Cool Cops

The Marion County Police Department, in an effort to improve their approval ratings among the key 18-35 demographic began to bust into parties not to break them up, but to crash them. At first, their efforts met with failure. After all, most parties, or at least most good parties, see people running for the hills at the first sign of those flashing lights. By the time the police made it up the drive, only two or three people remained, and only rarely were those people conscious. Still, they persisted. They made small changes to their approach . Instead of saying “Who has drugs?” they would ask “Who has some drugs?” No longer did they say the music was too loud. Rather, they would ask if the music was loud enough. They made beer runs in record time. They replaced sirens with dubstep, and suddenly instead of driving up in a cop cruiser, it's like they were a rolling rave. They carried six-packs instead of six-shooters. They learned to DJ and dance and mix drinks. They loaned out handcuffs to people feeling frisky. In the end, it worked. For the first time in history, police had a record 89% approval rating among teens and twenty-somethings.

Excited at having succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, the police set out to use their new found influence to tell kids about the dangers of drugs, binge drinking, hooliganism, and other unsafe behaviors. These efforts failed, however, as their target audience had been told since birth not to give in to peer pressure. To prevent Operation: Cool Cops from being a total wash, the MCPD revamped their plans, and Operation: In Like Flynn resulted in the largest bust of minor drug traffickers, under aged drinkers, and drunk drivers in state history.

- Originally mailed to T. Switzer from Biloxi, Mississippi

The Good Space

Having been bound by a geis long ago, David Higgleson needed to park close to the front of wherever he went or a horrible doom would befall him, much as happened to Cuchulainn whose geasa to never eat dog meat and to always accept hospitality doomed him when he was forced to accept a dog meat dinner. But what could David do? He had wanted to see Red Eyed Monster play in concert for years, and there wasn't a parking space to be found anywhere by the time he arrived to the sold out show. Low on gas and half way through his tenth circuit around the massive parking lot, David came to a startling, life changing realization. His geis only demanded he park close to the front. It never said he needed a parking space. A two hundred dollar parking ticket, plus towing expenses was a lot better than downfall, doom, and death, he reasoned. Finding the closest spot to the doors he could, he maneuvered his car like a champ and made his way to the show.

He was not the least bit surprised when he found a parking ticket on his windshield after the concert, for such was the trade off for staying alive. He was, however, a little pleased with the note written by the cop who left the ticket, in which he praised David for parallel parking between those two trees like a real pro.

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

Bottle Party

The after party at the end of the water bottle convention was the stuff of legend. All of the bottles would gather together in the Magnolia Ballroom and dance the night away, letting loose all the frustrations of work, the pent up energy from sitting in dull meetings all week. They would rant about their bosses, rave about the good speakers, and mercilessly joke about the presenters who clearly had no idea what they were talking about. They schmoozed. They networked. On the whole, everyone had a pretty good time. But the after party at the end of the 2008 convention almost ended it for everyone.

It started typically enough, but when the usual DJ, an oldies and slow jams kind of fellow took ill, his replacement DJ Dubstep had to fill in at the last minute without warning. From the moment the bass dropped, every bottle present knew things were different. The booming beats vibrated them down to the very liquids of their souls. The bottles rippled and sloshed like never before, and the laser lights reflected through them, turning each into a glorious, gyrating kaleidoscope, a prismatic wonder unleashed.

In the morning, the hotel staff found the whole lot of them undressed and passed out, piled atop one another on the floor. There were awkward apologies. Nervous glances toward the ground. Excuses about intoxication. Everyone accepted the story, but no one believed it. After all, it was pretty clear that no one had gotten drunk the night before.

- Originally mailed to Karen Murphey of Chicago, Illinois

Pyromancer's Opera

The question of how to best share the beauty of music with the deaf has long been a matter of debate. Some believe that as music is something felt in the soul, music should be conveyed physically through vibrations and the like, much the way Beethoven cut the legs off of his piano so he could feel the music he composed. As such, their clubs tended to emphasize overpowered basslines so the deaf could understand the rhythm, the pulse, and the visceral joy that a good song captures. Others felt that since man's two primary senses are sound and sight, music should be portrayed visually. Size conveys volume and color is pitch (or vice versa) and it can throb with the rhythm to provide a much more layered representation of sound. The latter school of thought typically found more success, for it allowed the deaf and those with hearing to enjoy together without risking the sense of sound of anyone present. Still, LEDs and iTunes visualizers lacked the primal power that many felt music should have. To remedy this, a collection of singers and dancers banded together to form the Pyromancer's Opera. They performed the works of Wagner and Verdi, Rossini and Bellini, and everywhere inbetween. The music itself was traditional, but the staging was far more theatrical. They lined their stage with fire dancers, each of whom would move to the rhythm of one voice or instrument, casting their flame high or low for general pitch, bold or elegant for volume, and with flames of various colors to indicate whether the the singer was an alto, soprano, tenor, or bass. For the most part, the Pyromancer's Opera was a great success, though it was very weather dependent. Few indoor venues trusted all that open flame, and a fire dance in the rain did not go over well. This, however, was a small price to pay for the joy of sharing your favorite song with a friend who couldn't hear.

