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Pimp yourself. You know you want to.

We bought a Sony eBook reader today. Yes, it’s pricy, and yes, it won’t wipe my virtual butt for me the way an HP iPAQ would, but I like the clean look of the page. And besides, we never use our frequent flier miles, so this seemed as good a use for our miles as any.

Below the fold: Pimp your eBook, guest blog at Balls and Walnuts, and more!

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What is the world coming to? *updated*

I don’t know how Blue Gal does it . . . how she tolerates wading through right wing blogs for Grade A tripe like this (emphasis mine):

There is a new chapter in the story of Yale’s continuing descent into the depths of moral degradation. Two days ago, Jonathan Holloway, the master of Calhoun College at Yale, sent out the following note:

“OK, well THIS is the most awkward college-wide e-mail I’ve ever had to send….

“The college showers are to be used by individuals for hygenic [sic] purposes only. They are not to be used by couples engaged in intimate activity–especially that kind of activity that leaves the showers in a decidedly less hygenic [sic] state.

“Several times since the start of the spring term some Hounies have come across a couple having the time of their lives in a shower stall. Last night the shower flooded and the bathroom could not be used for over 90 minutes. To the as yet unidentified couple, this may be pleasureable [sic] and exciting for you but it is a violation of community standards. Please stop.

“I really don’t want to explore this matter any further as I respect your individual privacy. But such continued brazen public displays of affection will only invite public embarrassment. I beg of you, let’s not go there.”

I can first of all confirm that this is a real memo, not a prank. It is not merely unfortunate but pathetic and disgusting that the Master needed to send such a note to us. I certainly wish that Master Holloway had not had to involve himself, but in the moral vacuum that has been created by Yale intellectuals, students seem to be left without even the most basic guidelines for proper and decent behavior.

Where to begin. The author, Dan Gelernter, strikes me as one of those Angry Virgins: I’m not getting any, but that’s okay because SEX OUTSIDE OF MARRIAGE IS EEEEVIL and all those people engaging in intimate congress in the showers are going to burn in H-E-Double-Toothpicks! But that’s an ad hominem argument based on little evidence other than Dan’s tone, his hyperbole (descent into the depths, yata yata), and his uber-fussy paranoia that we not think him capable of spelling errors — hygenic (sic)!

I think it’s fair to ask what sort of person feels the need to post this Puritanical bile-dripping screed. Any sane college student should be pissing his pants over the Administration’s plans for the Middle East. If he wants to vent his moral outrage, he would have ample material in what we as a nation have wrought with respect to Iraq, Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib, extraordinary rendition, the erosion of American civil liberties, the rape of our nation’s wealth, the bastardization of science to serve corporate interests, and so much more.

But no. A couple of students get nasty in the shower and plug it up (Blue Gal’s right. How do you do that? Go through a box of condoms and flush ’em down the drain?) and Dan’s panties are in a wad.

Read the comments to Dan’s post. Lots of lefties are trying to slap some sense into the boy. I doubt it will work, but it’s good fun while it lasts.

UPDATED:

Gotta love this comment from “On higher moral ground,” who leaves his flatulence without any website linkback (so we can’t, you know, show him some love):

Any correlation between the deepening depravity at Yale and the ever increasing 28% Jewish enrollment figures?

People have referred to the Jews as ‘mud people’ for centuries, is there perhaps some truth to this?

As a credit to Dan’s commenters, only one person rose to the bait. Two, if you count me.

D.

PS, aren’t you proud of me? I resisted the urge to title this post, “What is the world cumming to.”

My wife’s ass

Yup, that’s my excuse for the late entry today: my wife’s ass. Specifically, her sacroiliac joints. I finished work early so that I could take her up to Gold Beach, where her doctor stuck long needles into her ass to make her feel better.

So far (*knockingonwood knockingonwood*) so good. Beam good thoughts her way, please.

QUESTION

And yeah I know I asked this before . . . about six or seven months ago. I have a few new readers now, though, and maybe some of y’all have had new life experiences relevant to this question:

What’s a good eBook reader?

The consensus six months ago was (A) the Sony eBook reader is teh bomb, but (B) wait a bit, and the price will come down. Well, it hasn’t. It’s still $350, and as far as I can tell, all it can do is serve as a reader. I’d like something that would also allow me to check my email, do some word processing, and provide me with internet access. Which led me to . . .

The Hewlett-Packard iPAQ Pocket PC, of which there are a jillion different models. The prices are comparable to (or cheaper than) the Sony eBook reader, yet these pocket PCs do so much more. The only problem is the tiny screen. How well do these puppies function as eBook readers?

