Halloween Show

I’m here at the gym. Reflecting on human comedy and drama of recent days. There has been ample material for reflections. I think about what to write about – I can write so many things for you.

Last night I picked up a few books. Trying to be a good boy and spend my long dark nights well. Frankenstein wasn’t hitting. A Tale of Two Cities was not what I wanted to read. Robinson Crusoe, no, no. That wasn’t it. So, then what?

I laid around and thought, reflected. Didn’t want to listen to music, didn’t want to absorb any new content, no new intakes, I think. Only reflections, yet I had energy. It wasn’t time for bed yet – what do I do? And I started to read some past writings.

I have to tell you that I have been having some serious grapplings with myself as a writer, my thoughts of writing, my purpose, what I am doing, what I am working for, what I could and should be writing, what I should do with my writing, how I can make it better, etc. And that is somewhat tiring, and has been recently, and I’ve started to just let myself be free from it. That’s good. I read some of my past writing, last night, writing where I just let it all out and spoke some truth, that was entertaining, and honest, and especially what was about people – Nick Harding, my wild ex-roommate, my time at the guitar store, my writing about whatever shennanigans was going on at the time, and I felt that that was the good writing. That was the best writing, that was entertaining, and contained truths and human themes, which we are basically all interested in. My gardening writing, that was good, I enjoyed reading it when it was entertaining, and less so when it was just me reciting new discoveries. Plants are hard to make entertaining, I’ll tell ya. Just the subject matter. No plant-centric writing will be as entertaining as recounting my conversations with my wild ex-roomie about him wanting to fight in the Revolutionary War and watching The Patriot and crushing a White Claw in 7.8 in the middle of a bout of chess, the first game of chess that he had ever played in his life (so he said).

I could write for you about the hundred year old beech trees that CD Paddock showed us in the forest the other day, for my round of invasive plant removal on the morning of Halloween. I could talk about the sassafrass tree and the pawpaws she had planted, the mega-oaks, but, it’s simply not that juicy to write about. You just need to see it. You have to come with me and walk in the forest and stand under the tree and marvel at it. That’s just the fact. I can’t really convey this in writing. But it is an awesome thing.

So, if I think about the most entertaining stuff I can write about, these days, there hasn’t been that much. Human comedy, that is. Or perhaps, I’m just not that focused on it. I am thinking a lot about plants, and the environment, to be honest. A lottttt about plants. (And here he goes. He’s writing about plants now.)

We have a new neighbor, long story with this one, but she was at our house show on Halloween, and after the show I got a chance to talk to her, and I had really wanted to talk to her, because I needed her permission to cut down the final bush honeysuckle tree that was between our two properties, and it was just a few inches too far on her side to reasonably justify cutting it down (even though I had cut down several that were already 100% on her side of the property) (and it’s not even her property of course because she’s renting), but I just couldn’t cut this last one down. It would have been too bold of me. I had to get permission. I should have asked her about the other ones, too, sure, but I was chomping at the bit, and on a war path. Well, she has just moved in, so I figured she probably didn’t care, wasn’t too attached, but I did think she would at least notice that medium-sized trees were being felled along her fence, but I finally got to ask her about it, I said, “There’s something I really need to talk to you about,” (it was one of the first things I said to her), and I said, “You have an invasive tree on your side of the yard that I really want to cut down,” I pointed to it because she was sitting right next to it basically, and she said, “Yeah, cut it down! Is it privet?” And I said, “Some of it is, but that’s bush honeysuckle-how do you know about that?” She said, “My two best friends are botanists.” So there you go. And I told her I had already cut down several but I couldn’t cut this last one down without her permission, and she said she hadn’t even noticed that I’d cut anything down at all.

There is now about 200+ pounds of biomatter laying in our yard that I have eradicated, via chopping, sawing, snapping and breaking, or uprooting. Euonymous fortunei, Japanese honeysuckle, Bush honeysuckle, and Chinese privet.

You see that I am not writing about human comedy, really. Dammit.

I have been given permission by the big boss, the head of the park activities, to go ahead and cut the wintercreeper vines on the trees. I am chomping at the bit to cut these things down. I got up and the next morning, (well the next next morning), I went over to the neighbor’s yard and I immediately cut that giant honeysuckle down, along with many privets, and uprooting copious amounts of wintercreeper that were forming a dense mat on the ground. There is so much work to be done. And this morning, after playing guitar and riffing out, the sun broke through, and I popped over to Shelby to start severing those vines and freeing the trees. I didn’t get very far. First, I just had to take down at least one mature privet on the edge of the park, right by the parking lot, where there are so, so many. I was tearing it down right there on the edge, and I at least did have my Shelby t-shirt on, and I knew that I was going to attract attention, as anyone would with a saw, cutting things down at the park, so I knew I should at least have that shirt on, and a mom passed with a few kids, and the kid said, “Mommy, why is that man cutting the trees down?” And she said, “I don’t know, do you want to ask him?” I heard them saying this, and turned to them, and the kid said, “Why are you cutting the trees down?” And I told ’em. I don’t know if they quite understood, but the mom of course did, and then she was talking to me about it, and she said, “We have a ton of these in our yard.” I said, “Yeah, they’re everywhere.” And there you go. Awareness increased. That’s one more person and some kids who know. Will she take them down? I bet she does. She will at least be thinking about it.

I then moved further in and got to work on the fortunei, the very first one I wanted to take down was a menace. There were several vines wrapped around the tree, huge, thick wooden stems of vines. I had to cut through some privet just to get to the tree. Well, I was working on the third of these thick creeper stems, and was bashing the block of wood that I had cut to try and pop it off, when the saw broke apart. The blade popped out, the pieces fell off. And that was the end of that. I was defeated.

