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Check it out, FLAPPERHOUSE was interviewed by a real-live Interviewer!

Interviewer: FLAPPERHOUSE has described itself as “Dragging the future back through the past, like a rotting donkey on a grand piano.”

FLAPPERHOUSE: Chien! Andalusia! We are un!

Interviewer: Precisely. And by “the past,” more specifically you mean circa the 1920′s?

FLAPPERHOUSE: Yes and no. Mostly yes. We do think the future should have much more futurism. But with much less fascism. We’d also like to see more surrealism, expressionism, dadaism, psychological horror, and, of course, modernism.

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Future submission guidelines for FLAPPERHOUSE:

FLAPPERHOUSE

SunHeadWrestlerFLAPPERHOUSE does not want unsolicited submissions right now. We are, however, still currently open to pre-elicited transmissions.

We’ll probably change our mind someday. After all, as the brilliant M. Wolfram Powell famously said: To change one’s mind is to embark upon a journey into what must be; never to change one’s mind is to fly upon the back of a cranky pterodactyl.

When we want unsolicited submissions we’ll want stories that are relatively short, ideal for subway & bathroom reading. We’re primarily interested in the genres of Psycho-Mythology, Biographical Mystery, Historical Rebus, Quantum Leap Fan Fiction*, Dystopian Southern Gothic Young Adult, Erotic Political Satire, and Culinary Espionage.

* Remember, FLAPPERHOUSE will be published once per Earth season, so avoid making any Quantum Leap Fan Fiction too “current-eventy.”

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Next Spring I will launch a publication called FLAPPERHOUSE. I’d like to tell you about it, though I’m not really the type to write mission statements or manifestos. So I’ll say this instead:

Dorothy Parker, Jorge Luis Borges, and HP Lovecraft walk into a speakeasy. Louis Armstrong sings “St. James Infirmary Blues” over a rusty phonograph. Behind the bar, Salvador Dalí pours absinthe into a hubcap full of peanut butter and raw macaroni, and he stirs the mixture with the antler of a live moose.

“Four martinis, Sally,” says Parker. “Plus whatever the boys want.”

Borges excuses himself to the basement in search of the restroom. He must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere because before long he’s lost himself in an infinite labyrinth full of shelves with mirror-spined books. He starts to imagine what stories these books contain, and how he might review them.

Back upstairs, Josephine Baker dances in sensual ecstasy on Fritz Lang’s table while he peeks at her sideways through his monocle and pretends he’s not aroused. René Magritte paints himself painting them both through a castle’s window. Apples hover before their faces.

The ghost of Franz Kafka’s in a corner, leaning sharply against the wall.  Lovecraft spots him and approaches, timid yet determined, as if helpless to confront his most horrifying fear. “What’s it like?” Lovecraft asks, referring to death. Kafka’s ghost replies only with facial expressions: First with what seems like laughter, then a grimace like he might cry instead, and finally he shakes his head to say no, I really shouldn’t tell you, no. Lovecraft sits and stares at the floor for a while.

We are neither living nor dead!” shouts TS Eliot, raising a glass of gin. “And we know nothing, looking into the heart of light, the silence!

Parker’s sipping her second drink when she finally notices the ants crawling from the stem of her martini glass and onto her hand. Fucking Dalí, she thinks, as she swats and squashes as many bugs as she can. Kafka’s ghost can hear their screams.

She holds her cameraphone in front of her face: bemused, rankled, heartsick, yet almost drunk enough to be tickled by it all. Once she’s got enough good madness framed in the background, she sips, clicks a picture, and posts it to Instagram, caption, “Just another night at the Flapperhouse… #thirsty”

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Only 70 days til Election Day, and political ads are really starting to swarm the airwaves, so always remember: Look at the facts.

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If I ever have my own publishing house I would advertise it kind of like how Stein & Day advertised itself in the first issue of The New York Review Of Books, February 1, 1963. (Click images for full size.)

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A low-level corporate accountant’s car makes his colleagues think he’s higher up the ladder than he really is. It’s a minor variation on one of the most basic car commercial messages out there: “This car will make you appear more important.” (Other basic messages include “This fuel-efficient car will make you appear more conscious and compassionate,” and “This pick-up truck will make you appear more bad-ass as you plow through mud in the middle of nowhere.”) Still, as a 30-second story, this Nissan Sentra ad seemed tight and somewhat clever– at least it did the first time I saw it. Now after seeing it multiple times, all I can think about is how confusing its premise becomes the more I think about it.

So let’s recap: We open on a VIP-looking guy (CEO of a company, I presume) waiting outside an office building (presumably his company’s) while a young woman (presumably his secretary) says in a timid, apologetic tone, “I called the car myself” (presumably a taxi or livery cab). The boss looks at her to express his irritation- presumably he’s got a very important meeting and he’ll be embarrassingly late if this car doesn’t get here soon. Overhearing the situation, a friendly but obviously less-important dude offers the boss a ride. Once inside the car, the boss asks, “Who are you again?” And in a much humbler manner than Ken Cosgrove would, the employee replies, “Daniels, sir… Accounts.”

Then they make another stop to pick up another important-looking suit at another office building, and when she asks, “Who’s this?” the boss introduces Daniels as a “key player” in accounts. They make a third stop for a third suit at a third office building, who also wants to know who the driver is, and the woman, apparently judging by Daniels’ luxurious-looking Nissan Sentra, further promotes Daniels to “director” of accounts. Finally, the car arrives at a fourth office building, and as the three suits walk toward their important meeting, Daniels stays in the car and wishes them good luck. “Come on, Daniels,” the boss says. “You’re VP of accounts, aren’t you?” So Daniels plays along and hustles after them.

But wait a second– why was Daniels picking up two other suits at two other office buildings? Don’t these people all work for the same company? Were they being picked up from other meetings on their way to this meeting? Do they work for separate companies who are working together for this particular meeting? Is that a thing corporate people do? And where was Daniels headed to begin with? Maybe he was just going to lunch, but it seems more likely that he was going to his own meeting. And if that’s the case, won’t he be blowing that meeting off to sit in on this meeting where he doesn’t belong? Does he think the benefits of pretending to be VP of accounts– a ruse which will surely be discovered soon enough–  outweigh the consequences of skipping the meeting he was actually supposed to attend? I mean I don’t have much experience in the corporate arena, so maybe I’m out of my element here, but I’m pretty sure this particular scenario doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

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I could spend hours just giving you examples of claims covered by homeowner’s insurance. The general idea is that the unintended result of an intentional act is often covered by a standard US homeowner’s policy. For example, if a child threw a rock, and the rock knocked out your child’s eye, that can be covered. If you came over to my house to help me fix my lawnmower, and I thought you were clear when I tried to start it, and you lose your finger, that can be covered. A hot grill or stove is left unattended, a child gets burned, that can be covered. Don’t even begin to try to figure out this area of the law yourself.

I wonder if 1800 US LAWYER would seriously answer ALL my questions, because I have several.  Also, if this woman really can spend hours giving examples of disturbing insurance claims, I’d listen.

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