A Small Play

Tired: Your son is reading and writing at way below his grade level. 😕

Wired: But he sure is cynical for his age! 😞

Me: How cynical. Like Alexander Hamilton cynical? Ambrose Bierce?

The sane voice in my head: Oh, no. Its fairly typical but at such a young age it is noticeable. Imagine your 6 year old was painting those kind of oil paintings they have in hotel lobbies.

Me: Yeah, very thick oils of cafes and generic country bridges!

TSVIMY: Exactly. They are not great but at this age it is something! Its like that except being cynical.

Me: Daddy is so proud. 

Something Scary, Poltergeist (2015)

The movie Poltergeist stands out to me. Maybe because it came out 2 years before I was born so I likely saw it poking around cable by the time I was old enough to realize I could watch it. In fact seeing it on TV is what I remember most as I saw it on TNT's MonsterVision with Joe Bob Briggs. Joe Bob, in the spirit of early TV late night hosts, would introduce horror and monster movies and, between commercials, have little bumpers referencing specific scenes or trivia. Monster Vision is where I first saw Carrie which Joe Bob bemoaned the TV cut for the opening shower scene. "You really need to see this on video, folks!" he said. This is also where I first saw Maximum Overdrive and learned who Stephen King directed it and why he did so. As someone who loved Mystery Science Theater as a child/teen this was in that same spirit. 

The Angry Video Game Nerd did a nice mini history of Monster Vision and Joe Bob Briggs is still active on the Shudder network. If interested here is the AVGN's video. BTW I love the AVGN. He is one of the original "nerd Youtubers" and is truly wholesome and a nice guy. Where so many of these guys have been marred by saying something racist (PewDiePie) or being shifty business people (The Nostalgia Critic) or being beyond the wall bullies (Hambly and whatever Unsleeved media is now) he is true. Well, him personally. His personality does regularly say "eat a bag of donkey dicks"

All this to say that I watched the remake of Poltergeist recently which came out in 2015. All while OG Poltergeist is memorable this one I barely remember existing. In fact I thought it was a knock off (Maybe Poltergeist is spelled with a Y instead of an I!) but it is true and made by Sam Raimi who made Spiderman and Evil Dead!

And...its ok. As a curiosity really. Oh the clown doll looked like this in the original one and now it looks like this in the 2015 one. You are not really looking to be scared but instead treated to these little variations. Its like going over to a co-workers house for the first time. "Oh so this is how it is, huh?" But its still the same person. 

My favorite scene in the OG Poltergeist is where the mom walks out of the kitchen and then walks back and the spooks have stacked all the furniture on top of the table. Its both very goofy and very scary because of the speed implied. I also can't imagine the poor PA who had to stack all that and have it keep! NOBODY MOVE!

They re-do this in the new one but with comic books that they stacks (CGI) into a house of cards effect and back light as you pull away in a long hallway. 

Poltergeist is also a Mami movie.* As in if you say you saw it then she will tell an anecdote. Usually about the "little girl who died because she could not poop" in reference to Heater O'Rourke (who played Carol Anne, the little girl who utters "They're here") who died at 12 due to complications from Crohn's Disease. As a child I was terrified of using the bathroom at school and my mother said I would end up like the "girl from Poltergeist."

But I am here to write this blog, mami!

*Other Mami movies include Airplane, Top Secret, The Rock, The Naked Gun Series, Doctor Zhivago, Mary Poppins, King of Kings and Ben Hur.

Something Scary, The Open House

For my birthday I got a copy of Shea Serrano's Movies and Other Things, which was my most anticipated book of 2019 (Well, my only one) and 3rd of his. At work people sometimes say my emails are funny and if they could be put into book form then they would look something like Serrano's essays. Except those are solid. Mine are about loading toner into copiers.

I have been trying to watch "scary" movies each day in October and I want to chronicle this on the blog. So here is one I watched with the wife, The Open House which is available on US Netflix.



 I was big mad after this movie ended. Its dumb, but not in a "Oh, to renew your license we need 3 pieces of proof of residency. Come back tomorrow." dumb. Its a mean dumb. Its the "The janitor didn't reload the toilet paper today because he wanted to take an extra smoke break and I just got diarrhea dumb." There is no innocence to its dumbness. This movie wasted time.

I don't want to spoil anything but I honestly would NOT recommend anyone watch this. Whenever I talk about any piece of media (book, movie, film, game) even if it is very esoteric or bad I really do want to talk about it with people. And find satisfying relationships and high adventures. And people will say "Yo, bro you like Black Mirror too!? We are going to best friends!" Or, "Oh, you like Watership Down?! Whelp, there goes my top"*

That said...this movie at time hints that is a ghost story but also a psychological thriller where we can't trust the protagonist. It is a warning against nosy neighbors and also a "small towns" type thriller. Its a slasher but also a bit of survival horror. It does all these things sloppily with fair people and sets and craft but in being everything it is nothing. It also feels slooooow like the last ten minutes of 8th period before the bell lets you out. Ultimately it is nihilistic. Everything it could have been (and what it was) really meant nothing. And I think the film makers likely felt this very clever (or brutal) but its grating and, going to use I word I don't like to say**....disrespectful to the audience.

One of my favorite series of video games is the Far Cry series. And the latest ones have that modern game syndrome of all feeling kind of samey but damn I can't quit them. And numbers 3 and 5 have these nihilistic endings which make me angry because 1)Again, nothing matters and 2) THINGS NEED TO MATTER BECAUSE THIS IS A GAME AND WE PLAYED IT BECAUSE THE POINT OF THE GAME IS CERTAIN THINGS MATTER!



Which I don't know why I made that aside except to say I loathe the "good" vs "bad" ending option in Far Cry 3. Why you would choose bad, beyond being a sadist***, is counter intuitive. You could have kept your 60 dollars, yo! Far Cry 5 at least forces it on you, which doesn't make it better save its not a test for sociopaths.

Play Far Cry 3 (And pick the good ending) but don't watch The Open House


*If anyone takes their top off because they love Watership Down then they are either very sick or you are El-ahrairah himeself
**Other words I find hard to use (not say per se like how people can't say moist or congeal) are unprofessional and intelligent. Not, I am also a hard believer that you can't describe yourself as funny nor creative. Others need to say that about you. Good looking/hot is OK to self diagnose but the power comes from others saying it.

