fill my Christmas sock

Each Christmas at Starkey Road Mill Mountain Coffee and Tea the employees decorate stockings and pin them on the coffee shelves for customers and other employees to fill with goodies. For the past week Phil’s stocking was the only one pinned up. It looked so lonely. I kept reminding myself to bring my stocking with me some night either when I’m working or hanging out, since I’m always at work in one of those two regards. I kept forgetting, and Phil’s stocking remained lonely like that ostracized Magic Card kid in high school. Well, I was that Magic Card kid in high school, so yesterday at last I made myself pack my Christmas sock to join Phil’s on the shelf of isolation.

I don’t know what made me draw a mushroom cloud on my Christmas sock. I must have had “Search and Destroy” on the brain: “I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-Bomb.” The cloud rises from some unseen ground zero – not unseen because it’s been vaporized but because I neglected to draw a bottom for the mushroom cloud. The little misty blast waves are ornamented with purple and gold balls, and in the billowing cloud itself is written “Noel.” I named myself Nuclear Nick. Merry Christmas, suckers!

So, what? Was I trying to piss off the Hunting Hills rich bitches with my metaphorical middle finger? Was this supposed to be some declaration of punk rock indifference to a co-opted holy day? I’m no punk. I’m about as punk as a broom. I listen to the Stooges, yes, and I jump for joy whenever Pussy Whipped shows up on my iTunes. I grew out my hair because I was tired of cutting it, but now it’s in my eyes all the time and I feel it on the back of my neck. It makes me fidgety, and my scalp itches a little. That’s so punk rock of you, Nick – fretting over your itchy scalp. I eat my dinner on my nights off and then hold my stuffed panther, not wanting to go do nothing at work too soon and do nothing for too long. Better pull the shutters over your Starbucks windows before I throw a garbage can through them.

I’m no punk. I’m just a music fan. I don’t think anyone is actually a punk, and if they are a punk they can’t maintain that personality for very long. Punks generally turn into yuppies. That’s the endpoint for so many. Once you get your hands on a little money you spend it on shit that would make you gag if you were really, truly a punk. Maybe I’m currently locked in that grand struggle, the kid with the ideals trying not to cave and transform into the nesting consumer. Look at me now. The runaway son of a nuclear A-Bomb is sitting in the First Team Auto waiting room while his new 2008 Subaru Outback is getting its paint and upholstery protection applied. That’s so punk rock I think I have to put on my Union Jack Converse and spin the old “London Calling” seven inch.

Just stop worrying about it. You’re listening to Billy Joel right now, and you love it. A bottle of red or a bottle of white? It all depends upon your appetite. It is interesting. I can shift from “Penetration” to “She’s Got A Way” with the greatest of ease, and I hardly even notice it. That’s just who I am. There’s a little bit of everything in me. I should try not to be too much of something for too long. I may go insane. Just hang the old Nuclear Nick Christmas sock next to Phil’s and hold your head high.

By way of a PS, everyone knows who Daniel Crandall is. His beard is a dead giveaway. I saw another frightening ad yesterday. Open on a lady sitting in a wheelchair. At the bottom of the screen it reads “Client Portrayal Is Simulated.” The lady is rubbing her forehead and worried. She must have been injured in an accident. She must not know what to do. Cut to the front door, and in walks Daniel Crandall to the rescue. This scares me more than it comforts me. Can he sniff out despair? Is his beard a despair detection device? This is all the more reason to lock your doors. The first time you feel a little down after stubbing your toe, Daniel Crandall might pay you an unannounced visit.

Plan 9 and Vanity Plates

I helped Plan 9 move out of Towers today. Sam and I loaded boxes and boxes of CD’s in the Ryder truck, and I left a little before 11. Hopefully they benefited from what little I did. I have to say it’s funny helping out a business I don’t work for. For as long as I’ve known them the people at Plan 9/Record Exchange have been like family to me, so it makes sense that I would volunteer. It’s just funny knowing that I’m helping them take a big step. The new location between Grandin Theater and Grace’s will be bigger and better. There will be more stuff to sell, and there will be in-store performances (I’m ready to mark my calendar for Doug Cheatwood). That’s where Record Exchange fell short. The store wasn’t big enough to host performances, and they didn’t really have anything I wanted to buy. I remember going to the Salem store freshman year at Roanoke College and being amazed at how much stuff they had, how much merchandise they had and all the indie CD’s I was just starting to discover. Early sophomore year I went back, and it was like a different store. There was absolutely nothing I wanted to buy. That isn’t a very smart way to do business. If you want to make a profit, be sure to sell stuff that people want to buy. Plan 9 fit itself into the same small space as the Towers Record Exchange, but the difference is that Plan 9 has CD’s and vinyl that interest me. Major plus. With the new location they should have even more, and I can blow even more money every week. I’ll have no one to blame but myself for how fast they move in. They’re right around the corner from me now, so I at least I can save on gas money.

