Matt Nelson, the Writer - Nelson's Notes

If it hadn't been for Laura Ingalls Wilder, I may have never gotten a Macbook Pro.

Tue, 31 Aug 2010 20:57:49 -0800

'You called me beautiful once...' 'Babe, you got real ugly.' -Evil Dead, the Musical

Two weeks ago, my Macbook had reached its limit. My baby had a cracked screen, a 20-minute battery life and a six-month expired warranty. Sorry hon. It was a good three years, but this relationship is over.

There was much to do before the new computer, a drop-dead sexy, aluminum-bodied backlit keyboard Macbook PRO 13-inch, could be purchased. I first had to finish my last 8-day shift at the bottom of the Soudan Mine, which involved repeated appearances of bats. But of course I've already told you about those.

I needed a little extra money if I wanted to bring this babe of busty bytes home with me. This involved me picking up a week-long internship with the Hibbing Daily Tribune, a publication I've worked for off-and-on since 2007. My assignment: Interview a local 11-year-old who won the nation's most recent Laura Ingalls Wilder look-alike contest.

Hannah Kivela (right) poses with the Nellie look alike. So. Damn. Cute. (From the New Century Press)

We discussed what it was like to dress up in 1800s attire, meet cast members of "Little House on the Prairie" and crush the spirits of 34 other pioneer girl wannabees. She even brought her prize: a bonnet and an adorable little doll modeled after Laura's real one. She also won a bucket; I assumed it was for all the people who the whole thing so damn cute they couldn't help but vomit.

Because of Little Miss Wilder, I now had enough money to purchase my chrome concubine. I rejoiced, and then the Financial Aid Crisis of 2010 reared its ugly head. Apparently, I hadn't circled somethingorother on someoranother financial aid sheet and hadn't accepted my Presidential Scholarship. AS IF I WOULDN'T ACCEPT IT. I mean, come on. They should know these things by now.

In a panic, I went to the only person who could help: my mother. We met at the Bach Yen, the fanciest Chinese restaurant in Hibbing (meaning the only one that has a menu). We nommed and nailed that paperwork in time for the fortune cookies. And what a fortune! "A stranger will compliment you on Friday." Sweet!

The week passed while I packed for college and dreamed about my Macintosh mistress. I said goodbyes, SOW-na'd every chance I got and fought with DMV ladies. I only had one thing left to do: work a final shift at the soup kitchen.

I've helped out at the soup kitchen off and on for a little less than a decade. You see a lot of repeat visitors; there was this little lady I always saw. She always carefully arranged her dishes before giving them to us, because no one else did, she said.

Afterward, it was time to clean up. My usual job involved taking out the trash, a risky and potentially messy ordeal. The job involves bringing the bag outside, where you tie it on a loading dock. Then, with careful aim, you toss the bag of garbage into a dumpster.

I lined up my shot and took it — success! It must have been really good, because I suddenly heard from my left a familiar thin voice, "Good job!"

I looked over, and there she was, the little lady who had probably been in and out of this place every day since I was in grade school. She was dumpster diving. She smiled at me.

My fortune had come true.

The next day I found myself outside the Apple Store in the Mall of America, holding my computer. It was as gorgeous as I had imagined — but I hardly paid any attention to it.

I stood in the Mall for a while, looking over the former Camp Snoopy. There were all these parents with their kids. There were all these crying babies and all these texting teens.

I couldn't help thinking about their futures. About all their college educations. About all their families and all the Christmas dinners. I couldn't stop thinking about my future, and all the doors this little machine in my arms was going to open for me.

There was another future I tried not to think about, one that involved green and yellow-chipped paint and black bags. I thought about it anyway. These images stood in stark contrast in my mind, as sharp as black against white, and they did something to me that I have a hard time explaining.

For some people, it's about the fortune. For others, it's about the cookie.

I've seen that movie. I don't make it.

Fri, 20 Aug 2010 12:17:52 -0800

Creepy hallway #1: Photo by Jeff Gunderson

Thursday, early August. 9 p.m.
The first thing I see when I enter the Parkside Homes is a note scotch taped to the banister of the ancient staircase.It reads:

"MATT. You're the only one here tonight. I'll try to get weekend renters. MARION."

