OK, OK, this is the last one, I swear! I just couldn’t rest over the weekend until I had an even number of sheets and I had all these ideas and then realized, “Wait, do I seriously not have ANY Green River Killer cards?!” So I made one and that is how I justified needing to make 5 more different designs. When I’m on a kick, I can get pretty out of control. I mean, you should see the fruit in my kitchen.

So here is the final sheet of the Serial Killer Valentine series (although, I might potentially be making zombie versions).

(I’m sorry for the enthusiasm, but I’m just really excited and proud of these! I’ve wanted to make them for a long time now and I worked extra-hard on them.)

 

Richard Ramirez, Harry Powers, The Ken & Barbie Killers, Green River Killer, HH Holmes, David Berkowitz/Son of Sam.

Each one has their name printed on the back, so if you give one to someone and they don’t know who it is, they can ask Google. Sick AND educational, see!?

In case you missed the post about this last week (which can be found here), each sheet is $6 but there are different bundles you can get to save money. All the details are on Etsy: non compos cards. If you prefer to not go through Etsy, leave a comment or email me directly: noncomposcards@gmail.com

You won’t find anything like this anywhere else, I promise. Henry and I have been making these cards since 2007 and put a lot of love and effort into them. They’re not cheaply or sloppily made. Check my feedback on Etsy, you’ll see!

The sheets are sold in protective cellophane sleeves. I just shipped a bunch to Warriors 3 Comics in Michigan, so if you live near the Wayne/Detroit, go check ’em out!

(And by that I mean go buy some!)

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A few weeks ago, Chooch unearthed his very first Halloween costume in his closet, put it on and then surprised me with it. I almost died laughing, seeing his big head shoved through the small opening of a fabric ice cream. It pleased me because he was 6 months old that Halloween and it poured down rain so aside from a quick photo op at my grandma’s house, that costumes was totally wasted. I even considered putting it up on eBay a few times, or giving it to someone who has a baby, but now I’m really glad that I didn’t, because nothing is funnier than someone wearing something that they’re too big for.

One day, he wore it in the backseat of the car and waved to people at red lights.  He’s even considering wearing it for real next Halloween and I will fucking die if he does because I love this costume so much, so yes — PLEASE WEAR IT!

In the meantime, I wanted to do a little photo shoot with him wearing it. The weather was so amazingly warm this weekend, and I couldn’t stop picturing him eating an ice cream cone while wearing an ice cream cone. There’s an ice cream place right down the road from the abandoned building we use for some of our pictures, but we didn’t learn it was closed until we drove all the way out there (only like 30 minutes, but still — Henry’s frown is in full effect over things like this).  We figured McDonald’s was probably our best bet at that point, and remembered that there was one down the street from the closed-down ice cream shop we took pictures at last September.  Even better!

“But does McDonald’s have rainbow sprinkles? No, I don’t think they do. You’ll have to stop at a grocery store on the way and buy some, just in case,” I said, planning ahead.

Henry glared at me.

“What? There HAS to be rainbow sprinkles! I can’t do it without the sprinkles!” I cried. EVERYTHING IS IN THE DETAILS, OK?!

So that was another 25 minutes in the car with Henry who had almost completely shut down verbally by then. I even tried to calm him down by ironically holding his hand. He wasn’t amused.

Rainbow sprinkles procured and a vanilla cone in hand, we drove back to the Twist behind a partially disabled elderly man who cruised along at a pace of about 18 mph, melting the ice cream and our patience.

But we made it with the cone mostly intact! I jumped out of the car and poured the sprinkles on while Chooch stuffed himself in the costume cone.

I positioned him in front of the closed-down ice cream shop and handed him  the severely-dripping cone.

“Vanilla? REALLY? VANILLA? You knew I wanted CHOCOLATE!” he cried.

“Well, McDonald’s only has vanilla,” I muttered, but really — he was getting vanilla no matter where we went. It had to match his costume!

