Balls and Walnuts
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Category Archives: Thirteen Candles
Thirteen things I learned from Cosmo, Part Cinq
Pity me. As you read this, there’s an excellent chance I’m a mile above America, wedged between George W. Bush’s Last Vocal Supporter and a Moonie behind on his conversion quota. Times like this, I wish I knew some relatively obscure foreign language — Yoruba, perhaps — in which I could repeat, “I don’t speak English.”
See, no matter how badly you pronounce, “I don’t speak English,” some wag will point out that you are, in fact, speaking Engish. Yuk. Yuk. So I need a language — something guttural, something phlegmy. I mean, a guy can pretend to be asleep for only so long.
*please please please no coughing sneezing children oh PLEASE*
. . . because I always catch stuff on planes, too. Bad enough that snot rockets are a hazard of my profession. Gaaaah, enough kvetching already — let’s find out what’s new in this month’s Cosmo.
Thirteen scenes from Gross Anatomy
Nothing says “medical school” like Gross Anatomy. Think about it: anyone can study microbiology, histology, or pathology. But how many people get to cut up dead bodies? How many people would want to?
Maybe in the future, cadaver dissection will be replaced by in computero practical exercises, but I doubt it. A big part of training is learning to violate taboos — getting close to people, asking them the most intimate of questions, touching them in ways even their spouses wouldn’t touch them, and hurting them. None of this comes naturally; all of it must be learned. Or, rather, unlearned. It’s all about breaking down internal barriers.
And that’s why Gross Anatomy will always play a role in medical education.
Follow me below the fold for thirteen memories. Sorry, no more pictures on this one; I doubt I would find anything palatable for mass consumption.
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.
An early Thirteen: Thirteen Movie Memories
An early Thirteen, because somewhere in the world it’s already Thursday*.
Veterans to my Thursday Thirteens know I like to use these occasions to revel in the only subject of which I never tire: me. It’s autobiography as viewed through a variety of lenses. Food, sex, love, are little more than angles and gimmicks. But isn’t that the original idea of the TT, to learn more about the author?
I shall always be faithful to this blog’s subtitle. Besides, if you’re here reading this, you haven’t tired of me, either. Or perhaps you’re just hoping for more recipes.
Follow me below the fold: my life in movies.
Thirteen senior year memories
I’ve written more about my last year at Berkeley than any other year of my life, thanks to Karen, but I’m sure I can dig up a few fresh stories for you, as well as a few links to old stories some of you may have missed. Onward!
Ruby Slippers and twelve other junior year memories
I was telling Michelle the other day that the only time I ever noticed shoes on a woman was in my junior year of college. Her name was Carmela Maria . . . gaaaaah. How do you forget the last name of a woman you might have married — in a parallel universe where her dad the longshoreman wouldn’t have killed you first? Anyway, they were Carmela’s ruby slippers, and I’m saving that story for a bit later.
1. The house on Milvia. Fellow Napa State Mental Hospital volunteer and all-around pal Debbie — she of the corn silk smooth hair and affinity for boyfriends with huge hands — knew I was miserable in the dorms. Her lesbian roommates were graduating that year, and Debbie was looking to find a smaller place. She invited me over to her apartment to watch Gone with the Wind and, more to the point, to check the place out. By the way, watching GwtW with three hyperintelligent women, two gay and one most emphatically not gay, had to be a high point of my sophomore year.
I loved the place. Quiet neighborhood close to school, grocery stores, fresh produce stand, cheese shop, bakery, fish market, bookstore . . . heaven, the best place I’ve ever lived in. It was one of those sleepy, concrete pylon-obstructed areas where you just know everyone’s growing hemp in their garages, watched over by a beautiful Husky named Nikka Sue, a dog who had come to Debbie’s rescue one evening when some creepy dude was following her home.
It took me a while to recognize the apartment. Remember how my hippy cousin dowsed a map to find me a place to stay, freshman year? The apartment complex without vacancies? This was the very same place.
More stories below the cut.
Thirteen college memories: sophomore year
Mind-boggling, isn’t it, that I haven’t written a Thirteen for my year in the dorms? Well, not really that mind-boggling. Sophomore year was one of my worst years ever, so I don’t go there without some trepidation.By the way, I’ve added a new category for my Thirteen fans: Thirteen Candles. All Thirteen, All the Time. Revel in it.
Below the cut: thirteen dormie memories. (Here’s a photo of the cast of characters; and if you’re jumping into this out of sequence, here’s the freshman year thirteen.)
Thirteen culinary abominations
Today, I shall prove to you that my foodie arrogance knows no bounds.
Image shamelessly scanned from The Gallery of Regrettable Food by James Lileks, a gift I received from La Voluptuous & Demented Michelle.
We may be going to Eureka today, in which case I won’t be able to disseminate (oh how I love that word — Disseminate! Watch out, people, I’m disseminating!) my linky lurve. But feel free to leave links in the comments. Shout out your most recent cool posts in the comments, if you like, or give me your own nominations for worst culinary abominations.
For folks who are clumsy with HTML, here’s how to make a link. Substitute brackets <> for parentheses in the syntax below:
(a xhref=”link URL”)Here’s the link(/a)
Cut and paste the page’s URL into the quotes “link URL”. Yes, you need the quotes, and don’t go adding any spaces around that equals sign!
Thirteen marginally edible horrors below the fold.
Thirteen college memories: freshman year
What, only thirteen? Yes, you can regard this as an extremely limited selection. I’ll be attempting to come up with tales you haven’t heard before. No small feat.
1. Shin splints. During orientation, on our walking tour of the Berkeley campus, the guy walking next to me noticed me limping.
“Don’t baby it,” he said.
“Huh? It’s shin splints.”
“Yeah, I figured that out. But don’t be a wimp. Walk through it.” And that’s how it went for the next hour or two — me limping, him ragging on me to stop being such a pussy.
His name was Russ, and he became my roommate, and remained so for all but one year.
Thirteen disquieting statements
For me, Thursday Thirteens provide a means of examining my life through an ever changing lens. A micro-autobiography, perhaps, where the challenge is to be honest, entertaining, and (hopefully) insightful. Like any memoirist, I suppose, I am the topic that fascinates me most. The “entertainment” angle hinges on how well I can convey that fascination to my readers — and, let’s face it, it depends on precisely how honest and how insightful I can be.
That’s the theory, anyway.
Maybe I’m more introspective these days because we’re approaching the end of what has been, for us, a difficult year. The stress has done weird things to me . . . weird in ways I can’t even begin to discuss here. Or even hint at. Suffice to say (despite #13 below) I’m feeling a lot like a pupa, and I haven’t a clue what’s going to hatch out at the end of this metamorphosis.
Below the fold: thirteen disquieting statements. Things folks have said to me which stuck like peanut butter to the palate. They don’t hurt anymore. Mostly.