Concentrate of Thailand

Feeling misunderstood on an international level, Thailand felt they needed to promote an awareness of their customs and culture. Unfortunately, with the global economic downturn, they lacked the resources to do a full on world wide public relations effort. What they lacked in wealth, however, they made up for in two things: top notch researchers and pineapples. Through careful crop breeding and flavor manipulation, they distilled all that they felt it meant to be Thai and genetically encoded the taste of Thailand into their world famous pineapples.

When bottles appeared on store shelves and in kitchen pantries across the world, no one noticed. Not until the cracked open the safety seal and took that first sip of the nation's new pineapple juice did they notice the new flavor contained within. Like the nation's Buddhist past, the juice was a perfectly balanced blend of flavors with no one part overpowering another. Their taste buds danced to “Phleng Chat Thai,” and they savored the flavor of sixty-six million people with a GDP per capita of $9396. Mingling with the rich sweetness was the taste of tropical forests, green fields, and towering mountains. It tasted not of rice, but a thriving rice industry, and a culture deeply enriched by its agrarian roots. Though the pulp had been removed, the juice still had hints of respect toward one's ancestors and elders, and a strong spirit of generosity. It packed the energy of soccer and muai thai with the tranquility appropriate to the golf capital of Asia. Those who drank the juice felt a certain kinship for the small nation that they had not known before. True to the country's hopes, appreciation for Thailand blossomed in markets where the juice could be purchased. The effect was short lived, however, as people soon stopped purchasing the bottles. Though the experience was pleasant, former customers said, the juice didn't taste much like pineapples.

- Originally mailed to M. Blackwood of Los Angeles, California

Invisible Exits

Many people carried a very ill opinion of the owners of the Cornerstreet Cafe. They thought they were manipulative imprisoners of their clientèle. People who attended their establishment often felt trapped, like they were being held in the restaurant against their will. They would complain about being barred from the exits by iron fences or bathroom signs on a blank wall.

The owner and former magician Mister Santos Lizanne did this deliberately, but not the way people imagine. People said he put signs up where there was nothing, or made certain parts of his cafe impossible to reach. This was utterly false. However, through clever use of paint and lighting and forced perspective, he made the way appear blocked. He felt too many people in the world lacked faith in humanity and trust in each other. They had grown cold and distant and clung to the words taught at childhood, “stranger danger.” So he used optical illusions to show them that they could trust people. That if the sign said there was a way out, you could believe that there was a way out, even if you could not see it.

Mister Lizanne was a man of his word, but you just had to trust him on it.

- Originally mailed to D. Murphey from Ocean Springs, MS

B-Boy Cat

All the ladies love a bad boy, and for cats, it's no exception. Coleridge T. Whiskers lived by his own rules, and beneath his fur had a belly tattoo that read ALLEY LIFE and across his back, YOLNT. When he was supposed to be studying, he would throw his notebooks on the floor and practice his sweet b-boy backspins instead. In fact, there was no contest he wouldn't attempt to settle in a dance off: who took a sweet feline home, who rode shotgun, who got the last hit of catnip.

At school, the teachers would get on to him after breaking into a butterfly-windmill-backflip into a headspin in the middle of a lecture. “Mister Whiskers,” they would stay, “behave this instant!”

“You must have me confused,” he would say. “Mister Whiskers is my father's name. You can call me Coolcat.”

The teachers would roll their eyes, but the girls would swoon. “You're heading down a bad path, Mister Whiskers,” they would say, but he wouldn't listen. They were talking to his dad.

He did end up poorly. Too many fights, too much attitude and he got kicked out of the house, just another homeless alley cat begging for scraps and digging in dumpsters. Sometimes, he and the other strays would descend on the same can only to find one fish bone to nibble on. Coolcat wasn't worried though. He had a dance move for just such occasions.

- Originally mailed to M. Wilkes of Ridgeland, Mississippi

Message in a Bottle

There was once a woman who stumbled across a bottle beside the sea, and inside she found a message. It was from a man who lived on the island on the horizon. The two countries being cut off from one another for reasons too myriad and complex to enumerate here (suffice it to say, there were lawyers involved), he wondered what things were like across the sea. How did they live? What did they eat? Were they happy or sad? She sent a boy to fetch some paper and a pen and sent a reply. “Slow and easy. Fish and fruit. Mostly happy. You?”