Bear in mind, please, that I live in a small town. I can’t run down to Fry’s Electronics and look at a bunch of different models. I have to guess what these toys are like based on web info. Are the screens agonizingly tiny, or do you get used to them? Can anyone but a six-inch-tall person learn to type on those eensy weensy keyboards?

I’m eager to hear your thoughts. Dish it!

D.

OMFG! OMFG! Cintra Wilson visits Balls and Walnuts!

Regulars here know how much I lurve author Cintra Wilson. Smart, funny, beautiful: what’s not to love? And you know, she could look like Marty Feldman and I’d still dig her.

But she doesn’t look like Marty Feldman, and that’s cool.

Cooler still, she found this post of mine, A Star-studded Golden Shower, and left a comment:

Oh, Brother Walnut, you are the Tits.

Let’s be all linked to each other.

Love, Cintra

www.cintrawilson.com

. . . And imagine my delight to find out SHE’S JOINED OUR RANKS. That’s right, she’s blogging. Here’s a snip from Cintra’s recent rant on Tucker Carlson (entitled TUCKER CARLSON: A BIG GIRL’S BLOUSE OF A SNIVELING PRIGGOT):

His views are neither intelligent nor valid nor clever nor true nor interesting, but they are party-line. Which is good, if you’re a fuffy, piddling Junior League lap-Nazi like Tucker Carlson.

He’s little and white and you take that key in his back that sticks out and wind it up and then his little legs move back and forth and he makes a high, mechanical squeaky noise: YAP YAP YAP YAP YAP! Until the real dogs get to him. Then there is just a sad mist of pink lint.

Perhaps children find him cute, like Ronald McDonald, but grown-up adults just want to aggressively twist his bow-tie around and around like a propeller until his head falls off.

There’s more, much more. Like many of my readers, she lurves her some Keith Olbermann (but be warned: there’s a disturbing bare-chested Dana Milbank Photoshop in that post). Listen to Cintra’s Podcast. The only thing better than reading the phrase “Our glorious Peckerwood in Chief” is hearing it spill from Cintra’s carmine lips.

So go, one and all: visit Cintra’s blog; scratch her virtual back; make her toes curl with your witty comments, and let her know she has Walnut to thank for it.

Cintra, I’ve linked you. You’re in your very own category: Major League Crushes.

D.

Thirteen home-grown culinary abominations

Recently, my sister reminded me that my post Thirteen culinary abominations barely touched on our long and frightful familial heritage. Shit peas (#13), that was the only home-grown entry, but with a little brainstorming we came up with several more.

Follow me below the fold for thirteen home-grown culinary abominations.

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Is it safe?

I like my dentist. No, I really do.

I like her because she and I have the same attitude towards procedures: we both prefer to err on the conservative side. I know she wouldn’t recommend something if it wasn’t strictly necessary.

I like her because she’s smart and cheerful and cute. I like her because she and her husband are cool people, and I wish we could hang out together, my family and her family. We at Chez Walnut don’t get out much.

I like her because she doesn’t resemble Laurence Olivier . . . not often, anyway.

But as much as I might like her, it’s hard to keep a smile on my face when she comes at me with the drill. Wait. That deserves caps: The Drill. The DRILL.

It isn’t so much the pain as the anticipation of pain; and it isn’t so much the anesthetic injection as that horrible fat-faced feeling which seems to last for hours afterwards (because it does). Not to mention that awful unscratchable itch which presages the return of feeling . . . oh sweet Lord, it’s a good thing I bite my fingernails to the quick, or I would have scratched myself so raw I’d only be presentable for a George Romero flick.

But I’m all better now; I even ate a hamburger for dinner. Thank God for Motrin.

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Juvenilia

Here’s an accompaniment for your morning coffee: Two Birds, One Stone, one of my older stories. I wrote it for AlienSkin’s 1000-words-or-less category, so if it reads skimpy, that’s why.

Undoubtedly, I dreamed this one up while watching Boogie Nights . . . probably wishing that I, too, could demand Rollergirl.

Sometimes, life is all about the little disappointments.

D.

Coming soon: Jackie Kessler, author of Hell’s Belles

I recall lamenting that Glen Duncan’s I, Lucifer was a good read, but lacked page-turnability and, well, sex. Duncan strived so hard for the Literary, Fun got sacrificed along the way.

Not so Jackie Kessler’s Hell’s Belles, which was a blast from start to finish. Read the first chapter here. Michelle gave it a shout-out some time ago, so I checked it out. Jezebel, a succubus on the lam from Hell (with assorted demons, an incubus, and a Fury hot on her tail) has a delightfully distinctive voice: humorous, passionate, so full of joie de mal. True to form for a succubus, I loved her instantly.