And the rest of it panned out smoothly! Henry and I didn’t even argue. We were only there about 5 minutes before I got what I needed and Henry got to finish Chooch’s cone.

This was right after 2 teenage girls walked by and giggled at Chooch. He was totally angry with me.

He even DANCED for me at the end. You know why? Because that little sucker got paid to do this. I have found that giving him a few bucks is a small price to pay for cooperation and amiability in front of the camera.

God, Henry is totally going to start asking for payment now too.

<3

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While Henry is dealing with the grown-up parts of looking for a house (which he hasn’t actually started doing yet! BLAME HENRY!), I’m more focused on the important things. Like, collecting more wheelchairs and deciding what song I want my doorbell to play.

I think my favorite Kraftwerk song would be apropos:

Chooch agrees.

Can’t you just imagine ringing my doorbell, hearing scary German synthpop (because I’ll make sure it’s loud enough to hear from my doorstep), and then seeing me open the door in one of my old wheelchairs, probably with a fetus doll on my lap?

In my parent’s house, we had a this doorbell which I’m sure was extremely high-tech for its time. There was a box on the wall with a ton of songs to choose from, like La Cucaracha. I self-appointed myself to be the official doorbell DJ of Gillcrest Drive.

Meanwhile, the doorbell of my current residence hasn’t worked since the day I moved in. I’m pretty excited to have a doorbell again one day. I guess I never realized it was so important to me.

Which song would you pick for your own doorbell?

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UPDATE: these are now even better, check out this post!

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For the last couple of years, I’ve really wanted to make sheets of mini-Valentines, like the kinds that kids pass out at school. Remember making those stupid cardboard mailboxes so our classmates could slip in Barbie and Hot Wheels Valentines, and then acting repulsed when you got one from the kid you had a crush on? That’s what I had in mind for my serial killer Valentines, and this year I finally made some. Three different sheets of 6, to be exact! Each sheet is perforated, so you just tear them apart and pass ’em out to whoever is on your hit list this year. I have several of my own people in mind.

I also thought these would be fun to pass out at the office, your AA meetings, church collection baskets. Leave them on the bus for the next person who sits in your seat to find! Stick them in those things called “books” before you return them to that weird place called “the library.”

The possibilities are endless! I just don’t endorse giving these to your kids to pass out at school. (Don’t they have an app for passing out Valentines now anyway?)

These are printed on high-quality paperstock in eye-popping ink. I couldn’t be happier with them!

Want a sheet of all Manson? Half Gein / half Borden? See one that you’d really like as a regular-sized card to send in the mail? These are easily customizable so holla at me with any requests. (That part will just become Henry’s burden anyway, so what do I care?)

This is honestly what I’ve been doing all week: staring at serial killer mugs and eating fruit. I might need a little rest.

DISCLAIMER: These are meant to be tongue-in-cheek. I do not think murder is cool, nor do I condone it. But what’s life without a little humor?

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Stumbled across this photo I took with my Holga at the 2008 Warped Tour. This was the first time I got to see Pierce the Veil live and I of course sobbed through the whole thing.

Plus, my friend Maya is making a Vic Fuentes companion to my Jonny Craig doll, complete with a tiny embroidered Jaws t-shirt, just like the one he was wearing at that year’s Warped Tour. I went back and re-read that post this morning and felt so happy. God, that was such a good day, and an overall fantastic year. I feel compelled to re-share that Warped Tour post, so now you have to read it! Even if it’s just for the picture of Henry eating nachos. (This might have been Henry’s least favorite Warped Tour of all time. I imagine it was a huge shock to his system.)

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This year, Henry had the pleasure of taking his two favorite kids to Warped Tour: his son Blake, and, well…me. I kept ducking while we were stuck in concert traffic because I didn’t want the surrounding carfuls of scene kids to laugh and say, “Oh god, that girl is going with her dad, how lame.” When we entered the parking lot, we drove past the drop-off area and Henry said, “God, those parents are so lucky that they don’t have to go in.” Then he tried to murder me with a look of disgust and resentment.