While I was driving over there I saw a vanity plate that reminded me how much I want every vanity plate owner on the face of the Earth to be stabbed in the fucking taint. I took the Mick-Or-Mack road that leads to Windsor, and pulling in front of me on one of the roads further up the hill was an SUV with GODNHRT on its license plate. I paused in my enjoyment of “Neon Bible” to translate. That’s my first problem with vanity plates. Ninety percent of the time it takes too long to translate. If I have to exert the same energy as a crossword puzzle clue to translate your vanity plate, that’s a taint stabbing. I could only think of one thing it could possibly be: “God and Hurt.” Phonetically speaking, that’s how it translated. This made me even angrier that a vanity plate was in front of me. Who could possibly pay money for a vanity plate that reads “God and Hurt.” This has to be emo. That’s the only explanation. “The two most important things to me are God and Hurt.” Okay, Mr. Hawthorne Heights. Remind me later to plug your tailpipe with a hedgehog.

So maybe it was actually “God In Heart.” I appreciate how you need to use a soapbox to tell us how much you love God. I’m not annoyed that you love God. I’m annoyed by your vanity. Hence, vanity plate.

this movie won't let me go

I know I wrote about this movie on myspace, but I can’t stop thinking about it. The Coen brothers must have done something right if No Country For Old Men is still dominating my thoughts four days after the fact. My rear end is still very much on the fence. I’m still unsure if I liked it. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a movie that I didn’t like but still made me think so long and hard.

It’s as though the characters in No Country For Old Men brought the world into focus, as though the movie served as the missing link to understanding how the Coen brothers think. Examine the two main characters – Llewellyn and Anton – and it’s clear as day how these two character types fit in with every Coen brothers movie. They form a struggle that appears in each story.

Llewellyn is an ordinary man who finds a break. Look at the main character of every Coen brothers movie and see his reflection. Nicolas Cage in Raising Arizona, Tim Robbins in The Hudsucker Proxy, Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski, John Turturro in Barton Fink – they are all outsiders trying to get in. Usually they are ordinary men trying to find their way into a life of crime, like Nicolas Cage and Jeff Bridges to an extent, but Tim Robbins fits this as the business school graduate trying to find his way to the top by starting out in the bowels of a corporation. Crime is the theme the Coen brothers return to regularly, so I’ll stick with that. Llewellyn Moss finds a bag full of money in the aftermath of a drug deal gone bad. He thinks he can use his blue collar cunning and every-man strength of will to outsmart his pursuers. He thinks he can play the game as easily as the hardened pros. Anton knows otherwise.

Anton is a robot. His only function in life is to kill, and he kills with an agenda. He kills and kills and kills, each murder like a mile marker counting down to his goal, and his goal is one more kill. He’s a man bred to destroy. In Raising Arizona he’s the superhuman biker. In Miller’s Crossing he’s the Dane. In The Big Lebowski he was the nihilists, but even then they’re reduced to nothing when John Goodman beats the shit out of them and they’re exposed as outsiders like everyone else. In The Hudsucker Proxy he’s the clock keeper. All of these Anton’s have one reason for existing: to show the outsider who’s boss. Llewellyn Moss finds the bag of money and thinks he’s entitled to a share of sin. Anton is hell-bent to show him otherwise. Llewellyn has no business thinking he can get inside. The lifestyle itself will punish him. This is something Quentin Tarantino did in Pulp Fiction, and I think he did it better. Pulp Fiction is basically a story about outsiders trying to get in on a life of crime. It’s all about the briefcase. Long story short, the briefcase contains Marcellus Wallace’s soul. You can ask me later for my reasoning why. That’s not the task at hand. The briefcase contains the soul of a hardened criminal, and Samuel Jackson and John Travolta kill the foolish kids who think they can handle the soul of a criminal on their own. Jump to the end of the movie with Tim Roth and Honey Bunny holding up the diner, and Samuel Jackson schooling Tim Roth on what it takes to be a criminal. He’s been through too much to let the case get away again, and besides, Ringo. He’s trying real hard to be the shepherd. He’s seen enough. He can’t let another sheep go astray into a life of crime. Anton is this same character, although Anton is more tyranny than shepherd. All the Anton’s in every Coen brothers movie fits this description. They are the ultimate line of defense against the intrusion of outsiders. Anybody not already in should stay the fuck out, or else Anton will destroy the lock on your little world and blast you with a silenced shotgun. Like the poster for No Country says: “There are no clean getaways.”

