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.

Banking Sounds More Interesting in German

Megan continues to work on her novel:

Heroic efforts by city workers saved the Port-O-Potties, but could not save Dahlia and her customer.

The memorial service, held at the nearby Church of the Holy Placebo, is sparsely attended. At the door, Dr. Feelgood holds Mae Rose's hand. "She was so young. And such a good earner."

Mae Rose sobs.

"He's creepy," says Muffin, as they walk to the car.

"I just don't know what we're going to do without Dahlia's cash," Mae Rose says, weepily.

"We can charge people fees to get rid of their cars," says Muffin, pausing briefly to contribute to the Church of the Holy Placebo's front lawn.

Megan pauses, and shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Ouch, she thinks. Mr. Joyce is an awesome writing coach, but a bit hard on the buttocks. She makes a mental note to change her 'safe' word to something other than 'Ulysses'.

Meanwhile, Rosa Behaarte-Beine brings up her favorite subject at today's 'Sunday Brunch with Parvelescu'. "Why doesn't anyone talk about the positive aspects about life in the GDR?" she asks between bites of gluten-free non-GMO granola.

Parvelescu sips his coffee. "Like what, for instance?"

"Well, free health care, for one."

"Bismarck introduced universal health care to Germany in 1883. The Commies can't claim credit for that."

"Very little crime."

"You're right about that, and the police were very responsive. You didn't even need to call them. Just say 'Erich Honecker is a moron' in a loud voice and they'd show up in no time."

"No pointless consumerism."

"That's true, too. There was nothing to buy. Let me guess, you're from West Berlin?"

"Ja, Zehlendorf."

"Your mother and father vote SDP?"

"No, they're Greens."

"And you were born after the wall came down?"

"Ja, 1995."

"So you don't really remember the Wall?"

"Why does everyone complain about the Wall? Israel has a Wall."

"The distinction being that while Israel has a wall to keep terrorists out, the Berlin Wall was built to keep citizens of the GDR in. Because wanting to leave the GDR was the ultimate crime, punishable by death. Those who wanted to leave the GDR were, in effect, saying that the GDR was not paradise, a belief that could not be countenanced."

Rosa shrugs. "I suppose you're going to complain about the Stasi. It's kind of hypocritical for Americans to criticize the Stasi when you have Guantanamo Bay and NSA wiretapping."

"With the 'subtle' distinction that the GDR put its own citizens in Torgau for thought crimes, while Guantanamo Bay holds stateless individuals who admit they want to kill and maim American citizens." Parvelescu uses his fingers to emulate "square quotes" around the word 'subtle'. "And whether you agree with the NSA's tactics or not, it's inarguable that they act in the interests of all Americans while the Stasi -- whose motto was 'Sword and Shield of the Party' -- was an instrument of the Party and not the state. The Stasi would be equivalent to a large security apparatus working for the Republican Party to suppress political action by Democrats."

Parvelescu is on a roll.

"The GDR justified harsh measures against those who wanted to leave by citing the state's investment in education and training. That is the essence of the socialist bargain, no? We pay for your education, you belong to us."

Parvelescu leans back triumphantly, relishing the pleasure of flattening a first-year student. Not coincidentally, his new book The Socialist Bargain goes on sale next week.

Lily whispers something in Roderick's ear, something that sounds like "chuck" or "luck". Roderick just smiles. "Maybe later," he says, which for Roderick is code for "No, thank you."

After dinner, Roderick calls Mr. Smiley.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Smiley, this is Roderick."

"Hello, Roderick."

Roderick talks about his day, ending with Parvelescu's demolition of Rosa.

"Ah, the Berlin Wall," says Mr. Smiley, waxing wistful. "I was there with Miss Kitty the night the Wall came down. We made passionate love in the Potsdamerplatz near the wall. I went looking for the spot last summer, but there's nothing there but a HypoVereinsbank."

Hmm, thinks Roderick. Hypovereinsbank. An Aktiengesellschaft fur Konten, Kredite & Finanzierung, Geldenlage & Vorsorge. Banking sounds so much more interesting in German.

A Useful Literary Device

Over brunch, Mr. Parvelescu opines on politics with Roderick, Lily Chang and Rosa Behaarte-Beine, visiting student from Germany. Rosa is a member of the Green Party, which would ordinarily make her something of a laughing stock on campus, but since she is somewhat hot the Old Ivy students tolerate her views on global warming.

They sit in the Dining Room of the Old Ivy Inn, near the fireplace. Outside, an icy wind blows from the Northwest. A cold front moves in, threatening to add several inches to the record snowfall this winter.

Earlier this week, Rosa tried to organize an anti-fracking demonstration at College Hall, but nobody showed up. Her timing was unfortunate; the demonstration coincided with several other events, including a lecture on "America's Natural Gas Boom" sponsored by the Political Economy Club; one of Molly's nude modeling sessions for the Human Figure Workshop; and a performance of the first of Haydn's "Apponyi" string quartets by the Old Ivy College String Quartet.

On that last point, the reader should note that if one is a devotee of the string quartet, one should not miss a single event in the Old Ivy College String Quartet's Haydn cycle. Six years ago, the quartet lost its funding when its donor, Mr. Lobkowitz of Beauneville, died and left his estate to care for his cats. Mr. Fermata, Dean of Music, told the members they would have to disband without additional funding, but agreed to support them for "one last Haydn cycle." At the current rate of one concert per month -- when college is in session -- the Quartet expects to wrap things up some time in 2016.

Meanwhile, nobody who has attended the first fifty-four concerts wants to miss the first of the "Apponyi" quartets.

Another reason for scant attendance at Rosa's demonstration: the administration, in solidarity with Rosa's opposition to use of fossil fuels, turned off the heat in College Hall. Their reasoning, which most on campus considered flawless, was that opponents of fossil fuel would not wish to be warmed by them. The result, of course, was that College Hall was almost unbearably cold. Rosa stood in the lobby, shivering, holding her sign ("Profits, No! People, Yes!") in one bemittened hand and banging a tambourine with the other bemittened hand for one hour. Roderick was actually kind of impressed with her performance -- he saw the last of it on the way back from the Political Economy Club and invited her to Sunday Brunch with Parvelescu.

Today's topic: the direction of American politics.

