The Chocolate Milk is Tasty

Sunday dinner at the Smith's. In clockwise order around the table: Mr. Smith, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Bloom, Catherine Bloom, Margaret Bloom, Megan Cupcake, Mr. Bloom (at the far end), Clotilde, little Alexander, Mr. Smiley, Molly Bloom and Roderick. Mr. Fuzzums and Miss Kitty remain hidden under Catherine's chair. Alexander sits on an oddly shaped and brightly colored booster seat. On the menu today: roast pork, apple sauce and little green things. Clotilde brings a gift of pickled beets, which Mrs. Smith gratefully accepts and hides, hoping that Clotilde won't expect them to be served.

"What brings you to town, Mr. Smiley?" asks Megan.

"Oh, you know," says Mr. Smiley. "Just visiting."

"There's a new coffee place in town," says Mrs. Smith. "It's called Just Java."

"Oh, yes," says Mr. Smiley. "I went there last week."

"How was it?"

"Well..." Mr. Smiley ponders this. On the one hand, fair trade coffee; on the other, absence of whipped cream, no sprinkles, the question of coffee beans feeling pain, tiny spoon, exploding head. "It was nice."

Roderick is excited about his History of Accounting course. "Did you know that Luca Pacioli didn't actually invent double-entry bookkeeping? He merely codified it in his Summa de arithmetica, geometria, proportioni et proportionalità, a textbook for use in the schools of Northern Italy."

"No," says Mr. Bloom. "I had no idea."

Roderick warms to the subject. "The Summa, published in 1494, was a synthesis of the mathematical knowledge of his time and contained the first printed work on algebra written in the vernacular. It is also notable for including the first published description of the method of bookkeeping that Venetian merchants used during the Italian Renaissance, known as the double-entry accounting system. The system he published included most of the accounting cycle as we know it today. He described the use of journals and ledgers, and warned that a person should not go to sleep at night until the debits equaled the credits. His ledger had accounts for assets (including receivables and inventories), liabilities, capital, income, and expenses — the account categories that are reported on an organization's balance sheet and income statement, respectively. He demonstrated year-end closing entries and proposed that a trial balance be used to prove a balanced ledger."

Mr. Smiley listens intently, especially to the part about not going to sleep at night until the debits equal the credits. He finds this thought a little disturbing. Do his debits equal his credits? He does not know. Extracting a little journal from his pocket, he writes a note to himself to check on his debits and credits, and to make sure they are well behaved.

"Personally," says Mr. Bloom, "I want nothing to do with debits and credits. I'd rather pay my accountant to attend to them."

"Also," says Roderick, "Pacioli introduced the Rule of 72."

"Ah, the Rule of 72," says Mr. Smith. "What would we do without the Rule of 72?"

"Dessert anyone?" chirps Mrs. Smith.

The response is immediate and unanimous. In Beauneville, dessert is invariably pie, and nobody ever declines pie.

After dinner, while Molly plays the piano, Megan corners Roderick in the hallway. "Say something about Accounting," she whispers, rubbing up against him. "It makes me hot."

"Maybe later," says Roderick. "Molly's playing Charles Ives' Concord Sonata, and I want to hear the part in Hawthorne that Ives described as 'something to do with the children's excitement on that "frosty Berkshire morning, and the frost imagery on the enchanted hall window" or something to do with "Feathertop," the "Scarecrow," and his "Looking Glass" and the little demons dancing around his pipe bowl; or something to do with the old hymn tune that haunts the church and sings only to those in the churchyard, to protect them from secular noises, as when the circus parade comes down Main Street; or something to do with the concert at the Stamford camp meeting, or the "Slave's Shuffle"; or something to do with the Concord he-nymph, or the "Seven Vagabonds," or "Circe's Palace," or something else in the wonderbook--not something that happens, but the way something happens; or something to do with the "Celestial Railroad," or "Phoebe's Garden," or something personal,which tries to be "national" suddenly at twilight, and universal suddenly at midnight; or something about the ghost of a man who never lived, or about something that never will happen, or something else that is not.'"

