Folks, it's late November.
In advance of that six-week-or-so blur of casserole consumption and fund frittering known as The Holidays, it's time for a break—an entertaining evening of tales of yore, yesteryear and antiquity. Or perhaps just yesterday. What is known is that these readers are vetted. Painstakingly picked from a citizenry of thousands to bring you only the truest stories most tantalizingly told. We stand fast by our promise of being about the most fun you can on a Thursday night out for free.
Don't believe us? Read on! Excerpts follow from the evening's nervy journalists and rogue writers:
Jack Walsh
With a phone call, my time slot ringing the bell for the Salvation Army this Christmas season was set. I've come to see ringing the bell at the collection kettles as an annual holiday tradition, like going to the office party. And, like going to the office party, it's never as fun as I like to remember it. In fact, ringing the bell gets pretty old after 30 minutes. But, I'd say to myself, if you're going to jingle the Christmas bell, it ought to mean something. Like food for the poor, and also shelter, I guess. And whatever else the Salvation Army does. I'm not really sure, but it's probably pretty good. So, on goes the red apron and I ring for a few hours: a few hours out of an ever-lengthening season of over-indulgence. Clearly, I am a saint.
One of the feel-good holiday stories in the news this season has been about an antique gold piece found in a Salvation Army bucket. Of course, I have more than one person jokingly ask me if I've received one, and I laugh as if I haven't heard this yet. I do, however, have one woman rummage through her wallet and then say, "I thought I had change, but all I have is this Ugandan Token." I don't know what that is, but I would love to know what you get when you redeem it.
Anna Schachner
from "Letters to Mother Mexico"
Dear Frida Kahlo,
It was la virgen de guadalupe or you, and really, I couldn’t bring myself to ask her, what with that ring of light around her head, that cosmic baby safe in a womb as history-less and clean as a polished church pew. So I chose you—you with the indifferent monkeys on your shoulders; and the sleek rifle aimed straight up your gut past your chin; and all those babies you never had. Here’s what I want to know: Where does Mexico end? Where?
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