Really, I need an electric saw, at least. A chainsaw is probably too much, because it would easily cut into the actual tree, and you don’t want to do that. But a little handheld electric saw could really speed my workrate up.

There are so many ladybugs around right now, most of them, maybe all of them are asian lady beetles, and I’ve noticed that so many of them have deformed wings. It seems that almost half of them are coming out of their metamorphosis with deformed wings, and I thought this was really strange, and concerning even. Surely something is going wrong here. Well, looks like the answer is a virus called Deformed Wing Virus, and is common with asian lady beetles. How fascinating is that? I should get some photos if I can.

I did see this morning, on a short walk in the neighborhood, about fifty ladybeetles, almost all of them correctly formed, basking in the sun. They were covering a variety of plants that were all on the edge of a yard, and where the sun was hitting strongly, and I’m sure they were all just basking in the glow, and warming up. I could see a full variety of their patterns, as the same ones can have different spottage patterns, some of them even having no spots, or nearly no spots, and just being a bright orange color. They were like little orange gems, or little candies. Much more like little candies. That was pleasing to see.

I learned something about tree of heaven, at the volunteer event, that makes it all the worse. You have heard of (or even seen) one of the newer, most prominent invasive insects of late, the lanternfly.

These are bad business. I saw some when I was in NYC. And I learned on Halloween, that their favorite host plant is the tree of heaven. So, there you go. Evil begets evil.

I’m just hitting you with all of my ecological/botanical/plant updates, I know. I’m sorry. I even set out to not do this. I even set out to write something funnier. I am so sorry.

I can tell you that I played in a show on Halloween, drumming, and it was a great time. And we recorded great footage of the concert, from multiple angels, which our fearless band leader is now compiling into an amazing and expertly edited video. I was rewatching some of the video and was generally impressed with how we did (it’s hard to tell from the other side, but it did seem like things went well from behind the drum seat), and there were three things that were really funny about the show. The first is that (I had completely forgotten about this), but Parker had to tell me that I had really done a great thing, which is that after one of the songs, he had a cringe moment where he said, “Man, I never forget the lyrics to Instagirl and I did it tonight, that’s crazy…!” He says this into the microphone, you can tell he’s beating himself up about it, and it is kind of cringe, the audience doesn’t have much reaction, possibly they are feeling some pity or are cringing. But, I said, audibly, mimicking him, “That’s craaaaazy!” and I hit a ba-dump-tiss on the drums, and then the cringe was over and people laughed. Parker said that I saved him, in his cringe moment there. He was very grateful. I was very prepared to do this, a ba-dum-tiss, and at any moment, awkward or actually funny, or just, if I felt like it, I was prepared to throw out a ba-dum-tiss. That was a good moment for one.

I was extremely tempted, and was having a difficult time resisting a ba-dum-tiss, at a critical moment of the show, where Parker was doing his bit, about Paul Atreyades from Dune. Parker was the main character from Dune for Halloween, and during the show he wanted to do a Dune speech, some lines that the character gives, a scene from the show, which was not intended to be funny, but dramatic, however, when he started doing this, and would pause for dramatic effect, I just could not resist hitting a ba-dum-tiss, every time. It was like popping a balloon. There was simply so much satisfaction in that. And of course, he hated this. It was completely ruining his bit. He needed me to not do that, and he begged me, commanded me, after I had done it for the third time, pleaded with me, said, “Steven, you can’t do that. You can’t do that during the show. Please. Promise me.” He had me shake his hand on it. He came into my room I think later that night, to secure my promise. I couldn’t help messing with him, the poor guy. But I knew I wouldn’t do it at the show. He was going to have that moment, I wouldn’t ruin it. But, it was so funny to see him anguished by the possibility of me ruining his special Dune moment with a ba-dum-tiss.

The second funny thing about the show for me, was that, I was definitely more intoxicated than I should have been, come the start of the show. Ethan Beller from Thailand was crafting up some amazing gin and juices, he had cooked simple syrup on the stove, fresh Kroger limes, and I had had two of those, with some prime Aviator gin, and then I may have had an entire beer, so this was already three drinks before we started playing. That was two more drinks than what I had said would be my allocated number of drinks before playing, which was one. And I had tested the waters during our practice, to see how much I could drink while still being clean on the drums, and it seemed that after two beers in a short period of time, I started to get a little loose, and drop the ball once in awhile, which is unacceptable, of course. So I had the intention of having one drink, but then, we were having a great time, and partying, and I wanted to kill some nerves, I won’t lie, and so I had possibly three drinks. Well, the first song went okay, not so hard for me on the drums, but the second song was signficantly trickier, and required more from me on the drums, and I was fumbling right out of the gate. And I definitely had a small moment of internal panic then, and I thought, oh man, I may have gotten too drunk for this. And that’s not good. Well, I had to summon all of my power to rally, and use every brain cell I had, and made it through that song, and then in the third song, I had locked it in, and then there was a moment where I thought, okay, I’ve got it all in the bag now, and then I had no more worries. But, there was truly a moment where I thought, oh god, I’m going to ruin the show and fumble it all away here, because I had two gin and juices and beer. You can see in the video, I was sipping beer the whole time. After almost every song I went and grabbed my beer. What a rock and roller.

I hit that ba-dum-tiss to save Parker from his cringe moment, and then I ran over and took a swig of beer. That’s what I was up to back there on the drums.

