is a freelance writer, editor, and the mother of an infant and toddler who serve as muses for her monthly “funny mom” column in New Jersey Life and Leisure.

Says poet Marcia Ivans, "the poem Don't is from my second book of poetry titled "Over Easy", by Arseya Publishing. It is available from Watchung Book Sellers in Montclair, Arseya Publishing, Amazon.com or from my website, www.mivans.com."
I am a member of Women Who Write, International Women's Writers Guild and Poet's House. I founded Poetry and Pastries, an open poetry reading at Cafe Beethoven in Chatham over three years ago.

Frances Pelzman Liscio is a Montclair-based photographer, photo editor and writer. Ms. Liscio contributed the photos of the not-guilty-cats and the not-strung-out-terrier featured above.