Meanwhile, Mr. Smith, Mr. Bloom and Mr. Smiley sit on the front porch. Mr. Smith and Mr. Bloom sip a fine Calvados; Mr. Smiley sips chocolate milk. They reflect on life in general, and matters philosophical.

"So, Mr. Smiley, what are you doing with yourself these days?" asks Mr. Bloom.

Mr. Smiley sips his chocolate milk. He frowns, purses his lips, ponders the question. The chocolate milk is tasty. "Oh, nothing, really," he says.

No Sprinkles

Mr. Smiley pilots the Bubble Van up the Cidertown Road towards Beauneville. Clotilde, in the passenger seat, contemplates the countryside. Little Alexander, buckled into his oddly shaped and brightly colored car seat, dozes.

"Look!" says Mr. Smiley, pointing. A bright red Tesla Model S rests by the side of the road, near the faded Welcome to Beauneville sign. Betsy Flapper paces beside the car, talking animatedly on her iPhone.

"I think it's the Flapper girl," says Clotilde. "Should we stop?"

"She might be bird watching," says Mr. Smiley. "It's not nice to disturb people engaged in avian observation."

Clotilde agrees. They drive on. Truthfully, though, there is no such rule in Smiley etiquette. It's just that the Flappers make Mr. Smiley uncomfortable for some strange reason.

"What do you mean, plug it in?" Betsy shouts into her iPhone. Betsy's brand new Tesla has 265 miles on the odometer, which just happens to be the driving range. "Nobody ever said anything about plugging it in! My mother will fucking kill you!"

The customer service rep from Glen Falls Tesla is unmoved. Since the Town Meeting voted to mandate zero emission vehicles for all residents, there is a six month waiting list for cars.

Betsy ends the call angrily and stands by the side of the road, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. She's visiting Beauneville to check on the latest outlet for her franchise operation, Just Java, purveyors of craft coffee.

After about thirty minutes a dusty red tow truck rattles up the Cidertown Road from Beauneville, passes Betsy, makes a U-turn, passes Betsy again going in the other direction and pulls to the side of the road just ahead of the dead Tesla. A big young man wearing dirty coveralls slouches to the ground from the cab and slowly shambles around the back of the truck to the side of the road where Betsy stands.

"Hah y'all," says the young man, first eyeing the Tesla, then Betsy.

Betsy rolls her eyes. "I'm an important businesswoman and they send me Gomer Pyle."

"Mah name ain't Gomer, ma'am, it's Jimmy." Jimmy pulls a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his nose. He points to the Tesla. "That thar's one of them 'leck-trick thingies ain't it ma'am?"

Jimmy graduated from Beauneville Latin summa cum laude last May, and delivered a valedictory address on themes of idolatry in Paradise Lost. He wants to pursue a career in NASCAR or country music.

Betsy rolls her eyes again. "Tell me you have a Tesla charging station in town."

Jimmy shakes his head. "Nope. Ain't got one of them."

"Well you do have electricity, don't you?"

"Yup."

"So can you at least tow me in to town and plug it in? And don't scratch the fucking paint."

Betsy stomps to the back of the car, opens the trunk and retrieves her Salvatore Ferragamo Python briefcase, which contains her loaded fifteen-inch MacBook Pro and her copy of Lean In. Taking care to avoid dirtying her black Carolina Herrara Flared Doupioni Shirtdress, she gingerly climbs into the cab of the tow truck while Jimmy struggles with the hook and chain.

Meanwhile, in downtown Beauneville (if Beauneville can be said to have a downtown), Mr. Smiley pushes open the door to Just Java, the new coffee shop in town. It's across the street from Zeppelin Drugs. Ordinarily, Mr. Smiley is a loyal customer of the Cafe Venice, but today he has a yen for something new.

The sign in the window says Just Java: The Crafted Cup. Mr. Smiley likes that.

