Balls and Walnuts
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Category Archives: Memoirist BS
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.
Wheel of Fortune
Before it became a showcase for the talent of Vanna White, the Wheel of Fortune was a tarot card symbolizing change, luck, the whimsy of fate. Great card if it’s dealt in the standard position (as shown), the pits if reversed (upside down). That’s Fate for you — a strict 50-50, like the coin flip of Batman’s nemesis, Harvey Dent. Heads, you win the lottery. Tails, you’re blindsided by a trucker asleep at the wheel of his semi.
I bought my first tarot deck, one of the classic Rider-Waite decks, my first quarter at Berkeley. Old-timers here at Balls and Walnuts will remember that I had a spooky period — read lots of Castaneda, futzed with my dreams, wandered the Berkeley streets at night like I was on some kind of vision quest. Tarot was part of it.
How does a chemistry major reconcile something as obviously bogus as fortune telling? My theory of tarot, circa 1984, posited that folks reveal far more in their body language than they do with their words. I might not understand what their body language had to say, but my subconscious did. Using the tarot as a sort of Universal Translator, I could free-associate my way through a reading, blathering on and on, wandering from one card to the next and then back again, generating hypotheses, testing for internal consistency, and ultimately arriving at a coherent story.
I’ll bet you’re thinking, “Yah, that’s how all the charlatans work. They throw out a million darts, hoping one or two will be bullseyes.” The trouble with that theory is, I never asked the recipient of the reading for verbal feedback. If he even spoke, I’d interrupt: “Don’t feed the reader. I don’t want you to say a word.” I was reading their body language, you see, and the cards merely catalyzed the process. (more…)
Thirteen Dreams
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| Thirteen Dreams from Doug Tales from the other third of my life (Other people’s dreams are boring as hell. Let’s see if I can make this work.) 1. The earliest dream I can recall: a pixie lives in my closet, and she alerts me to her presence by playing on a tiny piano. She leads me into a room I had never seen, sunlit, full of toys, a world of safety and beauty.2. My grandfather (he of the surgically removed horns, and the monkey in the attic) and I travel to the moon. It’s so small, I could walk around it in a matter of minutes. I jump higher and higher in the low gravity while my grandfather scratches his bald head and mumbles in Yiddish.
3. Late at night, my parents talk quietly near the gas range. All the burners are on, not a pot in sight. “With all of your problems,” my father says, “it’s a wonder you’re not dead.” My mother falls to the kitchen floor, unconscious. (What can I say — she was a bit of a hypochondriac.) 4. I’m in a car with my brother and sister, and we’re pulling away from a home construction site. We leave my mother behind. She wants to give me some food — a Hershey’s chocolate bar, no doubt — and she runs after the car, holding it out for me to grab. She can’t catch up. That one recurred, haunting me for years for reasons I still don’t understand. 5. I’ve had insomnia for as long as I can recall. I used to tell myself stories to pass the hour or two it would take to get to sleep. Sometimes, it’s difficult to know the difference between a remembered dream or one of those stories. In one, I’m a secret agent, poisoning Hitler’s carrot patch. 6. A woman wakes up in the night to an empty bed. She calls out for her husband, but no one answers. In a panic, she runs outside, calling his name. Terror surges; she passes out in the driveway. She wakes up the following morning in her own bed, and does not realize that the experience hours earlier was a waking dream. This is not my dream. 7. A woman watches a chef boil a lobster. The lobster screams as it is lowered into the pot. He takes it out and removes its limbs, one by one. This is not my dream, either. 8. I am amazed at how readily dreams can reprogram decades of memory. In one recurring dream with many variations, I’m back in that state of loneliness I lived in before meeting Karen. A girl or woman (depending upon how old I am in the dream) lets me know she’s interested in me. Together, we take the first step. 9. Oh, lordy, the student’s dream. My favorite remains the one in which I’m late to the final, but I still have 20 or 30 minutes left. I look at the first question, then the second, then the third. Each and every question is nonsensical — essay questions with numerical answers, mathematical equations with multiple choices covering the gamut from “honesty” to “betrayal.” 10. I’m peeing, and I lose control of my aim. Soon, the ceiling and the walls are dripping in urine. 11. My teeth fall out. 12. I’m in a crashing plane, or a car attacked by gunmen, and in a last minute restoration of faith, I recite the Shema. 13. And then there’s the one about the malt shop — you know the kind, red-cushioned spinning stools beside a long, gleaming countertop. Twelve cheerleaders, sweaty from their last workout, sit atop the stools. They are a Godiva Deluxe Assortment of ethnicities, they are all beautiful, and none of them are wearing underwear. Oh, wait. That’s a fantasy, not a dream. My dreams are never that much fun.
