Apple Envy

January 5th, 2010 by Chris Nelson

It’s finally happening. I’ve got irrefutable proof that I’m getting old and boring.

Yesterday I was reaching for the Red Delicious I’d brought to work and spied a tasty Braeburn in the fridge fruit drawer. Three things went through my head in rapid succession:

1. I wish I had that Braeburn instead of my mealy Red Delicious.

2. Wait a minute–that’s my Braeburn! I brought it in last week!

3. Oh. Wow. A Braeburn!

It’s the last part that really scared me. I was really excited.

Not so many years ago, I couldn’t imagine spending 50 cents at the fruit cart when you could get a jelly donut drenched in powdered sugar for the same price. I’ve come a long way. Now I find myself practically hyperventilating in a public space because I have a little bit of tartness in my fiber. Even sadder? That Braeburn was just as delicious as I’d hoped it would be.

Somewhere along the line, I’ve managed to exchange forbidden fruit for the forgotten kind. Sigh. I’m old. And boring. But if I keep eating this well, I’m going to live a very long, boring time.

Category : One Day I'll Be Friends With My Food
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The Broads are Back in Town

December 30th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

File this under the who-asked-for-it category: Lilith Fair is back. You read that right. Eleven years after Sarah McLachlan folded her tent, she’s reopening it with another femme lesbian circus playing for peanuts.

Yes, of course the Indigo Girls will be performing.

I am secure enough in my ovaries to skip the whole tour, thank you very much. Although I am (a) a woman (b) something of a feminist, I also have (c) taste. Nothing against the fine female singers on the docket: Mary J. Blige and Emmylou Harris, you’re good people. But Sheryl Crow? What have you done for me lately besides adopt a baby you couldn’t have with Lance Armstrong?

Granted, I am not the audience for most music festivals. Ozzfest is clearly not my thing (though I went to one on a first date. That should’ve been a good indicator that the second wouldn’t work out too well). And even the ole, beloved Lollapalooza was a bit windy for my taste. Realistically, I’ve got about a 2 hour concert-going limit. After that, my bladder or my back sing louder than whoever’s on stage.

But of all the festivals to bring back…Lilith Fair? She’s not even on Cheers anymore! If I wanted to watch outdated femme-centric performers, I would rent old Family Ties episodes on DVD. Or Top Gun, with lovely crossover Kelly McGillis. The mere thought of suffering through an entire day of such “diverse” female artists (since when is a group composed of a single gender diverse?) makes me wish instead for whatever torture the White House is currently dreaming up for a certain Nigerian who just tried to blow up a certain flight to Detroit.

Seriously, folks. I would do almost anything to avoid the Indigo Girls.

Category : At Large, Entertainment
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Thanks, but I’ll stick to the gym

December 29th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

Hot on the heels of holiday overindulgence–the new secret to slimming down quickly: luzing-inches_cropped

I always knew that I was wasting my time actually exercising. Finally, a diet for couch potatoes! Plus, all the healthy tanning you can stand for a mere $45/month.

Note that they don’t promise you’ll “lose” inches. You’ll “luze” them, instead. Also, the vacustep “gently modles the figure.” To my count, there are 8 grammatical errors and/or typos in the last paragraph alone. Good thing I can spell..and utilize, the YMCA!

Category : Seen Around Town
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“Oh. There’s a Snake in the House.”

December 11th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

First, I have to blow my own horn. Before I moved out to Wyoming, the very thought of snakes terrified me. My only experience with them was at the “World of Darkness” exhibit at the Bronx Zoo. Then I came west for a one-month writer’s residency program. I immediately resolved not to hike up in the 80+ acre wilds behind the grounds when I found out that snakes lived there. But I’ve toughened up in the past five years. Snakes don’t scare me anymore.

What scares me is having a casual conversation with my husband, who interrupted our musings about what to do on Friday night with: “Oh. There’s a snake in the house.”

Oh.

Aaaaaaa!!

First of all. It’s been -10 degrees or colder almost all week. Shouldn’t the little guy (or gal) be dead by now? Second: where on earth do we have a hole in our house BIG ENOUGH FOR A SNAKE TO FIT THROUGH? “It’s just a baby,” my husband reassured me. And then he followed up with: “I wonder if there’s a nest.”