It was nearly noon by the time we managed to park the car. Blake didn’t have a ticket yet so he and I stood around idly outside the entrance to Post Gazette Pavilion while Henry went and bought his ticket. We were approached by the singer and guitarist of Uh-Oh Explosion, who were toting around a box of their CDs. Making small talk, the singer asked if Blake and I were “together.” Instinctively, we both took a step apart and emphatically answered “NO.” Trying to figure it out, he squinted his eyes and guessed, “Brother and sister?” We shook our heads. I saw Henry lingering a few yards away, knowing better than to walk over and lame-up the convo. I pointed to Henry and said, “OK, see that guy? That’s his dad, and my boyfriend.”

This kid (he was only 17) thought this was so fucking fantastico for some reason. “That’s so awesome! Like, talk about closeness. And you guys all came to Warped together!” He paused for a second, before sending my stomach to the meat grinder. “So do you guys have threesomes too?”

RECORD SCRATCH.

I was ready to whistle for the cement mixer to come and seal up my sex organs for real. So disturbing and awkward. I still bought their CD though, because what I heard sounded good and proceeds went to the animals. And what’s a little quasi-incest discourse in the name of stray cats, am I right.

Once we got inside, I was like a kid on Christmas. My eyes had a veritable scene kid feast as we weaved our way to the main stage, where Sky Eats Airplane was playing. Blake and I have the same taste in music — the more scream-y the better. Henry, however, shits himself when he hears hateful bellows, so he took this as an opportunity to go and find a set schedule and then conveniently lose us. Sky Eats Airplane was a good way to start the day.

In between bands, I got to ogle more scene kids. I was wondering why I was so fascinated with them when it dawned on me: If that scene was around when I was a teen, I’d totally have been the first on board. I used to make fun of them,  but now I want to like, write a book about them or something. I’ll start with Blake.

Averting the Hare Krishnas, we went to the Highway 1 Stage to catch From First To Last. Henry was all, “I’m perfectly fine standing all the way back here” and sent Blake and I into the crowd to get pummeled without adult supervision. Anyway, FFTL’s singer Sonny left two years ago and it was a little strange watching them perform without him. Their new material is a little too easy-to-digest and mainstream for my liking, but they ended the set with “Ride the Wings of Pestilence” which always makes me want to sacrifice a shack of Mexican prostitutes. And drink some of Henry’s blood.

Not interested in any bands playing right after FFTL, we walked around and looked at t-shirts and other merch for awhile. Henry, who had bragged on  the way there that he NEVER gets sunburned, started complaining about his nose getting burnt. He kept trying to sneak away and pose under trees in his signature old man-stance. Blake and I would pause and hunker down over the schedule, trying to determine which bands were must-sees and which ones we could skip without losing sleep that night. I kept trying to include Henry, but he would grumble, “I don’t know, does that band actually SING? Then NO, I don’t want to see them.” Perhaps Henry should have just went to that twanged-out Jamboree with Tina instead. Fuck.

 

1. The Bronx: I almost got trampled trying to push my way to the stage to see them, only to leave after ten minutes to run to another stage far away to see Alesana. They were really good and made me want to continually punch Henry in the balls. I always forget how much aggression I have until I go to shows like this. I just found out that they’re going on a tour of LA Mexican restaurants as a mariachi band and oh, who I wouldn’t kill to see that.
2. Alesana: They were playing on the main stage, and Henry was like, “Thank god, now I can sit my weary bones down!” So Blake and I begrudgingly sat down too. I realize that I enjoy bands less when I’m sitting, because I become too distracted with people-watching. Because of this, I don’t remember if I liked Alesana live or not. All I remember is that Blake picked up an Underoath CD release poster from the ground and gave it to me, making me  think he wanted me to keep it, so I ended up lugging it around all day in my backpack only to wind up throwing it away the next day.
3. Human Abstract: Another main stage band, but at least this time Henry allowed himself to be dragged down to the floor by the stage. I had never heard their music before, only seen the ads in Alternative Press for their new CD, so I really wasn’t sure if I was going to like them. Even aside from the immediate crush I developed on the keyboard player, I ended up liking them a lot. They were nice and heavy, but had an interesting melodic side as well. Blake thought they were just alright and stayed sitting down next to his old man for their entire set. This was also around the time that I considered slamming my camera to the pavement because it was taking such shitty pictures, but after Henry inspected it for three seconds, he deduced it was because I had a giant finger print on the lens. I didn’t hate my camera after that.