"Socialism," says Parvelescu, slurping his soup. Parvelescu is well-known for his concise and pithy commentary.

"Yay!" says Rosa.

"Oh, not that kind of Socialism." Parvelescu slathers butter on a roll and bites it.

"What kind of Socialism?"

"Free Stuff Socialism. That's where elected officials make timely and visible promises in return for votes, then actually deliver on small things like free phones and EBT cards."

"How does that differ from regular Socialism?"

"There is no planning, and no concern for actual human need. Nobody can live on a free phone and an EBT card; it's just a nice little gift, and since voting costs nothing voters can be bought cheaply."

"Isn't that bad for the economy in the long run?"

"Nobody knows what's good for the economy in the long run."

"Shouldn't we encourage people to be self-sufficient?"

"Think of democracy as a policy market. I prefer Beethoven to Lady Gaga, but in a mass culture Lady Gaga knows how to sell. I prefer Libertarian policies to Socialism of any kind, but Free Stuff Socialism appeals to the ninety-nine percenters who, by definition, outvote the one percenters. It doesn't matter if taxing the rich is bad for the economy; it's good politics."

Meanwhile, in her room, Megan continues to work on her novel.

"Where's Dahlia?" asked Mae Rose, several days later. The sinkhole has expanded, and now threatens the park out back.

"She's over by the Port-O-Potties, blowing some guy," says Muffin, who can't keep a secret.

"Damn, that girl can earn," mutters Mae Rose, glaring at Babs and Celia, who are sprawled in lounge chairs. "Not like some people around here."

"I'm working, Mama" says Emily, looking up from one of her books.

"You call that work?" says Mae Rose. "If you had any gumption, you'd be out earning some cash like your sister and not filling your head with them fancy books."

"But Mama," protests Emily, "I need a degree if I want to be a gender activist."

Muffin, bored with this conversation, runs outside to contribute a transformed version of this morning's dish of Alpo to the landscape.

Meagan pauses, reads that last line and smiles. Mr. Joyce, the writing professor is right; a talking dog is a useful literary device.

Megan's Wait

Lectures start tomorrow at Old Ivy. Megan works on her novel.

"Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!" says Muffin. "Arf! Arf, arf! Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!"

"Muffin, shut up!" screams Mae Rose, throwing a shoe. Muffin deftly avoids the thrown shoe and runs out back, where Alice glides lazily on the rope swing.

"Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!" Muffin continues to bark, seemingly at nothing.

Alice bestirs herself slightly on the swing. "Ma! Shut up the fucking dog!"

Suddenly, there is a queer swishing noise, and the sycamore disappears into a sinkhole with a ploop, taking Alice with it. Muffin, being defter at foot than Alice, escapes.

Mae Rose runs out of the house and stares at the gaping hole where her back yard used to be. "Holy shit!" she exclaims.

"Don't say I didn't try to warn you," says Muffin.

"Now I'll never be able to sell this dump," says Mae Rose.

At the memorial service for Alice, Dr. Feelgood offers a eulogy. "She was lovely, big-boned, lazy, ignorant and a slut, and had no redeeming qualities to compensate. In the end, she was taken by a sinkhole, which seems ironic in a way that I can't quite articulate."

A woman in the church sobs. "So young, so young..."

Muffin rolls her eyes. "Please..."

Dr. Feelgood grasps Mae Rose' hands. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"You mean Alice? At least she was insured, which I can't say for my house."

Megan's phone rings. It's Roderick. "Hi Megan."

"Hi Roderick." Megan's heart goes thumpety-thump.

"The Klemperers are over again and we need a fifth for Geschichte der Schweizer Eisenbahnen. Can you join us?"

"Is it the strip variation?"

"Yes." The Klemperers live dangerously, and play a mean game of Geschichte der Schweizer Eisenbahnen.

Megan hesitates. "I don't know...I really don't get that game." Last Sunday Megan lost big time, being completely naked before any other player had removed a stitch of clothing. Otto Klemperer had proposed upping the stakes to spanking, but Roderick saved Megan's bacon by feigning a need for bedtime.

"Just follow my lead and don't worry," says Roderick. "You can sleep over if you like."

That last point sold Megan. "Be right there," she says, breathlessly.

Megan arrives at the Smith house a few minutes later. The game is already set up. Berolina is blinged up, as is her custom when she plays strip Geschichte der Schweizer Eisenbahnen. Once again, Molly feels like living dangerously and wears a single garment, a sundress with no underwear. Her shoes are somewhere upstairs.

"Dealing!" says Otto, shuffling the cards and distributing five to each player. He places the remainder of the deck in the center and turns the top card face up. "Ach! Ze SBB CFF FFS Ae 4/7. Player to ze right of ze dealer remove one thing, pliss!" He leers at Megan, who sits to his immediate right.

"What? Already? We just started!" protests Megan, who didn't have time to bling up.

"It iss ze rules, you vill remove one item, pliss."

"Oh all right," says Megan, pouting as she removes one shoe. "I really don't get this game."

Play continues; Berolina, Roderick and Megan drop out of the hand, leading up to a showdown between Otto and Molly. Otto licks his lips. He's holding the BAM Ge 4/4, an almost unbeatable card; he imagines Molly naked, though he hardly has to imagine since she's sitting cross-legged and he can see her blonde bush.

"BAM!" he says, slapping down his card, leering expectantly.

Molly gazes at it for a moment and, hand trembling, reaches for the top button on her dress. With her other hand, she plays her card, the BLS Re 465. "Rated at 6400 kW, I believe the BLS Re beats the BAM Ge 4/4, which produces a mere 3200 kW."

Stunned, Otto stares at the card for a minute, then slowly removes a shoe.

"Wow!" says Roderick to Molly, admiringly. "How do you know so much about Swiss railway locomotives?"

Molly shrugs. "I studied."

After an hour of play, Megan and Otto are completely naked, while Roderick is down to his boxers and Berolina has removed all of her bling. Molly remains fully dressed, or at least as fully dressed as she started.

It's Molly's turn to deal. "So how does the spanking variation work?"

Otto and Berolina claim to be tired, and the game breaks up.

Shortly thereafter, Roderick lies in bed with nude Molly curled up on his left and nude Megan curled up on his right.

"Roderick?" whispers Megan.

