Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Pix
Dormies
Maybe it’s the grappa.
Fanatic Cook’s recent post on HDL (“good” cholesterol) led me to vow to drink more alcohol, so the other day, Karen and I dropped some dough at our local liquor store. We bought grappa, gin, and port. Tonight, we cracked open the grappa.
It’s, um, stronger than I thought it would be. Drank it three hours ago and I’m still buzzing. Mazzetti liquor de l’Oro, if you’re curious, but I’m not recommending it just yet. It’s sweeter and stronger than my usual Brandy Peak grappa, which gives me a happy buzz. This Oro stuff is making me feel all sappy and sentimental, and when I get sappy and sentimental, I scan old photos.
My ass is back
After working out three times a week for six weeks, including 35 to 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer at each workout, my ass has returned and is here to stay.
Sadly, the picture doesn’t do it justice. What you really need is FeelAround.
“It’s no good,” I told Karen. “It just looks like a standard skinny white guy’s ass. If my pants slipped any lower, I’d look like our plumber.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s the best of the dozen. I’m not taking any more.”
“You need to take a photo of it without all the clothing in the way.”
“No. Uh-uh. No way.”
“But –”
“Besides. You’d have to shave your ass, or else people still wouldn’t be able to see it.”
Okay. I’m game.
D.
My mishpucha
Last night, I discovered that I have a very low gag reflex.
Late night variety pak
It’s late, I’m tired, and this is all ya get.
Helen Wheels left one looooong response to my Sunday blog on the rise of fascism in America. I thought about reprinting it here, but it turns out Helen posted the more detailed version on her blog, yesterday. She quotes Lawrence W. Britt’s article on fascism at length, to chilling effect.
Consider that a mighty shout.
Many thanks to Kate and her hubs for turning me on to Campbell & Reece Biology, Seventh Edition. Looks like this is going to be a great experience for my home schooler AND his dad. This beautiful textbook includes a CD with useful material (how rare is that?), and the online resources rock. Tests! They have tests! They sure know how to make home schooling easy.
Jake dove into it with both feet. Right away, the book stimulated a useful discussion on embryogenesis, haploidy, diploidy, gastrulation, and neurulation. We had to backtrack a bit to talk about gametogenesis and fertilization, but I didn’t mind. Damn it, if there’s one thing I’m qualified to teach, it’s biology. No, really, I have a PhD in this stuff (didn’t know that, did ya?)
I warmed to the discussion, eager to share my knowledge of meiosis and mitosis, spermatogenesis and seminal vesicles, ovulation and the menstrual cycle. Then, suitably enlightened, I guided Jake back towards the subjects of fertilization, implantation, and early embryonic development: initial cell divisions, morula (what the Germans call zellballen, IIRC), blastula, morula, gastrula, neurula, embyro.
Me: Any questions?
Jake: I still don’t get how the sperm get up there.
Me: Their tails spin round and round, like little motorboat propellers. They swim up there.
Jake: But how do they get up there?
Me: Well, during orgasm, muscular contractions in the uterus help draw the sperm upward.
Jake: But how do they get up there?
This clearly called for a visual aid.
Moral of the story*: never take anything for granted.
D.
*That part of the story is false. Of course my ten-year-old already knows the basic mechanics of intercourse. He’s my son, for heaven’s sake.
Moral of the story: never discount my willingness to pounce on a cheap visual joke.
Guess who’s coming to dinner!
Dear Mom and Dad1,
I didn’t know quite how to break this to you, so I’m sending this picture instead. I’ve met someone new. You’d like her; she’s ambitious (a nurse, as you can plainly see), and she wants a huge family, at least twelve kids. This shouldn’t be as difficult as it sounds, though, since she already has eight!
I can’t tell you how excited I am by all this. I’ve always wanted tall children, and my gal will surely provide. You see, she has crouched down about six inches so that we could take this photo cheek-to-cheek. Isn’t that awfully sweet of her?
Jacob is thrilled as can be at the thought of so many new brothers and sisters to play with. Karen is taking it as well as can be expected. It’s not as bad for her as you think, since we will all be moving to Utah and converting to Mormonism to take advantage of the bigamy thing.
We’re counting on your blessing!
Love2,
Doug
1. I don’t want you to get the impression that my parents are racist. They’re not. They are, however, 80 years old (my dad) and approaching 80 (my mom) and their ability to roll with the punches ain’t what it used to be.
2. As for the cruelty factor here, (1) they don’t read my blog, and (2) let’s just say I dish it to ’em every chance I get.
Identity
I don’t know what I enjoy most about this photo-booth portrait. Is it the Hawaiian print shirt with the plunging V-collar, or the pencil lead-thin moustache, trimmed off the Cupid’s bow to match the fashion of my Hispanic high schoool friends? Is it the stoner eyelids (I’ve never been able to keep my eyes open for a flash), the full head of hair?
No, man. It’s the ‘tude.
July, 1977: you’re catching me between my Sophomore and Junior years. I had not yet hooked up with GFv1.0, which means you’re looking at one very depressed, lonely adolescent. Yeah, yeah. Aren’t they all.