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

Let me remind you that the 100-year old Parkside Homes began its life as a hospital, complete with a maternity ward (a creepy pink room with a crib awkwardly placed in a closet) and and operating chamber. Some of the construction workers in Tower, who have lived in the Parkside numerous times while working nearby, said they heard a woman scream violently on two occasions and never found the source. Were they hearing a woman's final few seconds of life during childbirth? An operation gone horribly awry?

But the history of the Parkside gets even more colorful. When the hospital ceased operation, it was transformed into an assisted living facility for mental care patients. Or, as Ken so delicately puts it, a nuthouse.

Speaking of Ken, I found a second note upon entering my room that informed me that he was now the former manager of the Parkside, without explaining in the slightest why he was removed.

To summarize: I'm forced to spend a weekend alone in a century-old haunted mental hospital while the former manager is somewhere out there with a potential axe to grind on my face.

I sprang into action, quickly updating my facebook status.

People began to issue tearful goodbyes.

Where ghosts are concerned, I have plenty of experience. Last year, I went hunting with a legit group of ghosthunters in Hibbing. I've also seen Paranormal Activity. This pretty much makes me a pro. Basically, all you gotta do is not piss the ghosts off.

You should also turn on lights. It's a well established fact that ghosts only get frisky after hours. I kept the hall light, the one next to the creepy attic door, fully lit.

I decided to phone a friend, because almost no one in horror movies is killed while on the phone. The conversation was going fine... until it became very apparent that I wasn't alone in the Parkside.

Me: Hey bud, how's it going?
Buddy: Aight, I'm just hanging and—
Me: THERE IS A BAT IN HERE.

It swooped down, actually grazing the top of my head with its mandibles while I dived down and recouped, attempting to find a broom to chase or kill it with. It disappeared, something that was also reflected in my facebook.

Around 11, I stumbled on the perfect way to survive a night in a haunted mental hospital: watch Elf. I lived. End of post. Go check your twitter or something.

Creepy attic door right outside my room: Photo by Jeff Gunderson

Who doesn't freelance and watch Youtube videos?

Sun, 25 Jul 2010 19:46:46 -0800

I'm in the middle of working hard on my FIRST FREELANCE ARTICLE EVER. There is some pressure associated with this, as I've never written for this paper before and it could (cross my fingers hope to die stick a needle in my eye) potentially lead to more stories. So of course I'm wasting way too much time. I happened to come across this video, and it made my night.

In high school, I didn't just live in my locker — I talked to it, too. - Pt. 2

Sat, 24 Jul 2010 08:55:16 -0800

9. " What's in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet."
- Shakespeare
To keep track of the multitudes of Speechians, hosting high schools will assign each student a code. These numbers are carefully arranged in rows on pieces of paper underneath other numbers that correspond to the room of competition. At the start of the meet, students are assigned a number (usually by a beleaguered coach who got up waaaaay too early for this) and pick up their corresponding form, then go about their day.

After three rounds of knuckle-biting competition,final rounds were the shiznit, especially at the big meets. It was amazing to see your name up on the board — that was the only time they ever really gave you a name in speech. A member of the Hibbing team became enthralled when he saw his name on the finals board — J. Anderson — for the Humorous category at Denfeld, one of the largest meets. Because hardly anyone had made it into the finals (yours truly included — I wasn't always the charming, witty and charismatic individual I am now) a sizable chunk of the team decided to go watch J. compete.

The first few speakers were excellent. We began to get eager to see J., knowing that there was no way he couldn't get up their and annihilate the competition. Finally, the judge called it out —

"J. Anderson."

— and the team burst into wildly enthusiastic applause as J. proudly walked up the left aisle, strutting confidently to his battlefield, where he nearly ran face-first into a much more attractive brunette, who had simultaneously walked up the right side of the room while her team clapped and cheered.

The applause died in mid-clap, the room froze with tension. J. Anderson and the wench stared at each other, mouths open, like an unexpected and awkward meeting between Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt.

The girl — Joelle Anderson — broke the silence, tipping her head toward the judge. "What code?" she meekly asked.