"Yes?"

"When are you and Molly going to do it, so then we can do it?"

Roderick, mindful that Molly is still awake, tries to be tactful. "Oh, I don't know. We have another eighteen months before the deadline."

"Okay," says Megan, snuggling up against Roderick. "I'm waiting."

Megan's Novel

Megan works on her novel:

Mae Rose lives in a prewar bungalow on a tree-lined street with her five lovely but big-boned daughters (Alice, Babs, Celia, Dahlia and Emily) and a very intelligent Dandie Dinmont Terrier named Muffin. Alice, Babs, Celia and Dahlia are lazy and ignorant, while Emily works very hard at school to no avail because she is just plain stupid.

Pausing, Megan reads that passage to herself and smiles. Good characterization, she thinks. Now to the setting.

Two grand old sycamore trees -- one in the front and one out back -- shelter Mae Rose's bungalow from the Florida sun. The sycamore out back, which the girls lovingly refer to as "the big tree", has a rope swing attached to one of the branches. If you look at the trunk you can read the names of Alice and Babs' many boyfriends, but none for Celia because she is too fat and ugly, and none for Dahlia because she doesn't give it out for free. Also none for Emily because she is too busy with fruitless study.

There are many other interesting things in Mae Rose's back yard, but be careful where you walk lest you step in one of Muffin's contributions to the landscape.

The property abuts on a little park with many poinciana plants and a row of Port-O-Potties funded by a Federal UDAG Grant.

Megan smiles. She likes that line. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to relax. Writing is hard work.

One day, Mae Rose, dressed in a floral muu-muu, stands on her back deck smoking a cigarette waiting for Muffin to contribute to the landscape. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. "Emily!" shrieks Mae Rose. "Answer the gawdamn door!"

Setting aside the Susan B. Anthony doll she found in the neighbors' trash, Emily shuffles down the hall to the door; she has a club foot, and Mae Rose's ex-husband refuses to pay for corrective surgery. "I have to pay alimony, child support and fix her gimp?" he complains. "Forget it!"

Emily opens the door; a man wearing a white shirt and tie stands on the stoop. He holds a clipboard. "Hello, may I speak with your Mom or Dad", he asks pleasantly.

"My Dad ain't here."

"Okay, can I speak to your Mom?"

Emily screams in the general direction of the back yard. "Mom! Some guy wants you!"

Mae Rose screams back. "Who is it?"

"I dunno."

"What does he want?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"Tell him to wait a minute!" Muffin needs a little more time.

Dahlia appears next to Emily. "Hi, I'm Dahlia," she says to the man.

"Hello, Dahlia."

"I'll blow you for twenty dollars."

"Um, not right now, I'm working."

"This evening, around eight, then? I'll be out back, near the Port-O-Potties."

Mae Rose appears. "Whattaya want?"

"Hello, Mrs. Owens, I work for the city, and I'm checking for sinkholes. Do you have any sinkholes to report?"

"You're checking for what?"

"For sinkholes."

"What's a sinkhole?"

"Ah," says the man, warming to his favorite subject. "A sinkhole, also known as a sink, swallow hole, shakehole, swallet or doline, is a depression or hole in the ground caused by some form of collapse of the surface layer. Some are caused by karst processes—for example, the chemical dissolution of carbonate rocks or suffosion processes in sandstone. Sinkholes may vary in size from 1 to 600 meters both in diameter and depth, and vary in form from soil-lined bowls to bedrock-edged chasms. Sinkholes may be formed gradually or suddenly, and are found worldwide. The different terms for sinkholes are often used interchangeably."

"Oh," says Mae Rose. "We ain't got none of those."

"Do you mind if I check out back? It will just take a few minutes."

Mae Rose shrugs. "Knock yourself out. Watch your step." She slams the door.

Retrieving his sinkhole detector -- a long stick -- from the truck, the man walks gingerly around the back of the house and towards the sycamore. Muffin greets him. "Hey, mister!" says Muffin. "Nice stick you got there. Want to play fetch?"

"Wow, a talking dog," says the man.

"And talking humans, too," says Muffin. "Isn't that precious."

"I'm checking for sinkholes, seen any around here lately?"

"No, but come back Friday morning, we're expecting a doozie."

"Hey, thanks for the tip."

"Don't mention it. Also you just stepped in one of my larger works from last March."

Megan's phone rings. It's Roderick.
"Hi Megan."

"Hi Roderick."

"Can you come over? The Richters are here, and we need a fifth for Geschichte der Schweizer Eisenbahnen. We're playing the strip variation."

"I don't really understand how to play that game, but of course I'll be right there," purrs Megan.

In the Smith's living room, Roderick sits on the floor with Molly and the Richter twins, Otto and Berolina. Berolina has prepared for the game by wearing many layers of clothing, plus bling. Molly wears a single garment, a blue dress that she ordinarily would never wear, but Molly likes the challenge of high-stakes strip Geschichte der Schweizer Eisenbahnen.

The doorbell rings; Roderick answers. It's Megan.

Soon It Will Be Christmas

"One cannot describe the status quo ante for the U.S. health care system -- the system that existed before Obamacare -- as a free market in health care. Health care and health insurance are among the most highly regulated industries, and in the case of health insurance the regulatory regime is a fragmented patchwork of conflicting state regulations."

Roderick pauses, and sips from a glass of water on the lectern.

"And so, one cannot characterize problems in the old system as market failure. It would be more apt to describe it as regulatory failure, or government failure."

Members of the Old Ivy Political Economy Club applaud Roderick's paper enthusiastically. Roderick beams, and waves to the crowd as he leaves the lectern. Lily Chang winks seductively as she passes him.

"Thank you, Roderick, For our next presentation, Penny Whiffenpoof will deliver her empirical study of marginal pricing in the Lake City S&M market. Penny?"

Penny strides onstage dressed in a black leather jacket, thong and high heels. She carries a whip.

Backstage, Roderick calls Mr, Smiley.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mr. Smiley, it's Roderick."

"Hello, Roderick." Mr. Smiley is always pleasantly surprised when Roderick calls, because he does not look at the little thing on the phone that says who is calling. Smileys think it's impolite to check to see who is calling.

"I just delivered part four of my paper on health insurance."

"That's nice."