What was the third funny thing? I remember. It was that, I was playing with a child’s drum set, and the crash, I don’t know what the purpose of this crash was, because I don’t even know about drum sets, really, but I think it was meant to be hit once, as a crash, and not many times repeatedly, like a ride would be hit. Well, I only had this single crash/ride cymbal, because the other ride/crash whatever that I had in the kit sounded horrible. It sounded like a gong from China. I didn’t use it a single time. So, my crash was also my ride, and I was hitting that thing, and it was flailing around wildly, and I had forgotten that, but was watching the video again, and you see that sometimes it’s literally at like a 170 degree angle, and unhittable, because it isn’t rebounding in time. I had to focus so much energy on hitting that thing right, and calibrate my strikes, and sometimes I just wouldn’t get anything out of it. I would go for a swing on the crash hear either nothing in response, or just a strange clunk. I got all kinds of sounds out of that crash during the show. It was annoying at the time, but in retrospect very funny. To see it flailing around like that.

This is about what I’ve got for ya. Ethan and I went in to the pinball bar, and when I walked in, I heard multiple people shout, “Shrek!!!!” (I was Shrek, totally thrifted outfit), and there was someone in a donkey suit, and I said, “Donkey!!!!” And we hugged each other and jumped up and down. There was in that party a Fiona and a Lord Farquad, I believe, and a Puss in Boots, but they had no Shrek. I just couldn’t believe that. I was astonished at that. Then, there was a girl who was a “detective” but she was of course looking exactly like Sherlock Holmes, and so at first I said, “You’re Sherlock Holmes?” and she said, “I’m just a detective.” I thought that was so funny. I had thought earlier in the night, it would be funny if I just said that I was an alien, and be like, “I’m just an alien, why is everyone calling me Shrek????” Because I looked exactly like Shrek. Her saying that she was not Sherlock Holmes was just like that. “No, I’m not a ninja, I’m just a sneaky man dressed in black with a kunai knife. Why does everyone keep calling me that??”

I had to wake up early for a shift, a full day shift at the gym on Saturday, the day after Halloween, and I was still intoxicated for most of the shift. At least the whole first half, I was buzzed, at least. I forgot to do half of the things I was supposed to do, including the vibe checks, which I am famous for, and turning on the music. They had been climbing in silence for at least thirty minutes before someone came over and said, “Hey, can you turn the music on?” Well, I wasn’t sweating about this shift, because it was at the smaller local gym, and I figured it would be an easy shift, a leisurely Saturday, and that could not have been farther from the truth. We had 100 check-ins, I had no backup, and probably 15 kids under the age of 12 and their parents showed up, I had to do all these orientations, fill out all these waivers, and sell all these day passes, and give the kids chalk, and watch out for their safety, and talk to them, and I had all my cleaning, everything, and on almost no food, I was starving, and I’ll tell you what – that was miserable. Almost miserable, but it was fun honestly. A special highlight was there was a cool black guy, had a great smile, a military man from Alaska, and he had a young kid with him. They were a cute pair, the kid had a superman shirt on, and when they were getting changed at the end of the night preparing to leave, I asked the guy about Alaska, he said he had been living in Anchorage, and I asked about bears, and he said he saw them all the time, they would just walk through his yard, and he showed me a photo of a bear and a cub, just hanging out in his yard. It looked like the most normal suburban yard ever, with a normal house, and with two bears in it. That was an amazing photo. He then showed me a video of a young moose walking around his front door in the winter. He said he just stepped outside and there was a moose there. He said the moose were scary, they were huge. You forget about moose, meese, sometimes. I do. I would like to see a moose. You would not wanted to be charged by a moose, oh no.

Duewell’s Datura

Alright y’all, I got a scoop for you.

First of all, I don’t know how to spell this man’s name, and if it’s wrong, I’m sorry Duewell. I just went for a historic run, possibly my longest run, not sure. It was at least my most difficult run so far, since I’ve been running the last two-ish months, with my leg recovering and allowing me to go farther. It was at least 5.2 miles, maybe 5.5 miles of runnin’, and in the hot afternoon sun, 3 pm, blazing, over hills and along shadeless roads. I had to take some breaks and at one point laid down in the shade of a tree, when I opted to run through a golf course, taking a scenic and adventurous route, that ended up being horrible, and made me feel like I was stranded in the Sahara Desert. I actually had to bask in the single bit of shelter along that desert, and a bird chirped in the tree above me. I called out to it and said, “Help me, bird!” And then I thought, Why should that bird help me? “Help yourself!” I said, and got back up. What a beast. That’s some runner psychology right there. What do I need from that bird? (I think I wanted it to give me some water.) That bird doesn’t need to do a damn thing for me. And I kept battling.

I ended up getting kind of stuck on the golf course, because I couldn’t get to the road easily. There was a huge wooden palisade that prevented me from escaping. I either had to go all the way around it, retracing my steps by like, a mile, in the blazing sun (impossible), or I had to take a gamble and go through some woods and possibly end up in someone’s yard and/or be trapped. I opted for that, and it was a thrilling adventure, stumbling through uncharted territory, wondering if I would end up on someone’s property and get shot. I came out in an empty lot in part of a development complex, I knew exactly where I was. I felt like a deer that had been lost and had no idea where the hell it was, and I probably felt that way too because there actually were several deer in that strip of woods.

Well, the juicy bit I’ve got for you here — but wait, before that, I have to say something more, interesting, psychology here, about donuts and rewards. I had wanted donuts, and I got some, they were on sale, and I said to myself, “If I eat some donuts, I have to go for a run today.” That was my deal — I wanted to run, but not at that exact moment. Well, I had the donuts alright, they made me feel horrible, I fell asleep, and then I did the run because then I really needed it. And that was the deal I had made.