You’re also looking at a chameleon. Here I am in stoner mode. I could also be a brainiac among brainiacs, a cholo among cholos, a stoner among stoners. Many of the stoners I hung with had more wits about them than the brainiacs. They were well fumigated wits, but still.
I didn’t smoke much pot in high school. My best friend Sophomore year, he smoked a bushel, and I chose to learn from his example. Besides. I didn’t enjoy smoking pot, and if I could fit in with the stoners without doing so, I did. They didn’t mind if I passed — more for them — and they never challenged my credentials for hanging with them.
Sure, they knew I took Advanced Placement classes, but they didn’t care. They didn’t pay attention to social status; they didn’t pay attention to much of anything. I think that’s why I liked them so much. It felt good to belong, and they made it easy.
What made me unique, I think, was my ability to shift from one group to another. In P.E.*, I learned how to blend in with the Hispanic gangstas and the Asian ninja-wannabes. Having the right friends made bully-avoidance much easier. (And yes, Sis, the fact that Marvin had a crush on you helped, too.) But don’t get the idea that self-preservation was my primary goal. I liked these guys. As far as I was concerned, for the 55 minutes we spent together in the weight room every day, they were my people.
And then the bell would ring, and I would find myself in Trig with the smart kids who were supposed to be my peers but wanted nothing to do with me . . . with one exception. I sat behind a Junior, a Japanese girl who didn’t seem to mind if I slid forward in my chair and gouged my knee into her ever-cushy butt cheek. Ah, forbidden love. I was a Sophomore, she was a Junior, and a cheerleader to boot. We never said a single word to each other.
No matter how many times I revisit these memories, I can’t get over it. Trig, Calculus, AP English and American History, Chemistry and Physics — that’s when I felt truly discombobulated. I looked at the other bright kids as though they were extraterrestrials. Sure, I had a few friends in those classes, but it was difficult. I was their competition, and they were my competition. But even that is too simplistic. My chameleon skills failed me. Somehow, the only type of kid I couldn’t imitate was the kind I actually was.
You would think, wouldn’t you, that adulthood had frozen my mutability; but it hasn’t. I see it happening with every patient who enters my exam room. My vocal inflections, diction, and mannerisms change. I suppose this makes me a more effective clinician, but it is far from intentional. There are times when I would dearly love to suppress it. Just ask my staff how I get when some needy depressive darkens my office. (We call ’em brainsuckers.)
Like any photo-booth picture, the one you see above is part of a trio. Wouldn’t you know it? I’m someone different in all three.
— Jorge Luis Borges, “Borges and I”
D.
*Physical education — do non-Americans call it P.E.?
Breakfast sausage
. . . the kind that come in links.
Pat brings us a spectacular link from the Space Telescope Science Institute/ESA. So many beautiful images here, I don’t know where to begin. Make sure you check out the Cat’s Eye Nebula. Here’s the Orion Nebula (per the site, okay for public use provided we give attribution to STSci/ESA):
In case you missed yesterday’s discussion in the comments, Mel Gibson is threatening to sue Mel Gibson. Head on over there and offer your support — and advice, too, if you happen to be a lawyer. Jesus’ General has lent a helping hand by reprinting a letter from an Angel of the Lord (Avenging, First Class) to the real Mel. Seems Jesus is none too happy with The Passion, and when Jesus is unhappy . . .
firedoglake gives us the latest in Bill O’Reilly photoshopping goodness. Think Chippendale’s.
Have you missed the fuss over Kate O’Beirne’s book, Women Who Make the World Worse? Ms. (I just know she would love that Ms.) O’Beirne’s diatribe against feminism is taking it in the pink lace panties over at Amazon thanks to the efforts of Jesus’ General, Crooks and Liars, firedoglake, and others. Even the New York Times Book Review (Ana Marie Cox in the January 15 NYTBR) slammed her book, although politely:
Feminism isn’t always pretty (see: underarm hair). Without it, however, Kate O’Beirne would have been unlikely to have this book published — and most women would not have their own money to waste on it.
Guess I should try and get some work done today. Don’t forget to watch Jon Stewart’s and Ed Helms’s taint routine over at Crooks and Liars, and if you missed my post yesterday on Fractales, scroll down a few centimeters and keep reading.
D.
Name dropping
Okay, be honest: how often do you google yourself?
I suppose I have a gargantuan ego, but it’s a house built two stories too high, with umpteen code violations, termites in all the major supporting posts, and a cracked foundation. Thus, I think I’ve only googled myself a handful of times, and only to find out how easy it would be for old friends to find me. Because, you know, I want to be found.
Google Douglas Hoffman, and top dude on this list is this Maui photographer. (Now, why couldn’t I have thought of that? Sigh.) That Doug also takes the number two spot, and number three is a software guy. Of the next seven entries on page one, I have three. Okay — so if my old pals google Douglas Hoffman, they shouldn’t have much trouble finding me.
