xmas letter 2006 finka de la stinka

‘2006’
(El Finca del Stinka)

(translated: A farm of great aromas)

(A screenplay with few lines)

(Starring)
Cori Nichols

(And featuring)
Wally Nichols

(with)
Dr. Funk and Nurse Diesel
(And a cast of thousands if you include horses, guinea hens, bales of hay, tractors, ticks, yellow jackets, parasites, amoebas, lawn clippings, a mortgage and ladybugs)

In their collective screen debut…
Act 1: Scene 1:

INT. Bedroom. 4am some dark wintry Dec. morning. Cori, a 30 year old (if you round down to the nearest 30) beautiful blond number, tosses and turns. She surveys the unlit bedroom and watches her breath crystalize into frost . There is no heat and Upstate New York again promises to shake the weaklings to the hard ground this winter. The three males in her life (1 human , 2 canine) crowd the undersized king mattress and shamelessly grope the duvet, sheets and pillows leaving her with only the mattress warning tag to stay warm (which , it says clear as day, she’s not allowed to remove under penalty of law) . All three males are on their backs, interwoven, with their legs and arms extending straight up in the air. The din of snoring is almost unbearable. The air is pungent. There is fogged condensation on the inside of the window and she remembers a different sort of luxury in the courtin’ years. Her lips are blue and it ain’t the lipstick…Indeed, it is probably warmer outside.

Able to neither sleep nor breath fresh air (CLOSE UP: Wally’s mid section, posterior), Cori sits up in bed, grabs a wad of blanket and sturdily yanks. (Imagine a tablecloth under wine glasses and a full royal buffet) The 56 thread count ‘bargains’ Wally found at the Dollar Store back in April hastily return to their rightful owner in the form of a bullwhip. The sheets are coarse enough to grind foot bunions back into compliance and make canvas Home Depot drop-cloths seem an unattainable luxury for their caste. Instinctually Wally swats for them, and unsuccessful, pulls an unwitting, yet warm, bichon by its front legs a little closer.
CORI
(sotto voce)
Hey Blanket Bandito…Are you awake?

Wally lays frozen in fear that any movement might betray his real state of consciousness resulting in his having to get up and feed the wood stove that, despite manufacturer’s guaranty of a 10 hour overnight burn time, self-extinguishes every night in fewer than 3 hours. He knows that if he feigns sleep, he’ll out-stubborn her, which is no easy feat. He thanks his parents for making him a Scorpio. He flatulates to complete and authenticate the Oscar-winner sleep performance . The Bichons (resigned to this nightly occurrence) shift uncomfortably and fall back asleep slightly anesthetized.

CORI
Got to get up and pack. We’re leaving today.

Wally snaps out of bed. It’s true. The couple has decided to shut down the farm, drain the pipes and leave for the warmer climes of Florida until Spring returns to Kerhonkson and melts the 300 feet of snow they will likely get and thus will likely have to plow with a single undersized (yet fun to drive) ATV). At least 10 weeks.