I ran, and the first 2 miles were awful. I felt horrible, and I thought, now this is your punishment, this is my punishment, for eating these shitty, garbage donuts, and I’ll never eat them again — and yet, I went on the run because of the donuts. I may have gone anyway, but I may not have. I was doing that run exactly because I had the donuts. And so, here’s the question: Donuts good? Donuts bad?

We have to say that it was good. But I look at the rest of the donuts on my counter, and I think, You are disgusting. Get away from me. I don’t want any more of you!!!

Taste so good. Make you feel so bad.

Now, on the very end of the run, I was in my neighborhood, so close to sweet relief, and I happened to see a man in snow-white hair out in his yard. (This is the main scoop.)

I’ve seen this man a handful of times, and he happens to have a stately home and garden. I would say that he has one of the most regal gardens in the neighborhood, and recently, I have been especially interested in his moonflowers. He has a large moonflower (Datura) plant in his yard, and moonflowers have been blooming recently. They’re amazing to see. I photographed this man’s just two days ago, in fact, because I wanted to a post of some of all the amazing plants in the neighborhood, so here you go.

I think you can see what I mean about him having a stately garden. Very trim and proper. Looks good, a different flavor from many of the other gardens in the neighborhood. Now, right now you don’t see any flowers — these flowers are shy. They don’t show in the heat, I think. They might only open at morning and night, or just the morning. I should know that by now, but I don’t. I just know that sometimes they’re open, but in the heat of the day, they’re closed, like morning glories. That’s why unfortunately you don’t see the flowers here, but you can still tell that they must be huge. They are enormous.

Now, I have been kind of confused about the name moonflower vs. datura, to tell you the truth, and I’m getting confused again because I’m reading a blog post about it. It seems that the definite correct name for this plant is Datura (the name for the genus), and the common name is moonflower, but that can also refer to another plant that has the common name moonflower, and is totally different. I’m going to keep calling it Datura, then, which is certifiably correct. That’s a cool word, anyway.

It seems that these are the species Datura innoxia, and are native to the Southwestern US, Central and South America. They are part of the Nightshade family (Solanaceae).

We are getting a little derailed, but this is important stuff. And I need to know it — you can know it, if you want. It’s good to know these things, right? Impress your friends with esoteric plant knowledge. (In gardening circles this is probably basic plant knowledge.)

This plant is quickly becoming my favorite plant, I see. I have never had a favorite plant, really. I have never cared that much about plants. But I thought, after coming and learning about Duewell’s Datura, that this might be now my favorite plant, because not only is the plant itself awesome. The caterpillars it attracts are just as awesome.

The SCOOP here, is that I saw this man with snow-white hair outside of his house, tending to his garden, with a watering can, and I thought, I have to talk to him. I have to tell him his Datura is awesome. I didn’t know if I should call it Datura or moonflower, at that time, and I ended up going with moonflower, because that’s what Aubrey, the garderner at Shelby Park called it. I called out to him, “Your moonflowers are awesome!”

He said thanks, and then, oh yes, he wanted to chat. Amazing.

This man gave me the TEA. He gave me the lore. I told him that I had been admiring them, and if they he had grown them from seed, or bought a plant, or if it had just popped up — he said it just showed up one day. He said he had some in the back, implying they could have come from there. That’s an amazing thing, first of all, that this amazing plant that has become a staple in his homefront garden display, simply appeared by itself. But we must remember that this man (possibly his partner as well, if they were involved) had the knowledge and intelligence to identify it as something good (well, desirable at least), and not pull it, and tend to it. I wonder if he knew beforehand what it was, or just let it go and then liked it. I would guess he knew because he had some in the back.

He said that he had to pull some this year, because it was doing so well and spreading. That’s how it goes with these plants, I read. Some of them do TOO well, and start taking over your garden. That’s not a bad problem to have though. Pulling is much easier than growing, it seems to me (I’m still a novice). Let’s look again at his marvelous Datura that has planted itself and now become an amazing feature in his landscape.

God, if only it was flowering in this photo!!!!! I can see how it could be getting a little out of hand. Well, Duewell told me that this plant that is thriving now, he said that he thought it would die last winter, it went all the way down to a single tiny nub (he showed me the size of the plant with his hand, nothing but his fist). He thought it was a goner. But no, it powered through, it’s made it. It’s been here for about three or four years, he said. And then he told me, as I said I had been gardening for just a few months, “If you want any, come back in the spring and I’ll give you some.”

When he said that, I just thought, Do all plant people just give their plants away? Do they all just hook each other up? Because basically, literally every time I have ever asked anyone about a plant that I’ve been interested in, they’ve hooked me up. They’ve literally given me the seeds, given me a chunk of the plant, or offered to give me the seeds/chunk of plant. How incredible is that? I got mountain mint from the gardener at Shelby, Patrick the neighbor offered to give me more, the gardener at Bates hooked me up with passionflower pods, and Deuwell says he would give me Datura seeds. All of this umprompted and unasked for. What an amazing culture! Gardeners are “real people.”

After discussing the Datura, our conversation turned to the neighborhood. I told him I was just down the street, he asked me about construction on a nearby house (it took me a minute to figure out which house he was talking about because there are so many houses under construction in the neighborhood, like 7 within a 100 meter radius) and then he told me about the house just next to his that had been torn down. I had mentioned that they were turning the house near mine into a duplex, “or maybe a mansion”, and he said that’s what they were doing with the house right next to his. They were building a mansion, a 2 million dollar home. Wowie. He said that the previous resident had lived there their entire life, and finally had to go to a nursing home at 92. Now, the home goes down (and it was not a mansion), and a new one is built.