The judge looked down, and read it off — alas, our J. Anderson turned and came back the way he had walked, with his head high. Finally, with a smile, Hibbing's J. Anderson began a slow clap, which exploded into a cacophonous eruption of applause and laughter, the entire room joining in the moment.

Speech is just like real life in the sense that you have to get used to the idea of people constantly judging you on how you look, how you act and what you say. And, like real life, it always pays to look beyond a name.

In high school, I didn't just live in my locker. I talked to it, too.

Fri, 23 Jul 2010 18:59:02 -0800

The HHS Speech Team, circa 2006

Man, I was such a dork in high school.

For five years of my life, I gave up every Saturday between February and April to board a schoolbus at the crack of dawn, a vehicle that was usually UN-heated and driven by a maniac who hit every damn pothole in the road. By the time we arrived, we were usually strung out on coffee and hoping to God that SOMEBODY had black paper. We went into the school wrinkled, bleary-eyed and smelling faintly of bus; two hours later, we were the best looking kids in the school, complete with sharp suits, crisp blouses and the cool face of competition. It was Speech, and it was wonderful.

The sad news of the past week has brought up some memories — some of them good, some of them bad, and some of them great. I thought I'd spend the next few days detailing the ten speech memories that stand out the highest in my mind. In the tradition of speech, each segment is introduced with a quote from something someone said, or that has particular relevancy to a moment.

*Note, don't worry if you have no idea what the hell Speech is — the posts are structured so you can learn about the event while laughing your ass off. How great is that?

10. "Did you know Bing Crosby BEAT his kids?!"
- Tony S.
During my freshman year, a good portion of us Speechians would usually carpool a few blocks through town to Tony's house. Going to Tony's was a big investment of your time. Tony's family, you see, are masters of the Minnesota Goodbye. You arrived, were hugged and asked at length about the details of your life. At some point you were fed, whether you wanted to be fed or not. You usually intended to go home before it got too late, but you inevitably ended up curled on a couch or a floor, talking in a sleepy delirium to the people in the room.

Eventually, someone fell asleep. That was when the Minnesota Nice ended.

We would quickly retrieve, from wherever it had crawled away into the basement, a singing Christmas doll we had dubbed "Bing." Google Images can't capture how unsettling this doll actually was. We would approach the sleeping victim, set the doll close... and press the button.

Bing rarely got farther than a sentence; the person would suddenly and violently punt the doll across the room while the rest of us would laugh, give each other shit and laugh some more. When we finally left the next day, usually around 3 p.m., after having breakfast, lunch and occasionally attending church together, we felt satisfied. You might have been giving up your weekends to speech, but I never felt like it was a waste of time.

Tomorrow: A team member has an identity crisis, resulting in hilarity for all.

Just a few more words

Wed, 21 Jul 2010 21:08:09 -0800

Back in the day, I ruled the Hibbing High School Speech Team with an iron fist. Speech was a tough commitment. You had to get up really early every Saturday in the winter and ride off to some mysterious Iron Range High School for competition.

Mostly, though, it was a fun job. You were with the same group of people every week, facing the same gut-churning, nerve-inducing challenges. I did speech for five years. You got close, ya know?

This post isn't very humorous — it's hard to be funny right now. One of those people died today.

I hadn't kept in touch with Whitney after graduating. I regret that. I saw her every weekend, at least a few times a week in team meetings and practices. She and I talked over her critiques and her concerns with her piece.

I don't know. I hate when people blog about people that died when they didn't really know them. So I'm not going to say much about Whitney, other than to pay my respects, just a few words toward a fellow Speechian. When Whitney and I hung out, she was a wonderful person with a cheerful spirit and always an upbeat attitude, fun to be around. She will be missed.

I just want to tell the people that are grieving — take it easy on yourselves. I've been in that position more than a few times, it doesn't get easier, and grief has a way of haunting you if you get over it too quickly. It's okay to hurt.

My prayers go out to the family. Rest in peace, Whitney.

Sure, I'm terrified of wood chippers — aren't you?