"Also, Christmas is coming soon."

"Yes, I suppose so," says Mr. Smiley matter-of-factly. Mr. Smiley doesn't seem too excited about Christmas because in Smileyville, every day is either Christmas Day, Christmas Just Happened or Soon It Will Be Christmas.

"What would you like for Christmas?"

"Oh, I don't know..." Mr. Smiley ponders the range of possible gifts. Not that there's much to ponder, since Smileys invariably give one another pickles, cheese or chocolate, or birdhouse kits that fathers and sons can build together. Oddly shaped and brightly colored bird houses.

"Heh!" says Roderick. "I'll bet you would like a nice slab of Emmenthal cheese."

Mr. Smiley thinks about a nice slab of Emmenthal. The thought makes him smile.

Smileys Do Not Squeeze...

Members of the Old Ivy Political Economy Club stop babbling to one another as Lily Chang steps to the podium. Per usual, Lily is impressively hot in her daringly low-cut and tightly-fitting bright pink cocktail dress. This morning, Lily added a chapter to her book in progress, How to Succeed Through Hotness.

"Just a few announcements before we start." Lily ruffles through her notes, pausing to display some cleavage. "The Annual Christmas Party will be here, in this room, next Saturday the fourteenth. Jews are welcome to attend if you refrain from whining about Christmas music or mentioning pogroms and the Holocaust. We already celebrated Hanukkah last week, so just shut up about it already." She pauses, and glares at a fourth-year student in the front row. "This means you, Joshua."

"Okay, okay!" says Joshua. "I was only kidding about the pogroms."

Lily continues. "We will celebrate Ramadan whenever that is. Kwanzaa is on the holiday break, so you can celebrate that at home. If anyone is offended or feels left out, you are welcome to organize your own religiously themed holiday party." A hand shoots up in the back of the room. "Yes, Albert?"

"What about atheists?"

"You are welcome to organize an atheist holiday party, although so far as I know there are no atheist holidays."

At Old Ivy, there is no competition or conflict over allocation of student activity fees, because there are no student activity fees. Each club charges whatever it likes for membership, and students who want to organize a party may do so and fund it however they like, including admission fees.

"Moving along...," Lily shuffles her notes again and shows a little more cleavage. "...there will be another "overflow" presentation of papers this coming Wednesday at noon. Roderick will deliver part four of his presentation, and Willard Fong will present his paper QE2: WTF? There will be a free lunch."

There is a general hubbub in the room as members of the club look at one another in confusion and consternation.

"Okay, that was my little joke. There's no such thing as a free lunch, it will be ten bucks."

Audible sighs of relief, and scattered applause.

"Now I'd like to introduce Roderick, who will deliver part three of his long thing about health insurance."

"Thank you, Lily," says Roderick, stepping to the lectern. As he passes Lily, she whispers something in his ear that he doesn't quite catch, but it seems to be an invitation and includes a word that sounds like "duck".

Roderick launches into his presentation. "You may recall from the first session that we discussed a three-part categorization of health and medical services: emergency care, for which it is difficult to speak of a "market" per se; services that are medically necessary but not urgent; and discretionary services. Today, I will outline policy solutions for urgent care and discretionary care, and on Wednesday I'll outline policy solutions for everything else.

"We begin with urgent care. It may surprise you to learn that this category accounts for just two percent of all health care spending. Under existing law, emergency rooms must treat all patients regardless of ability to pay, and most states offer subsidies to hospitals to fund free care. The quality of emergency care in the United States is excellent.

"It seems to me that emergency care is comparable to police and fire services: there is a reasonable case to be made that these services are a public good and should be made available to anyone regardless of ability to pay. Like police and fire, emergency care should be funded at the state and local level, since states and municipalities are best able to monitor quality and compliance, and to determine appropriate levels of service. There is no compelling reason for a Federal role in funding emergency health services, except to provide research grants, support emergency medical training and education and to assist local jurisdictions with capital spending.

"Since the Federal government already does these things, the appropriate course of action is to do nothing."

There is a murmur of approval in the room.

"At the other extreme, discretionary care, the policy options are also easy. There is no reason why anyone should be forced to subsidize breast implants, sex change operations, laser vision treatment and so forth. Discretionary care is also subject to moral hazard, and not an insurable risk. Those who want these services should pay for them out of their own pockets.

"Now, some might point out that it's not fair that wealthy people will be able to afford breast implants and psychotherapy, but poor people will not. They will seek to form an alliance with those who provide these services -- plastic surgeons, psychotherapists, acupuncturists, chiropractors, massage therapists, "past lives" counselors and the like -- that these services are all medically necessary. To which I have two responses: first, there are many things in life that are not fair; wealthy people have nicer homes and cars than poor people, and send their children to private schools. It's not possible for everyone to have the same share of the wealth, and in most areas of policy we don't even try.

"My second response is simply that risks are either insurable or they are not insurable. Discretionary medical spending is not insurable due to the moral hazard; this is true whether the insurance is underwritten by the government, by charities or a for-profit insurance company. European-style government-run health insurance programs do not cover discretionary health care expenses for the simple reason that they can't afford to do so. In this country, Medicare does not cover discretionary treatments, for the same reason.

"So, unless you are a Communist I think you will agree that discretionary medical spending is best left to the free market, and the Federal government should do nothing.

There being no Communists among the membership of the Old Ivy Political Club, the audience responds to this line with heartfelt applause.

Lily steps to the lectern and whispers to Roderick: "Nice presentation. Would you like to squeeze my buttocks?"

Roderick does so, and departs.

Later, in the Dining Hall, Roderick sits with Molly and Megan.

"I delivered the third part of my presentation on health insurance today," he announces, "and then I squeezed Lily Chang's buttocks."

"Really?" says Molly, raising her eyebrows. "How do her buttocks compare to mine?"

Roderick thinks about his response, recognizing this to be a trick question. Truth be told, Roderick has never actually squeezed Molly's buttocks, though he has seen them and snuggled against them many times.

"Your buttocks are the best," he murmurs, an answer that seems to satisfy Molly.

Megan chimes in. "I have lovely buttocks."

Roderick can't disagree with Megan on this point. He has observed Megan's buttocks at close quarters many times, and her buttocks are right up there with Molly's, maybe a little nicer, but he would never mention that last part in front of Molly.