(Director’s note: Many consider Florida to be nothing more than the sanctuary of white-belted retirees, myopic golfers and tight, mesh-shirt wearing, muscle-clad goombas steering their white, flame-licked Trans-Ams towards drive-through Beverage Barns with cans of open beer not so discreetly wedged between their legs. And while it seems true that if you want to be on an episode of Cops here, all you need do is open your front door and sit on the steps, Florida also has art beyond the limitations of television. Look no further than the reception area of any Hooters or Cracker Barrel and you’ll see for yourself. But this couple knows better and will not indulge in mockery at Florida’s expense-- In Florida, simply put, it is warmer. (Even though global warming is doing its best to level the playing field). While also true that the shoes are whiter, the pants ride higher, the politics are keener (Wally still finds occasion to refer to the state as “Flor-a- DUH” after each election cycle, deserving or not), the bottom line is that after a year of hard manual labor, the likes of which one might find at a prison labor camp, the two farmers could use a break. Checking all notions of self-esteem and accomplishment at the door, they are booked to live in a plastic motor home (de rigeur in Florida) on an equine resort (‘resort’ might be a slightly misleading term) and train horses. (CUT AWAY: Wally trying to fit a bridle over a horse’s ass).
Cori’s horse boarding and riding lesson business has been a smashing success (only 3 miles of fencing were smashed this year!) —They have upwards of 14 horses and many concerned friends and family ask after the health and well being of Antonio Blanco Del ‘Piccolito’ Osama Bin ‘Drama’ Llama, the farm’s only camelid, who remains as smug and proud (and alive) as ever.
Wally’s efforts as a home developer (ummmm, the good kind so hold your rotten egg bombs and protest marches) have resulted in 1 almost finished house (of 4 ) and a dark look up the pleated skirt of throttling regulation, bureaucracy, fines, overcharges and damn near imprisonment. Other than that, it’s really going well!
In Florida, it is worth noting, Cori wont have any one of a dozen youngster students shadowing her as they do here on the farm. They all want to grow up and be like her minus the husband. Nor will she have the benefit of her father’s worldy advice and love as he passed this spring at 89. If there is a place ‘beyond’ for in-laws, Wally’s mother is now grilling Roger with questions on gardening while he is too polite to mention that he’d really prefer a few minutes with Abe Lincoln and Socrates before heavenly Bingo.
This past year Wally turned 40. The very act was as much a surprise to him as the party Cori threw. More like a roast. From far below the stack of bales upon which he lorded, in a friggin’ frigid barn with no indoor plumbing, dear (??) friends and family articulated the roastee’s foibles, frailties, connivery and shortcomings in a loving (and beautifully catered) way. One of the cheap’n’ easy targets was music, which some noted (ahem, pardon), has taken Wally in a new and exciting direction, to wit, the genre of Country. Yep. Living in the country has a way making one live for the country, if you get the drift. Country living has a way of breaking down the human innate survivalist aversion to country music with which we’re all mercifully born. But it grew on him like it’ll grow on you. So new music hot off the hard drive has been birthed in 2006 and the process promises to continue into 2007 and beyond (and then beyond that) until he is backed into the single remaining refuge of musical opportunity: Evangelical Christian Rock (which he threatens to learn about, and master, if forced). If you want to hear stuff before that however, send up a smoke signal and your i-stocking will be electronically stuffed.

WIDE SHOT: on idling pick-up truck/ trailer combo, loaded with 3 horses, 2 bikes, 2 bichons, rollerblades, computers, clothes, food, rent money, a AAA membership, dental floss, a frayed (and ultimately ignored) bumper sticker peddling a sun-bleached, discontinued Kerry/ Edwards promise, a CB radio, Rolaids, an outdated map of Tuscany (you never know!) and a used banner they picked up from someone in the DC area for $2 on Ebay saying “Mission Accomplished.”

The rig starts down the long rutted driveway slowly, squatting low on its burdened suspension like a pregnant Sumo wrestler and pitching dangerously in the gullies that shred the unsuspecting undercarriages of Mormon Church missionaries. The driveway has a perfectly ignored feel to it, one we do not want the people in Set Design to fix with their shovels, no matter how much they beg.

CLOSE UP: On Cori (driving) and Wally in a slap fight with the bichons for control of the front seat. There are big pre-trip smiles all around until Cori suddenly scrunches her nose, scowls, swats Wally and cracks the driver’s side window. Wally shrugs his shoulders defensively and points at the closest small dog.

CAMERA: follows the rig down the driveway, framed symmetrically under the majestic ‘Gunks’ mountain range towards which they drive, through the farm gates. It’s 4 am- the witching hour for diesel dogs and asphalt cowboys. 2006 and a patient farm loom large in the rear view mirror.

CUE: philharmonic-style string orchestration. If you’re gonna get misty this is the time, folks. Roll credits

BUT WAIT!!!

No sooner are they through the symbolic gates than they are pulled over by a state trooper and ticketed for being grossly overloaded.

The End

(If you would like to be an extra in this film, we’re reviewing resumes. Please mail headshots to : cwn4@aol.com and enclose $25 for processing. To get a tour of the set, and meet the stars, please consider a visit any time during what we hope is a very fine and healthy 2007).

Love,

the entire cast(e)