"Good morning, my name is Justin," says the young man behind the counter, "and I'll be serving you today. Welcome to Just Java. We only serve coffee made from Fair Trade coffee beans."

Mr. Smiley is pleased to learn that Just Java only serves coffee made from Fair Trade coffee beans. It tastes so much better than coffee made from Unfair Trade coffee beans.

"Thank you, I would like a Cafe Schmozzle, please."

As you know, a Cafe Schmozzle is made from warm chocolate milk, with whipped cream. And sprinkles.

Justin points to the menu board. "We just serve freshly crafted coffee, but you can choose from any of these Fair Trade beans."

The menu board displays a long list of countries Mr. Smiley doesn't know anything about. He's a little disappointed they don't have sprinkles.

"I guess I'll just have a cup of your most popular brew." When Smileys are confronted with challenging choices, they generally have what everyone else is having. This is a useful convention, except when Smileys are in groups.

Justin dutifully measures two scoops of the Extra Fancy Kona Medium Roast into the grinder, replaces the lid and presses the "on" switch.

The noise startles Mr. Smiley. "What's that noise?"

"Just grinding the coffee, sir."

Mr. Smiley ponders whether coffee beans feel pain when ground. He considers bringing this up as a topic of discussion, then decides against it. It's not nice to bring up disturbing questions.

Justin finishes grinding the coffee -- exactly twenty-two seconds -- and dumps the fine powder into the funnel of a plastic Aeropress. Pouring hot water into a beaker, he inserts a thermometer.

"What's that for?" asks Mr. Smiley.

"We use water that is exactly eighty degrees Celsius."

"Oh."

"That's one hundred seventy five degrees Fahrenheit," adds Justin, helpfully.

Mr. Smiley prefers Celsius. He doesn't want to burn his mouth.

Justin pours the water into the Aeropress. Dampening the plunger, he compresses it slowly, counting twenty seconds out loud. Removing the plunger, he pours the hot liquid into a tiny cup, places it on a saucer with a tiny spoon and positions the beverage on the counter just so. "That will be nine fifty," he says, proudly.

Mr. Smiley likes the tiny spoon. "Do you have any whipped cream?"

From Justin's expression, Mr. Smiley ascertains that whipped cream is not an option.

Gingerly, he takes a sip. His head explodes. Not literally, of course.

Later in the day, Mr. Smiley and Clotilde go for a stroll on Main Street with little Alexander. They pass Just Java; Betsy's Tesla is parked out front, with an extension cord running into the store.

Mr. Smiley describes his visit earlier in the day.

"How was it?" asks Clotilde.

Mr. Smiley ponders his customer experience. Absence of whipped cream, no sprinkles, the question of coffee beans feeling pain, tiny spoon.

"It was nice."

Jesus Who?

Bach wrote no cantatas for Lenten Sundays, as it was the practice at the Thomaskirche to eschew music until Palm Sunday. Mr. Mendelssohn spends the season in Key West, and members of the Chorale sleep late on Sundays.

Mr. Blech of the Theology faculty presents today's inspirational message: "Benign Indifference or Utter Obliviousness: Towards A Theology of 'Nice'."

Meanwhile, Dickie Wickett hosts a housewarming for the new home he shares with Katie Zeppelin out on East Cidertown Road. He pulls Roderick aside. "C'mon, take a look at my new car."

Roderick follows Dickie through a hallway, then down a flight of stairs to a finished basement. Dickie opens a door at the far end and steps into a large immaculate white garage.

"Wow!" says Roderick.

"It's a 1950 Jaguar XK 120," says Dickie, proudly. "I bought it with Bitcoins."

Roderick is kind of interested in this whole Bitcoin thing. "I hear that you're running a Bitcoin exchange."

"That's right," says Dickie. "It's more lucrative than search engine optimization, and Katie can run Condoms.com on her own."

"So how do Bitcoins work?"

