bryan: George Herriman's Krazy Kat or Ernie Bushmiller's Nancy or Walt Kelly's Pogo... the films of Takashi Miike tend to make me smile... Guiness stout seems to do the trick as well...

Geoff Herbach: Nicotine gum. Low-fat vanilla yogurt.

That's what I do. Doesn't work.

Mark Kalar: When I'm starting to feel blue, I take a page from the Buddy Edelen
playbook and go for a run: I run until I feel like I can't run anymore, than I do my workout. The resulting exhaustion leaves you unable to feel anything except very, very tired.

Stephen McClurg: While never completely keeping depression at bay, I fight it with a mixture of Jim Beam Rye and one of the following: Stravinsky, "Surf's Up," "Smile," Motown, Mingus, or Mahler.

Keith Pille: Talking to my wife. Longish bike rides. Looking at dogs. If all of those fail, I can usually fall back on thinking about all of the stuff I learned in my astronomy buff days, and recognizing that there's an immense universe out there and, in the big scheme of things, it doesn't really matter if the checking account is low this week.

Don Pizarro: This is my secret weapon against the worst bouts of depression: the end theme for the British sci-fi comedy Red Dwarf. I'm telling you, it's never
failed me, ever. It's not only a happy, catchy song, but the lyrics portray the ideal state of mind to have, especially when circumstances are utter shit, which is where the main character of Red Dwarf often finds himself.

I want to lie shipwrecked and comatose
Drinking fresh mango juice
Goldfish shoals nibbling at my toes
Fun, fun, fun in the sun, sun, sun
Fun, fun, fun in the sun, sun, sun

Don't you feel better just picturing that? Screw St. John's Wort. Get this tune any way you can.

Simon Riordan: My analogy: I puke up some nasty shit. Then I drag all sorts of people over to look at it and talk about it. If they want, they are welcome to give me their opinion as to why I puked - and what I can do in the future to avoid it. Once the puke is rancid and really gross, I'm usually on my way - watching what I eat.

Jonathan Shipley: Writing ridiculous stories about having sex with Whoopi Goldberg.

Ben Tripp: My calendar of Golden Retriever puppies and lots and lots of fireworks.

Next Week's Survey:

If 500 dachsunds we very determined to kill you, what do you think your chances would be?

If you have an opinion, send 'er in to editor@americannerdmag.com ; be sure to put "Contributors' Survey" in the Subject line.