Another Play-Ouch

One of the quirkier parts of my job is how compartmentalized little things can be. This is often around physical stuff. So moving something is a huge pain because the people who are supposed to do this in a normal place often cannot. Whether it is personality, contract, or health there is always some wonky element. So, I end up doing a lot of it. Like a week ago where I scrubbed cemented poop off stall walls in an outfit I would wear to a job interview. Stuff gets done but at some point the kindness of strangers will run out and I will be crushed under a pile of library books no one longer wants. Anyway

Me: We got these new couches. Can anyone come help me

Fav Teacher: I can!

Me: Thanks!

Also me, internally: Don't look like an idiot! Good thing you took your asthma meds today. 

***At the couch. She grabs her end and so do I. Then we lift***

My back: Hey remember that time you hurt me putting on your pants? Or the time putting the baby in her crib and your Mom had to come help you limp out of the nursery and give you one of those purse Vicodins she has at the bottom of it?

Me, internally: Be quiet, back! I am trying to not fuck this up.

My back: Well here I go. KA PWING!"

Me: ooh...blerg...ahhh...eee

FT: You ok?

Me: Oh yeah. Im good. Im good!

Also me, internally: Stupid body. Getting old is hell

________________________________________________________________

Note this little story ended happily as we delivered the couch and I only need to pivot fully from the hip to pick something up right now. Which is better than not being able to at all.

Pause for Station Identification

My series of post on the Chestnut War drew an astonishing 4 readers. Which means that either

A) Its the neighbors gathering intel on me!
B) Someone googled Chestnuts and maybe Northeast Ohio and got that
C) New porn bots manifested and began reading.

In any case the readership drops back right after that so whatever it was it was temporary and this person(s) got bored really fast.

Its the WOW Signal on this lonely little part of the internet.

Note the Chestnut War has ended for the season. The tree is bare of nuts albeit the still warm fall has it with plenty of leaves. I still have my cake mixing bowl stuffed with them just waiting for a good roast.

Brand New Pants

In my senior year of high school (In the Lords' year 2001) the administration of The Baldwin School of Puerto Rico decided that there was an epidemic of non-compliant pants. A few years earlier (maybe in 1999) the school decided to require uniforms. A blue, burgundy or white polo with khakis. Fine, whatever.

But people started wearing khaki colored jeans or khakis with cargo pants pockets. Or they were giant JNCO style khakis (because it was the 90s) or they had chains. Or they were too low on people's hips.

SO the administration decided that they would have an approved retailer for pants. Not a chain or one of the islands mega malls (Plaza De Las Americas is the largest shopping center anywhere in the Americas outside the actual contiguous US) but a tiny boutique style store in a shopping plaza about a mile from the school. I don't recall the name but I want to say it was Kidz which was bother on bran for the school and the endless novelty PR businesses that pop up trying to earn a meager bit of cachet with straight English names The Mayaguez Food Truck Court is another.

My mother was furious. We had pants. I was not part of the problem. We had gone to Baldwin for eleven years and paid each of those.

My mother was/is not dumb but she was never one to come up with simple solutions. Everything was very convoluted and required knowing someone (una "pala" in Spanish) who knew someone to get things done. This was both a combination of her fatalism and the petty graft endemic to PR.

But in a rare moment of elegance my mother took me to Kidz and told the shop keep that I was a size 50 waist. Now, I was fat in HS. Fatter than now but never that big. I had pants that fit. The shop keep answered these needed to be special ordered and would take time. So, we left and then told the school we had tried this and were just waiting for the "approved" pants to arrive. I was then allowed to wear my non code compliant pants for what turned out was the remainder of the school year. The rule was never enforced. As homeroom teacher put it, "I have no interest in staring at students' asses."

I am recalling this because I currently work at a school and sometimes I am asked to answer questions about dress code. On the staff side however which is about 9th circle of hell Dantenian awkward as I am big fat guy and the majority of the staff is female. How am I going to tell Cathy with C that her shirt is off brand? "Hey, take that shirt off Cathy with a C!" I just parlay as I have yet to find something as elegant as my mother's solution.

Something Scary, Mothman Part 1

My son recently started listening to the Something Scary podcast. It's alright. I'm not much into podcast except for very granular niche ones like Limited Resources or The Command Zone. Both are about MTG so like I said, niche.

I appreciate the vocabulary and story telling he picks up albeit reading Reddit creepy pastas seems a bit pedestrian. I realize typing that as the guy with the blog no one reads is SOMETHING but there is a reason I leave my posts here and don't fire them off to be performed. And its not because these are awful! No, it's a conscious choice. This is art!

It remind me of the time I chased an urban legend. I went camping in Jackson Lake State Park in Ohio just over the border from Point Pleasant, West Virginia where….Mothman Lives!

In the 11th grade I read this book….The Big Book of The Unexplained. There is a whole series of these big books….Conspiracies, Freaks, Wild West, etc. All have various comics artists but a single author

This is where I first learned of Mothman and I was fascinated.

A monster like nothing else. Not a lizard kaiju. Or another hairy ape. Or a slithering lake monster breaking the waves in undulating lines.

A new flying monster that beats the air at nearly 100 miles an hour. With dagger headlight red eyes and an ability to spook and shudder. There he is crawling hanging above the street lamp just barely seen. Then he swoops over the joist and lunges at you. He has that feather flutter creepiness like how people are afraid of things with a a lot of holes. He is dusty (like a moth!) but also slick like the skin of a seal.


It's the eyes which even in the black and white of the comic pierced me. I don't have the book (If it still exists then it is buried somewhere in my mom's possessions) but maybe ill get it on the secondary market. I did find another blog with a scan and it is linked here.


Eyes do it for me. Black eyes like the almond inkiness of a grey alien put all my hairs on end. My sister's room with the dozen porcelain dolls each with a glistening glass eye. Unnerving.

They can do it in reverse. Big Sailor Moon eyes? Those are nice. All the primal responses to baby animals? Oh, those get me.

