Epistle to Gerbils
Dear Gertie the Gerbil,
I know now that you are not a gerbil.
Well, come on, now, I always knew you weren't a gerbil. I'd have been pretty stupid to not realize you weren't a gerbil. For one, you weren't fuzzy at all. And you would be considered huge for a gerbil, were you, indeed, a gerbil. So those two, first off, tipped me off that you weren't a gerbil. The time we went to that adventure playground, meant for kids, but we got in on the premise that we were acting like big kids, and we got in the giant wooden wheel that you could try and walk across the room... well, when we got in that I definitely knew you weren't a gerbil. My eardrums may have been mildly pierced, or so said the doctor later, in the emergency room, I may have been suffering a little bit of shock, but I knew you shared no common genes, whatsoever with a gerbil.
So why did I start calling you that, anyway? I don't know. Is that why you left me?
Or was it my obsession with getting hired for the Boston Red Sox General Manager position? Oh, you knew what I thought of Theo. No good, lousy... well, let's just say Brookline, okay? And say it dripping with as much animosity as possible. Heavy emphasis on the 'Brook', the 'line' spitting out through clenched teeth like that's what it was, a line, or floss, and out it went, strung out from the venom with which 'Brook' was just said. Now, I don't think I've ever actually set foot there. But I was from just over the river, in Salem, and it was a lot frickin' harder to get to baseball games from there than Brookline. And we had the bad rap about all the witches and everything.
So I didn't grow up in the "shadow of Fenway." So I didn't go to law school. So I didn't... wasn't... thirty whatever. I was a damn mature twenty six at the time of my first application, and by now, well, I was a super mature thirty one. Hell, I could still play, if they needed me to! And they might just, you know. Could you imagine, a general manager that could pitch every fifth day and sign big name free agents? Well, all right, perhaps you didn't need to, because I kept drawing the picture out for you, and maybe that's why you left.
Where will you go, now, anyway? You didn't wind up trying to hunt down Theo, did you? Like that time we were talking about him and you went all "I think he's kind of cute," and I went what you described as 'apoplectic' and then you walked out the room, but the last thing you muttered was something about hunting him down and something something something. That's something else you don't share with gerbils. Gerbils don't mutter. They usually keep pretty quiet, I think, and only squeak when they get their foot stuck in their exercise ball or something. Umm, not that I know anything about that.
At any rate, if you are after Theo, let him know I'm coming for him, right after I drop off my latest resume at Fenway and pick my scooter up from the shop. Gertie.
Yours truly,
Gary 'Turtles' Murphy
disclaimer:
Okay, here goes. You guys have done well... getting us up to 40,000, even, on the Amazon sales rankings. What the heck am I talking about? Why, Fenway Fiction, of course! And I originally typed that as Fenway Diction, which isn't right, of course, but if you happened to read it like that, and were interested in learning more about how they speak down on the Fens, well, this book just may be the book for you. It's not an exact primer, but, as they say, the best way to learn a language is to immerse yourself in it. So here's the plan: buy like three or four copies of Fenway Fiction. Don't be ashamed of this or anything, or feel like it's a crazy excess in these serious times of ours. There are almost twenty short stories in the collection, so unless you buy twenty one copies there's really no need to feel at all guilty. You'll be supporting a bunch of really nice authors, which should make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Try and buy the copies from different sources. A couple from the links on the left, a couple from your local independent bookstores, a couple from your family members who have bought the books from independent bookstores. Right, so back to the plan. You've got your three or four copies of the book. And, while you're reading one of them, maybe prop up your elbows on the other copies you've bought, use some of them as pillows (this is why we got them done in paperback, and not supremely uncomfortable to lie on hardcover). Build yourself a virtual den of fiction from Fenway. Or Fenway Fiction, if you will. Before you know it you'll be talking like a real townie.
Now, if your goal is Fenway Diction, well, the world's most famous celebrity fan of the Boston Red Sox just so happens to be the founder of this here magazine. And you know what he wears? Nothing but Official Sane Magazine gear. So imagine just how authentic you would feel if you wore nothing but Official Sane Magazine gear and made all of your furniture out of copies of Fenway Fiction? You'd feel super authentic! There'd be absolutely no one shouting at you, saying you're a fair weather fan. You'd have instant what we call 'street cred.' You mightn't have thought you could buy it, but we're telling you you can. So get on out there and get shopping!
We've also introduced a new topic in our wildly popular* forums! Oh can you handle the excitement! It's called, in honor of last week's move to add not only Fenway Fiction to the disclaimer but also an honest-to-goodness store selling stuff, What Gives, You Anti-Commie, Anti-Pinko B**tards! Go forth and tell us what is what!
* Warning: Actual wildness may vary. In fact, we're guessing most people don't know they exist. Despite prominent links way down near the bottom here, each and every week. Go figure.
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