Later, Roderick calls Mr. Smiley.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mr. Smiley, it's Roderick."

"Hi, Roderick."

"Whatcha doing?"

"Oh, you know, the usual thing for a Sunday evening." Roderick understands this to be Smiley code for "nothing".

"I delivered the third part of my paper on health insurance today."

"That's nice."

"And at dinner we discussed buttocks, and the squeezing thereof."

Mr. Smiley isn't quite sure how to respond to this. Smileys, as a rule, do not squeeze one another's buttocks, nor do they consider it polite to discuss any body part "down there". Mr. Smiley understands, however, that Roderick can't be expected to comprehend Smiley ways. He thinks about happy cows, and smiles.

"That's nice."

Health Insurance in Smileyville

"Ahem." Roderick checks the mike and waits for silence. The Old Ivy Political Economy Club meets tonight to hear part two of Roderick's paper on health insurance.

He continues. "In the first part of this paper, I discussed the heterogeneous nature of health care services, and drew a distinction between urgent care, care that is medically necessary but not urgent, and care that is truly discretionary. I pointed out that at the two extremes, one can argue that there is a robust market for discretionary services (such as laser vision surgery), but that it is difficult to speak of a market at all for urgent care.

"Turning attention to health insurance services (as distinguished from health care services), we should draw a distinction between those risks that are insurable and those that are not. Insurable risks have specific properties: they are (1) well-defined and specific; (2) measurable; (3) predictable in a large population, and (4) distributed at random in the population. This last point covers the concepts of adverse selection and moral hazard, which I will illustrate with examples.

"It is possible, for example, to write an insurance policy that indemnifies a homeowner from losses in a fire because the risk is well-defined, measurable and the insurance industry has lots of data about the incidence of fires. Such policies necessarily exclude coverage in the case of arson by the homeowner, just as life insurance policies generally exclude coverage in the case of suicide. Arson and suicide are examples of moral hazard, where the insurance beneficiary can influence the probability of a claim.

"Insurance pools that do not prevent moral hazard will be subject to adverse selection, or the tendency to attract high-risk individuals. In other words, a fire insurance pool that does not exclude arson will attract a disproportionate number of potential arsonists and soon run out of money. This is true regardless of who underwrites the policy; the principles of insurance apply to government-issued insurance and private insurance alike.

"Health insurance is particularly susceptible to moral hazard. As previously noted, there is an entire class of health services that is discretionary, and entirely within the control of the beneficiary. There are other kinds of moral hazard in health insurance that are more subtle. For example, doctors are more likely to prescribe expensive medical treatments when they know that the patient has a generous health care insurance plan. Studies have shown that there are patterns in the distribution of medical diagnoses that are best explained as profit-maximizing by health service providers.

"In the political debate about health insurance, much attention is given to the question of insurance for those with pre-existing conditions. This is considered the acid test of any credible policy proposal, and it is the justification for the individual mandate. Aside from the fact that the actual incidence of this problem is greatly exaggerated, the most important thing to consider is that while this is a political and social question, it is not an insurance question at all. A person who is already diagnosed with Huntingdon's Disease, for example, does not face the risk of high medical expenses; they face the certainty of high medical expenses. It is not possible to write an insurance policy that will cover the cost of treatment for Huntingdon's Disease among the population of those already diagnosed with the disease, for the simple reason that such an insurance pool would rapidly become insolvent unless premiums are set so high to make it too expensive for anyone to purchase.

"In other words, it is not possible for anyone -- for-profit companies, charitable institutions or the government -- to insure against the cost of health care for previously diagnosed conditions. The only possible course of action is to subsidize the cost of these policies."

Roderick notices that Lily, who is exceptionally hot tonight in her low-cut and tightly fitting black cocktail dress, is motioning to him and pointing to her watch.

"Looks like I'm out of time here, so I'll deliver part three in another session." Roderick takes his papers and steps away from the podium, to polite applause.

Lily steps to the podium. "Thank you, Roderick, I'm sure we're all looking forward to that. Next on the agenda tonight, I would like to welcome fourth-year student Rodney Tinklestein, whose paper is titled "Bitcoin: The New Reserve Currency."

Rodney, who is something of a rock star among fourth years, steps to the podium amidst thunderous applause.

Backstage, Roderick calls Mr. Smiley. "Hello, Mr. Smiley, it's Roderick."

"Hello, Roderick."

"I just delivered the second part of my paper about health insurance."

"That's nice." Mr. Smiley doesn't really understand health insurance. In Smileyville, you go to the doctor when you are sick, and somebody else pays.

Four-Part Fugue

Dorabella has to travel to Lake City today, so there is no Story Hour today at Dorabella's Bookstore. Instead, Dorabella posts this picture of a bunny:

Meanwhile, Mr. Smiley calls Mr. Smith to say hello.

"Sorry, Mr. Smiley, gotta run, on my way to Pacific City, will call later this week, OK?"

"OK," says Mr. Smiley, a little disappointed.

Roderick's phone rings. It's Lily Chang.

"Hello?"

"Roderick, it's Lily."

"Hi."

"The Political Economy meeting is postponed to the middle of the week, do you mind?"

"Um, no, that's fine."

"So why don't you come over now."

"Um..."

"I'm completely naked."

"Aren't you chilly?"

"No, the thought of you has me in flames."

"I have to do some laundry this afternoon, maybe some other time?"

"OK," says Lily, a little disappointed.

"Who was that?" says Molly, who is sprawled on the floor with her Counterpoint book, completely naked.

"It was Lily. She's completely naked and wants me to come over."

"That's nice. Can you explain what retrograde inversion means?"

"That's where the you play the melody backwards and upside down."

"Oh."

Silence.

Molly stretches. "Why did you tell her you have to do laundry?"

"It's just a ruse. She just wants to have sex with me."

"Really?" Molly squints. "Yes, I suppose that's possible."

Roderick calls Mr. Smith to say hello, but the call goes straight into voicemail. "Hi, Dad, thought I'd catch you before you leave, but I guess you've left already. Have a nice trip to Pacific City."

As soon as Roderick hangs up, his phone rings. It's Mr. Smiley. Roderick chats with Mr. Smiley while Molly writes a four-part fugue, making use of the retrograde inversion.

