Balls and Walnuts
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Personal growth
Shaving* naked in front of the mirror last night, looking at the new roundishness of my abdomen — a pregnant muchness that wasn’t there three months ago, back before my gym closed — I thought of personal growth, the kind of growth that derives its substance from too many bags of microwave popcorn and too many Christmas cookies and too many pieces of Belgian chocolate (oh thank you very much, my beloved patients, but don’t you realize that if you kill me, I won’t be here to take care of you?)
Turning this way and that, trying to find some angle where I didn’t look like Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair, only, you know, hairy, suppressing the urge to take a scalpel to my flesh because what the hell good is it being a surgeon anyway if I can’t even fix blubber belly, I reflected (in the mirror, get it?) that this was why I loved writing.
Think about it. Friends drift away, love affairs fly apart, bodies go to hell, and yet our writing chugs on, barring hard drive crashes, fire, floods, and fiction-hating dogs, of course. Every bit of writing we do improves us as writers. Well, that one month foray into screenwriting put me into an extended writer’s block, but I still learned from that, didn’t I? (Yeah. You learned not to fuck with me, sailor. — Doug’s muse.) And I may have spent my first two years and 100K words of ‘serious’ writing on a project that went nowhere fast, but if I hadn’t done that, could I have written a 300K word novel that actually went somewhere? I don’t think so.
What’s my problem with scale, anyway? I’ve sold flash fiction and stories in the 4K to 6K range, and I’ve written a humongous novel, but I can’t manage to turn out a modest 90K novel. But I digress.
Writing is the one compartment of my life where I feel like things are getting better**. I may be getting poorer thanks to this money pit of a house, and I may be getting older and fatter and balder, but at least with writing, if I put out the effort, I have something to show for it: not just the words on the page, but also an internal maturation which makes it possible to do that much more the next time my fingers hit the keyboard.
So I’m shaving, looking at that 4-month-preggers so-not-a-six-pack of mine, and I’m thinking, Maybe there is something growing in there. Maybe I could take that 2001-2002 project of mine, Karakoram, and turn it into something 90K-ish, tight, interesting, funny, poignant — in short, everything I wanted it to be when I first got started. Maybe I can do that now.
Yeah.
D.
*My face. Detail added for Maureen’s benefit.
**Before you ask: no, there’s nothing wrong with my marriage. Knockingonwood knockingonwood knockingonwood.
My dorm was never this much fun
At the University of Western Ontario, the now notorious Saugeen Stripper hosted a lap dance for several of her male dormie friends.
By the way — that link? Not work-safe.
Tickle me, Elmo. You know how I like it.
I lived in a co-ed dorm at Berkeley, and I’m telling you, no one got laid, except maybe my roommate, and from the way his girl whimpered afterwards, I’m not sure anything really happened. There may have been a wee bit too much alcohol involved. (Oh — how do I know this? They thought I was asleep. Riiiight.)
But no one got laid at the University of Western Ontario strip tease, as far as we know, so perhaps I’m asking too much from my college memories. Then again . . . damn. We didn’t even play strip poker. We played Spades and Bridge, that’s how boring we were. The deliciously zaftig Andrea gave out hugs to any guy who looked pathetic enough to need one; that’s the closest we ever came to a strip tease.
Oh, wait. I’m remembering something else. Once, when some drunk-off-his-ass jerk set off the fire alarm in the middle of the night and we all rushed downstairs in the cold of winter, J., the girl I lost to Mr. Blue-Eyed Jesus, had wrapped herself in a bathrobe — too hastily, it seems, since my friend Stan got an eyeful of her booty and told me about it in the morning. That was my second-biggest dorm thrill, next to free hugs from Andrea.
Poor “I Wuv Punk” Russell, he desperately wanted to get laid, but his was a hopeless case. Remember Peter Billingsley, the kid who played Ralphie in A Christmas Story? Picture a six-foot-tall Ralphie. Yes, every bit as geeky-looking as Ralphie, and with a voice that cracked on every other word. Russell got nowhere. Not even Andrea would hug him. I think they based The 40 Year Old Virgin on Russell.
So, high school seniors, don’t get fooled into thinking co-ed dorms are an E-ticket to hot strip tease shows and unlimited mind-blowing sex. They’re not.
Or maybe that was just Berkeley’s problem.
D.
The prostitute joke
The most striking thing about Wikipedia‘s World’s Funniest Joke entry is just how unfunny the joke is. The runner-up isn’t much better.
The entry may lack humor, but it’s not entirely wanting in meat. The ‘world’s funniest joke’ stems from a 2002 study by the University of Hertfordshire’s Richard Wiseman. Wiseman wanted to find out what jokes had the greatest appeal across cultural and demographic boundaries:
The study documented regional differences in humour, as well as variations between the sexes. Men preferred more aggressive jokes, as well as sexual innuendo, while women preferred word play.
I’m partial the shaggy dog story, which Wikipedia defines as “an extremely long and involved joke with a weak or completely nonexistent punchline. The humor lies in building up the audience’s anticipation and then letting them down completely.”
The humor also derives from the delivery — which is, after all, the whole point of The Aristocrats. One of the tricky things about blog humor is that body language is, with rare exception, impossible.
Anyway, I thought the following joke was pretty damned funny.
Have a Sparky, Snarky Christmas
Lon Prater and Suzan L. Wiener at The Writers’ Ezine (Dec 05) have been kind enough to give us holiday gift ideas for the writer in your life. But ask yourself: does that writer really need much for Christmas? Take my advice and save your money. Limitless quiet time to write – that’s all he* wants for Christmas. Add in occasional reminders to bathe, eat, and take potty breaks, and you’ve given him more than he deserves.
