Saturday, June 10, 2023

About Me and This Project


I am the next David Sedaris! I am following directly in his footsteps of course for optimal accuracy. I went to school on my parent's money studying the arts. I've graduated, and of course, my degree has taken me nowhere. In the meantime, I've taken up methamphetamines and have started doing my art for other artists. They love it or so they tell me. They're also on Meth. It's a much more interesting story than other meth-related stories (Breaking Bad) because mine doesn't have all that boring science and murder.

If you enjoy reading essays outside of English class then this is the place for you. Since that's no one in the known universe I'm going to assume that the only person reading this is my mother. Thank you, mother. Your words of encouragement and guidance have always been a light in a very very dark tunnel.

P.S Sometimes I'm gonna get political. Since I'm not an asshole and believe people should be provided services by the government I am of course a communist. Well not really. Communism is this whole thing and it's very weighted so let's just say I'm a middle of the road Libertarian Socialist.

Sunday, October 6, 2019

A Letter to the Military

My cousin decided the military life was for him. I wrote him a letter. Do you think they'll give it to him?

The Letter

 
Dear Mr. Logan Middle Name Kreps the nothing,

    I’m not sure how long this letter will be but I do know it’s 25 cents a page at my local library. So don’t expect to be reading for too long. However, you currently have all of the pages in your possession so you, in fact, know the answer to the riddle that currently plagues me. I hope your eyesight is good as well because if this thing gets over two pages I’m cutting the font size down to 9. I know it’s only two points below the standard 11 but it is much much smaller. Trust me. Or perhaps you know, as you can now see for yourself. 
    I suppose since you know everything about yourself I will talk mostly about myself. The journey across the country was a harsh and cruel mistress. Though being the first in my family to venture out beyond the great Mississippi River has had its rewards. The climate is fair here I must say, my dear cousin, the imported palm trees bristle in the breeze gently next to the indigenous desert pines. I have witnessed my first miracle as well. Rain fell upon my mechanical horse one day during a jaunt about the city. Los Angeles which translates in English to The Angles is honestly not that special. It’s as if they took the center of every Ohio town and copy and pasted it like an oversized game of SimCity. We live in Valley Village which is a newly gentrified area in the Valley. Our apartment complex is most likely owned by the last remnants of the eastern European Mafia. They are kind landlords so much as I pay my rent on time and ignore what is clearly a chop-shop in the basement parking garage. 
    I have recently procured myself some work to be of use around town. I will be working at what is known as an “International Grocery Store” I take this to mean their Asian and Mexican Aisle is more than the one “Oriental” isle we’re used to at the local Giant Eagle. I begin orientation next Wednesday, during which I am required to pass a test to secure employment. To become a full fledged cashier I have to memorize all one hundred and twelve produce codes with ninety percent accuracy. A task of which I am assured is way harder than basic training for the Navy. I spend minutes staring at flashcards. Iceberg Lettuce 4061, Green Cabbage 4069, and my favorite Bok Choy 4545. 
    My aspirations of becoming a comedian have not fallen by the wayside. I have done standup in the greater local Los Angeles area. My first experience with which almost discouraged any future trials. Down I drove to the Ha HA Comedy club on a regular Wednesday evening. Signup’s started at five. I arrived there at four fifty-five so as to get a good spot in line, but upon my arrival, the doors to said establishment were closed. I had been denied entry and I had to pee. After pacing near the entrance for another 20 minutes the gates finally opened. I peaked my head inside wondering if perhaps I had been bamboozled by the companies website. Standing behind the bar was one lonely thirty-year-old Russian bartender hovering over an empty book that within held the sign-up-sheet for open mic. Reignited by the opportunity to be the first to sign up I quickly signed my name before awkwardly taking a seat at the bar. 
    Another thirty minutes would pass before the show began. The room was a fourth filled with much older much sadder looking men. Around twenty of them all anxiously waiting their turn on stage. The mic began my heart was beating and it was the longest fucking two hours of my life. It was excruciating. One dude did a ten minute set about his penis. And not even in a funny way. His fucking penis. Now I have to live my life having been witness to a vivid description of his phallus. I can only hope that one day it will exit my mind. Even though I got there first I was pulled out of the magical comedy bucket 19th and had to wait through the entire show to go on. Trust me when I say it’s hard to get people to laugh when they’ve been listening to multiple men describe their dicks for two hours. The other open mics have been fun though. 
    When we moved in we didn’t have any furniture, electricity, or gas. I had forgotten to call the utility companies before we moved in and they couldn’t help us for three days because it was labor day weekend. During the hottest week of the year, Haleah and I slept on the ground, eating our meals in complete darkness. At one point I got so hot I just started screaming. I had to get into a cold shower before I threw myself off our first story balcony just to feel a few minutes of freedom. It’s all good now. We have power, although no A/C. I’ve called the landlord a few times because there was the A/C, the blinds, and a giant hole in the wall that needed fixing. So far a month has gone by and at least we have blinds. 
    The traffic is as bad as they say but it is kinda fun weaving in and out of it like a fucking maniac. Huh, at this point I think I’m kinda out of things to say. I suppose if you want to write me back you’re welcome to. My address is [BLOCKING OUT THIS PART BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW YOU PEOPLE] I expect a letter dropped by drone please don’t attach any arsenal. I know uhh how ‘you guys’ Can be about that whole thing so.