After the Human Abstract, it was nearly time for Pierce the Veil. They were the main reason I was there and all day it felt like butterflies were fornicating in my belly. It was either Pierce the Veil anticipation or the residual side effects of being asked if my vagina is friendly with both generations of Robbins. Henry once again stood in the sidelines, but I weaved my way as close to the stage as I could get. Which was fairly close since they were still sound-checking.

To show his unwavering adoration, Vic vowed to wear his Jaws shirt every day for the duration of Shark Week. He kept going on and on about sharks and I know this is going to make me look bad but I’m going to be honest: all I could think about was Tina’s vagina, gnashing against flailing legs. Thank God they started playing right after that because fuck — my mind disgusts me sometimes. And holy shit, their set was fucking fantastic. It was so good, that I didn’t even mind the heat or having two bitches dropped on me (thank God for Blake, else they’d have hit the pavement). They basically just play a blend of alternative rock, with some screamo-lite thrown in for scene cred, but what makes them stand apart for me is their lyrics. They’re smart, morbid, sad, and just overall clever. At the end of one of their songs, they segued right into a thirty second cover of “Bleeding Love” which was a million times better than the original we’re guaranteed to hear every time we walk into a grocery store. They also threw in a cover “Beat It” which was energenic and really fun to watch, and they ended the set with “Party Like a Rock Star” gone metal.

I did NOT want that set to end. Even Blake admitted that he was surprised how good they were live, and Henry was like, “Yes, fine, I liked what I heard all the back there in Parent Alley.” It was one of those moments where you want to call everyone you know and give them a hyper review in a shrill voice, but you know no one will give a shit. So then you’re just depressed.

We had a lot of time to kill after Pierce the Veil, so I bought a five dollar soft pretzel while wishing for once I ate meat so I could get a corn dog for $3.50 — the cheapest foodstuff there. Henry got nachos which looked like slop. Henry’s demeanor seemed to uncurdle a bit while he was coating his ‘stache with cheese sauce. He even smiled a few times and I think he laughed once.

While we were chilling out at the picnic table, Blake proposed that he move in with us. Maybe it was just the contact high of being with someone who actually gave a shit about music, but I declared that this was the best idea I had ever heard in all of my life, even better than my idea to direct porn, so now he might be moving in with us. It would make my scene kid research easier, for sure.

Blake was so sad that we missed Katy Perry while we were foraging for discounted sustenance. He even pulled his hat down low to hide the tears. But maybe it was because he saw kids he knew and was embarrassed of Henry.

