Tuesday, February 16, 2010 | by nathan

No, You Hang Up!

The past weekend took me so wholly by surprise that I can’t even be sure it happened. My friend Dylan, whom I conscripted into the armies of the homosexual in 2001 – thereby earning my toaster – flew into Oklahoma City on Thursday night. Dylan, a native North Carolinian, has now made four visits to Oklahoma, each time prompting his fellow Triangle-dwellers to check him for a fever and surreptitiously slip him travel brochures for places where normal people take vacations. Places like Daytona Beach and Provincetown. Places that have brochures. We don’t have brochures.

Without explaining how I earned a place in the Drunken Idiot Hall of Fame this weekend (we forgot to eat all day on Friday), I will just say that while Dylan was ostensibly in town to see me, he really came because K.C. Clifford was holding a two-day musical extravaganza to celebrate the upcoming release of her album Orchid.

COMMERCIAL BREAK: Orchid is an incredible album and you should all make plans to purchase it when it hits the streets for realsies on March 2. 

Without subjecting you all to a litany of specifics, I will just say that this weekend was a nice little slice of life. Two or three years ago I thought, vaguely, that the friends I had at that time, the ones I’d managed not to scare away, were the friends I’d always have. And to be honest, that was fine with me. After all, it was getting to come home to friends like Jayson and Laurie, or any of the assorted tribe of family and friends I’ve known for nearly two decades, that made moving back to Oklahoma not only bearable, but the best possible thing for me. And it was having people like Dylan out there, in the world, that helped me to remember that friendship is reaching out, that it sometimes requires a bit of effort, and that it’s almost always worth it. 

But I’d thought, my whole life, that I wasn’t good at making friends. Believe it or not, I’m a little shy around people I don’t know, and as I got into my late twenties I began to think that I’d settle into my mild little case of social anxiety disorder.

I’m not sure what happened. What I do know is that in the last few years Brian and I have met and befriended some incredible people. And this weekend, when I wrapped up the second draft of my novel, I realized that it’s largely about male friendship, which is something I despaired of ever having. Don’t get me wrong – I am honored to call some very, very amazing ladies my friends. But as a young man I actually feared making friends with guys. They were rough and always bigger than me. Girls were safer, easier, nicer. I have some awesome male friends, but those friendships always came at a great cost of comfort, and a great expenditure of emotional energy.

But friendships with men now – I can’t explain why, but over the last few years it’s become easy. I’ve gravitated toward it, whereas before I all but actively avoided it. I don’t want to get too weird about it, but I will just say that I have some very cool, very kickass, very creative male friends, and I am supremely grateful for them. And I’m very, very grateful that all my friends – male and female alike – are the kind of people who can put up with, and help me laugh at, my dumb empty-stomach-drunk antics at the Blue Door Friday night, who consistently encourage me in my writing and my work, and who help this world to be a safe place for me. I’m grateful.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010 | by nathan

Waiting Out February

God, isn’t February just the worst? I hate it so much. January should be worse, what with the nearly six weeks between paychecks and lowest average temperatures of the year, but … there’s just something about February. It’s dark. It lacks the "new start" feeling of January. By February you’ve broken in the Christmas presents, reneged on all your resolutions, lost your sense of hope, stopped seeing the wonder in freshly-fallen snow and started to wonder why they even bothered giving the so-called "New Year" its own number, it’s so obviously indistinguishable from the previous one.

I mean, if you’re like me. Which you’re probably not. I’m sure you’re fine.

I always get seasonal affective disorder in February. It has something to do with there not being enough light, or warmth, or possibly I just really hate Valentine’s Day. And Presidents’ Day. Yeah – screw Presidents’ Day! I don’t even get off work for it.

This year, though, I’m trying to actively resist my annual slide into seasonal affectiveness. I’m doing this by editing the shit out of my novel. I’m over halfway through it and will be hand-selecting a few friends to read the third draft for me – for pay – by the end of the month. I’m also trying to get a lot more exercise, including going to the gym on my lunch breaks. This has been difficult of late, as my day job has kept me hopping through the midday hours. I hope to return to this habit on Monday. WHAT ELSE ARE MONDAYS FOR? 