For years they corresponded via bottles (for there were no laws against bottles), and in time, their unusual discussions blossomed into romance. Many a message, when not professing their undying love to one another, worked on the serious business of finding a way to meet. Boats were out of the question (lawyers), it was too far for a bridge, and flight was a thing not yet invented. They despaired at the prospect of never meeting.

One day, our beloved heroine had a most brilliant idea. If the lawyers had no issue with bottles, a giant bottle she would make. She gathered the glass makers of the island together to make a bottle big enough for her to ride in. When her bottle was complete, the islanders gathered to see her off. They loved her so, but could not imagine keeping her from her love, and so with a heave and a ho, they shoved her and her bottle into the sea. After several days of bobbing about at sea, she washed ashore on her true love's lands and climbed out. She looked and waited, eager to surprise him, but he did not come. Finally, she asked a little boy what had become of the man she loved.

“He built a giant bottle and cast himself into the sea.”

- Originally mailed to M. Taylor in South Korea

Hay Racing

In the backwoods of Tennessee where wifi is unheard of, men will race anything to pass the time. Naturally they raced cars and horses, but one can't race horses every day and cars need gas. After a while, they began racing cows (ridden) and pigs (no jockey). Still, too much cow racing and the milk got weird and pigs required special pens to make them go in the direction they needed. Too much work. Chickens wandered about aimlessly and would escape the special pig tracks. Turtles and frogs were too indifferent. One day, Bartholomew Magee came up with the notion of racing hay. The bales were already round and would roll well, and besides, the crop needed to be gathered up anyway. Why not make the finish line the collection point? So they did. Though it took some thinking, they even overcame the only real obstacle. Convincing the hay to race. In the end, it was a simple matter. They motivated the hay the way most people are motivated. They told the hay it wasn't good enough for the far end of the field and let hay prove them wrong.  

- Originally mailed to A. Anderson of Portland, Oregon

Swamp People

I followed her down the muddy path that traced its winding path from the back country road to the swamp. It twisted like a snake through the woods so much I had no way of knowing which way I faced or which way led back to my car. I did not care, though. When I saw her standing by the road, her slip the color of bone in the shadows, I had to follow her. Not to help her, mind you, though she did look every inch the damsel in distress the little girl lost in the woods. No, not to help her, but to help me. If I just went with her, my every wish would be granted. She never said this aloud. Something in those mournful eyes told me everything I ever wanted, desires I never knew I had that now stirred deep within, all could be mine if I just went with her, down into the swamps. So I did.

Now I stand barefoot beside back country roads, wearing jeans and a shirt the color of bone, and with my deep mournful eyes, I promise travelers everything their heart desires if they but follow me along winding paths down into the swamps.

- Originally mailed to C. George in San Diego, California

Unfortunate Appearances

On Regulus IV there exists a strain of hypersentient fungus who learned to live in peace with all their world. No longer did they have any predators and they bred only when resources were sufficient. They were experts in all sciences and mathematics and philosophy and had long ago diagnosed the nature of evil and purged it from their world. Their language, however, was a subtle one, full of shades of meaning, shades of color, pheromones, and timing. Few civilizations ever reach such states of enlightenment and sophistication. Unfortunately, the first men to land on Regulus IV never learned the language because they never considered a fungus could be sentient. As a result, on official records from then on, this amazing race was listed fungus phallus, the penis mushroom.

- Originally mailed to H. Longino from Gulfport, Mississippi

Corona Piñatas

“Every adult deep down wants to be a kid again,” Marilyn Stephens would always say. This philosophy ultimately led her to open her own party planners, Inner Child Party Services. They had many of the usual children's affairs, bouncy houses, slip-n-slides, and the like, but with more alcohol. The ice cream was Bailey's and Kahlua flavored, and the cake was Guinness chocolate. That which didn't translate directly, she would often retheme. Instead of clowns and Spider-Man, entertainers would show up dressed as Donald Draper or Leelo Dallas. Pin the Tail on the Donkey, for the sake of decency, involved sticking other body parts on other things. Musical chairs was likewise made more interesting and adult themed. For the most part, her party planning business was a huge success, though she almost lost it all when she first introduced piñatas. For the longest time, she puzzled over what to stuff them with, before settling on an amusing recursion. What better thing to stuff a Corona piñata with than bottles of Corona? Fortunately, the alcohol instantly disinfected the many wounds from all the broken glass.

