Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: such as it is
I got me a guest map.
Why? Because it’s cool. Does there need to be another reason?
Go ahead, put yourself on the map. You know you want to. And while you’re at it, scroll down this blog to the Bloghop gizmo and give me a NICE, BIG, FAT, GREEN smiley face*. Put me back on the top-ranked page with that hunky Xavier — I know you can do it!
My ego thanks you.
D.
*Assuming you haven’t already voted, of course.
Sorry. On drugs at the moment.
This summer cold’s a bitch. Hacking cough won out over crushing fatigue last night, so I drugged up on Tylenol #3 (left over from my strangulated hernia operation two years ago) and Benadryl and still stayed up until 2:00. Karen forgot to set the alarm (yup — I can’t program a VCR, either), so I overslept and had no time to go a-bloggin’ this AM to check up on my e-friends. I feel like a heel. A heel with a cough.
But you learn toughness from residency. (For those of you not in the medical biz, residency = five or six years of indentured servitude, after which you may call yourself a specialist. In my case, a snot doc.) I didn’t pull all-nighters in the OR with Maisie Shindo (one of New York’s best doctors — go Maisie!) to wimp out over a stupid cold. Or, as we used to say at Big County, “You’re either in the hospital working, or you’re in the hospital as a patient. Either way, your butt better be here.”
And here I am.
I drew a blank on a topic, unfortunately. Best I can do is reminisce about my earliest memories of the Web. In 1994, Karen and I rented a house in Alhambra, California. We had two of the nicest landlords — a Jet Propulsion Laboratory rocket scientist (no kidding!) and his wife. That’s when I first remember truly surfing the Web — getting my ears wet, wiping out. My favorite website was Mirsky’s Worst of the Web.
Nowadays, if you google Mirsky, you’ll find (through mirsky.com) a tee-shirt vendor. With a bit more stick-to-it-iveness, you’ll find this site, where three latter day Mirskys pick their very Worst. However, this seems like a thin cover to sell stuff for something called outfitters.com.
I miss the old Mirsky. The Worst I remember Most was Slut Boy, a skanky young dude who had posted photos of himself in all his slutty glory. You’d feel cleaner just looking at him. Alas, Slut Boy is gone, too, although perhaps he’s still out there, lost in Net Space amongst all the other Slut Boys. But if you know what’s good for you, you won’t try googling for him. It’s a mean hard-fisting organ-piercing jungle out there.
Michelle writes:
. . . how about a post for female writers on what guys really
think/feel/do [during sex]?
Great question, Michelle. So great I’m going to save my answer until a day when my comic super-powers are at their zenith. For now, let me end with this teaser of a reply:
One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five, one thousand six . . .
D.
PS: Give poor Bare Rump a visit. Lately, she’s endured more than an extraterrestrial should have to bear, what with having to watch Martha Stewart and Keanu Reeves make out, then having to eat Martha and drive cross country with Keanu. And not even the real Keanu Reeves — some cheap wannabe. And now, to add insult to injury, the poor dear’s blog has only been getting three hits a day. Since one of those hits comes from me, that’s pathetic.
Bare Rump hates to be thought of as pathetic.
Wrong about one thing . . .
| Your Blogging Type is Artistic and Passionate |
 You see your blog as the ultimate personal expression – and work hard to make it great.One moment you may be working on a new dramatic design for your blog… And the next, you’re passionately writing about your pet causes. Your blog is very important – and you’re careful about who you share it with. |
“. . . and you’re very careful about who you share it with.”
Wrong!
My one wish (aside from having an indie rock band named after me) is that my blog will spread like a case of multi-drug resistant gonorrhea.
I could pursue that metaphor, but I just ate dinner.
D.
I am such a geek
From Paperback Writer, by way of Holly Lisle:
You’re The Dictionary!
by Merriam-Webster
You’re one of those know-it-all types, with an amazing amount of
knowledge at your command. People really enjoy spending time with you in very short
spurts, but hanging out with you for a long time tends to bore them. When folks
really need an authority to refer to, however, you’re the one they seek. You’re an
exceptional speller and very well organized.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
This Godless Communism
This seems a timely post, given that I was just accused of being a ‘pinko’ over at the Writers BBS.
From boingboing, this link to The Authentic History Center, which today features, in full, the 1961 Treasure Chest comic, “This Godless Communism”.
Here are a couple of good tidbits. From the first page:
“Modern Communism got its first toehold in Russia through violence and bloodshed. A revolution was directed by a small group of men who urged the people to attack their representative government.”
Emphasis mine. Guess absolute monarchy was too tough a concept for the kids.
From the next page:
The US has been taken over by some sort of Communist coup. Ma and Pa are reading the newspaper.
Pa: “And it says all the Catholic priests and sisters are being sent to a labor camp! Those who resist will be killed!”