Still, though, I’m ready for March. I’m ready to start my seeds and spring those clocks forward. I’m ready for thunderstorms and lighter coats and not having to bundle up head-to-toe just to take out the damn garbage. My dad always says you shouldn’t wish your life away. As hard as it is, I’m trying not to hasten February’s demise, but instead to be really aware, to notice the winter passing by, and to get as much done as possible in preparation for longer days, green grass, and warmer air, the kind you want to breathe deeply, the kind that carries the sounds of the birds and the smells of new things growing. Until that comes, I’ll edit, and try to exercise, and try really, really hard to believe that it’s coming, if I’m just patient enough.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010 | by nathan

Okie Blog Awards

One of the things that I love about Oklahoma is that, in the absence of a national spotlight shining all over us, we give rise to some really surprising and inspiring pockets of creativity, much of it of the DIY flavor. The Flaming Lips are perhaps the most well-known example of this, having achieved international stardom and artistic genius while based here, in what most of America considers to be a "cultural wasteland." But living here I am continually surprised by the stuff that people are doing, and even more surprised that people I know are the ones doing it.

My buddies K.C. and David are wonderful examples of this (and if you’re not busy this Friday and/or Saturday, K.C.’s record-release shows at the Blue Door promise to be amazing). Also of note are our burgeoning improv and stand-up comedy scenes, including Twinprov, the outstanding two-man improv group staged by my old friends Buck and Clint.

I think we’ve got a lot of people here in Oklahoma who could be getting ready to see their careers take off. After editing two chapters of my novel early this morning, I honestly believe I might be lucky enough to be among them. So why am I so honored to be nominated for an Oklahoma Blogger Award? I don’t know. But I am. It’s cool, especially considering how many great Oklahoma-based bloggers there are, and considering that blogging is such a weird thing to do. The blogger blogging his blog.

I have a love/hate relationship with blogging. On one hand, I am awed by how much amazing writing and creativity is out there. On the other, I can’t help but remember what Doug Marlette told me on more than one occasion, that blogging is "karaoke for writers," and that having one doesn’t make one a writer, any more than my awful, fourth-beer rendition of "Let’s Stay Together" makes me a musician.

Maybe the point isn’t to be a writer. Maybe the point is to care about something. My friend Greg is passionate about food; that’s why his food blog, The Corner Booth, is so great – because he gets to talk about something he cares about. David lives and breathes music – he knows more about it than anyone I’ve ever met. I like to see people getting enthusiastic about stuff; I find myself infected by it. If someone is talking to me about something that excites them, I find myself interested. I can’t help it. That’s why I think blogs are so great – all your better ones are people sounding off about what they care about. Be it food, music, their families, their own creative pursuits, or the way they imagine Jon Arbuckle’s life might be had he never visited the pound – it’s cool that people can put these things out there.

Me? I’m passionate about writing, and about humor, and bad movies, and Oklahoma, and Jesus. And I’m kinda stoked and honored to be nominated for Best Writing in the Okie Blog Awards. I really recommend going through the list of nominees and finding some new, excellent reads by Oklahoma-grown bloggers. Their excitement for their subject material, and for this weird-ass state we call home, is infectious.

Monday, February 8, 2010 | by nathan

Gawd, Taco Bell, Bum Me Out

Unfortunately, I happen to, every once in awhile, get a Taco Bell craving that is so strong that the armies of Hell itself couldn’t stop me from eating intestine-shredding, soul-crippling Taco Bell. I also happen to have an enabler husband who will very generously go out in all kinds of weather to get us food. One such scenario posited itself the other night, and I found myself on the Taco Bell website trying to decide what I wanted. This is what greeted me:

At first I thought Taco Bell was just finally manning up and telling me what I already knew about my occasional indulgence in their food-adjacent product. I thought maybe God was using the Taco Bell website to send me some kind of message – "DON’T DO IT PLEASE! ADULT ONSET DIABETES IS JUST ONE CHEESY GORDITA CRUNCH AWAY!" 