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 10:20:25 -0800

Let's face it, sometimes it sucks Babe the Blue Ox balls to live in Northern Minnesota. The winters are cold, lutefisk is disgusting, and you're forever mocked by people whose only experience with the better state half involves films with class-action law suits and wood chippers.

The summers, however, make it worthwhile. This past week, I ran a 4-mile loop with Forest Gump-esque scenery, sow-gnawed, cliff jumped and stared deeply into the depths of a bonfire. All at temperatures between 65 and 80 degrees.

What I really like, however, is the small town-like feel you get up here. You Twin Cities people might have six degrees of separation — we have three. For example, my coworker's husband's ex-wife was my bus driver from fifth through twelfth grade, and I knew about her daughter's FACEBOOKOFFICIAL relationship six months before she did. Ock-word.

The Parkside in Soudan

At Parkside Homes, the place where I'm living this summer, everyone knows everybody. The manager of the Parkside, Ken, is the former mayor of West St. Paul / an ex-con. If I can ever pen up a character as wily as him, I'd probably sell a million books. He's got his hands in a dozen different projects, from gold-panning, to hockey sticks made from recycled cardboard.

Last week, the Parkside had an unexpected visitor — an 80-year old man named Edmund. Somehow, Edmund convinced the nurses of his nursing home to let him make a trip up to Canada. He borrowed a trailer, filled it with everything he owned and set off from the Wisconsin Dells.

It wasn't meant to be. Outside of Tower, his trailer fishtailed and he overcorrected, "cracking the whip," as Ken put it, and sending the trailer and car into the other lane, where a car slammed into him.

When the police determined Edmund was okay, they called Ken because they knew he had rooms open. The trailer and truck were smashed up, but Edmund wasn't too bad. Ken brought him back and bandaged him up without a thought. He also started making conversation with him.

Turns out, Edmund had eight months to live. All he had to his name was that trailerful of possessions. I doubt he ever intended to return. He'd wanted to fish the lakes of his youth, re-explore the trails.

During the conversation, he began to shake: diabetes. Ken scavenged the Parkside and fed him jam and a candy bar. Around ten, he finally put Edmund to bed, telling him to get some rest.

The Nurse arrived around 2 in the morning, having driven all the way up from the Dells. Edmund was woken and brought to where what was left of his things were. He became picky, explaining that he must bring this, he couldn't leave that. Finally, the Nurse said

"Edmund. It's time to go."

They loaded up and made the whole drive back to Wisconsin. And that was that.

Ken told me the whole story over a cup of coffee the next day, in a serious tone.

In my own way, I guess I was rooting for Edmund. I was deeply moved by his story. There's always something you intend to do In The Future. Maybe it's a place you've never been. Maybe it's a part of your past you want to reconnect with if only to understand why it was so wonderful at the time. But if your intentions always stay In The Future, you'll tend to run out of time.

Eventually, you'll look at all the things you've accumulated, wondering which one matters the most. Then, like Edmund, there will be a hand on your shoulder, and a voice: "It's time to go." It isn't something you can argue with.

Near Bass Lake

I don't know where I'm going to be in 50 years, but I wonder if I'll dream about that beautiful trail around the lake, or leaping and screaming off a blood red cliff as I crash into the clear waters of a mine pit.

Most of all, I think I'll remember the people. You get to know them pretty well up here. They've got a tendency to be loud, neurotic and generally nosy, but if your trailer flips over, they'll be there for you, ya betcha.

Landscapes change; character endures.

Excuse me, what was that?

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 16:16:55 -0800

Summer Job of Awesome is over for six days. Thank God. You know those commercials where the fat little green slimeballs of mucus are playing pool in someone's nose? Yeah, well, they've been in my head for the past week for some Brobdingnagian booger convention, where they enjoy bubbling up and down my sinus cavities every time I take that 2,341 foot journey into the Underground Lair and forcing me to give a tour with crappy hearing. You know how embarrassing it is to be 20 years old and having to ask people to repeat their questions four times before you can answer them? VERY. I'm starting to wish my parents had taught me sign language when I was a baby, "Meet the Fockers" style.

