Nuts

I have a toxic relationship with pistachios. They are probably my favorite nut, and I find their taste to be most exquisite. I could eat those little purplish/green jewels for hours. But I also have some major problems with pistachios. First of all, they are very expensive. There are no dreary off-brand tins of pistachios like there are of other nuts. One must pay a relatively high price for this food product. Apparently Iran is the world’s largest producer of pistachios, and I think they are gouging the market. This infuriates me much more than their nuclear enrichment program. I don’t eat uranium. Maybe 'Bamer, (my term of endearment for the President, pronounced “bomber.”) should make me the ambassador to Iran. Perhaps I could find common ground with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Mahmy, (my term of endearment for Ahmadinejad, pronounced “mommy”) can deny the Holocaust, but he can’t deny that pistachios are tasty treats.

There is also another major problem with these nuts; they are very hard to eat. One must expend a great amount of effort to free the nut from the shell. Sometimes I will pry with all my might, and be unsuccessful in opening one. Other times I hurt my fingernails trying to dig in there and get them out. After a time, the effort involved seems to outweigh the benefit of the tiny nugget of food I get in return. Primitive Brian would have hampered the evolution of early hominids. They thrived on getting the maximum energy output from the minimal effort in regards to food. While the other proto-humans were eating bananas at their leisure, I would be sweating and straining for one pistachio. I never give up on a piece. If I have to smash it with a hammer, by God, I will have my nut! Sometimes there are shells with no meat inside. I will not talk about that circumstance, for it adversely affects my blood pressure.

Another problem with eating pistachios is having to find a receptacle for the empty shell pieces. Sometimes I just grab a handful and take them somewhere else to eat them. I sit down to relax and eat, only to find that I’ve brought nothing to put the empties in. After a long hard day all I want to do is enjoy a snack and perhaps a snifter of alcohol. To suddenly find that I’ve nowhere to put the unusable portions of my food is a nightmare. Sometimes I will simply place them on a table or counter, with the intention of throwing them away later. Inevitably I forget to do this. The next morning I will find the empty husks littered across the table like bones on a forgotten battlefield. My first response is to curse, and my second response is to have a craving for more pistachios. And then the tedious cycle repeats itself. These are some of the reasons why I both love, and hate, pistachios.

I mentioned bananas earlier. I don’t wish to convey the message that I don’t like bananas, far from it. I also have a toxic relationship with them. I like the taste of bananas, but prefer them to be slightly pre-ripe. I like the firm texture as opposed to the mushy texture of ripe ones. But I have a problem. Bananas are perhaps the most phallic of all foods. Eating a banana invariably seems like culinary fellatio. It is impossible, at least in my mind, to avoid the connection. Now, be it known that I am no Freudian. I am also in no way homophobic. In fact, I have been accused by many of being too comfortable with my latent homosexuality. But when I eat a banana first thing in the morning, this is the last thing I want to think about. I can usually make it through ¾ of a banana before I gag and have to throw the rest away. Such a disability stems more from a terrible gag reflex than anything else. This can only be avoided by cutting up the banana into small pieces like a child. Potassium is good for you. Bananas are good. I frequently enjoy them with peanut butter. I also have a toxic relationship with peanut butter.

I love peanut butter. I much prefer eating it to regular butter. I don’t like peanuts, but I like their butter. There is only one problem I have with peanut butter; I don’t like to eat it by itself. I can only eat it on, or with something. I feel really bad about this. I love peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and honey, peanut butter on pancakes and waffles, peanut butter and apples, and peanut butter and bananas. But I can’t eat it raw. I see other P.B. aficionados like my Mother, Sister, and Wife, eating it raw and I feel bad. It makes me feel like less of a “real” peanut butter fan. If I were a “true believer” I could eat it by itself. It gives me shame in the face of others who go all the way. Not eating peanut butter seems like an affront to George Washington Carver. I don’t want to spit in the face of one of the great African-American innovators. Its overkill, I know. Also, raw peanut butter scares me because I feel like it constricts my throat, and if I don’t drink milk immediately, I might die. It still makes me sad though.

Its like Woody Allen said, “I can’t listen to too much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland.”