Jackson Lake State Park was disappointing. I learned on pulling up that while this was in a sleepy part of Ohio it was by no means isolated. The park itself is a glorified city park with decent acreage and a lily pad choked lake. Maybe it has more grounds but where you could camp? Well you could cross the whole grounds in 5 minutes. The nearby town of Oak Hill, OH had a Subway that was half gas station AND had a drive thru. When I lived in Cleveland proper we used to go to the Walz branch of the local library and that building was donated by a former doctor who ran his practice from there. And you could never shake the "Yeah this was an office building" feel. That was Jackson Lake. This used to be a city park and maybe they wanted to stop mowing it.

Jackson Lake did have plenty of ticks. They crawled over the inner fly of my tent in brigades of 6 to 8. They never got it but I watched them roll and pull in the yellow calcium light of the single pool that lit the outdoor shower shack. I avoided both Lyme Disease and Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever but also burned myself on my camp stove. I had not brought any vegetable oil or Pam on which to grease the pan but did bring a vial of sesame oil. Because, oil is oil oil, right? I didn't even know something could light on fire that fast! A mound of oily rags on top of a malfunctioning space heater set in a pool of gasoline would ignite slower.


During the day, because there was no hiking on which to get lost, I read. I read a book on Somali pirates and John Keel's The Mothman Prophecies. As research, you see. That book is pulpy but has a paranoid travelogue vibe that is very 70s but also somewhat salient.

After a day of sitting I decide to head across the river to Point Pleasant

Mami is Close

My mother recently left Puerto Rico for good. She sold, after years of flirting with the idea, her condo, which she, in the Puerto Rican parlance, called a "walk up." I once used that in college to describe an on campus apartment I lived in.

"Its like a walk up, Professor Allen-Gil"

"What's a walk up?"

So you know, its a 3-5 story condo with no elevator. Why it has none I don't know but this is Puerto Rico, a godless country where novelty rules and forget compliance. I took an ex girlfriend there once and she was gobsmacked as we drove down the Condado tourist district in my mom's rusty Bonneville. Because there on Avenida Ashford someone was riding a horse bare back and shirtless (Phrasing, right?).

"How can that be!?"

"Its pretty normal here."

But my mom sold the walk up. Where she fixed the broken concrete frame for the window unit AC with strips of newspaper, tape, and glue.

And now she is very close to me yet separated by what seems a larger distance. "It is too cold, mijo" Note that to her, anything below 75 degrees is too cold. "Un frio peluo, mijo!" which translates to "A hairy cold." And, note, anything above 80 is too hot. "Un calor brutal, mjio. Sudando la gota gorda." A brutal heat. Sweating the big fat sweats. And she can't drive because she is afraid and so is my sister (Who also refuses to drive in the rain) where she has shacked up. For what is likely the forever future.

My sister has a McMansion. Her husband has a kegerator and a finished basement with the square footage of my house. My mother stays in a mother in law suite nestled in this basement with her own bathroom. When I visit, that is where I stay (My mother sleeps with my nieces or nephew. Note they are running from 12 to 17 so if this is begrudging or welcomed I don't know but its weird!) and in that bathroom she still have bottles of amber V05 shampoo. And hair dye and stained tweezing combs and tubes of scented moisturizer. It's Puerto Rico...except with forced air heating.

As a teen she coveted the Victoria Secret pear scent but no such store existed on the island. It may now but in the early aughts...man  not even Plaza Del Sol had that and that was in the most Americany town you could think of...Bayamon! Well, thats Guaynabo...sorry Guaynabo City....okay, but they could not find the space in GC.

So she had an ersatz coconut line bringing her the stuff. Whenver someone went to the US they had to bring back a bottle. I never toured colleges but I once visited my sister when she lived in Norther Virginia and we had a class trip to DC and she insisted on 40 dollars just for that.

"No way am I going in there, mami! NO WAY!"

"Ask you sister." Or, the real dagger, when we went on the class trip "Ask one of the girls in your class."

Ah, fuck, mami. No way. I spent it on Hoth Expnasion Packs for the Star Wars TCG.

Spin

On satellite radio there is a new station I jam to called "Soul Cycle." And,what I thought was maybe like some electric-poppy mix from the recent years and 2Ks turned out to be a channel meant to do spin classes to.

Because the bumpers all end in powerful affirmations.

"Just one more run. Lets go!"

Or, "We ride as a pack. We listen as a pack."

But, when you take spin class you aren't going anywhere. Where are you riding to?

This is on the low end of the Sirius band (Channel 4) so you know they dropped a ton of money into this. Look at this press release. Is that the same Mark Ronson from that "Nothing Breaks Like A Heart" song with Miley Cyrus?! Awwww, I love that song. When is that coming up on Soul Cycle?

Don't mind me. I am listening to Missy Eliot over hear sharing the same musical taste as hipster white ladies who look much better in yoga pants than I. Trust me.

Two of my co-workers spin. I once ran into one as she was exiting her spin class and wow, that was awkward. Because she looked unkempt and sweaty because she just worked out. And I looked unkempt and sweaty because that is my natural born state. "Are you ok?" she asked.

"Yeah this is just me all the time. Got to go!"

A Play

My internal monologue is a combination of anxious, brave, bold, and circuitous. I think this would be funny in a Tweet but then it's too long. Or as a standup bit. But it's not funny. Cringe inducing perhaps. Note at my job I have a daily bit where I direct traffic. Long story. But when I have to leave early people sub. 

Me, pulling out with my car, yelling at my son: "We gotta go! Let's go!"

Sub coworker waving at us and smiling: "Bye! Have a good one!"

Me: "You look great doing that! Thanks!"

Also me, internally: "Fuck, she is going to think you are hitting on her!"

Also also me, internally: "No you are just being nice. It's cool. Maybe if you were less anxious and weird you wouldn't think people assume that"

Also also also me, internally: "Nope. You are now going to be that sketchy pariah!"

Also also also also me, internally: "I'm going to get fired"

My son: I thought we were in a rush?

Chestnut War Epilogue

If any readers are indeed true readers (Not Russian porn bots, which is what I always assume) and you liked the Chestnut War summary then I am going to ask for a follow on twitter

@garikapc

Likely you came from there already. But, if not, then you can go there are search #chestnutwar and see all the posts from the first year of battle in 2018. And the ongoing second year of the campaign. This year I am going to try a serious stab at roasting these and the incorporating into something. Not the soup the neighbors make (Which per my wife's conversation with the old ladies I did not manage to shoo off uses chicken and green vegetables), but something baked. A dish where I can incorporate the flavor of these prickly boys and muddle it with sugar and butter.