Everything, for the most part, is going well. Last week, I had a Physics Ph.Douche. He wanted to ask many questions, such as:

P.h.Douche: So is the neutrino interaction based on (Insert LONG and INTENSE and COMPLICATED scientific reasoning into this space that you can't hear because of the fact he speaks in a quiet voice and your eardrums are attempting to implode) ?

Me: Yes.

P.h.Douche: So then the (yet another collection of BIG SCIENTIFIC WORDS I DON'T KNOW) is caused by the (more words, every other which I can hear and every other other I actually know the definition of) ?

Me: Yes. Yes it is.

P.h.Douche: Excellent. I can clearly see you know exactly what you are talking about.

Actually, he was pretty cool. After the tour, some girls aged high school and middle school started asking me some surprisingly in-depth questions on anti-matter. Physics. P.h.Douche was nearby, and I took the chance to pull him into the conversation, which he seemed to really enjoy. We were an odd little group, talking about the mysteries of the universe in the tiny gift shop while other tourists awkwardly sidled around us, but it was, well, fun. There's something very cool about being able to talk in a group of wildly different people about a subject that no one fully understands; the kids kept pushing us, the old man and I kept bouncing off each other. Afterwards, he told me that I had done an exceptional job making the subject material relatable for visitors. At least I think that's what he said. My ears were still pretty effed up.

It was incredibly, I don't know, satisfying. Kind of affirms what I'm hoping to do in life.

Physics joke of the day:

Your head is so thick a neutrino would have a 0.5 percent chance of hitting it today.

BURN.

I would be screwed in the event of a zombie apocalypse

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 16:36:09 -0800

A dated photo of my workplace, located a half-mile underground

(Facebook friend): OMG Matt Nelson! How are you??!! What are you doing this summer?? Lolololol

Me: Nice to hear from you! I'm actually working a half-mile underground in a cutting-edge physics lab located at the bottom of a century-old iron ore mine where I'm trying to teach bored tourists about a mysterious little particle called a neutrino as well as dark matter. What are you up to?

(Facebook friend): omfg whATT?!

I've had this conversation at least five times since the start of the summer, regarding Awesome Summer Job.

I had applied for Awesome Summer Job in April, but I never expected to get it. Then I got the phone call while I was literally on my way to take my Modern Physics final.

Future Boss: Congrats Matt! We want to hire you to work in the Soudan Underground Mine! We're going to pay you well, give you free housing, and incredibly flexible schedule and a chance to flex your physics teaching muscles while working with bonafide high school physics teachers.

Me: (trying to speak while drooling out my mouth and simultaneously jizzing in my pants) THAT'S SO #$@%!!#% AWESOME! But my final is in ten minutes canicallyoubackplz?!

The lateness of the summer job threw my summer plans completely out the window. I had been intending to take a morning class from the U in Duluth that I could no longer take. I had to drop out of that while at the same time begging and pleading professors back at Drake to let me into their equivalent classes in the fall.

My workplace sort of resembles the lair of a demented Bond villain. Located 2,341 feet underground, it can only be reached by taking a cage down a small mine shaft. On one side, mine tunnels extend a mile into the surrounding rock, which visitors can travel on a historic tour. On the other side is my occupational space, where a 6,000 contraption of steel and plastic carefully monitors a pivotal particle that humanity knows almost nothing about. Every time I walk in there, the little kid in me goes apeshit at the sight of miles of cords, blinking lights and terribly complicated monitoring boxes. I get giddy when I go in there.

My job is chiefly physics outreach. The Soudan Underground Mine has been home to physics experiments for 30 years, but only the most recent one has been open to the public for tours. I bring visitors down the cage, into the lab and explain to them that they are being shot by millions of particles smaller than atoms every second by a beam from Fermilab in Illinois. Did your eyes glaze over when you read that? My tourists' eyes do too.

I'll also be doing some design/writing work hopefully soon — wait, what?! You mean I'm going to be combining physics and journalism, two of the areas I've had extensive training in? THAT'S EVEN POSSIBLE?

Starting to see what this Summer Job is full of Awesome?