So looking back, I think I can say that every Coen brothers movie is essentially a “fish out of water” story. Their characters want to change their station. Life doesn’t want them to, and so life sends a nemesis to straighten things out. It’s as though the intrusion of an outsider would throw the world out of alignment. Anton is necessary to keep the world running the way it is. The Coen brothers show the American Dream in all its grisly truth. Feel free to venture out and stake your claim on something more. Just don’t come crying when life sticks a knife in your neck.

After drawing this conclusion, I don’t know how I feel. Maybe I’ve cracked their code and shown how predictable their work is. Maybe I’ve realized that each of their movies is pretty much the same story rehashed again and again. Or maybe I’ve finally understood the way their minds work. It’s okay for an artist to get caught on a theme. The Coen brothers are obviously fascinated with this type of story, and they enjoy showing the extreme consequences. I enjoy watching them unfold. One thing is for sure. No Country For Old Men isn’t going to leave me alone for a long time. This is the first time the Coen brothers gave us a fish out of water story with a tragic ending.

a day in the life

So I decided to start a blog. In college my English professors used to assign what they called “small writings.” We wrote about whatever we wanted and did it in a single page, and then we made enough copies for the entire class. I didn’t particularly see the point in this, especially when it came in the middle of an American Writers class. What’s the purpose of dedicating an entire class period to something completely unrelated to the task at hand? I shouldered the task every time, and I suppose I wrote well enough that people liked my small writings. It just felt good, writing a page about whatever I wanted. That’s what I want this blog to be – a page about whatever I want. I’ll try to write a page a day and take time off on the weekends. I will probably write less frequently than a page a day.

For a kick-off to a new blog, how about a look at a day in the life of Nick? I guess people may be curious as to what I do with my days off, considering that people never see me anyway. Here is a rundown of what I did today. It’s not very exciting.

I generally wake up around ten o’clock, not because I set my alarm or because I’ve slept long enough, but because this is when I can no longer breathe comfortably. I broke my nose a few years ago (and I know who did it) and I haven’t been able to breathe right since then. After sleeping for six or seven hours, ten o’clock is when my nasal canal fills with mucus or closes enough that the flow of air dwindles to the point that I can no longer sustain sleep. I may lay in bed for another hour, but this is where sleep ends.

As I lay in bed I figure out my plan for the day. Today I knew I had to deposit my paycheck and tips, and that I also needed to open a savings account. Groceries were also on my list of essentials, and to round things out I fancied maybe a movie. As long as everything is done by early evening, five or six, I’ll feel comfortable.

First things first, shower. The Monday morning shower is key. I roast coffee beans on Sunday nights, and I’m imbued with coffee smoke. It’s in my flesh and in my hair. I can smell it as soon as the water hits me. It is not missed once it leaves. Second things second, brush the teeth. I love Listerine. I know it’s working when my gums have that tingle for a few minutes after swishing. Dental floss and Listerine are high on my list of necessities. I like my teeth. I would like to keep them.

Now I have to make my Internet rounds. Yahoo! always comes first, e-mail and fantasy football. No new messages in the old inbox, and I’m still leading my game like I was last night. I only have Ben Roethlisberger to play tonight. Unless he throws ten picks and gets sacked a dozen times I should win. Hit BBC for news, check the weather, and see if anyone commented on myspace. Nobody. Scroll down the bookmarks for Carrie’s blog. Did she post yet? Yes. She interviewed Laura Krafft from The Colbert Report. Funny stuff. Shit. I’ve been online for an hour. Get yourself going. But the bank is so far away and it’s going to take so long to get this done. Just do it. You want to pay your bills.

Sportscenter babbles as I gather my tips and count out my change on the floor. I have ten dollars in quarters. Roll them up. Get my check. Endorse it. Make sure I’m not forgetting anything. Make sure I don’t lock myself out. Let’s go. I love my Outback. I love driving this damn thing. It’s such a big part of my day. If I didn’t have to go anywhere else I would just drive forever.

You have rent to pay and student loans, too. It has to wait. This lady is telling me my account options. I’ll have to go home before going to the grocery store. It’s just down the street, but it’s a pain in the ass. At least I get to drive again.