I repeat: Aaaaaaa!!

He’s got a good point, actually. It’s very possible that the little venom machine just crawled out of his egg. (BTW, some snakes are born live–but they still come from eggs. The eggs hatch inside the mother’s body.) (Gag.)

Worse: now that baby slither has been captured, my husband is reluctant to release him out of doors. “He’ll die!” mourns the suddenly-animal-rights-activist. Hold on a minute: I’ve been eating strictly vegan meals since August. Can’t I trade in four-months-worth of mammals I never ate for the justified homicide of a reptile? In all seriousness: if the animal who wandered into our home was human, we could legally shoot it. But we can’t let a snake fend for itself because there’s snow on the ground?

It’s been an hour now since I spoke with my husband/zookeeper. He’s not picking up his phone. I fear that we will have a new pet by the time I get home.

Just wait ’til I get my hands on a mongoose.

Category : At Home, Big Sky Country
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Christian Cowboy Bling

December 6th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

I’m all for the idea of governmental non-interference, but I seriously think that my student loan lendor (in this case the Federal Government) should’ve been legally required to advise me, as an English major, that I would have a greater chance in the future of being struck by lightning than I would of being able to pay my bills with creative writing.

This same law should have gone double for my decision to earn an MFA. Seriously, I think men in suits should have shown up at my door with actuarial tables. “See here: if you continue on your current career track, you will forgo vacations, new cars and the idea of ever being able to afford Christmas presents for anyone outside of your immediate family.” Short of that, I think the Fed should at least mail a letter. “Dear Sucka” might be an appropriate opening.

As far as my creative writing goes, I’ve earned more money writing t-shirts than I have with fiction, plays and screenplays combined. I can write a mean t-shirt. Literally. (See www.zencommandments.com.)  But it does rankle to realize that I simply don’t have the energy to write the shirts, burn the silkscreens, print them by hand and market them with any kind of effectivity. So right now my sole method of marketing is to set up shop at local holiday bazaars.

Allow me to be the first to warn future English majors that they might find themselves on the slippery slope of their thirties selling t-shirts at crafts fairs.

So there I was, yesterday in Buffalo, WY. The crowds were cool. I even met someone who understood what a “fatwa” was. And I also saw, in addition to some good wood carvings and jewelry, a stall featuring imported leather goods with awful fake jewels glued onto it. This look is actually common in this part of the country. My husband named it Christian Cowboy Bling.

It looks like this: A black or brown leather background with generic rhinestones and other fake diadems, often in the shape of a cross. I saw belts, bags, and jackets with this lovely combination on them. I also saw A LOT of money changing hands at those booths and nearly choked to death on my trail mix. Who, I wondered, would spend their hard-earned cash on gaudy Jesus bling when they could order a t-shirt from me with a slogan that combines global warming and fart jokes?

The more bazaars I attend, the more I realize that I don’t know my audience at all. Granted, I can safely guess that a woman with a shiny blue plastic cross on her purse is not going to be pulling her wallet out in my general direction. But I’ve sold to several people with crucifixes around their necks. It’s good, at least, to realize that Jesus has a sense of humor. He would have to, to appreciate that many of his followers are unironically sporting belts with horseheads and his name spelled out in worthless fake rubies and diamonds.

Category : Religion-O'Rama!, Seen Around Town
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Licorice Tea-hab

December 4th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

I think I may have to go to Tea-hab. My effort to eliminate coffee was a smashing success, but now I’m hooked on tea. Not even caffeinated tea. Licorice, of all things, is my new herb of choice. In the general scheme of addictions, it’s a “good” one. But it still has its drawbacks.

According to the manufacturer of my favorite brand, Yogi Tea, licorice root consumed in high quantities raises blood pressure. How much is too much? More than 2 cups a day, supposedly. Now, that should be plenty. But I’m not someone who functions well with restrictions. Knowing I can only drink 2 cups makes me long for 3, 4. More.