Ma: “They’re doing the same thing with most of the Jewish and Protestant ministers!”
Three comments. One: Jewish ministers? They must be mighty conflicted souls. Two: most of the Jewish and Protestant ministers? Do I sense the implication that some of them are collaborators? Three: dig the exclamation marks!!!
***
It’s still not too late to play the Karl Rove Resignation Pool — it’s free, it’s fun. Many good dates are still available. Play now!
D.
Here’s how f’d up I am
So f’d up I can’t even mention him by name . . .
I mean, where did all this superstition come from? I know where I get my paranoia, but the superstition? It’s being a surgeon that does it. You begin believing in lucky charms. If you have a pediatric airway emergency on your hands, you begin praying — hell, you enter into full balls-to-the-walls bargain mode with God — no matter how agnostic you might be. You avoid black cats. You step over sidewalk cracks. You worry when the umbrella opens by accident indoors.
And you always, always knock on wood when you say something good.
Here’s the deal. A certain someone has been spending way too much time talking about his wonderful marriage. I like this guy, like him enough that what he’s doing is scaring the hell out of me. He’s calling down the bad juju.
Let me repeat: this is MY problem. Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally, I’m still rattled.
Fact: every time I tell someone how great my marriage is, Karen and I end up in knock-down take-no-prisoners warfare for at least a week. This generally follows within twenty-four hours of my verbal excess. True, we’ve always bounced back*, but you have to understand: we both learned to fight dirty as kids (Karen even moreso than me) so it’s never pretty.
Fact: we only fight about once a year, which is about how long it takes me to forget that I should keep my mouth zipped.
So, if that certain someone happens to wander this way and read this, please, please, for the love of God, knock on wood.
Your thoroughly f’d up friend,
D.
P.S.: NO GUESSES in the comments thread. I’m being purposefully vague to keep the bad juju confused.
*Knocking on wood, knocking on wood, knocking on wood.
Muwahahahaha!
The fact my hit counter is twitching in epileptic ecstasies means my plans for global domination are proceeding apace. Excellent. And all this new traffic has nothing to do with John Scalzi mentioning yesterday’s Shatter column on his blog – nothing, nothing, nothing. This isn’t just fifteen minutes of blog fame. It isn’t, I tell you.
Karen says that if stoking controversy is what it takes to drive blog traffic, she has a few ideas for future Point-Counterpoint columns from the two of us:
What’s wrong with America today: Not enough shame.
This is part of Karen’s plan for the Japanification of America. When someone does something wrong, he should be encouraged to go home and commit suicide – or, at the very least, never show his face in public again.
Karen’s plans for expansion of the death penalty.
Fry white collar criminals, sex offenders, corrupt politicians . . . oh, hell. Fry anyone Karen doesn’t like.
A fourth branch of government: Internal Affairs.
IA will be empowered to investigate all three conventional branches of government – and their own. Corruption will be treated with compassionate understanding (see above).
Why I hate Christianity.
Hey, she’s an atheist. What can I say.
***
Ephemera
Jake had a good day today – that makes two in a row. For newbies here, my nine-year-old has been plagued with chronic daily headaches for the last three months. After an MRI, CT, numerous blood tests and a lumbar puncture, we’re no closer to understanding this. So we’re doing what any good physician would do: we’re treating him with every drug we can think of that we haven’t tried yet.
The winning combo thus far seems to be melatonin and propranolol. Melatonin to get him back on a normal sleep schedule, propranolol on the off chance he’s having migraines.
Clear skies today, gentle wind, temperature in the high fifties. We went out and did the Del Norte County doubleheader: Smith River, then the beach. Jake wanted to see if we could find quicksand. There’s a branch of the South Fork off Walker Road where, on a particularly rainy winter day, we once found several patches of quicksand by the riverside. We’ve been back several times since then, but the conditions have never been right. I’m beginning to wonder about how rare that day must have been.
He did his usual: throwing flat rocks and watching them sink with nary a skip, building dams and tearing them down, terrorizing frogs. It seemed like only a week or two had passed since we’d been down this way, yet we haven’t done any of this since he became ill. Three months must seem like an eternity to a nine-year-old, but to me, it was yesterday.
Then, off to the beach, where we got thoroughly waterlogged. But that’s why we’re here in this land of No Borders (or Barnes & Noble): 180 degrees of ocean in front of us, wildflower-strewn mountainside behind us, crystal blue sky above. Still too early for blackberries, but Jake showed me a reddish-pink flower with nectar that tasted like honey. He picked his mother a bouquet on the way back up the hill. He’ll be a florist someday, or maybe a mechanical engineer. With any luck, he won’t have the damned headache.