 I am going to totally win this war. Or die trying. Or move out because its a rental. Or the tree will fade because it too seems to be succumbing to the chestnut blight. Apparently Chinese Chestnuts are resistant but not immune and I noticed more dead branches and papery shelves of fungi growing on them. Whole tertiary branches have fallen and there is an open gap in the lovely dome crown of the tree where a larger branch must have fallen before me moved in.

This may not be blight, but its something and in maybe 5 to 7 years there may not be a tree to fight over. Which is no less of a bummer because of how hackneyed it sounds. War, what is it even good for? Absolutely nothing. 

Chestnut War Part 5

"I am giving these away to the neighbors," my wife said as she pulled out the ceramic bowl in which I kept the chestnuts. My research said to keep them refrigerated so I had it tucked in the azure bowl behind the ranch and lettuce.

"WHY!?"

"You don't want them to eat. You just want to keep this dumb game going."

"I want a divorce!"

"We can't afford it"

Which was true. But, I did want to eat them. And there were thousands of recipes online tied to quintessential holiday memories, but all made with imported European chestnuts. Could these "wild" chestnuts work?

I learned that any recipe needed these to be roasted. Unless I made chestnut butter which sounded like something I would stumble on Porn Hub to be honest. Hundreds of variations to the roasting technique going in circles and countervailing Catch-22s. Soak them. Don't soak them. Score them. Don't score them. Wrap in aluminum foil. No, put straight down on the cookie sheet.

Did I mention I am awful at cooking. I can feed myself but bake/cook? That's dicey. Its a combination of my lack of fine motor skills and a willingness to just say fuck it. There is no difference between lemons and limes to me because fuck it. I once made a cake for a girlfriend but it was Sunday and the tiny town I lived in, it was one of those where the sidewalks roll up on Sundays. The only store open was the Family Dollar which did not have eggs. So I used more vegetable oil because fuck it. And it baked but it was, as she put, "like eating a pimple." Fuck it.

I decided to not soak. But I would score and I would try two batches. One in aluminum foil and one on the cookie sheet. My wife suggested I sprinkle some salt and oil on one batch and that was the cookie sheet one.

They looked amazing. Tiny blistering warm brown orbs with peeling skin. Inside the bloom was the pale nut that looked like a walnut happily swollen with water. I didn't pick up any particular smells which seemed disappointing but I hoped they tasted yummy.

They tasted like wet hot chalk. Very wet but still sloughing off in mushy meal balls like peanut butter stuck in the hot recycling bin jar.

"Maybe they need to be fire roasted! Like in the Christmas carols!" I said trying to salvage the situation. We had a fire pit in the backyard.  A lovely handmade brick one with a grill and decorative chimney. Lets get that going and cook these up Bing Crosby style.

"It could just be these nasty knockoff Chinese Chestnut nuts grown on the side of West 214th, also" my wife said.

Science would say that I should buy a bag of imported classic chestnuts from the store and try to roast those. Do a taste test. But, I had spent all fall hoarding these nasty prickly bois and if I paid for nuts then the neighbors would have won.

"I wonder what the neighbors do with them?," pondered why wife. "That one lady said she makes a chicken soup"

Then I felt betrayed. She spoke to them!?

"Yeah, her name is Kay and they make a soup"

"I want a divorce"

Chestnut War Part 4

Around this same time my cat dissapeared. Not the bad cat, Lila. But the good cat, Curie. They look exactly the same save Lila is about 15 pounds heavier and had mega mutant polydactyl lobster paws with 6-7 toes.

Curie likely got out because we had the carpets cleaned one day in early October and she whizzed out the door trying to flee from the cacophony.

But I swore it was the Asians. "They took a hostage! They were not content just to steal my prickly boys. Now they are ripping the toes off our cat" My wife rolled her eyes.

This was not the first time Curie had vanished. About 4 years earlier we had a break in. The robbers made off with not much (they left the laptop and took a book of stamps of all things) but they made a mess and left the door wide open. And Curie was gone. I assumed it was the kids who lived behind us and I swore I would go "sick house" on them. But then we found her hiding behind the drawer of a built in dresser.

Back in the present, she returned after 4 days loose on the streets of the west side suburbs. The kids never noticed and Curie returned with all her toes.

But the neighbors had upped their game. At this point I had gained enough ability to move to get to work but then I got hit with a cold that sapped my voice. I could not speak except in gurgles. Luckily I dodge most people at work and can do most of my work just typing (helped by a bit of pantomime). But my wife had the same cold and she stayed home. Which is when she sent me this...

THEY BROUGHT A LITERAL 20 FOOT POLE!

I thought we said no weapons!? Where is your honor? That is all the say in kung-fu movies...my honor. And I know that is awful but WHO HAS A LITERAL 20 FOOT FUCKING POLE IN THEIR HOUSE!?

And standing on the sidewalk which is public property! Pretty sneaky.

I told my wife to go tell this lady to fuck herself. My wife retorted that no, I should go fuck myself as I was being ridiculous about this whole thing. "What do you want with these nuts, anyway? These folks actually want/eat them. It is culturally significant to them. You are just hoarding them for the sake of hoarding"

Which...is true. This was a deep reptilian part of me that wanted them all. I was chronicling it on Twitter and it got me likes and even a few shadow/lurker nods from people I knew. It released that tiny bit of social media dopamine that feels ever so satisfying.

But my wife, throwing a bone to me, did report later that a SEPARATE neighbor came that same day and she fired the panic alarm on the car.

Yeah, run!

Chestnut War Part 3

"Daddy! There is someone in our yard! DADDY!"

My son's screaming woke me from my dizzy nap. He and his sister developed a penchant for awakening at what I believe should be illegal hours on a weekend. They would tap on me on the couch and whisper "good morning" and I would point them to their tablets. This allowed me to sleep, even a shallow 30 minutes more, for a time AFTER the sun was up.

But this got me going. "The neighbors! I'm coming"

I managed to cut the "rise time" from about 10 minutes to 5 without crippling myself. I then stutter stepped over to the window and saw the neighbor lady.