- Originally mailed to K. Valencia-Bravo in Olathe, Kansas

Most Hardcore

The punk community of San Pedro, California, in a rare moment of organization and concern for status, took a vote on who was the most hardcore. The rockers campaigned, told stories of their legendary antics, their epic acts of rebelliousness, the amount of contempt they had for authority. Deep down, however, most people accepted that the winner would be Trashcan Dave, who once camped in a trash can for a week rather than live in a house where he had to turn his music down. Trashcan Dave, who then used that trash can to beat down some snot nosed dirt stain who tried to start something. Trashcan Dave, who walked the whole way from LA to San Diego once to catch a Shinsplints concert. Trashcan Dave, who even in his sleep was more angry, more metal, more hardcore than most were in their most wakeful hours. The day of the vote came, and to no one's surprise, Trashcan Dave won the popular vote, but district lines being what they were, he lost when the electoral college went with Nosebleed Dan, who as a dare once ate a half-eaten In-and-Out burger someone found on a park bench.

- Originally mailed to R. Morris in Cambridge, Ontario in Canada.

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 Blurs

The Blurs put on an amazing show that night, and much to their fans' great pleasure, performed a broad selection of tracks spanning their entire discography. The big hits that topped the charts and the obscure sleeper b-side classics that only the die hards knew the lyrics to, each wove one into another blurring the lines between one piece and the next. It was a celebration of thirty years of music that for three glorious hours flowed like a river, at times peaceful and others powerful but always beautiful to behold. A critic from the times who had never much been a big supporter of The Blurs was forced to admit in his review of the concert the next day that their music was “respectable enough if you like that sort of thing” but was nothing short of impressed with their ability to perform live and out of focus.

- Originally mailed to T. Switzer from Biloxi, Mississippi

Dubstep Demon

Grimnok was without a doubt the most garish demon to walk the earth in as long as anyone could remember and the whole neon spots and bright red horns had the worst habit of attracting woo girls when he had serious damnation business to be doing. A demon ought to be feared and respected, he would bemoan, not cuddled upon while friends took pictures. They should be groveling at his feet in terror begging for their lives, or at their very least offering up their souls. Oh sure, at first he delighted in their presence, with their cheers for hand grenades and hurricanes and Bloody Mary. He thought them beings of indescribable carnage, but oh how his heart sank when he learned the only thing they intended to punish were their livers. Soon, they would rue the day they thought him a mere “party monster.” But before he could enact his vengeance, he would need to fortify his resolve with at least six more jell-o shots and a few hours dancing to some really rockin' dubstep.

 - Originally mailed to J. Hall of Jackson, Mississippi

Saturday Night Trooper

They called him the Saturday Night Trooper, the Sequined Sargeant, the Disco Commando. They teased every time they raided a rebel outpost, saying his sparkling helmet would attract blaster fire, that his three piece suit offered no protection. He gave the usual replies, that a blaster clipped right through armor and maybe being lasers, the beam might be deflected by the sequins and glitter. His dancing skills and fancy footwork certainly helped him dodge his share of heavy enemy fire, and no one could argue that his sense of style often put him front and center of any post-battle victory photos. In truth, he didn't mind the friendly ribbing, but when a disco convention on Coruscant saved him from the first Death Star explosion, and suspension without pay for countless uniform violations spared him from the second he found he could no longer stomach the jokes about “Stayin' Alive.”

- Originally sent to B. Nowell from Newport News, Virginia

Jazz Hands

In 1974, the town of Halstrom commissioned a statue to commemorate the life of Carny Robinson (1918-1972).

Charles “Carny” Robinson, loved music more than life itself, especially the soulful improvisation of sweet hot jazz. Unfortunately, the town in which he lived allowed no music at all. At nights, he would hide in his closet, thick headphones on, and lose himself in melodic bliss, the heavenly mingling of harmonies and syncopation. He fought many bitter battles with the city council to repeal the ban, but could never change their hearts. Even so, he developed a reputation among the townsfolk as “the Music Man,” though none had heard a note in their lives. Curious, but mindful of the law, many would ask him, “What is music like?”

Possessing no eloquence, he let the memory of sound fill his body, arms outstretched in rapture, hands trembling with excitement. “I feel like jazz,” he would reply.

The music ordinance never lifted, but when people had a song in their heart they couldn't sing, they would thrust their arms out, stretch their fingers and shake. 

- Originally mailed to J. Stillman in New York City, New York