Michael J. Nelson - Mike Nelsons Mind Over Matters

Contents

Acknowledgements

Television and How Its Shaped Us...
Into Balls of Dough

A FEW QUICK THANKS
and then we can move on, no worse off, I hope.

To my wife, my thanks and love. My children as well, thank you for staying out of my office when I asked you, for the most part. Though well continue to work on that, okay?

To Peter Cox, my agent, thank you for your hard work, your humor, and for flying to New York in my stead a whole lot, because Im too large to fit in those seats and Im not sophisticated enough to scam first class like you are.

Many and hearty thanks to my editor, Tom Dupree. Without you there to explain me to others, there would be many people still recovering from fright and untold trauma. Thanks to Yung Kim as well.

My thanks to Bob. M., Chris B., and Dave H. Special thanks to Dave O. In fact, why dont I just go ahead and thank everyone named Dave.

DO NOT DISTURB
(IVE GOT THAT COVERED)

F aced with a choice between two doors, behind one of which is a pack of ravenous tigers and Siegfriedand Roy (!)and behind the other a pleasant stay in a hotel room for several days, Id have to say, Bring on the big catsjust please keep those German guys away from me.

My illustration, which started out as a simple device to show my dislike of staying in hotel rooms but ballooned into a complicated and overpunctuated attack on Siegfried and Roy, should not distract from the fact that I dont like to stay in hotel rooms. Not by myself, anyway. And please dont take that to mean that I like spending time in hotel rooms with Siegfried and Roy, because nothing that you could conceive of, ever, could be further from the truth. All right, I could conceive of, I suppose, a room large enough, a suite, with locking doors between all the rooms, where I might be able to spend time with Siegfried and Royunder duress, mind you! And without their opening act. That guys the real troublemaker.

Back to my main point: without the privilege of having my wife and family with me, staying in pleasant hotel rooms is something akin to a sweat-soaked nightmare, a never-ending treadmill of horrors.

It starts the moment you arrive and the person brings your bags up into the room. The door closes behind you both with a vaguely obscene click.

And sir, where may I put your bags? he asks, applying pressure immediately. I dont know the layout of the room at all, having only been in it for three seconds, tops, so I gesture vaguely.

Just put em over there, thatll be fine.

Here, sir? he asks.

Yep, thats fine.

Okay, he says, setting them in the bathtub. And this small one in the sink, sir?

Yes, thats fine. Everything is just fine, as far as Im concerned.

Have you stayed with us before, sir?

Fine. I mean, yes; yes, I have, I say, though I have not.

Then you know about our [something unintelligible].

Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, fine, I say.

Very good, sir. Ive marked you down for a one-hour buttocks massage in the main lobby at noon.

Fine, I say.

The health club is on floor three, the mezzanine is in the main lobby, the pool is out on the deck, the first floor is accessed through the skyway, and of course you have to dial 389283423 to get out of your room in case of a fire. Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?

Fine, I say, and, trying to get rid of him quickly, hand him forty-seven dollars, some loose change, my bike key, and the parking ticket for my car back in Minneapolis.

Thank you, sir.

Fine.

And mercifully, he is gone. Now I am free to nose about the room like a captured ape upon introduction to a new habitat. The first thing to check on is which side of the golden barrier your hotel is on. That is, does it have a minibar? I seldom take advantage of them myself, preferring to comparison-shop for my Mr. Salty Pretzels. Invariably, I can come up with a better price than $8.50 per ounce. But the presence of the mini-bar is a good sign, meaning that the staff is keeping an eye on your room, making periodical checks to see if they can gouge you for cranapple juice or Mrs. Dreisens cheese straws. If there happened to be a skunk in your room, theyd probably catch it on one of those visits.

Since my tendency is to say yes to business offers to fly places and then immediately forget everything that was told me by the offerer, I am somewhat at the mercy of that person. Theyll call me back at some later time to confirm travel arrangements.

Mike, youve got just the one event on Tuesday evening, and its a lot cheaper to get you in there on the previous Wednesday and then stay over through the Saturday a week and a half after that. Hows that sound? theyll ask.

Fine, I say, not listening at all.

And Ive got you staying at the E Terminal Hotel, which is actually in the airport. Youll be staying at Gate 23A. How does that sound?

Great. And this is New Orleans? I manage to ask.

Anchorage.

And Im speaking to Elks? I ask.

Signing books for Cub Scouts.

Okay, well, thanks, John, I offer warmly.

Im Linda.

We havent met. Im Tom, I say politely.

Youre Mike.

Right. See you in Omaha, I say, and sign off.

So always, I have too much time in the destination city, which would not be a problem at all if I werent by myself. Sightseeing, theatergoing, and dining out are not half as fun by oneself. Half as fun would make logical sense, but it turns out to be perhaps one one-hundredth as fun, so I end up taking a walk and nosing around hardware stores (theyre never that crowded). Ill tell myself that theres no shame in eating alone and start looking for a good restaurant. Peering into a window, I see a crowd of happy-looking, nonjudgmental people, laughing, having a great time that is obviously not dependent upon their being with a partner, so I open the door and stride confidently in, knocking over a bus tub. Twenty-five minutes later, when the clattering has subsided and the bus tub juice has been sponged up, the hip-looking hostess pulls me aside and announces, Sir, this is a private party. Im going to have ask you to go back to your hotel room.

So I do.

Ill arrive with good intentions of getting some reading done, but I quickly become a victim of my own shortsightedness. When I pack, I imagine myself, falsely, to be some paragon of good taste; I eschew trashy magazines and forgo the