We talked about the amazing growth of the neighborhood, the construction, rising home prices, people coming here from all over, he said “California”, and I asked how long he’d been in his home. He said it was a friend’s house really, and he was just staying there — his house had flooded in 2010. He told me about his experience in this historic flooding, which I had heard about from working at Gibson. (Several guests had asked me about how the flooding had affected Gibson, because apparently they had a warehouse or headquarters that were severely affected.) Duewell told me about his home in Belleview being underwater, he said the water in his house was 6 feet high. 6 FEET. Can’t even believe it.

I had heard the tales of the great Nashville flood, and I heard the tales again. You hear these tales, of great natural disasters, and talking with him about it made me think about my grandpa telling me about the Palm Sunday tornado in Indiana. Long time ago now, the youngsters don’t know about it. But he told me all about the Palm Sunday tornado. This man told me about the great Nashville flood of 2010, and many of the Kumamotoans told me about the Kumamoto earthquakes, of 2016 I think it was. And while I was there (2021 or 2022 was the year, only five or six years later, poor Kumamoto 😢), there was a great flood that destroyed a huge bridge and did heavy damage to the region. I saw that damage personally — that’s a disaster that I can actually report about.

Duewell mentioning the Nashville flood of 2010 made me think about the value of older people, their history and lore, and how they can remind us of and remember these significant events that don’t happen so often, but they do come around. They can tell you, “Hey, might want to be careful by the river, ‘cause that thang can flood. I seen it with my own eyes.” (Don’t know why I have my hypothetical older person talking like this.)

It was wonderful that my epic run (with some degree of suffering involved) ended with a lovely neighborhood chat about Datura, and beyond. I feel again that I am tapping into an entirely new world through gardening, a world that has existed and is known to many people, has been all around, and yet flown under my radar for so long.

Suddenly, I look around and I see these amazing gardens, I see Duewell’s Datura, and I think about how much knowledge, time, energy and work has been invested to make that happen. The skill, patience, ambition, vision that someone or maybe a couple, a family has invested to cultivate and arrange such a wonderful thing. It cannot happen overnight. You have to have an appreciation for that. And the fact that they desire to do it at all — it says something about the residents. You must feel that there’s a good person living in that house, a wholesome person. The chances are high.

And then… there’s my garden… yikes.

Wearing A Suit

What is the power of wearing a suit?

What is the power in looking extraordinarily dapper?

Why do the chieftans put feathers in their headdress? The most magnificent feathers?

It just works. That’s it.

There is a power in being grungy and dingy. There is a power in not giving a damn. And conversely, there is a power in being immaculate and clean. A different kind of power, in being prim and proper.

It’s really an amazing thing.

We can’t shed these expectations. We can’t shed the affects of our dress. We cannot extract ourselves from our society, from our company. There’s simply no way, unless you live completely alone.

Even in the company of one single other person, your personal appearance will lead to perceptions and inferences on their part, however slightly.

Cats groom themselves. So, you may say that it is unique what we do, but it isn’t. Birds preen. Monkeys groom. It is a natural instinct.

Prior to me busting out the suit for a job interview, I hadn’t touched it for over a year. I remember the last time I put it on, I felt great then, too. And yesterday, wearing my suit downtown, going about business, I felt great again. I felt like the man, although I was sweating and uncomfortable at times, I could handle it. Nothing I couldn’t, a small price to pay for the power of the suit.

My suit is bespoke, 日本製. Made in Japan. I had one custom made only because I did not want to buy a suit made with any synthetic fibers. I also wanted to buy something that was not Made In China. These conditions ultimately led to me having a suit tailor-made, at the mall in Kumamoto City. I still remember the whole ordeal.

It was awesome.

The suit cost about $1000, USD. This suit is not cheap. I thought quite a lot about it. And occasionally, when my bank account has fallen low enough, I’ve thought — I really wish I had a thousand dollars instead of this damned suit that I never wear. How ironic that I have one of the finest suits in the world, and I am this poor! If anyone knew that about me, they would surely think that I was an enormous fool. My only salvation on that front is that I really didn’t buy the suit to impress anybody. I ended up spending this much money on a suit for ethics.

I could have thrifted, sure. I think I tried. If I had gone on this suit quest now, I may try harder to find something thriftable, and then have it tailored to fit me. I don’t know why I didn’t go that route before, except that I know I had landed on the Kikuchi Takeo store, after many investigations into how I could acquire a non-synthetic, non-Chinese suit, and someone suggested I try Kikuchi Takeo. It was on the fourth floor of the mall.

I know I’m a little all over the place here. I’m now halfway between talking about suits and the power of dressing nicely, and telling you the story of how I came to acquire this wonderful suit. I’m rambling. I’m sorry. I am sleep deprived, and overly caffeinated, to tell you the truth. And I’m wearing a suit.

I had the suit made by Kikuchi Takeo, as I’ve now said a few times, and the process was just as awesome as having the actual suit. I didn’t know exactly what I was in for — I didn’t know at all, to be honest. I simply stumbled upon this wonderful thing, custom suit-building. But I remember, when they told me I could build a suit from scratch, and it cost about the same as buying any of the suits they already had. The man showed me the many fabrics that I could choose from — 100% wool, 99% wool and 1% spandex or whatever (probably not spandex), whatever else… And that %1 spandex did make the suit $100 cheaper, I remember. I think so. I was committed to no synthetics, I had to go all the way.