More ephemera: Karen’s younger P. metallica morphed out male, so now she has a breeding pair. With any luck, I may have some pornographic tarantula stories to share with you in the days ahead. (Why ‘ephemera’? She’s mating tarantulas. Think about it.)
D.
And Then, All Will Bow Down Before Me
No one emailed me today, asking me what my master plan might be for Shatter*. No one asked this question because, as of this writing, you’re all content to lurk. Nevertheless, I felt no one’s question warranted a well thought out reply, and here it is. I fully expect no one to respond to this column to let me know his (or her – hard to tell with no one, that oddball) reaction.
As with all great plans, I’m starting small. Page by page, I have been editing my medical website, placing eye-catching icons** linked to Shatter at the bottom of each page. The Medical Consumer Advocate generates a good number of hits. Some of those folks are bound to wonder what on earth a guy like me will write in his blog.
When I get some sense that folks are actually reading this column, I’ll move on to step two: my discovery of the Virgin Mary in a square of matzah. That’s right, I’m going to find a matzah cracker with the Blessed Virgin’s image in it, and I’m going to post that image exclusively here, on THIS page, along with an article urging all readers to email this link to seven of their friends. If they do so, they will have good fortune for seven years; but if they fail to do so, they will be cursed with ill luck for the same interval.
I believe this to be a sound marketing strategy.
But to what end, no one asks? Well, once I have a real readership, I’ll serialize The Brakan Correspondent on my website. Periodic appearances of You Know Who – perhaps on rye bread, or in the iridescent sheen of an old slice of roast beef – may be necessary to drive my readers that way. We’ll have to see about that. In any case, the inevitable will happen. Tor Books will offer me a sweet contract, and my novel will become a smash overnight sensation.
And then (says no one) all will bow down before you? Foolish, puny nobody. Not yet. Does anyone bow down to J. K. Rowling, John Grisham, Stephen King, or Dan “Well it was just a Cracker Jacks rebus†Brown? NO. Authors get no respect.
Except on The Daily Show. With the success of The Brakan Correspondent, fellow yid Jon Stewart will have to invite me on the show. He’ll have read my book, naturally, and he’ll zoom in on one rather embarrassing detail, that the spider god’s name (Obrah, translated, ‘she who eats’) sounds suspiciously like Oprah, as in Winfrey; and, furthermore, didn’t I call Oprah Winfrey the Troll Queen in the story, “My Troll Lover� And what do I have against Oprah, anyway?
I’ll save the situation famously with some smart and snappy reply, so winningly in fact that Oprah, watching at home, will be quite charmed. She’ll have me on her show, and the repartee will make my stint on The Daily Show seem like a wake. Ratings will soar. Oprah will offer me a regular spot.
And THEN all will bow down before you?
Pipe down, you. No, my friendship with Oprah will merely ensure inclusion of my novels in her Book of the Month Club. I will become fabulously wealthy***. I’ll be offered movie contracts on my books weeks before I’ve penned the outlines. I’ll become close friends with Sam Raimi, Peter Jackson, and Tim Burton; they’ll put me in the movie versions of my books – bit rolls at first, supporting rolls afterwards.
I’ll suck, naturally, but that will hardly matter. What will matter – and this is the important bit – what will matter is, people will forget I’m a novelist. (My original profession will show up as a Trivial Pursuit question circa 2015.) They’ll know me only as a familiar face. That little, old, bald guy who always gets the girls. (What? Oh, come on! nobody says. And yet, if Jack Nicholson can snag Helen Hunt, why can’t I have Heather Graham?)
At some point I’ll be elected president of the Screen Actors Guild; shortly after, Governor of California. I think you know where I’m heading.
With my feet up on some big oak desk on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue**** and with my finger on one of those infamous buttons – you know what I mean, you’ve watched Dr. Strangelove – then, all will bow down before me.
D.
*This BLOG, okay?
**Okay, so I drew this lame bird on Paint Shop Pro. If I manage to win the Fantasy Challenge with “My Troll Loverâ€, I’ll win the prize: Saborra will do some commissioned artwork for me. Then I’ll have a delicious icon at the bottom of each page.
***Michael Crichton will spare change me as I leave my Bel Air manse. Bill Gates will ask me to float him a loan or three.
****They say that in this country anyone can become President. Ample proof can be found by studying the careers of every US President from Richard Nixon on.
Does my butt look fat in these scrubs?
Surgery day for yours truly here at St. Mammon Community Hospital. Not only will my cases fill up most of the day, but we have Surgery Committee Meeting this evening, which promises to be as fun as a Roman ad bestias execution. Will it be the wolves today, Sir, or the hyenas? The lions, perhaps? Oh, good choice, Sir. Bravo.
(Oh, Hoffman. You’re just p.o.’d cuz they never have Atkins-friendly food at those meetings.)
D.