"Simple. People give me money, and I give them Bitcoins."

"Then what?"

"Nothing. They keep on giving me money and I give them more Bitcoins."

"What happens when people want to redeem their Bitcoins?"

"Heh. I give them more Bitcoins."

"And if they want to convert Bitcoins to cash?"

"They go to another exchange."

Roderick makes a mental note to look into this whole Bitcoin thing.

Mary Bloom arrives in her new J.C.Penney Sassy and Slutty outfit. Katie welcomes her. "Love your outfit," she coos. "What happened to the 'pure and unsullied' look?"

"Well," says Mary, "I'm not a virgin anymore so I guess I'm a whore."

"If the shoe fits. Drinks are over there, help yourself."

Roderick arrives to chat with Katie. "How're things at Lake City?"

"I dropped out. We're making a mint with the website and Bitcoin exchange."

Roderick and Molly drive back to Old Ivy in time for the Sunday evening lecture. Mr. Vinkle of the Philosophy faculty presents his research on religion in Scandinavia, the title of which is "Jesus Who?"

Wardrobe Malfunction

Shawanna fiddles with her blonde braids. "Shee-it, mothafuckah!" she shouts into her iPhone. "Ah ain't no baby momma!" Angrily, she presses "End".

"Ahem," says Mr. Bloom, standing at the Sritt-Nick counter.

"What choo want?" demands Shawanna, glaring at Mr. Bloom

"Um, I'm here to see Mary Bloom."

"Ah ain't no do'man, crackah," says Shawanna, pointing to the staircase with a lily-white finger. "You wants to see a young'un, you just goes."

"Thank you." Mr. Bloom climbs the stairs to the fourth floor and turns to the right down the corridor. It's a typical Sunday morning at Sritt-Nick. The floor is littered with cups, beer cans and, not too far from Mary's door, a pool of vomit.

Mr. Bloom knocks on Mary's door.

Mary, in pajamas, opens the door. Her eyes are red, and a little tearful. "Oh, hello, Daddy," she says, stepping aside. "Come on in."

"Wait! I'm not dressed!" cries Melissa, stark naked except for the t-shirt she is presently trying to pull over her head.

"It's okay, silly, it's just Daddy," says Mary, petulantly. Melissa continues to struggle with the t-shirt and succeeds in pulling it over her head and down to mostly cover her private parts. "Daddy, this is Melissa, my roommate," says Mary.

"Pleased to meet you," says Mr. Bloom. "Nice bush."

Melissa squints, then gropes for her glasses and puts them on.

Mr. Bloom hands a gift-wrapped package to Mary. "I thought you might be a little blue, so I brought you something."

Mary's eyes light up. "For me? I wonder what it is!" She takes the package and quickly removes the gift wrap, breaking into a smile. "Wow, a Waterworks Natural Vagina Douching Device! How thoughtful!" she hugs Mr. Bloom.

Melissa squints. "What is it?"

Mary unwinds from Mr. Bloom and holds the gift out so Melissa can see it. "You use it to wash your...you know."

"Oh."

"You can borrow it if you wash it after."

"Um, okay."

Mr. Bloom sits on Melissa's bed and gestures to Mary to sit next to him. "So what's bothering you?"

Mary looks down and fidgets with her bracelet. "Well, you see..." her voice trails off. Mary can barely hold it together.

Mr. Bloom puts his arm around her. "Hey, honey, you can tell me anything, I'm your Dad. Trouble with a customer?"

Mary shakes her head. Her face reddens, a tear runs down her cheek and drops to the floor. Suddenly, she rises from the bed, strides to the desk, rummages through some papers, returns to the bed, thrusts a sheet of paper at Mr. Bloom and buries her head in his shoulder, sobbing.

Mr. Bloom glances at the letter, which bears the heading National Virgin Society. He begins to read aloud:

Dear Miss Bloom,
We regret to inform you...