- Originally mailed to C. Nowell in Newport News, Virginia

Recursive Shrine

Wanda Oslomeier visted a Tibetan monastery once as a child and it inspired her beyond words. When she was finally old enough to buy her own home, she built a small reminder of that shrine and placed it on her coffee table. To her, however, the shrine seemed empty. One replica bell and one clay monk hardly captured the life-changing majesty of the secluded temple. So she expanded. She got rid of her coffee table and began to build a diorama of the room in which they housed the bell, but a room on its lonesome was a sad thing to behold, so she cleared out her living room and recreated the monastery's entire meditation building. Of course, this suggested the monks lived one-dimensional lives, so she had to tear the house down around her display to make room for the homes, and then her yard became their farms from whence they drew nourishment. But where were the views? Those breathtaking vistas she had known? Those must be recreated as well, so she bought out the neighborhood and created the mountains and forests surrounding.

Then she remembered that, as the monks taught, nothing exists in isolation. We are all connected. So she expanded her diorama and it engulfed her town as she recreated all of Tibet. It spread as she created artificial continents and oceans. She recreated the Great Wall of China, the bustling cities of Hong Kong and Tokyo. She carved out a scale version of the Pacific Ocean, Hawaii, and the West Coast. Then she reached her home and realized to do her diorama justice, she must create a miniature version of her miniature world, and from there a smaller once she reached her home again, ever recursing downward and downward into infinity.

- Originally mailed to H. Witten in Oxford, Mississippi

Music Video Girl

She lived her life like a music video, backlit and out of focus. She would stand up at inopportune times and sing her feelings at the top of her lungs. She would trash wherever she was to show how much angst she had inside. She was a woman who lived without consequences, and why not? People in rock videos never had to answer to anybody. There were those who called her behavior mad, but what did she care? Every moment was a rockstar moment, and just like her MTV inspirations, she was able to solve all of her problems in five minutes or fewer.

- Originally mailed to S. Sartin in Atlanta, Georgia  

The Judas Cow

“Tomorrow when they open the gates, do not follow me,” the cow they called Judas said to me.

“Why not?” I asked, for I was new to the pasture.

“They take you do your death!” he cried.

“That is absurd. Everyone knows they take you to Sunshine Valley where the grass is always tall and green. You don't get to go because you have no faith.”

“It is true! None who go ever return!”

“Here we have this field where there is hay and a roof over our heads and room to stretch and graze. I am milked daily so that my udders do not swell. If they wanted to kill us, why would they take such care of us?”

“They intend to eat you!” Judas said. “They carve the flesh from your bones and devour your body.”

“Nonesense. They have no claws, no sharp teeth. They lack the speed of wolves. Ha! As though these few creatures could overpower us or consume so many.”

“I know what I know,” said Judas and walked away.

The following day, we followed him up a ramp, but he was diverted at the last minute to another pen, his punishment for having no faith in Sunshine Valley. As I walked up the ramp, however, I couldn't shake what he had said. I decided, though too late for the decision to actually mean anything, that even if we were being led to the slaughter, the caretakers have been nothing but kind to me. I will not do them the unkindness of breaking our trust now.

- Originally mailed to J. Cox of New Oreleans, Louisiana

The Forest and the River

The forest and the river got into a bit of a feud one day. A few trees had grown into the river and the river felt quite put upon, and rightly so. A river changes its boundaries very slowly, but forests spread much faster at a consistent rate of regular slowly.

“But river,” said the forest, “every few years you overstep your bounds and enter me. What say you to that?”

“It is only a temporary visit, and only when my relatives from up north come to visit,” the river said. “Besides, you grow richer and stronger every time I do, so where can the harm be?”

The forest considered this and said, “But river, without your visits, I would never have been able to grow so big and so far. It is you who allows me to enter your banks.”

Now it was the river's turn to consider what the forest had said. The forest was correct, he realized. Sure his visits to the forest were not long at all and the trees would be in the river longer, but the river visited the forest often and the forest visited the river only rarely. Besides, the roots made homes for the fish, which made the river more beautiful, and who could object to that? From then on, the river was more forgiving of the few trees who overstepped the banks, and the forest was more forgiving when the river came to visit, for they were always both the better for it.

- Originally mailed to P. Walker of Diamondhead, Mississippi

Serious Sideburns

“Too wiry,” said one judge.

“Agreed,” said another, “and the hairs go in every which direction.”

