9. Prolonged contact with lake water may irritate the skin. If problems occur, the Potterfield Burn Center (twenty-nine miles south on Route 182) is open twenty-four hours a day.
10. For religious services, you are invited to the Temple of Universal Truth, whose members are characterized by their shaven heads and black turtlenecks. Or visit their webpage. Some of the acolytes may be a bit persistent about inviting you to join them on a journey. We recommend against it, unless you plan an extended stay.
11. Don’t be surprised if your family hears Girdie, the legendary monster that haunts Vanderpool Woods. The creature’s fearsome roar could shake the cabin at about 5:18 each morning, as Girdie rumbles down the tracks in her daily migration.
12. Now and then, federal law-enforcement officials may institute a blockade around the Vander-pool Republic. If such a policy is enacted, ask the highest-ranking U.S. officer for a pass allowing your family access to and from the cabin. Upon request, Kevlar vests will be provided.
13. During your stay, you may have the pleasure of meeting “the Professor,” who lives in the woods not far from your cabin. He is harmless, though it’s best not to offend him by flaunting electronic devices. If you’re heading to town, the Professor may ask you to mail a package for him. You’ll be amazed at the folks with whom our favorite hermit corresponds.
14. As the cabin continues to settle, the creaks and groans of aging woodwork at times may sound almost as if someone is in the basement, begging to be freed. For your own well-being and your family’s safety, please stay out of the basement.
The Six Degrees of Chuck Berry
With a grateful nod to Thomas Meehan
Hi, everybody! I’m Kathie Lee Gifford, and welcome to the Bankthemoney.com Music Excellence Awards. With cohost David Lee Roth, we’ll meet some of the biggest names in the recording industry. Right, David Lee?
Totally, Kathie Lee! And here they come: Hollywood’s Tommy Lee Jones, escorting singer Rickie Lee Jones, followed by bluesman John Lee Hooker, the legendary Jerry Lee Lewis, and rocker Tommy Lee. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No? Let me do introductions.…
Tommy Lee, John Lee. John Lee, Jerry Lee. Jerry Lee, Tommy Lee. Tommy Lee, Rickie Lee. Rickie Lee, John Lee. John Lee, Tommy Lee. Jerry Lee, Tommy Lee. Tommy Lee, Tommy Lee. Kathie Lee?
Thanks, David Lee. More artists are arriving, led by my own personal favorites, Boy George and Kid Rock. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?
Boy, Kid. Mr. Rock, Jewel. Jewel, Cool. L.L., B.B. Mr. King, Mr. Hill. Dru, Lou. Mr. Bega, Ms. Vega. Suzanne, Celine. Ms. Dion, Mr. Zevon. Warren, Waylon. Mr. Jennings, Mr. Jagger. Mick, Nick. Mr. Lowe, Ms. Loeb. Lisa, Tina. Ms. Turner, Ms. Tucker. Tanya, Enya. Enya, Shania. Shania, Mariah. Mariah, Wynonna. Wynonna, Fiona. Ms. Apple, Mr. Berry. Chuck Berry, Buckcherry!
That’s no little feat, Kathie Lee, but Buckcherry’s a band! And more bands are arriving. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?
Garbage, Biohazard. Biohazard, Anthrax. Anthrax, Megadeth. Megadeth, Genesis. Genesis, Live. Live, Offspring. Offspring, 10,000 Maniacs. Maniacs, Dummies. Crash Test Dummies, Goo Goo Dolls. Goo Goos, Go-Gos. Go-Gos, Toto. Toto, Kansas. Kansas, Alabama. Alabama, Bananarama. Bananarama, Chumbawumba. Chumbawumba, Eminem. Eminem, R.E.M. R.E.M., U2. U2, B-52s. B-52s, War. War, Bush. Bush, Presidents of the United States of America. Presidents, Barenaked Ladies. Barenaked Ladies, Squeeze. Squeeze, Sponge. Sponge, Cake. Cake, Cranberries. Cranberries, Buckcherry. Buckcherry, Chuck Berry!
Him again? Oh well, it’s a crowded house, David Lee! And more artists are arriving, led by my own personal favorite, Ozzy Osbourne. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?
Ozzy, Mr. Nelson. Willie, Billy. Mr. Bragg, Ms. Crow. Sheryl, Cher. Cher, Bono. Mr. Bono, Ms. Ono. Yoko, Coolio. Coolio, Julio. Mr. Iglesias, Ms. Imbruglia. Natalie, Natalie. Ms. Merchant, Mr. Cash. Johnny, Yanni. Yanni, Danny. Mr. Elfman, Mr. Ant. Adam Ant, Flea. Flea, Mr. Doggy Dogg. Snoop Doggy, Puff Daddy. Mr. Daddy, Mr. Pop. Iggy Pop, Brandy. Brandy, Mr. Berry. Chuck Berry, Buckcherry!