"Disqualified!" wails Mary. The random inspection two weeks ago, it seems, did not go well. The inspectors concluded that her virgo was not intacta; in fact, it was missing altogether.

Skimming, Mr. Bloom comments. "So...they've decided you can't compete for Miss College Virgin."

Mary nods. "Read the rest."

Mr. Bloom reads. "And they've terminated your membership in the Society."

Mary nods and sobs.

Helpfully, Melissa interjects. "Well, you really aren't a virgin."

Mary balls her fists, and pounds the bed, sobbing. "It's so unfair!"

Mr. Bloom gives Melissa a look and hugs Mary. "It's okay...we'll get past this together..."

"But, my customers! What will I tell my customers?" she wails.

"Oh, I don't think the johns care whether you're an actual virgin."

Meanwhile, at Old Ivy, Roderick awakes sandwiched between Molly and Megan. He sits up in bed and ponders the night before. Overall, the Vienna Ball went pretty well. There was that little snit between Natasha and Security over her fake service dog, and Megan's "wardrobe malfunction" during the polka s'gibt nur a Kaiserstadt, s'gibt nur ein Wien caused a bit of a stir; but the ringer on zither did a stellar job in Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald.

Roderick noodges the women awake. "Come on, it's almost ten!" Today is Quinquagesima Sunday, and the Old Ivy Bach Chorale performs the Bach Cantata Du wahrer Gott und Davids Sohn, BWV 23. With its unusual instrumentation (cornet, two oboes, three trombones, strings and continuo), the cantata gives the Reed twins (aka "the Double Reeds") a chance to shine on oboe; and Old Ivy's three trombonists (Larry, Pete and Zelda) get to play in the last movement.

Inside St. Cecilia, they sit and listen. The Double Reeds rise to the occasion, as do Larry, Pete and Zelda. During the final chorale, Christe, du Lamm Gottes, Megan checks online for video of her wardrobe malfunction.

In Honor of Joseph The Second

The Great Cathedral of Lake City stands resolute on Central Avenue, its elaborate Baroque facade only slightly diminished by the surrounding glass towers, the Whacko Taco restaurant across the street and the Big Box store diagonally across the intersection of Central and Main. If you stand at the right spot on Central, you can see the Cathedral's ornate South facade reflected in the mirrored face of the Gibralter Insurance Tower, a building that is now mostly empty as lawyers, trustees and claimants struggle over the carcass of that now defunct institution.

Roderick and Molly are in Lake City today. Roderick has a gig -- the Great Cathedral Orchestra needs a clarinet for the Mozart Requiem -- and Molly wants to catch up with Mary. Standing in the atrium of the Great Cathedral, Roderick reads a plaque:

In 1910, Lake City was mired in progressivism. While fashionable architects sought to tear down historical buildings and replace them with the most modern style, architect Albert T. Skwayer just wanted to build nice buildings for his wealthy clients.

Below the plaque there is a bust of Albert T. Skwayer with a Latin inscription that translates as "Fake History is better than No History."

"Excuse me, are you Roderick?" Roderick turns to face a fifty-ish bespectacled man in a scholar's robe.

"Um, yes."

"Welcome to the Great Cathedral! I'm Deacon Weems. You're the Clarinet?"

Roderick considers responding with a smart remark to the effect that while he plays a Clarinet he is not, in fact, a Clarinet. Instead, he just nods.

"Good. Follow me."

As they pass through a grand narthex into the enormous nave, Roderick inquires: "What denomination is this church?"

"We worship abstract greatness," says Deacon Weems, throwing the response over his right shoulder as he strides towards the altar.

"I don't understand."

Deacon Weems pauses in the transept, where members of the orchestra are setting up for rehearsal. He points to the empty chair that Roderick is supposed to occupy. "You believe that God is Great, don't you?" he asks.

"Um, yes."

"So there you have it." The matter settled, Deacon Weems strides away.

Roderick ponders that and frowns. "But..." The Deacon, however, has disappeared.