I pull into the Kroger parking lot and realize I forgot to go to the post office. I turn off the engine and see the two envelopes peeking from underneath Seven Swans in the passenger seat. Just hit it on the way back. It’s not that big of a deal.

Don’t go to Plan 9. Save your money. Wait until they open the new store. Then go. You’ll go anyway, and you’ll have your certificates. But this is my last chance to go before they close this location. Screw it. I’m going. Jamie Booker should be there, and probably Todd. Oh, wait. Only Sam. That’s okay. Say hello and browse. There’s my CD for today, and now peruse the vinyl. Nothing striking. Lots of bands I need to look into first. Go check out and…Mother Jones jumps from the shelf. “The moral dilemma of withdrawing from Iraq.” Buy that fucker. I’m buying it so I can read it and subscribe to it. I’ve never bought a copy of this magazine before in my life, nor have I heard of it, but I need to start reading more, and I need to start reading more news. This is where it begins.

Hey, there’s Jamie in Kroger. She’s at the customer service counter. She looks busy. Just say hello and pass on.

What the hell is this? Freestanding coolers of something called Café Latte? They could have called it something more colorful. Let’s see what it is. Hot dogs. Huh. Interesting.

I don’t need much. Get chicken for dinner. Get my eggs. English muffins. Backtrack for the milk. There’s Jamie again. She’s talking to that kid who always wears the yamaka (I don’t know how to spell it, and it’s less offensive than calling it the Jew hat). Should I say hello? She doesn’t see me. Get the milk. She still doesn’t see me. Go to the checkout. Just say hello. Fuck it. Check out.

You didn’t go the right way for the post office. You’ll have to turn left onto Grandin if you go this way. I’ll go later. God I love driving this car.

Vacuum the carpet after putting away the groceries. I hate it when I track leaves and shit into the apartment, but I always leave it for weeks. Kill it now. Should I see a movie today? I could invite the neighbors when they get home from work, make it a house trip, interact with them somewhere outside of the coffee shop. I never see them anywhere else (two of my neighbors work there now). I guess…I suddenly have a hankering for LA Confidential. I’ll watch that instead and kill a couple of hours before I make dinner (I eat lunch at dinnertime).

Every day off I eat the same dinner. I fry chicken in a pan with some soy sauce and cover it with Monterey seasoning. My side dish is always Taste of Thai jasmine rice. It’s good. It provides sustenance. Maybe it’s getting old. Around the Horn is on now and PTI is next. Same old same old. My dishes are stacked enough to make me seriously consider washing them. Might as well. By Friday I’ll be thankful I did it.

Pack up the lap-top and take off for the coffee shop. It’s where I hang out every night. Sarah is working with Ginger tonight. Jason should be in at some point. The regular crew. We just have nothing better to do in this town.

Wait for the line to go away before I get my coffee. It doesn’t wake me up anymore, but it makes me feel good. I’m addicted. I know it. It all tastes the same now. Browse the internet again before getting down to my magazine reading. Put in my new CD as background music while I read. Let it play twice while I finish the article. Good stuff. I know I won’t subscribe. I’ll pretend I will.

Periodically check my game to make sure I’m still winning, even though I’m ahead. What the fuck? Roethlisberger has negative points? Maybe I will lose. Look up David Garrard. I just need people who will score positively. That’s all I ask.

The night isn’t over yet, but I’m pretty sure I know what I’m going to do. I’ll hang around and joke with Jason. I’ll keep periodically checking the game to make sure I’m not losing yet, checking it like I just did and will when this sentence is finished. We’ll tease Sarah about how little she eats. Ginger will leave around one or so. We’ll talk about music and act like we’re not elitist, even though we are. I’ll get tired around two and head out, maybe with Jason and Sarah in tow, maybe not yet. Maybe we’ll hit Waffle House. Maybe not. I’ll love driving my car at night. I’ll dive into the mailbox for my rejection notices from publishers. I’ll look for the downstairs neighbor’s light, check to see if she’s still awake. I’ll seep into my home and put my computer back on my desk. I’ll turn on Sportscenter and properly bookend my day, and I’ll hold my stuffed panther best friend as I wonder when and if I will ever get a cat. Blackie is enough cat for now. Then I will brush my teeth and go to bed. I won’t set the alarm, even though I work tomorrow. I don’t work until 3:30. My broken nose always wakes up at ten o’clock, so it doesn’t matter.