An older Asian-American lady in thick heather great sweat pants. She had a pink floral blouse that still hung loose even though it covered what appears to be 4 other layers. She had marshmallow white puff sneakers, a lilac vinyl fanny pack, and a floppy short sun hat (like what Gilligan wore on Gilligan's Island).

"Daddy! Stop her. The chestnuts!"

"I'm going. I'm going!" But at the time beyond hobbling I am barefoot and in my underwear. I am more concerned about the bare feet because stepping on a chestnut is guaranteed to not just destroy your foot but also the feet of any podiatrist that would try to fix them.

I find the appropriate pants and shoes and open the front door. I scream "Hey!" The lady books it from the yard but still clutching a half full grocery bag of husked nuts. I grab a collapsible baton I keep in the top of the foyer closet. Because I still want to think I'm a badass but I am not so sad as to own a sword and, like 311 said, "guns are for pussies"

And I chased the lady down the street.

She moved fast (Its because of some ancient Chinese secret I bet," I later joked on Twitter to 2 whole likes). I did not, hobbled by my back and my yet to be treated bursitis in my foot (Yeah I had that too. I am a real premium specimen) but about 3 house lengths into this I stopped. Because I realized I was about to commit a hate crime over some chestnuts. They had thrown the first stone but I had to respond appropriately.

I then got the kids into hoodies and thick name brand Crocs (Not the cheap ones we got at Aldi's one time for the beach) and we went chestnut hunting. My son had a reacher-grabber he got for a birthday and I had every rake and broom out from the garage to bump nuts off the branches.

A quick aside about the nuts. They are called chestnuts because the fruit splits at maturity to reveal a good 1-2 wide nut. This part, like everything with the tree, feels alien. The final stage has the spiny nut (or chest) open into four neat and prickly petals. At this point the tree spits the nuts out leaving the empty and broken seed on the branch.

That all said it is much more common to find half open ones on the ground. If they are an emaciated brown then they may have a nut which the savvy hunter can shuck off with a roll of the foot. Then the nut pops out. Sometimes the nut is a dud and instead of a full formed nut you get four little desiccated "almost nuts" that appear like the last bits of an Outback Steakhouse Bloomin Onion. I assume this is something with pollination and it going wrong but I train the kids to ignore them and husk for the fully formed one.

The yard scoured of nuts,  I felt content we had done what we could to dissuade the invaders

Chestnut War Part 2

"This here is a Chinese Chestnut or a Buckeye tree," said the neighbor. I am not an inherently neighborly person so I did not seek his advice. He caught me getting out of the car one day after work. I call him Bud albeit I do not recall his name. If this sounds mean then I can guarantee he has no clue of mine.

He was right. It is a Chinese Chestnut. It is not a Buckeye which is a separate tree with a totally different shaped leaf albeit it also has a gnarly fruit.

"And the nuts here are prized by the Orientals that live around here."

In person I told him "Oh ok. Wow" and then other quick pleasantries to end the conversation.

Internally, I began to bullet list questions

1) This is not the first i have heard of the "Asian Invasion" each fall. Is it really such a neighborhood event?

2) Where are they? The neighbors?

3) Who still says Orientals? It comes off as anachronistic and icky. Does Bud call all women "Broads"?

Bud was not the first neighbor to tell us. Or the last, but he was the only one who made a point to come from his home and warn us.

But at that time I paid it no heed. It wast the 3rd of September and my son was about a month into kindergarten. Which he attended at the same school where I work. There was also a new set of principals at our school and it was a slow burn of a professional marriage. My mother in law reached the final stages of her dying at this point and it stressed my wife. My son was about to hit his first fall break (Something that seems normal to everyone else but I never heard of until I began working at the school) and where he was going to go and how we would pay for it stressed me.

However, on a Saturday that all changed.

To maximize this story it is important for you, rare reader, to understand the scene. Because this saga is like a play on a neat rotating stage. On one half is the living room. A sad oatmeal brown couch always covered in a grey/white cat and varying blankets. A deep brown end table stacked with yet to be read books, some still with the price tags. The throw pillows are a pea green and stuffed with real feathers.

On the other side of this lazy Susan is the front yard. The Chinese Chesnut sprouting from a ring of brick pavers. Around the trunk are hostas and the dying stalks of pansies and geraniums. It being close to October there are hanging Halloween decorations on the branches. Cheap but durable dollar store hanging ghosts and specters. All skulls and spooks swinging in the breeze. The ground is more chestnut husk than grass.

And the last bit of setup relates to me. I had blown my back out a few days earlier putting on a pair of jeans. This would end up being a debilitating injury (Which I hate calling but it is such) that sapped me for three weeks going past the aforementioned fall break and coloring the whole chestnut war. Also, note I sleep on the couch every night. Like a childhood hero, Fox Mulder. Not because my wife says I snore.

To rise each morning I would need to roll onto the floor off the couch. Literally drop because I could only turn to the left side. It was a shot drop so I would usually catch myself with me knees. Then I would pivot slowly so I could straddle the couch like it was the top of the pews at church. It looked like I was praying "Lord, give me strength to get up"

Then in about 6 minutes I would pick myself up. First onto the couch cushions, then onto the arm and then a long stretch to the small shelf made by a pony wall cut between our living room and kitchen. I could, with luck, in about 10 minutes physically get up from bed. Luckily there are no pictures but I would describe it as hilarious for viewers and stomach dropping anxious for me. Even a small wrong turn would send electric daggers up and down my back. So I would fall back done and try to clamber up. How stupid this all sounds can only be matched by how much it hurt. One morning I slipped and the pain, plus the biological routine of each morning, meant I actually pissed my pants trying to get up. I did not go to work that day.

But this is not a story of my fall but of a chestnut war.

Chestnut War Part 1

We could not afford to purchase the house. The landlady  offered it to us "cash," using an aphorism that I thought only my mother used. "That way we don't need to work through real estate agents" 

But we couldn't afford to buy it. Not that it was an amazing house. It was a total grandma house with an illegal added back addition and patch work moss embedded into the shingles of the garage roof. When it rained. water would seep from the corners of the basement and push out quarter sized spiders. But it was huge worth crannies and storage that made me imagine its past. This used to be a speakeasy. Or a stop on the Underground Railroad! Never mind it's a 50s bungalow, I knew it had a story beyond the mundane. But it would have been easy to stay.