Google Doug Hoffman, and the top dude is this race car driver. Okay, I’m glad I’m not that Doug Hoffman, even though I’ll bet he has lots of groupies. Groupies are a Good Thing. Anyway, further down the list we see lots and lots of Doug Hoffmans that aren’t me, including this really cool artist’s website (check it out!) I show up near the bottom of page two, and again near the top of page three. Even if my old pals are googling Doug Hoffman, they would have to have an exceptionally tiny degree of resolve to miss me.
I have to conclude that none of my old pals are looking for me. (Well, one of my friends from high school found me through this blog, and I’ve been bad about getting back in touch with him. I realized I didn’t have much to say to him, and couldn’t work up the desire to call.)
I’ve decided I need to be more proactive. I’m going to hope some of you folks are out there googling yourselves. You’ll find your way to this post, and then you’ll stop in and say hi.
Here are the folks I’d like to hear from:
Sharon Albright. Best circulating nurse ever. Sorry, Sutter Coast nurses, it had to be said. When you see a nurse respond to gunshot wound after gunshot wound quickly, efficiently, without ever breaking a sweat, you build up a lot of respect. Besides that, Sharon Albright and I go way back to kindergarten. Old friends don’t get any older than that.
Jackie Smith. Remembering how you looked in 9th grade, I’ll bet you became one hawt adult. Jackie falls under the category of Exceptionally Beautiful Girls Who Were Nice To Me And Didn’t Have To Be.
Lilli Sznaper. My on again, off again crush, Seventh through Ninth Grades. I’d like to know that you’re okay.
Sue Youmans. I never got you back for this, but it’s never too late to try.
Lest you think I only miss the women, here are the guys I’d like to hear from.
My elementary school friends: Dan Baudino, Frank Howarth, and Jim Fonte. Even though I sucked at sports, and they were all about sports, they still liked me.
My best friend from junior high and ninth grade, Bob Dean. We lost touch soon after I changed high schools. I hope you’re doing well, Bob.
Mike Imlay — did you ever become a priest?
Fellow scholars Brian Oherin and Kevin Wolf. Brian Oherin and I took informal Russian lessons from Mr. Grindell. Kevin Wolf and I go way back to kindergarten. I know you became a podiatrist, but I don’t know much more than that.
If I’ve forgotten anyone, I’m sorry. (But you won’t find this post by googling your name, so there!)
In case you have trouble remembering me, I used to be this guy:
D.
PS: I’m taking down the Michelle Malkin post. No one has complained. It’s just . . . oh, heavens. She is too hideous to look at. Every time I pop open my blog and see her there, it makes me sick. I have to take it down.
My life in baseball
Before I get rolling, will some legal-type person tell me if I can get in trouble for writing a fake Alan Rickman blog?
I know, I know — I’m ruining the magic. But this way, I do get credit for convincing Maureen to take her clothes off.
My hatred for team sports is deep and abiding.
Wait, let me qualify that. I used to enjoy watching team sports. As a ten-year-old, I liked going to high school football or basketball games, for I had discovered that I was the perfect height to collide with shorter high school girls’ breasts. Crowds, man. They’re a bitch.
Participation, that’s what got me down. I grew up at a time when sports defined the boy, and I had a narrow definition indeed. To appreciate my problem, one needs a sense of proportion.
Yes, I had a bat, and yes, my teensy mitt swam over my teensier fingers. Maybe my dad or my brother taught me how to hit and catch, but if they did, I don’t remember it. I do remember being the last kid picked for a team, always, regardless of the sport — even kickball. And I wasn’t even half bad at kickball.
Elementary school softball: nearly every time at bat, I would strike out. I’d pray the ball would hit me, because then I’d get the walk. Invariably, the team captains made me an outfielder. The other outfielder knew that if the ball popped my way, he would have to catch it or there would be a home run for sure.
That went on all through elementary school and junior high school. In high school, we had several options for physical education. I took weight training every time, which allowed me to hang out with the stoners and the cholos and the ninja-wannabes — other guys who hated team sports as much as I did. My people.
I thought I had escaped the horrors of baseball, but in 10th grade I became involved in the B’nai B’rith Youth Organization. Our parents thought BBYO was a youth group designed to help nice young Jewish boys meet nice young Jewish girls. In reality, BBYO helped me meet other nice young Jewish boys who shared my burgeoning interest in pot and alcohol. But, wouldn’t you know it, the bastards liked to play baseball on the weekends.
Week after week, I dodged the invitation, and they would manage to round out their numbers by asking cousins, little brothers, or that kid across town who did pretty good in the Special Olympics. But one weekend, I couldn’t escape; they made it a point of honor. I’d be letting my brothers down.
And I thought: You’re going to guilt trip me? You sons of bitches. I’ll teach you what it means to let you down.
They figured it out by the end of the first inning. By the third inning, their oft-repeated refrain had become music to my ears. I’ve repeated it to my son and my OR nurses — it never fails to get a laugh. Thanks guys. I can still hear your warm words of encouragement.
D.