Absence of Underwear

At Old Ivy College, admission is certain but graduation anything but. Each student must pass a set of rigorous -- some would say sadistic -- exams, and do a public presentation: a lecture, music recital, art exhibition or some other contribution to the public domain. Students begin early; to succeed in the fourth year presentation, one must practice, practice, practice. There are ample opportunities for students to speak, publish, perform and exhibit.

Today, in Joseph Wharton Hall, Roderick presents a paper to the Old Ivy Political Economy Club. A note on the venue: Old Ivy College has no affiliation whatsoever to Joseph Wharton or the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. The Trustees of Old Ivy simply thought Wharton was a smart fellow, and dedicated the Political Economy building to his memory. On his way to the lecture hall, Roderick pauses to read a plaque in the lobby:

Wharton lobbied successfully in Washington, D.C. for tariff laws protecting U.S. manufacturing. He was a defender of large business and evolved into a staunch Republican. He successfully lobbied for the use of nickel in the U.S. coinage, but his lobbying for nickel tariffs was only partially successful, probably because he had a virtual monopoly on production in the U.S.

Wharton became widely known as a leader of the Industrial League of manufacturing concerns, and the main lobbyist and President of the American Iron and Steel Institute. Wharton successfully lobbied for a bill in the Pennsylvania General Assembly supporting Limited Partnerships to allow more participation of capital in enterprises with risk.

Wharton wrote extensively on economic matters, including protective tariffs and business cycles. In 1881 Wharton donated $100,000 to the University of Pennsylvania to found a "School of Finance and Economy" for this purpose. He specified that the Wharton School faculty advocate economic protectionism, as he had when lobbying for American businesses in Washington.

"Wow," thinks Roderick, "an exemplar of rent-seeking."

The lecture hall is packed. Roderick prepares his notes backstage while Lily Chang addresses the crowd with a few announcements.

"Now it's time for today's paper. I would like to introduce Roderick Smith, second-year student, who will deliver Part One of his paper on "How to Fix Health Insurance."

Roderick steps onstage and shakes hands with each of the three panelists, officers of the Old Ivy Political Economy Club, who are seated to the right of the podium. Last, he shakes hands with Lily, who wears a stunningly low-cut yellow dress.

"I'm not wearing any underwear. See me afterwards," she whispers as he drops his notes on the podium. Roderick thinks about what he's doing after the presentation: some logic problems, help Molly with Rhetoric, study for the Political Economy test, call Mom and Dad, call Mr. Smiley, visit Megan. Lily's lack of underwear is intriguing, to say the least, but so much to do, so little time.

He taps the mike. "Hello!

"Today I'm going to talk about how to fix health insurance. To begin with, I'd like to stipulate two things: I don't know a thing about how to prevent disease, cure the sick, help people live longer lives or improve life expectancy, which is the ultimate end of health care. This is simply a discussion about health insurance, or how to pool risks and pay for health and medical treatments.

"The second thing I'd like to stipulate is that while we conventionally speak about health care as if it is a single class of goods and services, it is actually several different sets.

"The first class of goods and services I will call urgent care: that which is necessary to keep someone alive. This includes such things as treatment for gunshot wounds, victims of natural disasters, terrorism and the like, as well as treatment for medical emergencies such as heart attacks, strokes and so forth.

"The second class of goods and services I will call medically necessary care: treatment that is medically necessary to cure or ameliorate a defined condition, but does not need to be applied immediately to save the patient's life. An example of this would be a surgical procedure to clear partially blocked arteries; the patient's long-term survival depends on having this surgery, but there is some discretion about when to schedule it.

"The third class of goods and services I will call discretionary care. This includes a range of medical treatments, from cataract surgery to hip replacement, that improves the quality of life for the patient, but the patient can live without it.

"In public discourse, it's customary for advocates of a government role in health care to speak about market failure in health care, and to lump all health care goods and services together and treat the entire category as a public good.

"Now I grant that it's difficult to speak of a market for emergency services. When you're hit by a car, you don't ask the ambulance driver to check prices at several hospitals before choosing where to take you. Arguably, there is a public interest in not having patients bleed to death just outside the emergency room simply because they don't have insurance. In any case, it's a matter of settled Federal law that emergency rooms must treat all patients, insured or not, including non-citizens.

"At the other extreme, purely discretionary care, there is a robust market for treatment such as laser eye surgery, plastic surgery, sports medicine, and so forth. These treatments are rarely covered by health insurance, but providers compete aggressively for business and prices are relatively low.

"Even in the middle ground of treatment that is medically necessary but not urgent, the experience of the Amish -- who have a religious objection to insurance -- shows us that it is certainly possible for groups to shop around for medical treatment and negotiate aggressive prices.

"So the first thing we need to do when we think about solutions is to stop talking about treatment for gunshot wounds and sex change operations as if they are the same thing.

"Next week I'll talk about solutions." Roderick steps away from the podium, to generous applause.

Later that evening, Roderick snuggles against Molly, and thinks about Lily with no underwear. He rarely thinks of Molly with no underwear, because she never wears any.

Parking Lot

Today is the twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity; for services at Saint Cecilia Chapel, the Old Ivy Bach Chorale performs the J.S.Bach cantata BWV 116 Du Friedefürst, Herr Jesu Christ ("Thou Prince of Peace, Lord Jesus Christ"). Amy Scharf sings the Soprano aria, Mrs. Dowager sings the Alto, one of the ringers sings the Tenor and Zack sings the Bass while fondling Amy's buttocks.

Mr. Fletcher of the Theology faculty delivers today's inspirational message, the subject of which is "Twenty-Fifth Sunday of Trinity: Just Counting Down Days to the Holidays." He steps to the lectern and clears his throat.

"Today is the twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity, a day which holds absolutely no significance in the liturgical calendar, except that it follows the twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity and precedes the twenty-sixth Sunday after Trinity. In some years, the twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity is the last Sunday before Advent, but not this year.

"So I have nothing to say today.

"Coffee and doughnuts will be served in the foyer."

Mr. Pipes closes the service with a rousing organ postlude.

In the foyer, Roderick and Molly help themselves to doughnuts and coffee. Molly takes two doughnuts -- as you may know, Molly is always hungry and eats large amounts of food but somehow remains slender and svelte. Roderick takes a jelly doughnut.