Then, I realized that this website was in mourning. And THEN, I realized that the "Bell" in Taco Bell is actually a dude’s name. It threw my whole world into disarray – who is Hardee? Who is Carl, Jr.? For that matter – who is Carl, Sr.? Is there a Mr. Sonic, America’s Drive-In out there? And how on earth did Glen Bell live to be 86 years old given that he HAD to have eaten some of his chain’s food at some point? I naturally assumed my continued Runs for the Border® would leave me with a lifespan more comparable to Jesus or Mozart than, say, Betty White, not to mention endless cases of Runs for the Border®.

At any rate, I eventually got deeper into the website, where I was confronted with another conundrum. Which is when this conversation ensued.

Me: Do you see any difference between these two pictures?

Brian: Let’s see. Both have crisp, freshly prepared tortilla chips, seasoned ground beef, warm nacho cheese sauce, hearty beans, diced ripe tomatoes, and reduced fat sour cream.

Me: Well – which one is bigger?

Brian: I don’t know.

Me: i want whichever one is bigger. Get me whichever one is bigger. So I can win.

Monday, February 8, 2010 | by nathan

The Loop

From my latest post over at OpenSalon:

If you want to see hypocrisy in action, just catch me behind the wheel of a car. I’m like a maniac. A maniac who drives like a little old lady and gets really, really self-righteous about it. I don’t speed, I don’t cut people off in traffic, and I don’t do that really terrible thing that some of you do where you know – you know – that your lane is about to end, but instead of merging over you speed around the rest of us and expect the person at the front of the line to let you go ahead of them. All I can say is that someone in your car better be having a baby. The head better already be out, too.

You can read the whole thing – about how my road rage is really just a symptom of a much deeper condition – over there.

Sunday, February 7, 2010 | by nathan

Howard the Duck

Let me just show my age here. I remember only having five channels. I remember having ONLY five channels, no VCR (duh-WHUHHHH?)  and no cable. I also remember when we got a VCR. I remember when people used to use their video cameras to bootleg copies of rented movies, and I remember that when we got a VCR we were the recipients of a huge box of bootlegged movies from some relatives with just such a camera.

And oh, the contents of that box; I’ve seen Real Genius, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, Flight of the Navigator, Short Circuit, The Boy Who Could Fly, and Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome more times than possibly any person on Earth. I’m seriously not shitting you; I think I could recite each of those movies backwards. If, you know, someone broke into my house and held a gun to my head and said "RECITE THE BOY WHO COULD FLY BACKWARDS OR I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!" Although, come to think of it, I’m just belligerent enough that if someone broke into my house and said that, I might tell him to fuck off just on principle.

AT ANY RATE.

There was another movie that came in that box. And yesterday I discovered that, for some reason, it’s available to Watch Instantly on Netflix. (YOU’RE WELCOME). It’s widely regarded as the worst movie ever made; I knew this. And if a baby was born on the day that I watched this movie for the last time, he or she would today be attending college and making detailed plans to embarass him-or-herself in Daytona Beach for Spring Break with too many Hurricanes and a potential appearance on the "Gone Wild" series. I think Miley Cyrus is younger than my last viewing of Howard the Duck. And yet – call me a sucker for nostalgia – I added to my Watch Instantly Queue, and, last night, we did.

I have nothing to say in my defense except that in the interim I’ve become a rabid fan of Mystery Science Theater and thought the movie might be good for a few yuks (it was). And Brian had never seen it and I thought he’d get a kick out of it (he did). So on the off chance there’s someone out there too young or too unlucky to know what I’m talking about, I present to you the trailer for the 1986 film classic Howard The Duck.

Again – YOU’RE WELCOME: 

Friday, January 29, 2010 | by nathan

Welcome (Back).

Remember how I said I was going to start a blog on Open Salon to publish pieces I’ve been writing but not publishing online? WELL OH MY GOD I ACTUALLY DID IT.