We moved  to another little suburb 10 minutes away. Cuyahoga County is partitioned into dozens of baby fiefdoms that feel very different to those that live in them. 

"Those are River people. We live in Bay"

"Oh we live in the heights. Shaker, not Cleveland"

It felt no different  but I was glad to have a place and time off that let me take advantage of cheaper move rates during the work week. The new landlady, a silver haired British lady, told us that the previous tenant complained of a tree with a bad smell. It was the one in the front. Just be careful. An FYI.

An aside that for a spell I dabbled in field biology. Not scientifically but I challenged myself to identify trees by their bark not the leaves. Because, will the tree have leaves in winter? I kept a puny life list of birds in the dog eared coffee stained Audubon bird guide. For a brief summer I knew the difference between broad leaf and and narrow goldenrod. I cant anymore but I remember it wasn't the width of the leaves! I knew the difference between Joe Pyed Weed and Boneset. A trash ailanthus tree against a native black walnut. The scientific name of the House Sparrow is Passer Domesticus. Of the common Robin...Turdus Migratorius. I'm better than the average person but the average person knows nothing. Its enough to impress anyone who isn't even a bit of an outdoors person.

However this tree was unusual. Big serrated leaves akin to the embellished arrowheads you would use for a football logo. Pipe cleaner flowers that spindle out like the paper strings from a New Years popper.What was it? I then consulted my North American Tree guide by Audobon (This was a series of gifts for a few birthdays with each book in the series a nice faux leather cover in a solid color. They looked slick on a coffee shelf even the ones i never used. The guide to North American mammals. Weather. The Night Sky. Insects and Spiders. Mushrooms. Wildflowers. I never got the freshwater fish one.

Source: Audubon.org

And scanning through the plates and margin notes (In red pen so it stands) I deduce it is a Slippery Elm!

Of this, I am certain. Fucking nailed it.

But, then in early September the flowers wither. They fall in wormy macabre heaps of fuzz onto the ground. They are replaced by angry fuzz balls looking the results of an awful experiment.

Look at how I merged this tennis ball and puffer fish. It hurts like a mother fucker and the needles stay sharp eternally. They are botanical razors at the first budding of the fruit and still equally as sharp once they dry into husks. 

And I had seen this before. In college. During one of those amateur naturalist treks with an ex-girlfriend. Those spines were longer and better defined. And the inside of that seed was soft. So soft that I assumed it was velvet. And not an analogy, but literally this was velvet. This is where it came from before it was stitched onto couches.

It was a chestnut! And where that first husk was rare here was a whole tree of them. In my front yard and so fecund that it was a hassle  to be around it. 

Hadn't this tree been wiped out? A symbol, like the Passenger Pigeon or bison, of where manifest destiny symmetrically everyone?

Was this a post-modern living fossil? Was it worth anything? Was it a "Notable Tree" as some signs around town said in select front yards?

Did we have something special?

A Nice Catholic Wedding

Reading through the old sections of this blog I realized that the old (well its technically the younger me) legitimately tried to make this a fiction blog. At that point I had TWO blogs and the old Blog of Plenty is long gone. It maybe cached on a very lonely and boring Google server but that was supposed to be "funny" blog and this one the "serious" writing one. They both had readerships of zero and zero times two is still zero.

In addition to new sketches and writing prompts I put up short stories I wrote before the blogs. These were mostly from writing courses in college. And it shows. I am surprised I never shared this one. It is indeed very personal (Not in the impactful way. Just that it is based on real events) albeit a bit hyperbolic. Like with this blog and my Twitter I have a tendency to self diagnose through public written media. Here is what i said now please let me know what you think. While few have read this the fact no one does has helped ensure I stay out of trouble. Anyway, here it is.

Tromelin Island (Source)

A Nice Catholic Wedding

There are no brochures for Tromelin Island. I can’t just walk down to street to the travel agency and book a flight to Tromelin. There is an airstrip there but no one to check my bags or tell me how to put my seatbelt on correctly. To get to Tromelin I will have to go to Reunion first and talk to officials in the French military. Getting to Reunion is hard enough because it’s a drop of gravel, smaller than Rhode Island, east of Madagascar, but at least it has scheduled flights. Once there I will ask for permission to visit Tromelin, an island where the highest point is a seven-meter sand dune next to a French meteorological station. Except for sea turtles and giant albatrosses, no one lives on Tromelin. A pilot can drop me in or the French Navy would strap me to an Exocet and fire at a single square kilometer of sand. There are no phones on Tromelin.

This is something that is really great to do when you are bored: go to the CIA’s webpage and find their World Fact Book. They have every country, protectorate, colony, and spit of sand on the planet listed there. When your roommate is going into hour three of talking to his girlfriend, the fact that Baker Island is built on bird shit becomes interesting.

I have become Mr. Geography because there is no music that can drown out the sounds of two Catholic kids planning their wedding. They say ‘hun’ a lot. There is something so ‘plain as day’ about ‘hun’ but they just love it. Kevin says it with every sentence. Other kids use ‘like’ but Kevin uses ‘hun.’


“Oh c’mon, hun!”


“I don’t even know 75 people, hun.”


“It is going to be your special day too, hun.”


“I think June would be better, hun.”


“I just don’t see why we have to pay someone to tape it, hun.”


Kevin needs to try using that word at the beginning of a sentence. He keeps on going, an oral rubber stamp that just slams on ‘hun.’ So saccharine, like that donut on his desk. How long has he had that thing out?

The donut has been sitting on my desk all this time. I wonder if it is still any good? Grandma made them for me, with extra Smuckers strawberry jam and granulated sugar, calling it a Polish donut.

Nervous, I start to twirl a pen in between my finger. The ends click against my desk and Melanie asks, “What is that noise?”

“Nothing, hun.” I put the pen away

Melanie has a nasally scratchy voice that makes her sound like a nine-year old is inside her. Her voice squeaks over Kevin’s cell phone, but I don’t pick up any words; the hard click-clack of the pen drowns out the words. Just like how a dog hears, I only pick up intonations and not words. She did not like Kevin’s attempt to end the conversation. Her voice becomes frenetic and exasperated, coming through in pleading whines. Bad answer, Kevin, I think as I bring up another country profile. The only herd of reindeer on Earth not affected by Chernobyl lives on the Falklands.