Is nothing sacred? When herbal tea becomes the gateway drug, one of two elements are at work: (1) Murphy’s Law (2) Moderation insisting on itself.

I’ll do my best to moderate, oh licorice root. I’ll spread the love around and dabble in  Mayan cocoa spice again. If it doesn’t work, I’ll call Blue Cross Blue Shield and see if they can get me into a 28-Day program for herbal tea addicts.

BCBS, however, is no fan of of preventative healthcare. I’d probably have to have an “episode” before they paid for my treatment. I suppose shooting up the organic market would qualify. But purchasing a handgun, not to mention the bullets, would waste vital financial resources I could otherwise spend on Yogi Tea.

I suppose I’ll just have to live with yet another restriction. And have to admit that The Libertarian diet just doesn’t work for me. I’m not sure, yet, what does work, but I’ll contemplate it over a nice, steaming cup of….

Category : Me! Me! Me!, One Day I'll Be Friends With My Food
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The Box– Darko Lite

November 9th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

No question about it: I am an avowed fan of Richard Kelly’s Donnie Darko. I could probably watch it monthly and still find new stuff in it to cherish. I appreciated Southland Tales in all its deep, dark messiness. But The Box? I found it too dumbed down to love.

At first, I wanted to believe that Cameron Diaz, never the thinking woman’s heroine, was responsible for The Box being painted in gigantic Mark Rothko strokes. (When in doubt, blame it on the former model!) In truth, it’s the screenplay that hits you over the head with its obviousness.

At one point, the antagonist actually lays out his evil mission in a direct exchange. There’s absolutely no hiding the exposition in this scene. And there’s no hinting, bait-and-switch, or outright confusion in the movie as a whole. Sure, Kelly leaves some loose threads, but they’re basically at the hem of his garment. So we don’t really care that they’re dragging on the ground. The characters pretty much spin around 360 for you, and they’re wearing your typical screechy 70’s patterns and (for Cameron) the most unflattering makeup on earth. No alien bunny suits in sight.

Kelly ups the bleak quotient with The Box, but not in an awesome-soundtrack, sad-sack Gyllenhaal kind of way. This time he’s messing with the fate of the universe–ostensibly bad news, folks–but it doesn’t play. Maybe my gripe is that I don’t particularly share the morals I’m “supposed” to. But c’mon: I would’ve hit that button so hard and so often my entire line of progeny would be wiped out for millennia. And you know what? It would be worth it. Try walking the same uncreative path for 8 hours a day, five years running and see what kind of alien demonology YOU wouldn’t be willing to embrace.

I’m not writing Richard Kelly off, yet. I hope he makes a fortune with this one, and I hope he uses the money to fund another completely-tripped-out story of an individual–rather than a poor makeup artist’s representative of the human race.

‘Til then, keep your boxes with your buttons to yourself–lest I unwittingly wipe out our planet in a misguided effort to bankroll my early retirement.

Category : Entertainment
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Spooky Square Dance

November 2nd, 2009 by Chris Nelson

My ambitious plan to stay out past midnight on Halloween was dashed almost as soon as it was hatched. I swore that I could do it more than once a calendar year–I’d have two whole months to recover for New Year’s Eve–but my brain shut down at 9 after a full day of writing and screenprinting T-shirts by hand.

Now, a shut-down brain wouldn’t be a problem in a city. I could zombie-stumble anywhere in New York. But driving 25 miles each way during deer season–no dice. So I offered a contingency plan to my friends: I would meet them at a local place before they took off for the “real” entertainment.

The rented hall was alive with music when I arrived. A five piece band played swinging dance numbers. The guests ranged in age from elementary school kids to retirees. Everyone was in costume. And they all looked like they were having the best time of their lives.

It was spooky how much fun these people looked like they were having, square dancing to a caller in pajamas, strumming a washboard, in a rented hall at 9:30 on a Saturday night. I looked around for Rod Serling–seriously, I did. And I almost wished that I could have that kind of fun, too: innocent, wide-eyed fun. The kind I stopped having at, say, 12 years old.

