Cross country road trip and I’m bringing up the rear. Everyone else has already arrived at our destination, a Baltimore-style row house on a Barre-style hill. It isn’t so much that I’m late but I’m the one that got stuck driving solo without a map and without any additional means to contact everyone (unless you count the change that was competitively ear-marked for tolls). When I arrive, A., my dad, and a co-worker (MG!?) are sitting on the porch. We had been talking about writing our very own springpunk/clockpunk anthology. But MG has a better idea. We’ll make up our sub-sub-genre, call it faerypunk (“…or spaghetti sauce, who cares?”) and score those publishing deals in a big way.