He showed me all the fabrics, the different colors, textures. I was able to feel all of them. They were stupendous. He showed me the various linings, that I could use for the inside of the suit. Again, varied and incredible. Many patterns, some ostentatious, some simple. I chose something simple but with a little pizzaz, I’m looking at it now. Slate gray, with tiny diamond flower-like emblems forming a pattern. For the color, I went with a dark charcoal gray. It was either that or navy. I wanted something really versatile, that could work in all situations, and I already had a baby-blue suit (very synthetic)… I think that’s why I chose gray, as opposed to navy. It was just something different.

I got to choose the buttons. How many, the material, what color. I got to choose everything, people. I’m telling you I had no idea what I was in for. It gave me a great appreciation for suits, now. There are many details. I also chose the lapel-style, I was able to have my name embroidered on the inside of the jacket, and I chose to have a small mark added on the front left of my lapel, for style. I chose the embroidering color and style for that mark, and the final button hole on my sleeves. I think I chose how many buttons were on the sleeves, as well. There are four. Three that are embroidered with the same color as the suit, the dark charcoal grey, and then the final that has the light grey embroidering, that gives it some pop.

I remember that I was quite overwhelmed at the time, as I had not prepared or thought about at all all of these choices that I would have to make, about something that was going to cost me $1000 dollars, and that I would be wearing for the rest of my life (hopefully). There was a lot on the line, in that moment. I ended up having to just totally trust my judgment and hope it was right. In this case, the Takeo Kikuchi guy helping me, and I finally remembered him, my brain had been trying to ressurect his memory this entire time — he was a dapper young man. He had impeccable taste and swag, and he was in his early to mid-twenties. I remember that, because I remember that I trusted his judgment because of this. And I remember that he was very helpful in helping me make this many aesthetic decisions.

I wanted the suit to have formality, but just enough flair. That was the balance we were trying to strike. For that reason, I did choose to have the mark on the front lapel, which was eye-catching, and I also chose to have lapels that flared up at the top. Kind of like Dracula, my brain is saying to me for some reason. I think that this was something I deliberated over enormously, because it was a big decision. This was a mold-breaker, to have lapels like this. I know that. I think after the fact I was reading about suit lapels and they were saying, do not choose the upturned lapels for your suit, they’re over the top, not suited for formality, whatever. Well, I have no regrets.

They took my measurements, I chose out a pair of matching socks, and a dress shirt. White, with some very subtle stripe pattern running vertically. Totally non-synthetic.

I waited a few weeks to get the suit, I went to pick it up, make sure it fit right, and it fit perfectly. And what I have to tell you all is that, in my investigations I had tried on many suits. Many, many suits. In my life, I have worn a few suits. And this suit that I put on, my bespoke, 100% wool suit, I have never worn a suit like that in my life, nothing even close.

Even right now, I wear it, and it feels the same. It feels like I’m wearing a track suit. It’s like wearing pajamas.

That was the #1 thing about all of this suit business that really stood out to me, and still does. I had always thought a suit was just going to be somewhat uncomfortable. I thought that’s how they were. Until this suit, I thought that’s how it had to be. But this suit I wear now, it really is like wearing pajamas. Perfectly fitting pajamas.

How awesome is that? You look great, and you feel comfortable. That’s worth a lot of money right there.

I had wanted the suit in the first place because it was now winter, and all the other senseis at school were wearing suits, and looking professional. I was an ALT, I had my own rules, and I wasn’t required to wear a suit — none of the senseis really were except the top dogs, it seemed. And I had my baby-blue suit, but that was a standout in a school full of black and brown. I wanted something that was on par with the other senseis. I don’t think I ended up getting it, though. By going with this fabulous, bespoke, $1000 suit, that was obviously really nice, I think I ended up going over the top. It was a little too much for a high school teacher, but I paid for it, and dammit, I was going to wear it.

I knew it was going to be a big deal the first time I wore it to school. It was always a big deal when I dressed up. Sometimes I would put on the blue suit for fun, but generally I had stopped wearing it, and opted for muter dress. Well, I wore that suit to school, and it was all any of the classes wanted to talk about. They were shocked and awed. They had never seen Steven-sensei looking so nice and fancy before. And it confirmed that I had probably gone over the top.

The other senseis were amazed by it too. I was very proud to tell everyone that it was 日本製、nihonsei, made in Japan. I’m still very proud of that.

Digging up the old Japanese suit, yesterday, and wearing it for that interview made me remember the power of the suit. I kept it on when I went to the coffee shop afterwards, to do some work. I was feeling like getting work done, as being in a suit lends you to feel, and I had work to do, so I kept it on. But I did feel a little silly, ordering my coffee, wearing full formal dress, suit and tie, and then sitting down and typing away on my laptop. I felt overly dressed. But, who cares?

Today, I decided to wear the suit again. I have business to do. I have a great suit. Why not? But I opted for a black t-shirt instead of the shirt and tie. A little dressed down, like a tech CEO. That’s better.

I’m also wearing Doc Martins because I don’t actually have any formal dress shoes. I thought I had a pair, I know I had a pair. What happened to them? This was giving me a good laugh, when I realized that I would have to wear my Martins to the interview, and that I had gone the whole nine yards, suit and tie, and couldn’t finish the look. But I’m sure that they didn’t even notice. And the boots actually work great with the suit.

Well… that’s what I wanted to say about that…

The psychological power of the suit. Of clothes. It’s a real thing.

I think that for me, a big part of wearing the suit is the element of power that comes with it.

A nice suit is an embodiment of some kind of power. It suggests wealth and status. Con men know that – they’ll wear a nice suit even if they don’t have a dollar in the bank. Grifters know that. The image is important.