A piece of me sure wishes that I could go to a local event–ever–and stop thinking about how small town it is. Another part–the larger part–is grateful that I have higher standards for entertainment. I’m sure my idea of fun is somebody else’s idea of rinky-dink. I won’t pretend otherwise. But at least I’m not swinging my partner round and round with a big hayseed grin on my face.

At 9:30 I was already too tired to muster up more than a smirk.

Category : Seen Around Town
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The Meanest Man in America

October 23rd, 2009 by Chris Nelson

I’ve long suspected that the cruelest cuts come with a kiss. Today it arrived in the form of a Wyoming State Patrolman who let me off the hook for speeding, but then did something far, far worse.

He wrote a citation, all right–because I don’t have a WY driver’s license. Apparently, even though I have a valid NY license, I was supposed to get it changed over within a year of residency. Oops. Guess they forgot to include that tidbit with the welcome package. I could so with one less bucking bronco sticker and one more “Hey, here’s the state law regarding the operation of motor vehicles.” Might help.

Anyway, I get out of the moving violation. Yay! And then I read the citation. Boo! The legalese is all fine and dandy. But the devastaing part was the physical description. He listed my correct hair color, eye color, height…and proceeded to overestimate my weight by thirty pounds.

I wouldn’t even be that heavy if I were pregnant with twins.

Yes, I read and reread that number and it stayed the same. Triple digits. Mocking me. What kind of man charges you $100, makes you part with your NY license and then PUTS DOWN ON PAPER–IN TRIPLICATE–THAT YOU’RE A FATASS? A Wyoming Highway Patrolman, that’s who.

Sadist.

The man looks me in the eyes, tells me he’s giving me a break, and then proceeds to stab me in my neurotic back. (Through which, my ego insists on noting, you can see ribs.)

That’s it! I’m going to court! I must correct this error for the record! Did you not see the NY license? I don’t have country bones! I’m vegan! I do an hour of aerobic and 1,000 crunches a day!

The upshot was that it took me 27 minutes from the time I left my desk at work to drive to the DMV until I exited, temp WY license in hand. That includes the eye test, photo and fee processing. 27 minutes.

I was sad about parting with my home state until I realized how easy it is to get things done around here. I went to the DMV, the courthouse (they may throw out the ticket) the supermarket and the library all on my lunch break. Hey, maybe this country living ain’t so shabby.

So long as I keep my distance from psychologically devasting highway patrolmen, I’ll be fine.

If anyone asks, he was 450 pounds. Give or take.

Category : Big Sky Country, Me! Me! Me!, Seen Around Town
1 Comment »

Six Story…Beavers?

October 13th, 2009 by Chris Nelson

For the past few weeks, this guy in my office has been raving about the new IMAX technology. Granted, it could be the same technology they’ve been using for the last ten years. It’s been at least that long since I was willing to fork out for a six story nature show. But I’m totally susceptible to rave reviews. (Which explains why I paid good American currency to see The Changeling.)

Apparently, full features are released in IMAX, now. It’s not just for nature anymore! At the Museum of Natural History in New York, however, it’s all earth all the time. I can’t imagine how many terrifying visions of extreme weather, journeys to the tops of mountains and fierce (or cuddly) animals they had to go through before they sank to this depth: Beavers.

The museum website doesn’t even give these poor creatures an adjective in the title of their IMAX debut. They don’t package them as “funny,” “resourceful” or even the tried and true “busy.” Nope. They’re asking you to fork out for plain ole beavers. All twelve-year old humor aside, is any beaver worth twenty bucks?

Seeing as the little guys spend most of their day building shelter, I can imagine that half the movie will actually be shot inside oversized dams. Q: What could be less exciting than watching a bucktoothed mammal build a twig-and-mud contraption? A: Watching a twig-and-mud contraption instead of Where the Wild Things Are, screening across town at Sony Lincoln Square.

I have to admit, part of what gets me about Natural History is their ticketing policy. In order to see IMAX, you have to pay the full (rather than suggested) admission to the museum. I’m a big fan of the pay-what-you-wish policy, as I’m pathetically closer to a starving artist than a patron of the arts.  Even so, I imagine that I could pull a crisp bill out of my hat for Spike Jonze.

Beavers, not so much.

Category : Entertainment
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