brian alan ellis

Imagine Valentine’s Day. Then imagine a party, a hundred or so people crammed inside a small, upstairs apartment; from someone’s iPod we hear “indie” music ironically spliced with flavor-of-the-month club hits. Imagine, also, a young man. His name is Christopher. He sits on a couch, beside two Spanish boys.
I must explain: two Spanish boys, both lovely and smiling and pleasant; with hands tucked tightly into their laps, they will giggle at someone, anyone, for having said or done something marvelous, pausing at times to speak to each other in matching lisps—a sort of secret language they share.
Christopher tells both boys that he is a stand-up comedian from Transylvania. “I only tell vampire jokes,” he says.
“That’s wonderful!” they say.
Christopher, stand-up fellow that he is, demonstrates:
“What do you call two vampire cops?”
The boys shrug their shoulders, clueless as to what one vampire cop is called—let alone two?
“Drac-net,” says Christopher. “Get it?”
“Ah!” The boys smile warmly and then giggle over something marvelous.
Meanwhile, Fleet Foxes take a sarcastic turn into the new Rihanna.
Hell, Christopher surmises, is other people’s iTunes.