I chose Open Salon, mostly because I love Salon.com and pay them $45 a year to keep them in their elitist arugula and expresso coffees or whatever the hippies drink out in Sin Francisco. All I know is that I love Joan Walsh, and Garrison Keillor, and Anne Lamott, and Alex Koppleman, though I’m still not over my Election Fatigue from 2008 and have stopped reading their War Room altogether. At least until a year from now, when it’s time for the 2012 election to start up.

Also, I love Open Salon’s community nature. And if we’re being totally honest, I love that several people have scored book deals writing for them. Are any of our motives ever completely pure? Come on – let’s cut the crap.

But the main reason is that I loved writing these kinds of pieces for GCN, and I want to continue writing for them. But there’s no reason why these can’t be in two places at once; AMIRITE?

Also (and I have yet to e-mail them about this, so we’ll see how it’s going to go over), I really want to start a blog over at Voices of Oklahoma, because I think they’re one of the coolest Okie internet outlets going right now.

And – JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT THE SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION WAS OVER – if you have a blog and live in Oklahoma, you can totally vote for me in the Okie Blogger Awards! I’m gunning for Best Kept Secret and Best Writing, though as of December 24 I totally qualify for Best Veteran Blogger! And if you’re looking for recommendations for other blogs to nominate, can I recommend the Mixtape Jones Report (Best Culture Blog), K.C. Clifford (Best New Blog), Rocks in My Dryer (Best Humorous Blog) and Angela and Luke (Best Inspirational Blog), just to name a few?

In the meantime, I’d love it if you’d head over to Open Salon to read and comment on my new stuff; here’s a taste to whet your appetite.

As a young man my faith was marked by deep impatience. Every prayer session was marked by a sense that any moment God would – or should – reach down and make me Victorious over all that vexed me. I figured I’d struggle with this or that sin or challenge for awhile, then I’d experience a miracle healing, and my life would finally begin. Of course, this never happened and at some point I realized that my desire for miracle healing was less about faith than it was about no longer wanting to be dependent. I wanted God to come down and fix me so that I didn’t have to feel broken anymore, so that I didn’t have to be constantly reminded of my need for Him.

Monday, January 25, 2010 | by nathan

The Quiet Place

Hey there, Internet Website! How have you been? Good? Replacing your diaper every time a new Apple Tablet rumor makes you evacuate in your pants? So glad to hear it; me too.

Me, I’ve been busy. I’ve been thinky. And then, this weekend, I’ve been lazy. Which is to say that my work life currently threatens to overtake my life me. The two of them are fighting so much that I’m about to pull this car over and give them both the frowning of a lifetime.

And so, to that end, I took Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday, a week ago, and spent some alone time at one of my favorite spots on Earth, Red Rock Canyon State Park in western Oklahoma.

It was temperate, and mostly cloudless. The best part, of course, was that it was almost entirely deserted, it being January and all. That, and all your better Americans were out celebrating Dr. King’s birth by – I dunno – cleaning up a park, or registering voters. Me, I was out in nature with The Jesus. We totally didn’t contribute to the National Day of Service. But we also didn’t litter, so.

Anyway, I just needed some fresh air. The drive out to Red Rock – or at least, the way I go – is breathtakingly scenic, at least for people who love the plains as much as I do:

Someday I dream that that will be the view from my house. Perhaps without the concrete piping and the cell tower wires. But you get the general. Along the way I also met a very friendly herd of buffalo:

They were watching me like hawks, but in general they were pretty nice. I think it was because this guy was with them:

That drive really is gorgeous – you go out state highway 152 to Binger and then up to the Canyon, just south of Hinton. Listen to your best road trip mix.