“I don't know,” said another. “I like the swoops. Sideburns aren't meant to be tamed house cats. They're wild face beasts. I give it a solid eight.”

“Wild face beasts? Do you even hear yourself?” cried the first. “Look at the shape, the way it arcs away unevenly from the ear!”

“And who even knows how even the outer trim is!” agreed the second with a very serious high five.

“The arc is distinguished. Besides, real mutton chops have a curve to them. Why shouldn't facial chops?”

“Don't be so literal,” said the second. “You can't possibly think this is a good sideburn. Look at the uneven, almost abrupt shift from thick and dark to scruffy and light! If you give this sideburn a high rating, it compromises the integrity of the entire World's Best Sideburn competition, and then where will we be?”

“It will be chaos!” cried the first.

“Anarchy and chaos!” cried the second.

But the third would not budge and his eight stood.

Twelve hours later, WWIII broke out. Nineteen hours after that, it went nuclear, and by the end of the week, man had been reduced to a pack of irradiated savages picking at the bones of civilization. Centuries later, historians would misattribute the end of civilization as we knew it to strained relations between the US and China.

- Originally mailed to M. Krell in Horn Lake, Mississippi

The Long Road

There is a road with no outlets, no cross streets, no place to turn around that stretches from Calhoun, West Virginia to Red Hills, North Dakota. There are no gas stations or towns or even cellphone reception. Just mile after grueling mile of worn pavement and trees. About a hundred and fifty miles in, the road begins to line itself with old cars long abandoned, having run out of gas years ago with no pickup to come and get them. When the cars die, when there's no where else to go, families start walking, taking with them only what they can carry. The fashion clothes from the blue vinyl interiors and weapons from windshield wipers, hubcaps, and shards of broken window to hunt for food as they walk. Children are born. Old ones die. The road gives and the road takes. They say those who reach the end arrive with new eyes, eyes of the warrior and the hunter, eyes of the way, the path long forgotten by man. Many who survive the trip turn around and return down the beaten asphalt path, back to the wilderness and the trees and the savage life they have come to accept as real where they walk by the sun and feed from the plants and never ate meat they did not know, dried and turned to jerky on the old blacktop, for such is the way of the road.

- Originally mailed to J. Womack in Brooklyn, New York

Going Underwater

After taking hurricane related flooding for the fifth straight season, the residents of Makepeace, MS decided they would no longer fight the inevitable. If the universe wanted their beloved town beneath the waves, so be it. They hired mechanics to make their vehicles amphibious. They installed airlocks on their homes, and those top scientists not already modifying their genetic code for improved lung capacity and/or gills worked diligently day in and day out to waterproof the cable TV infrastructure. When the first major storm made landfall the following year, all the residents of Makepeace waited in rapt anticipation. After months of planning and waiting, Submersion Day had come. The storm was only a category one, however, and the town only partially flooded. They were disheartened, sure, but the American spirit is an indomitable beast, and they tuned their waterproof televisions to the Weather Channel and waited. There would always be another storm.

- Originally mailed to J. St. John of Picayune, Mississippi

Party Time Express

Charles Lambert, though much maligned at seven p.m., was the undisputed king of the after party. Early on, when he would show up at shindigs with the Party Time Express, everyone laughed and teased. “Where are the clowns?” they'd ask, or “When do we bob for apples, grandpa?” He got no respect until nine at the earliest.

But once the libations started flowing, once the party was good and hopping and everyone was sauced like pasta, they lined up beer in hand a whooping at the top of their lungs to ride his bright and colorful train. He'd drive them everywhere, around the yard, through the kitchen, or down to the corner store for a beer run. Once people loosened up and finally remembered they were there to forget they were adults for awhile, then the world was his oyster. His primary colored, drunk friend filled oyster.

- Originally mailed to A. Perkins of New Orleans, Louisiana

The Trespassing Mermaid

The Greenleaf Apartments had decent units and lovely grounds, but had a hard time getting its name out there, and thus suffered financially. That's when Darcy O'Shea had a brilliant idea. They had a well maintained olympic sized pool that no one swam in. If they could get a mermaid to take up residence, everyone would want a Greenleaf 2BR/2BA. Darcy changed the water system from chlorine to sea salt. He filled it with fish that mermaids were wont to eat, and then stocked the shallow end with all manner of shells, seaweed, and pearls so that whoever moved in could fashion any sort of wardrobe imaginable. It only took two weeks before Darcy heard the telltale splash and saw the redhaired sea-she swimming about, enjoying the bounty he had prepared for her. Luring her in, however, was only the first step, for now he needed a way to keep her there. Others suggested bars or shackles, but Darcy, being a touch more considerate and ever mindful of mermaids' respect for rules, simply placed a “No Trespassing” sign by the gate leading out of the pool area, knowing the mermaid would be too polite to cross the fence.