Ps. a picture of my butt was just too big to fit in this envelope. It would have just been a picture of my crack. Butt crack that is to the lucky Military intelligence officer that’s reading this letter before my cousin gets to. Please don’t send me to prison I will be brutally raped like that guy from that movie about prison. The one with Morgan Freeman. Yeah, I know it’s called Shawshank Redemption. I did not spell check this. 



Best Regards,




Nicholas Arthur Englehart the III, IV, and perhaps one day depending on my academic aspirations the Vth

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Why It became innately clear that my immediate relocation was necessary.


The Set Up

In the small hillsey town of Wadsworth Ohio, the community takes itself very seriously. Or at least the paper does. While ninety percent of the town's paper is comprised of advertisements for local homes and the people who sell those local homes; the bulk of the content lies somewhere between how to cook a hotdog and the right-leaning racist opinions of geriatric patients who were given typewriters. I have a lot of my own opinions about these people but I must admit they are better writers than me. At least when it comes to consistency. I'm never surprised when I read their letters to the editor, but I'm always so furious that I require an enema. From time to time I enjoy writing my own. Little tidbits like what you're about to read below. My previous installations to the glorious Post include a hard-hitting expose on why it's probably a good idea for fireworks to be shot out of the town's historic cemetery. I showed all those old assholes what I thought, and I'm sure they'll inform the cemeteries inhabitants of my argument soon enough.

Here is also a rare occasion where I admit my wrongdoing. It turns out that everything I thought I knew about the construction project going on outside my lovely suburban home was a lie. Or at least so you'll see.



Letter To The Editor #1
 
 The stakes went in today for the new planned sidewalk on Stratford Avenue. Instead of moving the mailboxes or putting it on the opposite side of the street the sidewalk seems to have made its path about halfway into our yard. Having driven down the street on unrelated matters it's clear fences will have to be removed, multiple trees demolished, and the beauty of a street desecrated all for the pleasure of a sidewalk to nowhere for no one.

If your concerns are with the children of this neighborhood then they are misplaced. I've met them and they aren't worth it. Not to mention there are like four kids. They walk in our yard anyway and grass is good for their bones. I grew up in this neighborhood walking to school every day, I walk my dog every day (most days I'm not perfect), and have never once wanted to walk through someone's yard on riding a concrete palace, and I've only almost been hit by traffic three times. That's a near miss percentage better than Clevingers ERA.

This is all not to say that sidewalks aren't an important part of the growing economy of Wadsworth. One day we might be fortunate enough to see sidewalks covering the town as we drive past them in our cars. Unwalked and glistening in their eternal beige delight. Perhaps one is just not needed a third of the way into my yard killing a very old and beautiful pine tree. As I type this, outside my window a mother and her children are walking a dog and serpentining through the middle of the street on their bikes. Don't worry they have helmets, and though no sidewalk yet exists they seem to be perfectly safe.


Letter to the Editor #2


To those who were offended, I must apologize. My comments may have been hurtful and unwarranted. The sidewalk is not five feet wide, in fact, it’s three. I spoke without first understanding. Now more people walking down my street than ever before. They saunter on down to the local ice cream store oblivious to any previous danger they may have encountered. Life here is now a dream. 

It was the morning of June 11th, 8:15 a.m when I took my first steps outside realizing it was finished. It glowed in its newness taunting me with its perfection. Having never faced a winter it’s twists and curves where intentional all part of a grand design. Connecting at each end with another it stretches down our road with purpose and utility. I stumbled down my driveway each step bringing me closer to its gaze. My foot testing its smoothness. My being becoming enamored with its sublime. The sidewalk was complete. And so was I. 

Who was I to chastise the poor contractor who now has a least favorite project? He wanted to provide us with safety, we provided him with pain. It was my hubris that brought me down. I thought I knew everything. My opinion was the opinion. Here I sit at an ever aged twenty-two. These past thirty days since my initial article providing me true insight. We are a people behest to the whims of everyone else. The needs of others often supersede the needs of the self. We often stand vindicated by the smallest instances of our correctness ignoring all other temptations of truth. 

I apologize. For the pain I caused, for the lives, I've ruined. These concrete marvels that carry us too and fro to various locations. I now understand the mighty privilege thrust upon us. Our property values have increased, our trees still sway with an effervescent glow, and our child mortality rate has dropped one hundred percent from zero to zero. Those in their cars look on in envy as each step is taken with concrete confidence. Safe from the consequences of street living.

As John Cougar Mellencamp or Bruce Springsteen who knows, once said, we live in a small town, we grew up in a small town, and gosh darn we'll probably die in a small town. Change is hard for us to face. Even when it's good for us. The important part is that we face each instance with a renewed sense of optimism. Hoping for the best, praying for the most, knowing that everything will end up working out. Go Grizzlies!


(Both of these letters were published in the newspaper so I can at least assume they have some sense of humor... Proof? I took pictures they're on my camera on my phone. You can come look at them at my place. It's a win win cuz then I'll finally have some friends)