• Evergreen Terrace: I liked them alright but there was nothing mind-blowing that made me want to scour Ebay for rare memorabilia. However, during one of their songs, they chanted “I want you dead” and maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I thought that would be such a romantic sentiment to have engraved on wedding bands.
• Classic Crime: Another band that sounds good in stereo, but didn’t hold my attention live. Instead, I stared at this really surly girl who was like an overweight scene Sami Brady from Days of Our LIves. She was climbing over rows of seats and even though she was struggling to swing her trunk-legs over, she didn’t let it deter her from scaling the next row, until eventually she lost her momentum and wound up clotheslining her crotch. It brought me joy, lots of joy.
• 3OH!3: I wouldn’t have sought this band out normally, but we wanted to see the band that was coming on right after them, so we hung out for their set. I thought I was going to hate them at first, because that wave of white boy rap-rock-electronica kind of annoys me. But they ended up being so fucking fun and there was a really hot blond chick dancing on the side of the stage, so they kept my attention for sure. During their last song, it basically turned into a chaotic dance party on stage, and even Blake’s girlfriend Katy Perry was up there dancing with her man Travis from Gym Class Heroes (who I walked past earlier and wanted to say, “Your gf is a gaybo” but I wasn’t feeling assholey enough. Plus, I like Travis.). Anyway, I’m going to have 3Oh!3 play at my Sweet Thirtieth Birthday Orgy Masquerade. It’s gonna be tight.
• Bring Me the Horizon: Blake ran into some of his friends right as they came on, so we were officially ditched. Henry and I hung around for a few songs, but Henry looked like he wanted to call out for his mommy, so I spared him. I really liked BMTH though — they made me want to fillet a cop.
• The Devil Wears Prada: Sans Blake, things were pretty lame. I wanted to get closer to the stage but Henry was all OH HELL NAH so I was like, “Fuck this then” and went to buy a shirt instead. Henry, you pussy.

The day was coming to an end by this point, and Blake had re-joined us in time for Dr. Manhattan. I was torn, because they were playing at the same time as Norma Jean, side-by-side. And I love Norma Jean. Norma Jean blocked out Eleanore’s nerve-prickling coupon-cutting many a night for me. But I chose Dr. Manhattan, along with fifteen other people. It was sad! But you know a band is good when there are OTHER bands in the crowd watching them. And they were good — they were quirky and fun and energenic and they made me laugh out loud a few times. Unfortunately, Norma Jean was one stage over, luring people into their crowd. They had gigantic black beach balls and I won’t lie — I’m a sucker for a beach ball. At one point, I yelled to Henry, “Hey, do you want to go over and watch Norma Jean for the rest of their set?” but right then, two people left Dr. Manhattan’s crowd and the singer — in the middle of a song — stopped and yelled, “Hey! Where are you guys going??” It was so sad/cute/scary that I looked at Henry and said, “Never mind!”

At the end of their show, some of the bands in the crowd started chanting, “One more song!” but they weren’t allowed because of time constraints. So the singer started chanting back, “One more crowd!”, the retardedness of which made me laugh. I was also dehydrated, though. Overall, I was glad I stayed loyal to Dr. Manhattan, because their set was rewarding.

And that was it. We walked back to the car and already I started to feel the body-dragging effects of post-show depression. Then I thought about how all day long I had been talking about all the bands I wanted to see, but by the end of the night, all I wanted to see was Chooch.

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Earlier today, there was a gentle, friendly knock upon my door. “Probably Hot Naybor Chris wanting to use Henry for sex tools,” I thought.

(*Or SEX TOOLS!) 

Then there was another congenial little rap, followed by the sound of the door opening.

I was in the middle of making new serial killer Valentines*, so you can imagine where my mind went.

(*More on this later; I’m super excited about it!)

But it was just the mailman, putting a giant box between my doors. A giant box of FRUIT from my friend Andrea in California! She hooked me the fuck up. Persimmons, guava, honey tangerines, cactus pears, a giant Mexican papaya that didn’t survive the flight…plus CANDY!

You know I’m on a fucking fruit kick when I literally toss the CANDY aside in order to gain better access to the FRUIT.

 Henry came home from work and I screamed, “HURRY UP AND CUT THIS FRUIT FOR MY FRUIT SALAD!” He glanced at the mound of exotic Californian fruit and growled, “Andrea!” in the vein of Pee Wee finding out Francis! stole his bike.