It's harder work than you'd think. I haven't nailed it all down yet, and I live in terrible fear of of the Physics P.h. Douche from MIT who will inevitably appear on my tour and stump the hell out of me. Still, I'm teaching, I'm learning, I'm thinking about a subject I'm fascinated with.

The only real concern I have is if the Zombie Apocalypse breaks out while I'm underground. You might think the seemingly inaccessible location of the mine would be a plus... but you're wrong. Assuming Z.A. occurred within a short span of time, it would be impossible to stock the caverns with enough canned food to last until the infestation was overcome. We would have to resort to either cannibalism or bats. Ugh.

Also, the only way in or out of the mine is the mine shaft, and if the hoistman is bitten or scratched by an enraged zombie tourist, we'd be stuck down there; the only way up is a ladder that goes up the entire 2,341 feet, hitting 50 or so other platforms as it does so. Zombies would almost CERTAINLY be attracted by our zesty human flesh and throw themselves down the shaft, meaning we would have to fight off a Scad of them at every platform. Unless we could use our physics skills to invent some kind of super Zombie Zapper, we'd never see the sun again.

...but other than that, it's great!

Love is cheesy. Literally.

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 10:13:41 -0800

I had to spend about twenty minutes with a weed whacker on this blog before I could write to get rid of all those ugly dandelions that sprang up since the last time I posted. I mean day-um, it's been a while! Summer is in full swing, complete with mine pits, mosquitoes and killer tornados. I landed the Summer Job of Awesome and am taking an online course from Duluth that's supposed to be teaching me how not to be racist.

I could talk about all these things, but instead, I'm going to discuss love today (*cue the Isaac Hayes*). My parents recently celebrated their 34th homicide-free year of marriage.

I don't know how they're still together. My mom is an attorney and my dad is a lumberjack, for crying out loud. She's logical, practical and always earthbound. He's creative, emotional and an endless generator of bad puns. He teared up when I went to college and told me I was at the start of my greatest adventure; my mom shoved me out the door and threatened to drive down and rip me a new one if I hadn't vacuumed my bedroom floor so she could use it.

When they married, she was a non-practicing Baptist who I suspect was a lot more feminist than she now says she was. He was from a family of Catholics baptized almost as soon as they popped out of the womb.

They met on the first day of college and were married the day after, so it would be easier for their families to attend both ceremonies. That was in 1976. I once asked my mom why they waited until 1989 to have me, and she told me she didn't know if the marriage was going to last. My mom, a regular Nostradamus, that one.

My parents did some other things that don't make sense. They traveled to California shortly after they were married, intending to shirk the Minnesota winters forever. They got to the Golden Gate bridge and inexplicably turned around and came back, without ever really explaining why. Until I was 15, I thought they named me after St. Matthew; it turns out they really, really liked Gunsmoke. I'm not kidding.

Initially, they celebrated their anniversary with more expensive gifts, I imagine, but as the years went by that habit somehow faded to my dad picking up flowers from Walmart on his way home from work, or ordering a Choppy's pizza. This past week, my mom only gave my dad a card depicting a truck sitting in the top of a tree. Inside, she had only written, "Why?"

My dad planned on getting his normal Walmart flowers gift, but the flowers were wilted this year. Goddamn economy. He had to improvise, buying her a card with two frogs on it, with a message inside saying, "I'll love you till I croak." His other gift? A gigantic bucket of cheese balls. Yes, the cheeto-like, cholesterol inducing orange spheres.

My mom showed me the gift later that rather — rather, showed off the gift. Upon delivery, my dad apparently said, "I figured, 'What do you get the woman who has everything?' Cheese balls."

These cheese balls are off limits to me. I've already been accused once of pilfering from her stock. They frequently discuss the exact specifications of the cheese balls, such as how much cheesy dust would be left over if you ground it all down (I'm guessing half an inch, although the debate rages on) and how much random crap the plastic container will hold once the sweet supply has been swallowed. She enjoys sitting in the chair, he on the couch, while they both watch the Twins (not the World Cup; she's always hated soccer, she revealed to me this week. Only sport I ever played, thanks mom).

Somehow, it's all good.

How? I have no idea. I just hope that someday I find a love that's just as perfect as it is bizarre.

Mom and dad, happy anniversary.