I’m between cases at the moment, so this will have to be quick.
Music on this morning’s commute included Depeche Mode’s “Policy of Truth“. Snippet (but take a look at the rest of the lyrics — they’re good):
You had something to hide
Should have hidden it, shouldn’t you
Now you’re not satisfied
With what you’re being put throughIt’s just time to pay the price
For not listening to advice
And deciding in your youth
On the policy of truth
Here’s the question: who out there hasn’t screwed this one up? — Hasn’t blurted out the truth when by any conception of morals, ethics, or reason, the lie was the only correct response?
But we never speak the truth during the calm times. Only when the blood is up. And that reminded me of the Psych 101 concept of state-dependent memory: you recall things better if you’re in the same state (drunk, caffeine-toxic, depressed, in love) as when you learned them. Maybe I’ll get Dave Munger over here to comment. For all I know, state-dependent memory has been debunked.
My next leap of thought brought me to the idea of state-dependent truth. What if some things are only true during the height of anger? I’m not talking about hurtful lies, but hurtful truths blurted mid-argument. How many people revisit these things once everything cools down?
Not that any of this applies to me. I’m just sayin’.
Tonight, if I’m still in the mood for it:
The sadomasochistic psychodrama of swimming lessons
D.
A few surprising things, and a few kinda interesting items:
We’re flying home today. McCarren International Airport recommends we show up two hours prior to our flight. I hate to travel, but I do love coming home.
D.
Don’t tell me you’re all celebrating Easter weekend with your families.
To reward my faithful readers, I’m going to make the following one-time offer (which will expire at this time tomorrow — that’s 8PM PST):
I will honor any requests for recipes or blog topics in general. If I don’t have a good recipe for you, I promise to find one, test it, and report back. Caveat: ask for something impossible or extraordinarily expensive, and I’m going to make sh!t up.
Play nice.
D.
Cigarette butts, that is. I went to a casino last night with my dad — one of the dozens of casinos which have sprung up in recent years far, far from the Strip, solely to cater to the locals — and we shot craps. Or, more accurately, I gave him a twenty and told him to wager it for me (because, my luck? You don’t want to know.)
Good news, I won twelve bucks. Bad news, I had to be in a casino to do it. Fifteen, twenty minutes in that place and I smelled like an interstate trucker’s ashtray. Meanwhile, a steady stream of good Midwestern Folk coursed by, women sporting Peggy Bundy hair-dos, men in mullets. On the wall, management had posted color photos of all the people who had won big in their casino — “Cleotis, $5,000, Keno” beneath a wizened gap-toothed fellow grinning over a sack of cash. Literally, a sack of cash.
Most of yesterday we spent shopping, with pilgrimages to New Balance, Banana Republic, Kid’s Gap, and Barnes and Noble. We had a good lunch at P.F. Chang’s (upscale Chinese, nexus of Vegas power-lunchers), and I made salt water chicken for my folks, my sister, and my brother-in-law. (This recipe is so awesome, no one in my family complained about the chicken. Not even my mother.)
Today, depending on when Jake wakes up and how fast the weather turns fiery, we may get over to Red Rock Canyon. I’m also going to go hang out with one of my classmates from residency, who practices here. Tony Roma’s for dinner tonight.
The desert air sucks moisture from stones. I wake up with my eyes burning, throat thick, nose . . . you don’t want to know what’s up there. Nose bleeds soon to follow, I’m sure. How do people live like this? Without pounds of natrium and yards of linen bandages, I mean; although, I guess that’s not living.
Maybe I should just go see the Celine Dion show, thereby putting myself out of my misery once and for all.
D.
Balls and Walnuts is one year old today. Ignoring my “this is a test” post of April 8, 2005, I hit my stride for realsies with this post about my (still unpublished) story, “My Troll Lover.” Unremarkable story and equally unremarkable post, although I do like the phrase, “Puns. Toe jam of the humor pantheon.”
I thank Pat for steering me towards Blogger, and I think Dean and Dave guided me towards WordPress. Pat may have had a hand in that too, come to think of it.