- Originally mailed to C. Stover in Ocean Springs, Mississippi

Vodka Robbers

Contrary to the hyperbole people like to throw around, during Russia's vodka shortage, the popular beverage was never worth its weight in gold. It was, however, worth its weight in silver, which, though no where near as pricey, would still end up costing a man as much as $550 just for the run of the mill stuff. Sure, a person could make their own, but the cost of distilling supplies, ingredients, time, and skill made most just bite the bullet and buy a bottle.

Its value, however, created a brief but fascinating barter market in which vodka, while not legal tender, may as well have been. People even bought safes and established vodka savings accounts at banks, where they could keep their precious liquor and set withdraw limits of two shots per day. Unfortunately, this gave rise to a new, virtually unarrestable band of bank robber, who would charge in, guns brandished, and demand, “Give us all your vodka!”

Sure catching them was easy. They could often be found stumbling about in fields. Given the nature of the theft, however, there was rarely any evidence left to convict with.

- Originally mailed to P. Brown in Clovis, New Mexico (whom I am told has a vodka allergy, ironically enough)

The Gathering Storm

The twelfth annual The Gathering Storm, a convention for clouds, took place on the weekend of July 27th-29th in Oxbow, Nebraska. It allowed the various clouds of the world to gather, share news and gossip, swap job techniques, and generally socialize outside of the office. The convention began with the president's Harrison B. Nimbus's oft-quoted “Clouds: Above It All” keynote speech, in which he asked his vaporous brethren to take pride in all they do for the planet. Afterward, the clouds attended the seminars on topics such as when to rain (“The Grass Is Long, Looks Like Rain,” “Parades: A How-To,” and “Withholding Affection: Why We Drought”), panels on how to rain (“California: Just Pour,” “Attracting Water Vapour: A Growth Roundtable,” and “Gradual Intensity: How Sprinkling in the Morning Means More Drenched People in the Afternoon”), and the seldom attended lectures on where to rain (“Farmland Needs You!” and “Hurricanes: How to Choose a Strikezone BEFORE the Last Minute”). The the weekend ended with a mixer, which like most cloud mixers, had a lot of shouting, turned into a pissing match, and ended with everyone storming off.

- Originally mailed to H. Ainsworth from Gulfport, MS

Dapper Plastic Aliens

People often look at the symbols older cultures created, or the works of art that can only be seen from the sky and they assume that long ago, extra-terrestrials came to earth to give us a scientific jump start. Of course, it is easy to look at symbols from another culture and make inferences about their meanings because we have no associations of our own to muddy up the process. This is why many of of the same people who point out the extra-terrestrial influences on the past completely overlook the signs that aliens still guide our scientific development. For instance, the Chinese are aware that without alien intervention, we never would have developed plastics. International relations being what they are, however, they cannot risk their position by making such a “ridiculous” claim. Instead, they create symbols much as the people of old did, imprinting upon containers from their takeout restaurants the following image. Most mistake it for a brand or something that simply means plastic. Only the few removed from their own personal experiences with Chinese takeout see it for what it truly is: a starman in a nice suit, surrounding himself with plastic. Theorists still debate, however, whether he is wearing a tie or has a fu manchu mustache.

- Originally mailed to B. Bowser of Brandon, MS

Apologies

Ladies and gentlemen, if you requested a post card in November, let me apologize right now for you having not received it yet. The pictures are taken, the stories are written, but I just finished spending a week packing and a week moving 160 miles to a new city, and somewhere in there, the photos got packed away before I could scrawl stories on the backs of them. Operation: Make This Pile of Boxes Look Like an Apartment is in full swing. Once I find the pictures, I'll sit down, write 'em up, and mail them out this week.

If you are a reader and you did NOT request a postcard this month, you will never notice this delay. The pictures and stories are already uploaded and scheduled to post, and we are still three months ahead on post cards on the blog. Your daily dose will continue without hiccups.