Molly strokes Roderick's hair. "I don't get it either," she says.

"What are you going to do during rehearsal?"

Molly holds up a copy of Finnegan's Wake. "I have some light reading."

Roderick smiles as he walks to his designated chair. Molly sure has an eye for the fun stuff. Seated, he opens his clarinet case, assembles the instrument, attaches a reed and noodles a bit. As he warms up, the other clarinet player arrives, a dark-haired and rather buxom young woman.

"Hi, I'm Roderick." Roderick extends his hand.

"Brandy."

"Sorry, I didn't bring any."

"No, that's my name. Brandy Rohrblatt." Brandy shakes Roderick's hand, sits, assembles her clarinet and noodles.

Roderick points to the Requiem sheet music on their music stands. "Who died?"

"Joseph the Second."

"The Emperor of Austria?"

"Joseph the Second, by the grace of God elected Holy Roman Emperor, forever August; King of Germany, Jerusalem, Hungary, Bohemia, Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, Galicia and Lodomeria; Archduke of Austria; Duke of Burgundy, Lorraine, Styria, Carinthia and Carniola; Grand Duke of Tuscany; Grand Prince of Transylvania; Duke of Brabant, Limburg, Luxembourg, Gelderland, Württemberg, the Upper and Lower Silesia, Milan, Mantua, Parma, Piacenza, Guastalla, Auschwitz, Zator, Calabria, Bar, Montferrat and Teschen; Prince of Swabia and Charleville; Princely Count of Habsburg, Flanders, Tyrol, Hennegau, Kyburg, Gorizia and Gradisca; Margrave of Antwerp, Burgau, the Upper and Lower Lusatia, Pont-à-Mousson, Nomeny and Moravia; Count of Namur, Provence, Vaudémont, Blâmont, Zutphen, Saarwerden, Salm and Falkenstein; and Lord of the Wendish March and Mechelen."

"Oh, that Joseph the Second."

"Yes."

"But he died in 1790."

"Yes."

"Why a Requiem now?"

"We celebrate Mass for all of the late royals, at least the great ones."

"Including the Hohenzollerns?"

Brandy looks around furtively. "Shhh. Don't mention that name around here."

"Why not?"

Brandy leans closer to Roderick and whispers: "The Hohenzollerns are fake royals. That whole 'King in Prussia' business with the Emperor Leopold? Totally corrupt."

"Ah," says Roderick, admiring Brandy's ample decolletage. "I always wondered about that 'King in Prussia' thing."

"Okay, people, let's get started." A youngish conductor raps on the podium. "For those of you here for the first time, I am Mr. Langestock, Music Director of the Great Cathedral, and this is Mr. Trillern, the Choir Director." He beckons to a mustachioed fellow wearing a purple blazer standing in front of the choir, who bows in response. "We're doing Mozart's Requiem in honor of Joseph the Second."

"Which Joseph the Second?" asks Mr. Trillern.

"Joseph the Second, by the grace of God elected Holy Roman Emperor, forever August; King of Germany, Jerusalem, Hungary, Bohemia, Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, Galicia and Lodomeria; Archduke of Austria; Duke of Burgundy, Lorraine, Styria, Carinthia and Carniola; Grand Duke of Tuscany; Grand Prince of Transylvania; Duke of Brabant, Limburg, Luxembourg, Gelderland, Württemberg, the Upper and Lower Silesia, Milan, Mantua, Parma, Piacenza, Guastalla, Auschwitz, Zator, Calabria, Bar, Montferrat and Teschen; Prince of Swabia and Charleville; Princely Count of Habsburg, Flanders, Tyrol, Hennegau, Kyburg, Gorizia and Gradisca; Margrave of Antwerp, Burgau, the Upper and Lower Lusatia, Pont-à-Mousson, Nomeny and Moravia; Count of Namur, Provence, Vaudémont, Blâmont, Zutphen, Saarwerden, Salm and Falkenstein; and Lord of the Wendish March and Mechelen."