Them again? Oh well, they got lost in the traffic, no doubt. But more bands are arriving, Kathie Lee. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?
Backstreet Boys, Indigo Girls. Indigo Girls, Dixie Chicks. Chicks, Styx. Styx, Stones. Rolling Stones, Jesus Jones. Jesus, Judas Priest. Judas, Godsmack. Godsmack, Smash Mouth. Smash Mouth, Kiss. Kiss, Yes. Yes, Wilco. Wilco, Devo. Devo, Jethro. Tull, Tool. Tool, Moe. Moe, Hole. Hole, Korn. Korn, Cracker. Cracker, Limp Bizkit. Limp Bizkit, Hot Tuna. Tuna, Phish. Phish, Byrds. Byrds, Eagles. Eagles, Eagle Eye Cherry. Eagle Eye Cherry, Buckcherry. Buckcherry, Chuck Berry!
Him again? He’s just not in sync. More artists are arriving, David Lee, led by my own personal favorite, Sammy Hagar. Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?
Mr. Hagar, Mr. Harding. John Wesley, Leslie. Ms. Gore, Ms. Bush. Kate, Bonnie Raitt. Ms. Raitt, Mr. Strait. George Strait, Tom Waits. Tom, Tim. McGraw, Hill. Faith, Keith. Mr. Richards, Mr. Richard. Little, Baby. Ms. Spice, Mr. Ice. Vanilla, Santana. Santana, Madonna. Ms. Madonna, Mr. Idol. Billy, Billy. Mr. Ocean, Mr. Brooks. Brooks & Gaines, Brooks & Dunn, B&D, Miami Steve. Miami, Houston. Whitney, Britney. Ms. Spears, Mr. Slash. Mr. Slash, Mr. Manson. Marilyn Manson, Zachary Hanson. Zac, Beck. Beck, Boss. Bruce, Juice. Ms. Newton, Mr. Martin. Ricky, Mickey. Mr. Hart, Mr. Beefheart. Captain, Doctor. Dr. Dre, Mr. T. Ice, Ice. Mr. Cube, Mr. Loaf. Meat, Chuck. Chuck Berry! Buckcherry!
Them again? This sounds like a cheap trick, David Lee! Oh well, guess who just arrived! Hey, do you folks all know each other? No?
Trailer Trash
It is a world foretold in man’s nightmares.
A world where hope is a memory, and justice, an illusion.*
Where death is truth, and truth is a lie.
And where a lie offers the only hope,
Which, as you may recall, is just a memory.
It is the world of our future.
This summer, prepare for the thrill ride of a lifetime.
This summer, prepare to enter the next realm.
On May 31, let the award-winning producer of last summer’s most anticipated thriller transport you to a timeless place where dreams come alive, secret fantasies run wild, and where the one person you most trust—might just be the one person you most fear.
Because long ago, it was prophesied that this day would come.
The day when one woman dared challenge an empire,
And one man stood at the crossroads between heaven and hell.
And together, they would make the ultimate sacrifice.
And the world would know them by one name …
A name that would live forever in the hearts of man …
A name to be shouted on the winds of freedom.
And that day is near.
Coming May 31, the people who taught a generation to love and a nation to believe in miracles will unveil a spellbinding tale of magic and wonder, a story as true as the legend that inspired it.
This summer, get ready to laugh.
Get ready to live.
And get ready to fall in love again.
Because inside every heart, there is a secret door.
And sometimes, the key to that door just might be the key to happiness.
And now and then, the one person you thought you couldn’t live with—turns out to be the one person you can’t live without.
But beware what lurks behind a certain locked door.
Because in this perfect world, something has gone wrong.
This summer, let the award-winning director of last summer’s hottest motion picture take you and your family on a different kind of vacation.
No cottage. No campfire. And no turning back.
Be afraid.
Be very afraid.
Be very very very afraid.
Because beginning May 31, evil has a new name.
And only two people stand in its way.
One man.
One woman.
One destiny.
And their
names shall be remembered forever,
As long as people believe.
* Based on a true story.
Noel, My Lovely
’Twas the season to be jolly in Tinseltown, where nine ladies dancing kept eleven lords a-leaping nightly at Club Blitzen, and you didn’t need a herd of reindeer to find some very shiny noses. I was on the Ameche, talking turkey to some Scrooges downtown who wanted my neck in a wreath, when the fat man dropped in and helped himself to some milk and cookies I’d left on a plate.
“Next time ring the bell, auld man,” I grumbled. “ ’Cause this ain’t your magic toy shop, and I ain’t your sugar-plum fairy.”
He studied me coldly, two eyes seemingly made out of coal.
“I got helpers who’d deck the halls with you, Sleigh,” he spat, raising a bushy white eyebrow roughly the size of Frosty’s forearm. “But right now, I got no time to figure out which bulb in your string flickered out. It’s crunch time. I believe you got something for me.”