5. Sapphire Writer |
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D.
The merits of poor self-esteem: Part I
My mother, bless her labyrinthine heart, saved every scrap of writing and artwork I produced in elementary school, or at least she had saved every scrap until I moved out for college. Then, somehow, everything managed to fit into a single box in our garage. Some time between college and med school, I went through the box. It held no surprises for me — I had been through it several times before, looking for answers that I hoped would be more palatable than the obvious ones I’d known from the beginning.
Nope, nothing new. I saved the interesting stuff and tossed the rest. I kept my first grade report cards, quarter by quarter showing a teacher initially enchanted by me, ultimately exhausted. I kept a small folder of stories bound with three brass brads. And I kept another brad-bound folder from first grade, this one titled MY FAMILY.
The frontispiece consists of a family portrait, hand-crayoned by yours truly. You know the type — family in the foreground, names pencilled crudely under each, house in the background, smoking chimney, yatta yatta yatta. The smallest figure’s legs are fused in one column, he’s armless, and his head sits atop his body, an undifferentiated lump. That’s me.
I imagine any post-Benjamin Spock child shrink would have had palpitations over that drawing, and he would have been right. I was one fucked up kid. And look at me now.
Yeah, admit it. You missed that photo. (My son says, “You know, it’s kind of obvious it’s faked.” To which I say: “What? What? What’s fake about it?”)
I’m grappling for some image or memory to convey how self-hating I was as a kid, but you know something? So much of it was internal. I don’t have it in me to be self-destructive, so I can’t cough up any stories of drug abuse, insanely reckless behavior, or failed suicide attempts. Mostly, I stayed depressed.
Fred Delse, my med school mentor I told you about in this post on ego boundaries, once said that it was nearly impossible to diagnosis major affective disorders in kids. I don’t recall if he said, “It’s impossible because they’re all sick,” but that’s what I took home from that conversation. I thought: It’s okay that you spent your whole childhood wishing you were anyplace but where you truly were. Other kids were undoubtedly more screwed up than you.
Not surprisingly, I did have one addiction, schoolwork. I aced everything I touched. My one kernel of self-worth came from the knowledge that I was at the head of the pack. I earned this bit of self-esteem; I didn’t have it foisted upon me by teachers eager to praise my every artistic, literary, or spoken turd. I clung to it like a life preserver, and in the end it did, indeed, save me.
Sometimes I worry that my son’s childhood is too happy. I feel a little better after yesterday’s brouhaha.
The fiction writer in me cringes. Show, don’t tell, remember? But I can’t show you, not while my parents are still alive and capable of reading my blog. Irrational as it may sound, my father’s command to me in first grade still carries weight.
I had blabbed to my first grade teacher. At our first open house, she asked my parents about the stories I’d told her. My dad denied everything, of course, but when he got me home, he laid down the law.
Don’t ever, ever talk about what happens in this house.
So I can’t show you. Some of these things you’ll just have to take on faith. Besides — when have I ever lied to you?
But I’m still cringing. This is not effective writing.
I’m not here to whine about an unhappy childhood. In fact, my second choice title for today’s post was, It’s never too late to have an unhappy childhood.
I never would have become who I am today if I hadn’t been fueled by a ton of self-hatred. I couldn’t continue being who I am and doing what I do if I didn’t still have that hatred burning inside me, constantly requiring appeasement. My worst enemy is my best friend.
And I am resolute in my belief that a groundless “high self-esteem” is a bad, bad thing.
Tomorrow: Sociologists agree with me.
D.
Is there a dog whisperer in the house?