"Oh," says Mr. Trillern, "that Joseph the Second."

Boodle House

A first year student approaches Molly at breakfast.

"Your interpretation of Schubert's C Minor was lovely," he says, referring to Molly's performance two weeks ago at the Schubertiade. Each year, the students and faculty of Old Ivy pay tribute to Schubert on his birthday, January 31.

"Thank you," says Molly.

"And I like the vagina pictures." Natasha's latest work, a tryptique devoted to you-know-what currently occupies an entire wall in the East Gallery.

"Thank you." Molly bites into a piece of scrapple.

After breakfast, Roderick attends a meeting of the Vienna Ball Orchestra Committee. Mr. Wienerwald presides. On the agenda: this year's program.

"Okay," harumphs Mr. Wienerwald, "let's review the rules. Sheldon, will you do the honors?"

Sheldon Wang, the concertmaster, rises and faces the group. "The first rule of the Vienna Ball Orchestra is you don't talk about Vienna Ball Orchestra."

The group titters slightly.

"The second rule of Vienna Ball Orchestra is YOU DON"T TALK ABOUT VIENNA BALL ORCHESTRA.

"Rule number three: An der schönen blauen Donau cannot be played in consecutive years."

Mr. Wienerwald interjects: "We played it last year, so that's out."

"Rule number four: Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald must be played...

"Rule number five: ...preferably, with a zither."

An uproar ensues. Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald includes an important part for the zither. Last year, and for the previous three, Sophie von Drittemann, zitherist extraordinaire, did the honors. But she graduated with honors last May and returned to Vienna. At present, Old Ivy is sans zitherists.

"Well, that's a fine kettle of fish!" exclaims Aretha Wang, a violinist only remotely related to Sheldon.

"I won't perform without a zitherist," proclaims Betsy Fife, one of the flautists.

"Okay, okay," shouts Mr. Wienerwald, raising his hand for silence. "I'll get a ringer from Lake City." Zitherists, it seems, are in short supply in Washington County, but when you really need one the Lake City Zither Society can usually put you in touch with one of their members. They don't come cheap, though.

Sheldon concludes the rules. "Rule number six: the Radetzky March may not be played under any circumstances."

Meanwhile, Mr. Smith is in Lake City for business overnight and has time on his hands. He visits the famous Boodle House for a tour.

The tour begins with a video.

In 1905, Lake City was mired in progressivism. While fashionable architects sought to tear down historical buildings and replace them with the most modern style, architect Albert T. Skwayer just wanted to build nice homes for his rich clients.

Heh! Thinks Mr. Smith. Roderick would like this.

The Old Ivy Bach Chorale Takes the Week Off

At Lake City University, Mary Bloom lives in Some Random Doner That Nobody Knows House, known to its residents as SRDTNK, or "Sritt-Nick". Mary thinks the whole House concept is kind of stupid and despises her roommate, Melissa Mouse, a pre-Med student and actual virgin.

Mary sits on her bed and whines into her cell phone. "She gets all upset when I bring my customers in here. Like last night, I was going down on this guy and she keeps looking up from her Shmorganic Chem or whatever and giving me these looks -- like, you can tell she thinks its so disgusting."

Melissa turns the other way in her bed and pulls the covers over her head.

"That's too bad, honey," says Mr. Bloom. "Maybe you should cut her in on a piece of your business."

"But Daddy," Mary protests, "she's an actual virgin. I mean, you know, she hasn't actually done it with anyone, even a boyfriend. Can you believe it?"

"Hmm, yes, I see the problem. Maybe you should file a grievance with the Housing Office."

"I thought of that, Daddy, but it won't work. She's under twenty-one, so virginity is still technically legal under the rules."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot about that. Aside from the roommate problem, how's life?"

"Pretty good. I had fifteen clients last week, which is pretty good considering this little situation. Also, I have arrangements with three of my four professors, including Mr. Barville."