Anyway, once I got there the stillness of the canyon proved to be exactly what I needed. I sat for awhile, read, prayed, was quiet. It was the perfect way to spend an extra day off work. The best thing – or at least, one of the best things – was the smell of the evergreens that grow all over the canyon. When I was a kid I used to get a rash when I touched them, but I never could stay away because of how they smell. I love them; it’s the smell of home, for me:

I’ve been going to this canyon since I was a little, little kid; I grew up just 20 miles away from it. It’s a little further away now, but I learned how to rappel here, I’ve hiked every inch of the trails, and I once ran afoul of a rattlesnake, though I got away just fine. I learned a lot about geology here. And when I’m stressed, or sad, or just needing to go to the Quiet Place, the Happy Place, this is the place I picture myself. Just thinking about it, I can almost smell the cedar trees. What’s your place like that?

Tuesday, January 19, 2010 | by nathan

Fly Me To The Moon

HOLY. BALLS.

YOU GUYS! The SPACE SHUTTLE is for sale! No, strike that. TWO space shuttles are for sale. And prices have been slashed to move! I think it probably goes without saying that Atlantis and Endeavour have a little bit of hail damage. Their heat shields aren’t quite what they used to be, but – whose is? 

Look, I’m just going to lay this out there in the simplest terms I know:

ME.

WANTEE.

I’d been thinking that, when my beloved car Calvin finally goes to that great redneck’s-front-yard in the sky I’d invest in something a little greener, a hybrid, but with four-wheel-drive, maybe the kind of car that Arnold Schwarzenegger might drive Brangelina around in. But look: I wants me a Shuttle. I’d rather have Atlantis, but I suppose I could settle for Endeavour if they lowered the price, installed a keyless entry system and an iPod dock. Which shuttle did crazy diaper lady and that other astronaut have sex in? I don’t want that one. Again – unless the price is right.

Here’s where y’all come in: I can’t even really afford the aforementioned hybrid, much less the [low, low] price of $28 million for a space shuttle. So I’m going to need a small loan – no, let’s just call it an investment. On your part. Think of it – you could have the MOTHERFUCKING SPACE SHUTTLE at your kid’s parties. Or, I dunno, we could go to the moon. OH MY GOD YOU GUYS WE COULD GO TO THE MOON!

We could get corporate sponsorships, too – think of it. Haven’t you always thought the shuttle lacked a little … panache? We could get that mother looking like Jeff Gordon’s car so fast – do you think DuPont and Nicorette would agree to have their logos painted on the side for, say, $14 million dollars each? Then we could sell tickets. The Russians charged all those crazy gozillionaires and Lance Bass $20 million a head to go into space. Screw that – for the low, low price of $15 million (plus baggage handling fees, natch), I’ll take you all the way to the moon. For an extra hundred thousand dollars I’ll buzz the International Space Station and let you give those guys the finger, or moon them through a porthole. It will basically be the universe’s most badass party bus.

We have a business plan here. We have a viable business plan. Now, we just have to get NASA to lower the price a little. I think the recent discovery of cocaine in the shuttle hangar taints the entire deal; so let’s knock of about $5 million for that. And then there are the sponsorships. Who am I approaching first? Do you even have to ask? 

Viagra. Come on, let’s cut the crap. It’s them or Cialis, painted all over this thing. WHO DO YOU THINK IS GOING TO BE BUYING THESE TICKETS?

It dawns on me that with this business plan we could probably snatch up both of these bad boys. Within ten years the Moon will be putting Vegas to shame. Just think of the advertising: "What happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, BUT THERE ARE NO LAWS IN SPACE, BABY!" 

Come ON, people! Let’s do this! You know – for science. Somebody get those coked-out NASA guys on the phone.

Friday, January 15, 2010 | by nathan

#1

Leaving a Friday night showing of Avatar, there is a bin just inside the theater door where people are encouraged to deposit their 3D glasses. "Keep 3D Green," it says, "Recycle Your Glasses."

In front of us a theatergoer – or possibly one of the larger Kuiper Belt Objects – lugs a half-eaten garbage bag full of popcorn out with him. His wife plows through the crowd like a Katamari toward the bin; when she passes me I’m surprised not to see several thumbtacks, a dozen erasers, a bicycle, and two small children clinging to her.

"No," he snaps at her. "We paid an extra dollar for those glasses. We’re keepin’ em."