I still can’t hear the conversation and I’m not really interested, but I know the gist. She calls in waves and whenever she gets a headache or struggles with an assignment, Kevin’s phone bleats. A bad day at the convenience store, a big presentation for a class, or another fight with her mom and there goes the night. Some nights, Kevin goes to the bathroom and talks to her in there, but this apartment is small and I can still hear the litany. The only British soil ever occupied by German forces in World War 2 is the island chain of Guernsey.


Does Kell hear me? He never mentioned any of my conversations with Melanie. He is pretty cool, but sometimes it would be nice to relate. He has had girlfriends before, and Melanie is being tough tonight. I don’t think I am going to get any homework done tonight. “I understand that you had a bad day, hun. I know that you are excited about the future, hun. So am I, but we talked at five and at seven already.” Melanie tells me she is tired and will go to bed soon. She needs this last conversation. “Ok, hun. I am sorry. What were we talking about before I interrupted? The wedding, right?” She starts to sound a little happier now. “What flowers? I don’t know hun. Just some pretty ones, like you.”


Her favorite flowers are sunflowers, Kevin. If you are going to marry this girl, if you are so in love with her then know her favorite flowers. “Why does this guy have a girlfriend”, I ask to myself, under my breath while scrolling to the ‘s’ section for South Georgia and South Sandwich Islands. After two failed attempts to cross Antarctica by foot, Ernest Shackleton died and is buried in Grytviken, South Georgia Island.

I know all this shit about Melanie that only Kevin needs to know. She loves the name Emily but that is going to have to wait after they are married. Her favorite flower is the sunflower and color is powder blue. She doesn’t get along with her sister because they were both competing for the one slot left in their mother’s broken heart. Her periods come in during the middle of the month—usually pretty heavy. Kevin sprinkles in a few ‘huns’ to calm her down.

Melanie gingerly jumps from mood to mood. One second she is raving about how Kevin ignores her and then she giggles coyly at the trailer for the latest Disney movie. One mention of that wedding and she is all juice boxes, church picnics, and little pink rug rats. Kevin realizes how content she feels and slouches in his chair, looking up at crack in the ceiling, arching his back and stretching.

It is already 11:17 and Melanie feels a lot better. “I am sure you are going to look great that day, hun,” I tell her as I launch a game of Minesweeper. She asks me about names and I agree with her that I always liked the name Emily. She asks me about the honeymoon and I say maybe Canada because neither of us can speak a foreign language. Then she asks me the weirdest thing yet and I don’t know how to answer. “What’s that, hun? Um that is kind off a weird question. I don’t know, hun. Kell is in the room.

“Damn straight, Kell is in the room,” I think to myself. Latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates saturate my brain. Only 46 people live on the Pictarin Islands. I hear my name, but I pretend that I am too engrossed with geography to really care. This conversation needs to end.

Kevin answers Melanie, “Well sure you’ve given me some, but what can I do? You haven’t decided to expose your beautiful body to me.”

There isn’t enough obscure geography to rectify that—not enough Cocos, Marshall, or Glorioso Islands to scour away the image of a naked Melanie. The image reminds me of white bread, puffy, plain and only good when toasted. Shivering, I bring up the website some French kid made for Tromelin Island. The website hasn’t been updated in three year, but it has pictures. Tromelin is a perfect tear drop in the Indian, alone and dotted with green bushy blemishes. Kevin chuckles and I imagine Melanie’s ticklish laughter filling her own apartment.

“No, a four hour one would not be cool, hun. That is a lot of blood in just one area.”

These are two Catholic kids from Northern Virginia; I can’t believe this conversation. Don’t they stop this kind of talk in church?

Kell can hear me, but I whisper, really softly, into my phone. I catch an image of Kell in the reflection of my monitor and he hovers at his computer, still on the islands page.

“What is that, hun? Now? I thought you were going to bed? It is a long drive.” I swivel around in the chair and look at Kell. His back is turned and hunched over the desk. I didn’t notice this earlier, but he has the hood up around his head. I wonder if he is cold and whether I should turn up the heat. Melanie asks whether she can come over again and I say, “Hold on, hun. Let me ask.”

This sweater is a product of the Northern Mariana Islands, but it still says “Made in the U.S.A on the tag.” The islanders did not make the hood thick enough because I hear Kevin perfectly. 90% of Nauru’s interior is devastated due to unchecked phosphate mining, but that is not so concerning as to let me ignore this conversation. I know he wants to ask if she can come over. If she can swing down from her own school just to spend the night. I look at the clock at the corner of the computer screen and it blinks 11:20. She’ll be her by 1am. Kevin does ask me if she can come over, struggling over his words and a couple of ‘um’s and ‘so’s. He says, “It will only be for the night and she’ll leave with me in the morning.” I don’t respond. Mayotte is the only island in the Comoroes archipelago that rejected independence from France.

Kell does have his hood on, but does he have any headphones on? I don’t think he heard me that time. Maybe he has some way to really tune everything out. Maybe that is why he gets so much work done. I twist my neck and try to scan his side, looking for a thin black cord running down to the computer tower. Melanie chimes in again and I tell her to keep waiting. She gives me an annoyed sigh. “Hey, Kell,” I ask again. “Um, so is it cool if Melanie comes over tonight? It will be only be for one night, this night, and she’ll leave when I go to my morning class. She won’t be here in the afternoon like last time.” Kell doesn’t answer. The sound of hard taps against the mouse fill up the air. I am sorry if he is mad because of Melanie’s last visit here. It wasn’t cool of her to skip her classes and drink all that juice which she though was mine. She should have gone home, but she needed my input on something for the wedding. I think it was the food and that is a tough decision.

No headphones and he is only six feet away. Kell ignores me and I can’t help but feel annoyed. I’m asking him and offering him my word. She will not be here in the morning. Melanie is only going to spend the night. Her voice comes through the phone again and she is getting stressed out. I hold the phone and tell her to calm down. “Just a bit more, hun. I’m asking.” Putting the phone down on the desk, I lick my lips and brew up some strength to ask Kell again. He stills has his hood up. “Kell, sorry if you are busy, but can Melanie come over tonight? Just for the night? Is that cool?” I hear something over the phone, Melanie’s voice telling me something. I quickly pick up the phone and hear what she has to say. I tell her to wait just a little longer, maybe pull onto the side of the road and wait or just drive slowly. I turn to Kell. “Is that cool? She is already kind-off on her way. She had a real bad day.”