Look at that bitchin’ prickly pear! When I have to Wiki how to eat the fruit in my fruit salad, you know shit’s about to get cray. I should have done my research beforehand, but then I wouldn’t have found out that eating the green part of the prickly pear is a bad idea. Tasted like spicy cucumber and I openly wept a little, loud enough for my office neighbor Angie to ask me WTF was wrong. When she learned that I was just being weird with my fruit, she seemed to lose interest in my plight. I could have been seriously injured!

Then my friend Kevin from Miami (another place that probably has much better fruit than stupid Pittsburgh) told me on Facebook that he bought a sapodilla today. I Googled it and learned that it tastes like brown sugar and ROOT BEER?! WHAT!? I emailed the link to Lee, who is working late shift with me tonight, and he told me I have a full blown problem.

I put in a call  to my fruit purveyor and she’s putting her feelers out for sapodilla. She said she might even have a cherimoya hookup!

What if I became a fruit blogger?

[See also: This Post.]

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Good afternoon. I’ve been too busy thinking about fruit, researching fruit, looking for fruit and eating fruit to do much writing in my blog. (“Writing” – this term is looser than Snooki’s vag.) Plus, Chooch and I are finally shaking off the death shroud that’s been enveloping us since Christmas so I’ve been enjoying doing things like:

• walking without getting out of breath
• breathing through my nose
• not coughing to the point of vomiting

So while I bask in the sound of my recently-recovered voice, please enjoy a variety of photos from the last few days.

My favorite photo of Henry! I turned it into a pendant. (No, Henry still has still not set up a shopping cart thingie on my blog. He sucks. Please direct angry fist-shaking in his direction, thanks.)

Fuzzy sweater nails! Totally impractical, but so much fun. I pet my hands all day on Friday.

OMG FRUIT SALAD. Look at those bitchin’ kumquats. I hated them at first, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about them and wanting them in my mouth again. Kind of like the first ever blow job, citrus edition.

I can’t believe I used to only eat apples.

Henry left me and Chooch alone in the car Saturday night because he’s a bastard.

Speaking of Chooch, yesterday I asked him if he wants to go to Cleveland this weekend and in this tone of faux-regret, he said, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Like he was regretfully declining a dinner invitation from Jehovah’s Witnesses. And then he added that he was going to be too busy “kissing ponies.”

OK.

We’re going to Cleveland anway.

Yesterday, I forced Henry to join Chooch and me for family time in the cemetery. Henry was all pissy about it because god forbid he should actually walk around outside, but as soon as he got out of the car, he began pointing out deer and various bird migrations, totally immersing himself in his obnxious Nature Know-It-All role, so I knew he was content.

And then it was all, “LOOK! THERE’S A CROW CHASING A HAWK OMG!” God, he’s so lame.

Awkwardly dodging snowballs.

Sometimes even Chooch has had enough of having his picture taken.

Dirty bare footprint in the snow. Just one!

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Chooch & Henry were being d-bags to me this morning (otherwise known as: ignoring me) so I blew this dysfunctional popsicle stand and went to my favorite cemetery.

I listened to a mix of my favorite roller skating jams; it was pretty perfect.

Where do you go when you need to peace out from reality?

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I never thought I’d say this, but thank god for Flo Rida. Every time I hear “I Cry,” I shush anyone who might happen  to have the audacity to talk over it. I realize that he’s actually sampling a remake of the original song, but I fucking loved Brenda Russell’s “Piano In the Dark” so much as a kid, that even hearing the accelerated dance remix of the chorus sends waves of nostalgia over me. It brings back memories of rollerskating in my basement and at Spinning Wheels, eating grilled cheese in my grandparent’s kitchen (they ALWAYS had soft rock playing on their house sound system), riding around in my mom’s car.

And then I inevitably feel sad. But it’s that sadness that I thrive on, if that makes any sense. It’s that sadness that keeps in touch with my memories and my past, and as much as it hurts sometimes to have some old track by Alan Parsons Project finger the trigger, I kind of like it. (Don’t get me started on “Eye In the Sky.”)