It’s interesting that I feel changed when I’m in the suit. That it has that effect on my personal psychology, too. I think that I am very aware of impressions and perceptions, and so part of the putting on of the suit is that I know it is going to impact people’s perceptions and impressions of me. People are going to change how they treat me, for better or for worse. And I think that I almost feel… false, in the suit. I feel like it is almost manipulative. Is that true? No…

What is it, then? You know what it could be?

It’s perhaps that I feel people are expecting something of me, when I’m in the suit.

People are expecting me to be well put together. They are expecting me to have decorum, and confidence. They are expecting me to be smooth and successful. To be professional. Don’t you think?

I think so. And that means that that’s what I have to be.

But then, isn’t this a matter of rising to the occasion?

Or, I don’t have to be that at all. Really, I should be myself, and I should be the same, whatever I’m wearing.

That’s the key.

I wonder how much of this is truth, and how much are my own thoughts and feelings about wearing the suit. What I did want to tell you is that yesterday, trying to find my target parking lot amongst fifteen different parking lots in downtown Nashville, I ended up in the wrong one. I couldn’t get out of the lot without having to pay, even though I didn’t park there, and I pushed the Call For Help button many times, to no avail, and I was pissed off, etc. etc. I went in and talked to the hotel staff about it, asking if they could please let me out, and not have me pay $11. Well, this saga ended up being rather convoluted, and I could not leave the lot, as they were having issues with the machine, and I was then going to be late… I ended up having to resolve it later.

As I approached the counter to handle this issue, I had the thought “They are more inclined to treat me kindly and take me seriously because I am wearing a nice suit.” And it was true that they did both of those things. They were nice people, and I would bet that they would have treated me the same, whatever I was wearing. But, isn’t it interesting that I had that thought?

There is quite a lot of psychology going on here.

I look at myself in the mirror wearing this suit, and I see a totally different guy.

Who is that guy?

People see that too. Parker said this morning, seeing me walk out of my room wearing the suit, “Woah. What’s going on?”

And my man at the coffee shop, the grunge-lover said, “You’re looking good today!!”

This is another element to the suit-wearing. When you’re this dressed up, you stand out. And when you stand out, you inevitably invite and draw attention, like it or not. As these comments show, people will notice, and they might even say something.

This attention-drawing element is another interesting one, for me. I generally like to fly under the radar. It even makes me uncomfortable, to have eyes on me. God forbid anybody thinks I’m cocky or smug! God forbid anybody thinks I’m a jerk!

Well, why shouldn’t I strut my stuff every once in awhile? Why shouldn’t I stand out, sometimes?

I wonder if this is something extraordinarily beautiful people have to deal with. Famous people, too.

Well, enough about that.

Now I have to write more Bob Schmingus.

Bob Schmingus and The King of the Rats: Part 1

(Readers, please recall that Bob Schmingus is a top cat agent who has recently saved America from a humilating loss at the hands of the Chinese King Liu Wei, who wished to purchase MacDonalds and rename it MacWangs.)

Bob Schmingus had just returned from his recent successful adventure, convincing the King of China, who had recently desired the purchase and renaming of the iconic American restaurant chain MacDonald’s to MacWangs, and was enjoying his reward of 20 boxes of Fancy Feast. He was lounging on a beach in the Carribean, at this moment, shades on, feet up, and licking his paws clean, when his phone rang.

It wasn’t his usual ringtone, Ain’t Talkin’ Bout Love by Van Halen. No, it wasn’t that, but it was a familiar ring: The Star Spangled Banner. And that could only mean one thing.

The President Of The United States was calling.

Bob Schmingus sighed. This wasn’t exactly what he wanted right now — he wanted waves and sun. That’s why he came to the Carribean, duh. But when the Prez calls…

He took the call.

“Talk to me, Jim Bob,” said Bob.

“Schmingus, I told you not to call me that. My names Carl. At least call me Carl, if you won’t follow the proper formalities.”

Schmingus chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. He loved messing with the President.

“Alright, Carl Bob. What do you need? Surely can’t be more trouble with the King of China? After we just had such a pleasant time together?”

“Ugh…” Groaned the President.

“It is.”

“Come on. What a guy! Isn’t he ever satisfied?”

“He’s a wily one. We can’t keep heads of tails of him. And we’re in for a long time with this guy… I hate to think about it.”

“So what’s the deal? I’m not exactly his babysitter here. That’s for the Chinese ambassador.”

“I know, Schmingus… I know. But… you know how to work him.”

Schmingus smiled. It was true.

“He respects you,” continued the President.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Birds of feather. So what’s his deal now? What geopolitical problem are we solving today? Wait, don’t tell me. He wants to buy Burger King and rename it to Burger Kang?”

“You know Schmingus, I understand why you two get along. You must have the same brain. That’s exactly what he’s trying to do.”

“You’re kidding me.”

The President sighed.

“I wish I was, Schmingus… I wish I was.”

Bob stared out at the lolling waves through his black Raybans, but he hardly saw them anymore. His mind was on the mission.

His mind was on China.

“He’s offered 100 trillion dollars for it. They’re thinking of selling. We could block them, but, the legalities, the politics… We need it done quick. You know what’s at stake—the geopolitical blowback, we could lose the culture war—”

“I get it, Pres. It would be a national tragedy, the loss of an American gem, yada yada. What’s the pay?”

“Same as usual.”

“I want Friskies, sardine and anchovy this time.”

“You keep Burger King American and you’ll have whatever flavor of Friskies your little paws could possibly desire.”

“I want Greenies too. Ten boxes.”

“Dammit Schmingus, you glutton! Don’t you ever tired of your hedonic binges? Don’t you ever want something more fulfilling? For a mind so brilliant, you live like a heathen!”