Undoubtedly, you will see many such lists in the coming weeks. But who remembers the family of those lucky writers? Here at Balls and Walnuts, we do.
The marriage counsellor, Part 2
I have more funny business in store for you later this evening . . . so, Maureen? Chill.
Before I leave behind this discussion of love and marriage, I wanted to share with you a link I found several years ago. I found this two years ago and filed it away for my son (in an envelope labeled For Jacob, when he’s older). I’m not sure what mood possessed me at the time, but it must have been precious.
First, here’s the link:
Ten Terrifying Truths about Marriage by Dr. Michael Tobin
Rereading this, I see a few gems here, but what possessed me to print this out and stuff it in an envelope for my son, to be opened circa 2020? I don’t know. Maybe it’s not so crazy. Two items in particular stand out:
2. Try all you want — you’ll never change your partner. However, if you change yourself, your partner may change.
Very true, in my experience. (It’ll be a blast when Karen reads this. She’ll piss herself laughing: You’re kidding, right? When did you ever change?)
8. The greatest gift you can give your children is a loving marriage.
Hmm. I wouldn’t know this from firsthand experience, but I’m hoping my son will tell me one day if it’s true. Maybe that’s why I socked this list away.
Okay, enough with the serious stuff. Time to pull out the whoopee cushions.
D.
First love, forever love
Everyone knows Jewish men make the best lovers, but have you ever wondered why?
The Joy of Duck
Guess what we had for dinner tonight.
Will someone please tell me what they’ve done to this bird? I’m imagining CIA interrogators at one of our Eastern European prisons (one of the ones that doesn’t exist) :
Tell us al Qaeda’s next target.
Quack!
Dimitri — use the nipple electrodes.
Quaaaack!
Yes, I know ducks don’t have nipples. (more…)
Ubersexual — so that’s what I am!
Thanks to Beth for pointing me towards Sandy Oakes’s Romancing the Blog post, Ubersexuals. At last, I find someone who understands my true nature.
Let’s see how I stack up. According to Marsha Saltzman’s book The Future of Men, the Ubersexual
- “embraces his masculine qualities (the M-ness factor) which includes confidence, leadership, passion and compassion.” Yup, that’s me, all the way. Just ask Karen.
- “is passionate about causes and principles.” Check.
- “treats and respects women as equals, but considers other men his best friends.” But my wife is my best friend. Does that make me (gasp!) a metrosexual? Am I less uber for my choice in friends?
- “is sensual and not self-conscious.” Sensual, yes, but . . . does worrying about my belly blubber count as self-consciousness?
- “knows ‘the difference between right and wrong and will make the right decision regardless of what others around him may think.'” Check.
By my conservative estimate, this makes me at least 70% ubersexual. That’s good enough to overturn a Presidential veto — ubersexual it is! Yippee. This sounds like a good (albeit vaguely Third Reichich) thing.
One problem: I don’t like being on top. Does that make me an untersexual?
D.
A prayer for Pat Robertson
LORD,
Given that one of thy most precious qualities is MERCY;
And that thou hast forgiven Pat Robertson for saying 9/11 was YOUR punishment for gays, abortion, and anal bleachings;
And that thou hast forgiven him for calling for the death of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez;
And that thou hast forgiven him for calling all feminists “child killers”;
And that thou hast forgiven him for a lifetime of hubris, in claiming to know YOUR will;
Respectfully, LORD, I request THOU DROPPEST THE MERCY CRAP and remember one of thy other divine qualities, namely, JUSTICE,
And when thou, in thy divine wisdom, weighest the merits of Robertson’s recent call for a natural disaster to plague all of the men, women, and children of Pennsylvania, sinners and innocents alike, thou shouldest remember the Pharoah of Egypt: for you hardened your heart (sorry, LORD, but those thous and thys have become quite taxing of my puny mortal patience) and punished Pharoah for his sins, oh, how you punished Pharoah — that was truly righteous, LORD, good one! — but can we please, oh please, oh please, have some of that JUSTICE now?
When an ass clown calls for death and hardship for thousands of your faithful, and claims to do it in YOUR NAME, does that get your attention, LORD?
I’m sure you will choose a worthy and just punishment for PAT ROBERTSON (common name, LORD, so I gave you a photo above to help you find the right PAT ROBERTSON), but in case you’re busy and need some help, might I suggest you revive an old favorite — the ten plagues of Egypt? For extra zest, you might add “in his ass” to each of these plagues:
BLOOD in his ass.
FROGS in his ass. Come to think of it, hold off on that one. I like frogs too much.
LICE in his ass.
FLIES in his ass.
A HERD OF DISEASED CATTLE in his ass.
BOILS in his ass. LORD, you could do that one in your sleep.
A HAILSTORM in his ass.
LOCUSTS in his ass.
DARKNESS in his ass. Huh?
DEATH OF THE FIRSTBORN — no, you can stop there, LORD. I always thought you went a wee bit too far on that one. Instead, might I suggest
A GOOD-SIZED, YET NON-LETHAL EXPLOSION in his ass.
Amen.
D.
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Help me feed my family
Q: What is the earliest example of pornographic dialog in a television show?
A: “Ward, don’t you think you were a little rough on the Beaver last night?”
That one tickles me every time.
I grew up in the 60s and 70s, in a superficially traditional Leave it to Beaver-oid nuclear family. Our neighborhood brimmed with other Beaveroid households. Our dads worked traditional jobs, and our moms were housewives who fixed Coca Cola ham on Sundays and proto-Hamburger Helper dishes on weekdays. Tuna casserole wasn’t the punch line of a bad joke; it was dinner. (more…)