Summers in the Catskills and Battles in Space

"Well, as an old military commander once said, 'sometimes you've got to roll a hard six," said Brian to someone who was seeking advice.

"It wasn't an old military commander. It was a fictional character from Battlestar Galactica," interrupted Shawna, ruining my conversation.

"Commander Adama was in the military Shawna! Who do you think commanded the last battlestar after the destruction of the colonies? Patton?" I replied. But it was too late, the rich advice I was passing along from the grizzled old space dog fell on deaf ears. Just because he wasn't "real."

On another occasion I was speaking to someone who had recently traveled to Ireland.

"My mother's family comes from there, the McCartys. They came over during the potato famine."

"Really? What part of Ireland were they from?"

"Ballykissangel. It's Gaelic for 'Valley of the Fallen Angel.' It's near Kildargen, north of Dublin. I used to go there in the Summers. There was the pub, Fitzgerald's, operated by Assumpta Fitzgerald, the shop run by Kathleen, the garage owned by Padraig, and of course the young English priest Father Peter Clifford. It's a beautiful area, and it's so tragic what happened to Father Clifford."

"O dear, what happened to him?"

"Well, he fell in love with Assumpta, but was torn between his duties as a priest and this passion. When they finally decided to be together she was electrocuted under her pub and died. Damn shame."

At this point Shawna once again came to the 'rescue' of the person I was talking to.

"Brandon has never been to Ireland. Ballykissangel was an Irish TV show, and all of those characters are made up. There was no tragic affair between a priest and a publican, and no one rally died. They were ACTORS," she revealed. Only her long experience teaching first-graders equips her to deal with me. I expect her to be canonized one day for her travails.

"Their love was real to me," was all I could muster, reflecting on the painful memories.

These are but two of many instances that have led to two serious accusations against my person. One, that I am a pathological liar. Two, that I don't know the difference between reality and fantasy. Both of these are blatantly untrue.

First of all, I am not a 'pathological' liar; I am a 'recreational' liar. My lies are not used for nefarious purposes, but to entertain, or illustrate a point. It is rather like the parables of Jesus, which weren't necessarily literally true stories, but they helped the common man understand what he was trying to say. Not that I'm comparing myself to Jesus; we may have similar beards, but he had six pack abs and performed miracles. If I could turn water into wine, I would lack nothing in life.

Secondly, it's not that I don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, it's that I find the difference negligible. So I haven't ever met William Adama or Peter Clifford. But I've never met Richard Nixon or Julius Caesar either. All we have of them now are stories. They have no greater reality than fictional characters that exist on TV and in books. Oh, sure people have 'met' them or 'seen them in person,' but everyone knows that eyewitness testimony is notoriously flawed. I tend to agree with Graham Greene, in his book Travels With My Aunt, when he is reflecting on the death of his relative called Joe Pulling:
"What did the truth matter? All characters, once dead, if they continue to exist in memory at all, tend to become fictions. Hamlet is no less real now than Winston Churchill, and Joe Pulling no less historical than Don Quixote."

Thus, I will continue to live in this fashion for the foreseeable future. At least until my family has me committed. I recently purchased a Kellerman's staff shirt and decided that I was going to take a summer job at the resort. Only one who studies with Johnny Castle can truly master the art of dance. In an online class recently I spoke of a notorious university test known as the Kobayashi Maru, which tested how students responded to a "no-win scenario." I did not add that the university in question was Starfleet Academy, which won't be established until 2161. When I met someone who happened to be a molecular biologist I told them that I'd interned at International Genetic Technologies, Inc., or InGen. I did not add that this was the corporation founded by John Hammond in Jurassic Park.

Sometimes I am purposely lying for pleasure, but the funny thing is, sometimes these things are real to me. The human mind is a very strange thing indeed. If I become emotionally or intellectually attached to a fictional character, they become real. They are not tangible, provable beings, but they have an existence all their own in my head. In fact, sometimes I can relate to them more than I can actual people in my life. If I'm honest, its probably because there is an impenetrable barrier between us, while with real people, there is no buffer. If this makes me an eccentric, so be it. I would rather be mad than mundane.