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A NEW NELL KALTER DOT COM

A NEW NELL KALTER DOT COM

When I started this blog over a year ago, I kind of pressed a bunch of buttons on a keyboard, closed my eyes, and hoped for (okay, chanted for) the best.  Shockingly, it all somehow ended up working and a site was born – though the fury that crept up inside of me each time I tried to upload and resize a picture was the kind of fury that turned my skin a terrible shade of beet red as I experienced the previously unknown misery of technology-inspired apoplectic rage.  And as for figuring out how to create links to amazon.com to check out my books?  Yeah, I was never able to master that kind of build-a-blog knowledge.

ARTISTIC INTEGRITY

ARTISTIC INTEGRITY

I’m just going to come right out and say that I totally used to believe that Mad Men’s Megan Draper was somehow going to turn out like the tragic Sharon Tate and that I believed that simply because in one scene she wore the same tee shirt that Tate was once photographed in for a magazine spread.  It didn’t fully matter to me that the show’s creator all but went on the record to say that the theories abounding about Megan’s fate were all wrong – I believed anyway.

But now that Mad Men is wrapping up forever tonight (that’s right:  for the most part, only the tremendously important shows come back eventually, like the upcoming reboot of Full House that has made me contemplate the collective intelligence of the universe at large), I finally believe Matt Weiner.  Seems the show’s creator was telling the truth about the whole Megan thing and I know this to be true because the show currently takes place in the very early seventies and the Manson murders took place in late 1969 and Megan is still alive, but I’m obviously curious about how the show and its characters will conclude and I have read some pretty interesting theories that guess at what could happen.

ANNIVERSARY

ANNIVERSARY

Today is my blog’s birthday.  It is one year old – and it would like jewelry or a high-end juicer as a gift.

I have been putting off even thinking about this particular entry because I knew it would be difficult to go reminiscing down Far-Too-Vivid Memory Lane.  Still, like anything that’s birthed, I suppose a blog should be recognized, and – as it hasn’t left me with stretch marks – I have decided to celebrate it.

I wasn’t always a writer, but I was always a writer.  Does that make sense?  It only makes sense for me now.  It’s taken a year for a lot of things to begin to make sense.

A NEW KIND OF BLISS

A NEW KIND OF BLISS

I've been thinking lately about the alternate title of Birdman, which is The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance.  And I've also been pondering how much easier life would be if only ignorance could be my most defining characteristic. 

During the years in which I prayed faithfully for cooperative hair, I should have been chanting instead for rampant unawareness and the ability to embrace the art of not knowing.  I should have cultivated the kind of mindset that never once entertained consequences or that focused itself on having consideration for others.

I should have never learned to care about the act of decency.

I should have never wasted the time I could have spent getting tan by trying to analyze my own actions in order to understand where I became complicit in my own pain.  I should have willfully ignored the motivations of the people around me.

RUBBING ONE OUT

RUBBING ONE OUT

I know this is something I desperately need when the tinkling sound from the probably-purchased-at-Pier-1 waterfall makes me want to hurl the thing clear across the room.  

Yes: I get that they're going for a mood – that they're trying to create an experience. So I'll listen patiently as I'm told by a very serene woman to disrobe and I'll pull the way-too-big-for-me robe around my body that's now only clad in boy shorts and I'll stick my feet into the slippers they provide. I'll leave my phone in the locker and I'll lock it with a key and I’ll place the key into the oversize pocket of the oversize robe and then I'll walk through the door that was pointed out to me twice and I'll enter the waiting area.  And I’ll realize immediately that the reason the doorway was pointed out twice was so I didn’t accidentally walk through the other door, the one that leads back to the entrance, because then I’ll be confronted by a cash register and that sight will ruin the Zen that everyone is going for in this scenario.

THE PSYCHO GIRL

THE PSYCHO GIRL

The Cool Girl.  

There’s been a lot written these days about the Cool Girl, the one described so perfectly, so authentically and with such savage grace, in Gone Girl.  In her book, Gillian Flynn fires blaring verbal pyrotechnics that could light up a starless night with orange flames as she lays out the kind of qualities embodied by the Cool Girl:

She will stay skinny while shoving hotdogs down her throat.

She will wax and shave until she looks like a prepubescent girl and she will never once complain that doing so hurts like a motherfucker.

She won’t ask questions you don’t want to answer and she’ll happily give you head while you watch SportsCenter.