Here’s the good news: Ms. Kessler has agreed to an interview. Woot! I already know my first question:

You write so convincingly about the predations of the succubi. In lascivious, dripping detail, please tell us all about the research you did in order to write with such authority.

I’ll keep y’all posted.

D.

Mashup extravaganza

I never thought I would owe a debt of gratitude to USA Today, but here goes: thanks, USA Today! In the 1/23/7 issue, Janet Kornblum reported on the mashup phenomenon. Remember Brokeback Spongebob? Brokeback to the Future? The Shining reinterpreted as the feel-good movie of the century? All mashups.

Naturally, I’ve been spending the last half hour watching mashups, first at YouTube, then at The Trailer Mash, a blog devoted to mashups. Favorites thus far:

Saturday Night Live’s Apocalypto. See the Apocalypto Gibson really wanted to make.

Titanic: Two the Surface. Jack’s back! Frozen in a block of ice, he’s revived in the 21st Century to begin life anew.

Neo vs. Robocop. Which would have been MUCH better if Robocop had iced Neo, but hey, you takes what you gets. With a special guest appearance from Yoda.

and my personal favorite,

Hamlet is Back. Schwarzenegger as Hamlet. Brilliant concept, masterful execution.

Now you night owls have something to keep you entertained.

D.

SBD: Ellora’s Cavepeople

For today’s Smart Bitches Day, I bring you:

Ellora’s CAVEMEN
Dreams of the Oasis, Vol. IV

A few of my beta readers know that my romance-in-progress began its days as an Ellora’s Cave wannabe. I launched into it as ignorant as could be, my erotica knowledge limited to Pauline Reage’s Story of O, Anais Nin’s Delta of Venus, and Anonymous’s Deva-Dasi (hot writer, that Anonymous). But after I was two, three, four chapters into it — and no flesh — my betas informed me I was writing romance, not erotica. Oh, well.

So I was delighted when Kris Starr asked me to read “Virtuosity,” her story in Dreams of the Oasis, Volume IV. Maybe now I would have a clearer idea of what goes into modern erotica.

Here’s the setup. You’re in the faaaar future. Three years after her husband was killed in a surprise Korgon attack, Commander Dillon Walker needs to get her groove on – and her friends know just the thing. Whackin’ off in the HoloSuite! Because, face it, HoloSuites were invented for meaningless, no-strings-attached, no-risk-of-STDs, non-stop, HOT SEX. (You just know that between episodes, Jean Luc Picard was getting a computer-simulated Counselor Troi to give him some o’ dat “around the alpha quadrant” action. And Worf? That Klingon was such a sub. You don’t want to know.)

Enter Aidan. Or perhaps the appropriate syntax is, “Aidan, enter. Several times, please.” Aidan is Dillon’s dream squeeze. He may be a hologram but he’s solid man-flesh, and you know those holocreations can’t be bargained with. They can’t be reasoned with. They don’t whine, fart in bed, or come in your mouth (unless you ask them to), and they absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are satisfied.

It occurs to me that if George W. Bush had taken the money wasted on the Iraq War and used it for basic research, not only would we have true energy independence, but each and every family would have its own HoloSuite. Damn him, damn him to hell!

Rest assured, Dillon is well and truly satisfied by the story’s end; she’s moved beyond the death of Dear Hubs, and a surprisingly human (i.e., not computer generated) prospect looms hornily on her horizon.

How’s the sex? Chick friendly, but what do you expect — this is Dillon’s fantasy, after all. I had hopes for something a tad S&M when Aidan, in 21st Century police officer’s garb, told Dillon she needed to be punished, and followed that with a surly, “Spread your legs, ma’am,” but no tasers, no cuffs, no hot baton action (unless you count what Dillon does to Aidan’s baton in the next scene . . .) Thorough rogering is the name of the game.

It occurs to me that I’m not writing my sex scenes with women in mind. I’m spare on the foreplay, heavy on the genital action, and probably too clinical in my descriptions. If Kris’s story is representative, I need more kissing, breast-groping, and nipple-strumming. My counter-argument is that my protagonists are horny 25-year-olds. Do they have time for foreplay? No! They don’t even have enough time to sleep!

By the way, you know those back-cover author photos? I have just the one for Kris. Here she is with her friend Rella downing shots of Krugy. Note third Krugy comfortably lodged in the author’s cleavage.

I gotta love two gals who swallow my Krugys.

D.

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