"That's great, honey. Listen, some of my agency clients are in Lake City next week. Think you can fit them into your schedule?"

"Of course, Daddy! You know I always make time for your clients! The usual fee?"

"Yes, the usual fee. Just send me a check with my cut when you get a chance."

There is a beep on Mary's cell phone. "Somebody's calling me. Gotta run, could be a client. Love you, Daddy!" Mary presses Send to connect to the other call. "Mary Bloom speaking," she chirps, in her most virginly voice.

"Dis be Shawanna at de fron' day-esk." Shawanna Cabot Wadsworth of New Canaan, Connecticut is white as the driven snow, but went full ghetto a few years ago to further her career in gender politics. She cornrows her blond hair, rummages clothing at second-hand stores, wears Uggs and can recite verbatim every word of every scene in every episode of Girls. "Dey be peoples wants to see y'all, and dey looks like dey be da man."

Mary wrinkles her nose. "Um, can I speak to Mary Elisabeth?"

"Ah'll go gets her."

Long pause.

"Good morning, this is Mary Elisabeth." Mary Elisabeth Purcells is the Front Desk Supervisor. Born a few blocks from the University on Lake and Sixty-Fifth, Mary Elisabeth grew up with her great aunt and grandmother while her father served time for aggravated assault and her mother tried unsuccessfully to recover from heroin addiction. Mary Elisabeth joined the church choir at Zion A.M.E. Church on Lake Avenue; she sang so well that she gained admission to the Performing Arts High School in Lake City, and earned a scholarship to Lake City University. She now covers nights and weekends at Sritt-Nick to supplement the small income she earns as a counselor at Lake City Neighborhood Community Centers.

"Somebody wants to see me?" asks Mary.

"Yes," says Mary Elisabeth, in a hushed and professional tone. "Two men, wearing suits. They say they are from the National Virgin Society. Something to do with your application for Miss College Virgin America. Do you want to speak with them?"

Mary pauses. National Virgin Society? What could they possibly want at this time on a Sunday morning? "Yes, please, could you put them on?"

There is a brief silence as Mary Elisabeth hands the desk phone to one of the men.

"Hello, this is Roger Rector from the National Virgin Society, is this Mary?"

"Speaking."

"We're here for the random virginity check."

"The what?"

"The random virginity check. You know, for your application."

Mary ponders this. There was a lot of fine print at the bottom of her application for Miss College Virgin, which she did not read.

"I'm not decent."

"Oh, I don't think that's a problem."

"My roommate is sleeping."

"We'll be quiet as mice. Only takes a minute."

"Can you come back later?"

"If you decline a random check, you will be disqualified from Miss College Virgin, and your membership in the Society will be revoked."

"Well, okay, come on up."

Meanwhile, at Old Ivy, Megan continues her novel:

Mae Rose's remaining daughters died from various causes attributable to obesity, stupidity or both, except for Emily, who died when struck by lightning while cleaning the gutters.

At the Church of the Holy Placebo, Dr. Feelgood's sentiments grow increasingly perfunctory. "The Memorial Service will be $199," he says, taking Mae Rose's hand. "Make your check payable to me. The organist is an extra $25, she prefers cash."

With few opportunities for conversation at home, Muffin takes to cruising the neighborhood, seeking companionship. One morning, she approaches a boy at a bus stop.

"Good morning," says Muffin. "My name is Muffin."

"Good morning," says the boy. "My name is Fred."

"Are you on the way to school?" asks Muffin.

"Yes. Just waiting for the bus."

"Do you live nearby?"

"Yes, just down the street, near the crazy fat lady with the sinkhole in her back yard."

Muffin smiles as well as a Dandie Dinmont Terrier can smile.

The boy smiles back. "I don't run into talking dogs every day."

Muffin considers responding with a nasty wisecrack, but suppresses the thought.

Today is the fifth sunday after Epiphany. Since Bach wrote no cantatas for the fifth sunday after Epiphany, the Bach Chorale takes the week off.