"How's yours?" he asks, taking a large bite with lots of jelly.

Molly bites into her cream doughnut. "Mmmmmmmmmph," she says.

After services, Roderick and Molly part ways -- Molly heads to the Conservatory to work on the Ives Concord Sonata, while Roderick proceeds to the Ballroom for a meeting of Old Ivy Republicans. (Old Ivy Democrats meet at a table for four in the cafeteria).

Lily Chang stands at the entrance to the Ballroom; she's wearing a daringly tight and low-cut black dress. As Roderick enters the Ballroom, she beckons. "Can I speak with you for a minute?"

"Um, OK." Roderick lets Lily lead him into one of the private offices next to the Ballroom.

The door slams behind them, and Lily embraces Roderick, rubbing his groin. "I want this!" she hisses.

Roderick unwinds himself. "Um, maybe later." Roderick really wants to hear what Mr. Parvelescu has to say today. He exits the office and secures a seat in the front row. Lily follows and occupies the seat next to him.

Today's forum is typical for Mr. Parvelescu; he has no prepared remarks, but will respond to questions from students selected at random. The first questioner today is Katie Summersbee, third year Political Economy student.

"In the wake of the recent issues with the Obamacare rollout, can President Obama restore his credibility?"

"No."

The next questioner is Roger Fauntleroy, fourth year History of Banking: "What is the probability that Democrats will win back the House in 2014?"

"Zero."

Next up: Roderick. "Can the Republicans win back the Senate in 2014?"

Mr. Parvelescu has to ponder this one. "As things stand today, they're three seats short of a majority. West Virginia, South Dakota and Montana all look like pickups for the Republicans. To gain control, they must win the "toss-ups" seats currently held by Democrats -- Alaska and Arkansas -- and convert at least one of those currently "leaning" Democrat. That includes North Carolina, Louisiana, Michigan and Iowa."

"Follow-up question: how can the Republicans accomplish that?"

"Don't nominate morons."

In the next section of today's forum, Lily Chang reads from a list of prospective 2016 Presidential candidates and Mr. Parvelescu comments. Lily stands up, sorts through some index cards, then reads aloud from the first:

"John Kasich."

"Boring. Might not carry his own state."

"Rick Perry."

"Good track record as governor of a big state, terrible 2012 campaign. Voters have short memories, with some polish and coaching, he can re-introduce himself. I am available at my usual fee."

"Paul Ryan."

"Kind of wonkish. Effective as House Budget chair, which is an entirely different kind of job. Couldn't carry Wisconsin for Romney."

"Bobby Jindal."

"Helps with the Indian-American vote. Terrible speaker."

"Rick Santorum."

"Please."

"Ted Cruz."

"No way a first term Senator can win the Presidency. Oh, wait..."

"Marco Rubio."

"Over-rated and incoherent."

"Rand Paul."

"I like him. Not sure that Americans are ready for his Libertarian streak, but time will tell."

"Scott Walker."

"Likable guy, good Q factor. Something of a fifty-one percenter, wins by the skin of his teeth. Doing good things in Wisconsin, but I'm not sure how he plays on a national stage."

"Chris Christie."

"Kind of a gasbag, but the Presidency is mostly gasbaggery. Good "man on the street" appeal, virtually impossible for Dems to demonize him as a rich guy the way they did with Romney. Good streetfighter."

"Thank you, Mr. Parvelescu."

Meanwhile, in Pacific City, Mr. Smith checks in at the Acrophilia Suites. His first choice, the local Unique Hotel, is sold out this week.

"Thank you for staying at the Acrophilia Suites Mr. Smith. Here's your room key, and the elevator is over there." The desk clerk points over Mr. Smith's shoulder.

Trailing his roll-on overnight bag, Mr. Smith steps into the "bubble" elevator. "Yoicks," he thinks. He checks the little card they gave him at the front desk. Top floor.

The elevator rises rapidly, exposing a grand atrium surrounded by suites accessed by catwalks. Mr. Smith presses himself against the elevator door.



Stepping out onto the catwalk, he creeps towards his room at the far end, pressing himself as close to the wall as possible, averting his eyes from the precipitous drop to the atrium floor. "Eep,"he thinks.

Finally, Mr. Smith reaches his room, unlocks the door, drags his suitcase inside and exhales. In the bedroom, he draws the curtains aside to check the view. Is it a view of the Pacific, as advertised? Nope. Parking lot.

The Concert

"Whatcha doing?" asks Megan.

"Nothing." Roderick is, in fact, doing nothing. Currently, he is stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head, sitting up slightly.

Megan is nude, as is often the case when she visits Roderick. She checks herself in the mirror. "Do you think I'm fat?"

Roderick understands this to be a trick question. "No, not at all" he says. This answer is at least partially honest; Megan certainly is not obese, nor even plump, nor zaftig. On the other hand, she's not svelte and catlike, like Molly,

"Really?" says Megan, curling up next to Roderick and doing her best to get some attention.

"Yes, really." Roderick hates it when people demand his attention.

"So, um, did you and Molly do, you know, it, over the summer?"

"No, we still have nineteen months to go before we hit the deadline." Roderick doesn't ask what or who Megan did this summer, knowing full well that she most likely did everyone in sight.

"I did it with the entire Baritone section of the Lake City Opera."

"All at once?"

Megan frowns. "No, sequentially. I'm not a slut, you know."

"Not that there's anything wrong with that."

"No, there's nothing wrong with it." Megan is President of the Old Ivy Ladies' Shooting Society, known colloquially as "Sluts with Glocks".

Roderick is curious. "Who else did you do this summer?"

"All of the straight male summer interns at Lake City Opera."

"Wow!" says Roderick. There were five hundred summer interns this summer, all unpaid.

"His name was Fred." Megan and Roderick crack up at that comment.

"Anyone else?" asks Roderick, feeling nosy.

"Well...there was the maestro,"says Megan, wistfully.

Her tone arouses Roderick's curiosity. "A love interest...?"

Megan ponders that. "He let me stick around long enough afterwards to fetch his slippers."

Roderick thinks about whether that is sufficient evidence of a love interest, and decides against. Meanwhile, Molly arrives. "Hi, Megan."