So I knew that looking up “Piano in the Dark” on YouTube was probably opening a can of worms, and I resisted for weeks and weeks until finally, the other night, I succumbed. And it felt exactly how I suspected: like my heart was being strangulated with neon legwarmers and jelly bracelets. The fucking 80s make me so happy-sad!

Henry and I were in bed the other night when Flo Rida’s version came on. I admitted that I had made it my ring tone (actually, the Bingo Player’s version, because it’s all of the chorus, none of Flo Rida’s lame rhymes). And that’s how I found out that Henry didn’t know any of this was borrowed from Brenda Russell’s seminal 1988 hit! So I of course had to play it for him, which resulted in  very blase, “Oh yeah, I kind of remember that song” response right before he rolled over and fell asleep, leaving me to lay there alone in ear worm hell.

Meanwhile, I have been listening to it pretty constantly all week (I even found a live version that features JAMES INGRAM AND MICHAEL MCDONALD ON BACKUP, WHUTTTTT??

), feeling all wistful about my ponytailed childhood and even at one point veering precariously down Taylor Dayne lane.

Don’t worry, I reeled myself back in.

So now I’m passing on the torture to you.

Even when it’s not playing, I hear it. Maybe it appeals to me because I too play the tambourine and fling playing cards across the floor at random.

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I had Chooch design our Christmas cards this year because that’s one less thing I’d have to worry about.

Welcome to the dictatorship, son! Henry’s been keeping a spot warm for you.

Zombiehead Tree.

Santa’s Jolly Entrails

Rudolph’s Bleeding Ass

This one is my favorite. I caught Chooch on a good day when I asked him to draw “just one more,” so he gave it his best effort with minimal mouthing off.

If you didn’t get one from us, it’s not because I don’t like you.

My Christmas card list is about as disorganized as everything else in my life. I mean, I had planned to give some to Henry’s family on Christmas Eve and completely let it slip my mind. And I LIKE Henry’s family!

I think next year, I’m going to offer them in boxed sets and give the proceeds to some sort of kid charity.

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A few weeks ago, I made one of my bi-annual trips to the grocery store, much to Henry’s chagrin. He’s very focused on the things we need, like milk and toilet paper, but when I’m there with him, I like to jack up the bill with my natural ability to sniff out expensive foods.

On this particular day, I saw a gross-looking thing called a Sharon. No, not your ex-wife. It was some kind of ugly tomato thing, so I tossed it in the cart.

“You don’t even know what that is!” Henry cried. Oh noes, I just added $1-something to his stupid tab! Get over it!

Anyway, I googled it on the way home and it is apparently a persimmon from Israel. You know what else it is? Fucking delicious. Henry totally thought I was going to hate it, I could tell by the way he slid the plate of cut-up Sharon across the table and then ran for cover. But instead, I was pleasantly pleased by the gentleness of the fruit, the subtle cinnamon notes, the non-grotesque texture.

I can’t believe you guys let me become 33 years old without ever knowing that I like persimmons. THANKS A LOT.

So now of course, I’m on a persimmon pilgramage straight to a little place I like to call Palate Paradise. I brought a Sharon to work with me on Monday and then texted Christina about it. She lives near the best grocery store of all time, Jungle Jim’s. I figured, if some asshole can walk into that place and purchase a durian, surely they must have an array of persimmon that’s downright pornographic. I wanted her to find out for me, so she called the produce department and ended up getting an extensive oral history.

Now I’m jealous that Christina might know more about my beloved tree diamonds than I do.

Anyway, the verdict was that, while Jungle Jim’s typically has three persimmon types to offer, they currently are only selling two. Sharons are one of them.

At lunch with Carey on Monday, I tried to strike up a friendly and not at all awkward conversation about persimmons. Funny, but I guess there isn’t a whole lot to really be said about them beyond “I like them a lot.” And then I spent the rest of the day at work looking up dessert recipes for them.

“THERE’S PERSIMMON PUDDING?!?” I email-shouted at Carey.