“I like this lifestyle. It suits me.”

The President was silent for a moment.

“There’s something else, Schmingus.”

“Uh oh. I don’t like that.”

“We’re teaming you up for this one.”

Schmingus bolted up, knocking the half-eaten tin of Friskies off of his lap and into the sand.

“Teaming? There is no teaming. I don’t do teams. You know that.”

“This time you do. The situation is getting dicey in the East. You need backup.”

“Like Hell I do!!”

“Dammit Schmingus, I’m not your damned butler! I give you the orders, and you aren’t going alone, dammit, and that’s that!”

Schmingus took a deep breath. The President was really testing him on this one.

“Just tell me who it is, Pres. And it better not be a woman. I’m not looking for any romance—”

“It’s your old pal, Schmingus. It’s your old Navy buddy.”

“No.”

“No one can fly a chopper like him Schmingus. He’s just what we need for the job—”

“NO!”

Schmingus was enraged, and without thinking he slammed his phone shut and hung up.

Immediately, he had regrets. He just hung up on the President of the United States. Not exactly recommended procedure. But…

The President was out of his mind. To suggest that he, Bob Schmingus, international ace, detective, dealmaker, assassin and schmoozer? Go to China with his greatest nemesis and archrival?

Schmingus had kicked his fallen can of Friskies and had thrown himself back on his chair, stewing with rage, when his phone buzzed.

“Pickup point Gorganzola. 11pm.”

— Carl Bob

Bob Schmingus wasn’t sure if he would go. But in the end, he wasn’t one to walk away from a trip to see the King. No he wasn’t. China was one of his favorite countries to work with. Something about the Orient that appealed to him. And he wasn’t going to give it up just because of that damned bastard Boldchungus… the grin that must be on his face right now.

Boldchungus probably hated the assignment as much as Schmingus did. He didn’t play with partners either. How did the President get him on board? Must have offered him a lot of Friskies. Greenies, Churu treats too…

They had that in common, at least. They were both greedy, thrill-seeking bastards.

Schmingus packed his essential gear, a lockpick and his trusty Barret .50 cal, and headed to the pickup point.

Someone was there to meet him.

Standing by the chopper, a model 450x SteathKite, with quad-lazer rotors and a radio-drive cloaking device (a top of the line stealth chopper, undetectable by all modern equipment known to man—or at least, America), and looking as smug as a bug in a rug, was Charlie Boldchungus.

That smug asshole.

“Well, well, well… Little Kitty’s gonna get his paws wet again, huh?”

“Save it, jackoff,” growled Schmingus, throwing his Barrett in the SteathKite’s storage hold. “I’ll rip that loose tongue right out of your mouth. What the hell does that even mean, anyway?”

“It means whatever I want it to mean,” Boldchungus retorted. “Tell me, how did the old man get you on board? What flavor of Friskies was it this time? Sauteed Salmon? Pink Antarctic Krill?”

Schmingus rounded on him in a flash, claws unsheathing.

“At least I don’t work for some god damned Fancy Feast. Pathetic.” Bob spit on the ground.

“You can’t buy taste.”

Boldchungus looked on with his iconic, smarmy grin spread across his face.

“Oh, and you’ve got it, do you?”

Charlie’s eyes screamed disdain. He hated being with Schmingus as much as Schmingus did being with him.

“Listen to me,” said Boldchungus, glaring at his arch-rival. “We don’t have to do play this stupid game. You get me in, you get me out. We both get paid. We don’t have to say as much as kum-ba-yah to each other.”

Boldchungus laughed, and climbed up into the cockpit. “Whatever you say, captain. Me, I’ve decided. I’m going to enjoy this.”

“I’ll enjoy it when I’ve got my Friskies,” muttered Bob, hopping up in the co-pilot seat. “And not a minute before then.”

Bob and Charlie went way back, if you can’t tell.

They were two of the hottest hotshots known to catkind. Two of the top feline agents in the entire world.

Six billion cats on Earth, and only a handful could do what these two could do. Part of an elite ring of feline actors, they were employed by governments and private businesses and wealthy individuals worldwide to carry out their respective desires. If the price was high enough, chances are you could find a cat to do it. Some stayed loyal to their countries — others only called a place where they could hoard their Friskies or Fancy Feast home.

Bob Schmingus and Charlie Boldchungus were both American cats, so to speak, and they had stayed loyal—for the most part. Boldchungus was known to run a mission or two for the French. Schmingus got the occasional call from the Japanese Prime Minister, the King of Danes, and Moldovan High Crown.

And, there is some speculation that he might have worked for the current King of China, King Wei. That might be why he had such close ties with the King. But, currently, it’s only speculation…

As far as Boldchungus goes, he was a top-flier. Boldchungus lacked the charisma, the geopolitical brain, intellect and charm of Bob Schmingus—that’s mainly why he despised him. But, of course, there was Lucina—better not to dig that up, not just yet. But what Charlie Boldchungus lacked in brains, he more than made up for in grit and sheer damn luck.

Charlie could find his way out of a truck in a deep muck, blindfolded. He had saved one the world’s top energy executive from an assassination attempt by shooting the assassin’s bullets out of the air. He had managed to find his way home after being buried alive in a Mongolian bunker twenty-three thousand miles deep (he was the only survivor). And in one of his most legendary feats ever, he was said to have flown his helicopter through another helicopter.

No one even knows how that could be possible, really. But he did it.

Why did Schmingus hate Boldchungus then, aside from the fact that he was an insufferable idiot?

It all goes back to the Iran incident…

But that’s for another time.