Balls and Walnuts used to be Shatter, of course. I thank Sheila for suggesting that while “Shatter” was interesting, it really wasn’t me. (Whereas Balls and Walnuts . . .)
I’m still trying to think up a good contest to celebrate our one year anniversary. Time to make dinner (falafel, one of my favorite easy dinners, and I think I’ll make bread pudding, too). Stay tuned; I think I might write about roast chicken tonight.
D.
Thanks, Kate & Blue Gal, for the heads-up. As you might imagine, I missed the news yesterday (online or televised). As usual, updates are posted at The Christian Science Monitor‘s site for Jill.
Happy day!
D.
Not 45 minutes after I got home, the ER called to tell me I had a post-op hemorrhage. Everything went well, but the whole thing ate up my evening. It’s late, I’m tired, so this is good night.
Be sure to check out some of these medical stories (see below, if you’re joining late) — some chilling tales, and no shortage of great writing.
D.
Not sure why, but I’m feeling sapped this evening. The muse wants me to read, not write, and I’d be a fool to ignore her.
*
We watched movies this weekend. We watch so few movies that we would lose money on Net Flix, that’s how video-starved we are around here. Here’s the rundown:
David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence: four thumbs up. This one is worth a blog entry of its own, particularly as the subject matter dovetails well with our discussion of the violence in V for Vendetta.
Kronk’s New Groove, Disney’s sequel to The Emperor’s New Groove. Jake watched this by himself. Afterwards, he came upstairs and announced that it sucks balls, whereupon I corrected him, saying that the proper phrase was, “it sucks monkey balls,” preferably using a colorful adjective to modify ‘monkey.’ This sparked an argument as to whether ‘monkey’ was strictly necessary. I countered with the intrinsic funniness of words containing ‘k’ sounds (as I learned in my Comedy Writing Secrets book), so Karen said, “Okay, then, ‘it sucks toucan balls.'” This led to a discussion of whether toucans have balls, and whether the birds in my novel have external genitalia. (No. The males’ penises evert during intercourse, snake-fashion.) Jake stuck to his guns and insisted that the movie only sucked balls. End of argument.
No word as to why it sucked balls.
Good Night, and Good Luck: again, this one is worth a post of its own. In brief: while this film choked me up several times, it is deeply flawed. I’ll get into that some other time. We forced Jake to watch most of it, even though “It’s in black and white!” Karen countered with, “Didn’t you know that in the past, everything was in black and white?” and I added, “Yes, color is a relatively recent invention of the human mind,” thereby proving that you don’t need marijuana to talk like a stoner.
*
Maureen recently recommended Chez Piggy’s Caramel Pecan Tart. I made it yesterday, and I must say, Maureen, you know your pecans. Also, welcome to WordPress. How does it feel to say no to the dark side?
*
One last note on the pecan tart recipe. As written, the recipe neglects to tell you to add the sugar to the flour when you make the crust. It’s an obvious error, but if you’re the kind of person who follows recipes to the letter, you’ll be left with an icky, tasteless crust.
I added about a half teaspoon of salt to the crust, by the way, and another half teaspoon of salt to the nut mixture. It didn’t seem right to omit the salt. Since I have never tried this one without the salt, I can’t say whether I helped it or hurt it.
Time to work on the morning post!
D.
. . . where you ain’t got bupkes?
Don’t get me wrong. I had a great day editing and writing, but now I’m spent. My one inspiration was, “Gee, it’s been a long time since I’ve done a sex post,” but then I got discouraged because I couldn’t find a web page discussing Prairie Muffin bedroom habits, and before long I ended up at one of the online skin sites. Again.
I don’t know about you, but looking at that stuff alone depresses me. So, to perk up my spirits, I headed over to YouTube and watched Keith Olbermann pwn Bill O’Reilly. (Hey, did I use that slang right? Pwn? Am I cool or what?)
Now at least I’m not depressed, but I’m still nearly empty-handed.
Um, if you have a filthy, and I mean filthy mind, that last line came out all wrong.
One thing to report: croissants make a decent bread pudding substrate, but I think white bread is superior. White bread-based bread puddings puff higher. Caveat: these were not the greatest croissants.
Show of hands: who made bread pudding tonight?
D.