The air outside is filled with water. Rain comes down in hypnotic sheets and headlights hover across the road. There is only offshore anchorage for Europa Island because of a surrounding coral reef. Bouvet Island features thick glaciers that rise from the sea. Jarvis and Navassa Island can have Navy SEALs airdropped onto them at any sign of foreign invasion. Even Kingman Reef, a hunk of natural architecture that pokes three feet above the Pacific, has more protection than me. Melanie has a car and the motivation. Kevin asks me if she can come over; I think this is the fourth time and I say, “Sure.” I catch him off guard, maybe he was expecting an argument, but Melanie is already ripping down a wet Interstate, driving uncharacteristically fast with her perfect Catholic wedding in mind. Kevin says thanks.

That went a lot easier than I thought. I tell Melanie the news and she is happy. She need to study for her sociology class and tells me she has a treat for me.

“Oh really?” I ask and wonder what it could be. Maybe that is why she was asking all those questions earlier. I ask what the treat is and she says cake. Cake samples for the wedding. She tells me how excited she is and how her mother sent her some newspaper clippings from back home about houses in Herndon Heights. She wants a nice wooden duplex, close to the town square and the church where we’ll be married. She has a list of potential ring bearers and wants me to help choose the entertainment.

“I need to graduate first, hun. So do you.” She whimpers and says that it never hurts to plan early. “Your right, hun. Two years isn’t bad at all. Sorry. Can’t wait to see you.” She giggles and pecks me a kiss over the phone. She says she’ll be there soon and says goodbye. I peck her goodbye also and flip the phone close. The phone is hot with latent heat making it feel uncomfortable and hostile.

I write down the coordinates to Tromelin.15.52 South by 54.25 East. I stuff the note into my wallet, in case I ever get the chance to go to Tromelin. Tromelin Island has no girlfriends or roommates. Tromelin Island isn’t time to think or read, but the cure for two Catholic kids planning their wedding. Melanie must be over the county line now. The room feels weird without the mention of ‘hun’ and ‘I love you.’ Kevin thanks me again and I close the Fact Book Page. I open a search engine and look up the French translation for “Ready, Aim, Fire!”

Journal Entry 9-27-19

This is the work double speak. I am sure it applies to any office

"My computer doesn't work" really means "I don't know how to use my computer"

"The copier was jammed" really means "I jammed and but don't want to admit to it"

"Oh, I missed that email" really means "I ignored it."

"I didn't see the calendar invite" really means "I ignore calendar invites"

"I don't do email. Can you send it to me via paper" really means "I don't care about the thing at all. And this is my way to deflect"

"No one ever told me" really means "I never listened"

"Whatever you think" really means "I don't want to make a decision"

For sure there are times when these are true. And I have used specific granular ones like "Thats a landlord issue" to buy some time.

But the response, like earlier posts, is "Ok"

Ok something being "Let me help you because you are so cool. Can you be my friend!? You are so pretty and funny and its not big deal!"

Ok something being "I do not like you but my duty and honor say I must help you!"

Its rarely neutral. Its like when my wife texts back "K." Shit...that means something is up!

I found a real honesty when a co-worker once verbatim called me an asshole. We worked it out and it was refreshing where all the other niceties seemed draining.

I should stop blogging about work while I'm in my feelings. I should find something else to validate me.

Journal Entry 9-25-19

When I mention where I work, people have a lot of assumption. I work at a K-8 public school, by the way. But, I am not a teacher so that is usually the first assumption I have to correct. And Im not really an educator nor a coach so I then have to adjust that. "Are you the custodian?" No, I wish. Those union guys make a giant amount of bank.

No, I am kind of the catch call for anything non-educational. This befuddles people because "Well isn't there a purchasing department for that"

Yeah, that's me. We cant afford a department so we have a person that does that.

But this isn't me complaining about work. Its fine. This is about assumptions.

People assume that this must be very hard. Lots of sad stories of angry kids, beat up kids, and drama. And it happens but the educators focus on that.

"So, what is difficult about your job?"

And I don't like thinking of anything as "difficult" but I am shocked. Shocked not so much at what happens but at the fussy goofiness of what I am asked to manage.

"Someone moved my chair!"
"The students tried to use the trash can after I emptied it!"
"You booked us this room but there is someone in there and they won't leave!"
"I don't read emails but still need to know what is happening today"

To which I say "Ok" or "I will investigate"

Journal Entry 9-20-19

If anything this blog is a horrible journal. That is what I say when my wife tells me "You spend too much time on Twitter."

"Don't worry, honey. Its like a journal. No different than what others have done for hundreds of years!"

Dear Diary...is it a journal when you are writing with the intent of people seeing it but no one actually ends up seeing it. Isn't it just a bad story? Bad joke? Lame tweets?

Dear Diary...I am worried that I should maybe print out all these scintillating articles and store somewhere. We produce so much text and copy but none of it is printed. Maybe that is a good thing but where will the 2019 equivalent of the Dead Sea Scrolls come from? I am sure someone is printing all the Trump tweets and a Benghazi bro has all of Hilary's emails printed (and laminated) somewhere. We got that going.

Dear Diary...I should actually journal for my audience of none.However, because I get up at 2:30am every day with anxiety about work or my family that is all I want to talk about. But I don't want to get fired. And I want my children, when they inevitably blame me for how damaged they (Or their world) are and don't want to hear "You shared all your secrets on your blog! I never consented to that!"
At work I did come up with a good retort to a co-workers but she always disarms me by playing with her hair when we talk. No clue why that phases me but it instantly saps any wit, insight, or vitriol from my comments.
At work, I did learn about Fucking Hooray moments which I will try to affirm daily.

Fucking Hooray because I rediscovered a favorite album of all time Re by Mexican band Cafe Tacvba (Its like the U/V in Chrvhces. Not a typo) all the way back from the year 1994.



I am a product of my environment so few albums I have listened end to end but that was one and from a very tender age. Fucking Hooray!