I flicked an envelope onto the desk, and he reached for it.
“Not so fast, Kringle,” I said. “Before we pass the cranberry sauce, I got a question for you: What’s with the babe?”
He snorted three hos, then mistletoed the rest of the milk.
For as long as anybody knew, the fat man ran a huge kiddie extortion racket up north, doling out toys for tots who toed the line, leaving the rest out in the cold. He made boughs of holly, the kind with presidents on it, by using elves as cheap labor. Nobody crossed Claus. You didn’t want to end up on his bad list.
Two months back, he’d hired me to keep tabs on Carol, a seven-year-old tyke who lived with her mom in a one-room manger on Cratchet Street. He wanted pictures, tapes, and round-the-clock surveillance, and when I said it’d cost twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses, the guy’s branches never even lost a needle. I figured the kid was a pawn in a custody war, or maybe she’d stayed up late and seen too much. Either way, when the sign on your door says “Nick Sleigh, P.I.,” you don’t ask questions of any guy who’s spreading the cheer.
Besides, bad bets on reindeer games had put me in debt to three wise guys downtown. Unless five hundred dollars appeared under their tree tonight, my Marley would turn up on somebody’s door knocker.
For three weeks I tailed the kid. I saw her when she was sleeping. I knew when she was awake. The more I wandered, the more I wondered about the true meaning of my job. It was beginning to look a lot like crassness.
“So tell me,” I said. “What’s with the babe?”
“Why don’t you tell me,” he said, lighting his pipe. “Is she naughty or nice?”
Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe I’ve seen one too many stockings stuffed with coal. Or maybe it was just the fat man’s suit. But I saw red. I reached over the desk, grabbed his beard and yanked him so close I could see the broken vessels where Jack Daniel’s had been nipping at his nose.
“Listen, Kringle!” I barked. “I don’t care how many chimneys you do on a night! Keep your partridge out of that pear tree, or I’ll bust your giblets from here to grandmother’s house!”
“O-o-o,” he growled, pulling away. “You better watch out.”
His eyes drifted to my report. For the next few minutes, he sat back and turned the pages. All was calm.
“Well,” he said, when finished. “She’s certainly no angel. Forgets chores. Won’t go to bed. Cries, shouts, pouts. Looks naughty to me.”
“She’s a nice kid,” I said.
“Yeah, and I’m the Easter Bunny! Listen, Sleigh, this chick sat right on my lap, swore she’d be good for goodness sake, put in for a Barbie Play Set. And look at her room, look! Swaddling clothes. Stockings hung from a chimney—whew, that’s gotta stink. Should all offenses just be forgot? Bah!”
“She’s just a crazy, mixed-up kid,” I said.
“She’s bad eggnog, Sleigh. This nymphet, she’s been playing you like a string of silver bells. Read your own Yule log! You, yourself, said she doesn’t believe.”
“Well, why should she? Kringle, you’re just like her old man. You show up once a year, make merry, and then it’s, ‘Up on the rooftop, click-click-click.’ ”
“I don’t write the songs, Sleigh. I just enforce them.”
“Go tell it on the mountain.”
He gave a strange smile, eyes all aglow, then flicked a package onto the desk. “Feliz Navidad, chump,” he grumbled.
Then he was gone. Outside, bells were jingling, and it had begun to snow. I unwrapped the package, counted up five golden rings. It was just enough to get the grinches off my back. But they didn’t matter anymore. The fat man had made his list. And I had made mine. I glanced at the clock. The toy store closed in twenty minutes. To make it, then get to Cratchet Street, I’d have to fly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The authors would like to thank the following people for their inspiration, assistance, expertise, and/or cold beer: Tom Peyer, Erin Duggan, David McCormick, Dan Menaker, Jeanne Tift, Toby Harshaw, Chip McGrath, Jeff Z. Klein, Ratso Sloman, Chris Knutsen, the former Susan Kelly, Bill Glavin, Jim Johnston, Sharon Green, James Gorman, the Scooter, the Boss, the guy who invented cable TV, and all the people at that extended family of ink-bleeding fools that makes up the Syracuse Newspapers. We owe you big.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
FRANK CAMMUSO draws editorial cartoons for the Post-Standard newspaper in Syracuse, N.Y. His work has appeared in Newsweek, USA Today, The New York Times, The New Yorker, The Village Voice, and The Washington Post.
HART SEELY is an award-winning reporter for the Post-Standard newspaper in Syracuse, N.Y., whose work has appeared in National Lampoon, The Village Voice, The New Republic, The New York Times, The New Yorker, and Spy magazine. He is married and has three children.
Throughout 1992, Seely and Cammuso collaborated on a monthly feature called “The Answering Machine,” which aired on National Public Radio’s Sunday Morning.
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