"Do you mind that I'm sprawled naked on the bed with Roderick?"

Molly is puzzled. "Why should I mind?"

"No reason." Megan fiddles with Roderick's internet radio and tunes in the Messaien Channel.

Molly is in the process of shedding her own clothing, but pauses, pants around her ankles, and cocks her head. "Messe de la Pentecote, Sortie, Le Vent de l'Esprit...Messaien's own recording on the organ of St. Trinite."

Megan frowns. "I thought it might be Jennifer Bate's recording."

Molly tugs at her pants and flings them to the other side of the room, then pulls her shirt off over her head. "No, I don't think she ever recorded the work. Can you move over a little? I want to cuddle." Roderick moves slightly to his left, noodging Megan. Molly curls up next to Roderick.

Roderick's cell phone rings. On the display, it says Mr. Smiley. Roderick answers. "Hello, Mr. Smiley!"

"Hi Roderick."

"What's up?"

"Oh, you know...nothing." Mr. Smiley is sitting by the Duck Pond in the center of Smileyville, watching the ducks, who seem very busy.

"I'm in my room with Megan and Molly."

"Uh-huh."

"They're naked."

"That's nice."

"We're listening to Olivier Messaien's Messe de la Pentecote for organ, played by the composer on the organ of St. Trinite in Paris."

"Oh, yes, St. Trinite. I went there to hear Messaien improvise when I was in Paris with Hello Kitty. She was already sliding from the booze, coke and meth, and threw up in the park outside the church. During the concert she wandered off with some lesbians to score meth and I didn't see her again for three days. I was going to dump her then and there, but she begged me to take her back and I couldn't say no. Later in that trip we went to Berlin and wrote our names on the Wall."

"How was the concert?"

"What concert?"

"At St. Trinite. The one you went to see with Hello Kitty."

"Oh, that concert." Mr. Smiley pauses, and thinks about it. "It was nice."

A Glass of Squashberry Juice

Standard Time has arrived, which pleases Mr. Smiley. Smileys do not observe Daylight Savings Time, or any other time, leading to the impression that they tend to arrive at events more or less at random. In many contexts this would be a problem, but so far as services at the Church of Irony this past summer it was not; at the Church of Irony, services never start at the expected time.

After services at St.Cecilia, Roderick and Molly cross the road to attend the Old Ivy Inn's Craft Beer Festival, held each year in the Ballroom. Everyone is admitted, regardless of age, since no beer is actually served in the Ballroom. Those who wish to be served must exit the Ballroom and enter the adjacent Oak Room; there, a sign declares that the Washington County Sheriff enforces state law on underage drinking. No doubt, this sign is sufficient to deter the law-abiding youth of Old Ivy College from imbibing unlawfully.

Glo Beer, the leading "cheap, but filling" beer brand, sponsors craft beer festivals in college towns around the country as part of its "Great American Beer" grassroots marketing campaign. There's an interesting story behind the rise of Glo Beer. Founded by Heinrich Hohenzollern in 1896 in Lake City and marketed under the Kaiser Beer brand, the company rebranded in 1918 as Goeringbrau in recognition of the famous World War I ace. Growing rapidly in the 1930s, the company expanded its Lake City brewery to offer Adolf Hitler Ale and Brownshirt Lager, which was adopted as the official beer of the German-American Bund.

In 1945, the company rebranded its Deutschland Uber Alles beer as Global Beer and discontinued all other brands. Sales grew rapidly in the postwar era thanks to a strong following among Lake City locals, closet Nazi sympathizers and the company's strong support for stock car racing.

In the 1990s, the company officially shorted the brand name from Global Beer to Glo Beer. This was shortly after Vevey Brands of Switzerland, the global food and drink conglomerate, acquired the company and introduced the long-running Gimme a Glo advertising campaign. Sales rose rapidly on the strength of this campaign, so that Glo is now the number #1 beer brand in the world, a point that is less remarkable when you consider that Vevey owns the #2 and #3 beer brands. Vevey also owns the #4 brand, Veldtbrau, which is sold only in Southern Africa, where it is widely used as currency.

Just inside the Ballroom, there is a cardboard cutout of Ricky Reckum Jr., who drives the famous "Blue Deuce" #2 car in NASCAR, sponsored by Glo Beer. Ricky is the most popular driver in NASCAR, though not because he is a particularly good driver; indeed, his only win came last year in the rain-shortened Lake City 400 when the red flag came out just after the top twenty cars pitted for fuel; at the time, Ricky was in twenty-first place. Ricky owes his popularity primarily to his appeal to the average NASCAR viewer, who identify with amiable and unintelligent people of little accomplishment; and also to his father, the legendary Ricky Reckum. The senior Reckum raced his Hudson Hornet with one hand and held a Global Beer in the other, periodically discarding empty cans out the driver's side window. One of these projectiles triggered the famous "Big One" at Talladega in 1968, which took every other driver out of the competition, leaving Ricky to coast home to victory. NASCAR later banned littering while racing, but by then Ricky had retired because his beer belly was too big to fit through the window of his Hudson.

The first table features the Redmeat brand attended by a bikini-clad booth babe. Roderick selects a colorful bottle. "What's this?" he asks.

"That's our Redmeat Seasonal Pumpkin Fudge Porter, says Booth Babe.

"Oh," says Roderick, returning the bottle. "Where do they make it?"

"The Glo Mega-Brewery in Lake City."

Roderick and Molly move on to the next table, also attended by bikini-clad booth babes and featuring Dirty Sweatsocks Objectional Ale.

"Aren't you chilly?" asks Molly of one of the booth babes.

Booth babe shrugs. Seeing Roderick select a bottle from the table, she points animatedly. "Flavored with rotten eggs!"

Roderick and Molly move on. The next table features Blammo! craft beer, which is sold in large bottles shaped like an erect penis. In a subtle touch, the booth babes wear bikinis that prominently feature the Blammo! logo on the front of their bikini bottoms.

Molly whispers to Roderick: "I think Megan likes this brand." Roderick chuckles.

Meanwhile, in Smileyville, Mr. Smiley pours himself a glass of squashberry juice.

Smileys, as a rule, prefer fruit juice to beer. It's not the flavor; they just like the pretty colors.