“I guess so,” she replied. I clearly need to find myself a more enthusiastic produce pal.

Wikipedia taught me that persimmons are popular Asian fruits, so I decided that it was imperative to visit the Asian markets yesterday. Maybe we’d get lucky and arrive right after a massive persimmon harvest.

Chooch is really into Asian horror movies; his favorite is “Ju-On,” which is funny because I don’t think he’s even seen the original, just all the sequels. However, he just doesn’t understand that “Ju-On” is not the name of a character, but rather a concept. It literally means “grudge.”  So he is always saying things like, “What if Ju-On is hiding behind that bush?” or “Look Mommy, I’m dancing like Ju-On to ‘Call Me Maybe’!” We even wrote “To Chooch, From Ju-On” on one of his Christmas presents, because if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right?

Chooch got Ju-On 2 for Christmas.

Chooch was stoked when I found this thing I filled out in 2004 on LiveJournal, where I listed “Ju-On” as being one of my Top 7 movies. (LOL @ Alice Doesn’t LiveR Here Anymore.)

In front of the second market we stopped at, a group of Asian girls were outside, stuffing food into suitcases. (Seriously, I have no idea what that was about.)

“They all look like Ju-On!” Chooch exclaimed. “That’s a good sign.” I tried to tell him that he was being rude, but you know, he’s six. To him, he’s being observant.

Chooch walked around the market, casting accidental aspersions every which way. “Ew, that looks DISGUSTING!” was his very succinct review of every single Asian food product, except for the box of Pokemon-like trading cards.

And then he started singing Gangnam Style.

There were no persimmons in either market we went to, however, there were copious amounts of treats in temptingly-packaged bags. Henry wanted to buy nothing but a bag of fresh green beans, but I just kept coming at him with the harajuku of snackfoods: plum candy, durian taffy, pudding marshmallows, Pocky (really, the only safe bet in these joints), some kind of 3:15pm Rose Milk Tea that I am only going to drink at exactly 3:15 because I’m scared to do otherwise.

“You’re not going to like any of that!” Henry cried, but I insisted that I knew what I was doing. (Just like that time in 2004 when I came home from Cincinnati with a durian.)

“We have to get this!” I shouted, shaking a container of some kind of fried sesame balls in the air.

“How much is it?” Henry wondered, pushing down his glasses to get a better look.

“Can you really put a price on a happy mouth?” I shot back, and it was literally the first time in maybe 2 years that Henry actually laughed at something I said. Too bad I was being serious.

Persimmon-less and with $50 less in the bank, we were in the car and I was tearing open bags of Asian crap-candy. “You’re going to eat all of this whether you like it or not,” Henry said in his Scary-But-Not-Scary Dad Voice just as I stuffed a taro/sweet potato “cake” into my Western mouth.

I like taro.

I like sweet potato.

I like cake.

Still, I should have known that in Asian cuisine, these mean completely different things. I tried to act like it was the equivalent of sucking on Jonny Craig’s tongue, but no amount of ginger mouth-muscles could get me to stop pulling my face into a montage of dry-heaval.

I almost killed myself trying to spit that shit out the window. It tasted of sewage and fear.

Long story long, persimmons were procured at the regular grocery store and, with the addition of longan (my favorite froyo topping!), lychee and jackfruit all purchased in the canned food aisle at the Asian market, I brought the most exotic and overpriced fruit salad to work with me today.

Fuck an apple. They’re old news.

Look out co-workers. I’m bringing in my rejected candy bounty for you guys. Plum candy all day long! Mmm, happy mouths for you! It won’t at all taste like you’re sucking on the toes of Takashi Miike’s nightmares.

I won’t share my Sharons, though. Not even with Ju-On. I might have what you’d call persimmon parsimony. OH, I WENT THERE.

 

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These were some of the best frowns of 2012. Here’s to many more in 2013!

Andrea suggested a calendar of frowns. Looks like we know what I’ll be working on this week!

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