I had to share this with you. This morning, RaZen at YesButNoButYes brings us a video of a possessed dog. I think St. Francis needs a day or two a month, not just one day a year — this dog needs to be blessed big time.
You may not know this if you’re sane, but dogs will acquire the psychopathology of their masters. I’ve seen it again and again. Mostly in my family. But I do have one family-safe story to tell regarding psycho canines.
As some of you may recall, I volunteered at Napa State Mental Hospital for a few years, during my time at UC Berkeley. Napa had a halfway house on their grounds, a building that looked and functioned like a real home, nothing ward-y about it. Folks who were ready for the real world could spend a few weeks there, cooking in their own kitchen, using actual knives.
The halfway house had a pet dog, one of those creatures that looks part poodle, part terrier, part chihuahua, and part Tasmanian devil, and this dog had a favorite pillow.
After you’ve watched the possessed doggy video (linked above), imagine our runty little hero treating his pillow in just this manner. Just when you think he had given that pillow what-for, he would change tactics and hump the pillow. A minute or two of fruitless humping, and he’d back in full attack mode, snarling, biting, ravaging that poor pillow.
I’d never met a dog with borderline personality disorder before, but I’m sure he had it.
For those of you who read my boogers blog, I’ve posted a long rant on ear wax. Just what you wanted with your Sunday coffee.
D.
PS: and this is partly a note-to-myself, so that I can find the links first thing Monday morning . . .
Vichy Democrats has a one-stop resource in the fight against confirmation of Sam Alito: Senators’ local phone numbers, fax numbers, email addies, web forms, plus where they stand on the cloture vote. Also, links to online petitions.
For those of you wondering what all the fuss is about, Georgia at Kos says it better than I ever could. Many of us who oppose Alito do so because of his opinions regarding the powers of the Executive branch. In the context of the George W. Bush power grab, Alito is downright dangerous.
This may be our best chance to block the Imperial Presidency, folks. Let your voice be heard, preferably over and over again.
Tomorrow, I’ll be getting up an hour early so that I can make lots of phone calls and send lots of faxes before my day begins. We can do this!
A timely Thursday Thirteen
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Thirteen Things about Doug And, dammit, you’d better play this time, or next week, I’ll tag your ass. 1. Goethe, not Nietzsche, said, "What does not kill me makes me stronger." Three intervals in my life put this to the test, but I was not so much tempered by them as torn apart and put back together.
2. As a four-year-old, I was traumatized by a cantaloupe (AKA musk melon). This was not one of those desperate, ego-formative moments. I got over it. 3. My first memory: I’m two, nearly three, and my brother and sister are helping me get dressed in the back seat of my dad’s car. (A blue Chevy, Sis?) It is the first day of my first Voyage of the Damned: summer vacation, driving from LA to Boston to see the rest of the family. It would not be my last such voyage. 4. I liked to get up when my parents got up. They would eat breakfast, drink coffee, and not yell at each other. I hid in the hallway with my back against the wall heater, listening to them talk. My mom didn’t like this. She thought the wall heater would give me “arthuritis.” 5. On that first Voyage of the Damned, we stopped for breakfast in Needles. I saw a red firetruck I dearly wanted. My mother wanted to buy it for me, but my father didn’t. Much psychodrama ensued. 6. We took the southern route that year. One night, in a motel room in the Deep South, we woke up to find the room infested with giant water bugs. Trust me: you really don’t want to click on that link. 7. Bliss for five-year-old me was a day at the beach . . . although I hated it when my mom would towel the sand from my back. Ow. 8. I had my first mathematical epiphany in kindergarten. I told my teacher, Mrs. Biyotch, “One and one are two!” and she replied, “One plus one equals two.” Talk about buzz kills. 9. I loved my pediatrician, Dr. Johnson. Or maybe I just loved ripping off all my clothes as fast as I could. 10. I didn’t like my next doctor, Dr. May. To this day, I don’t understand why a doctor would feel the need to do a rectal exam on a ten-year-old boy (or younger) at every visit. Actually, I do understand, and I don’t like it one bit. 11. Among other childhood fears, I was afraid of the dark, and of mysterious strangers coming into our house. My sister knows why. I didn’t get over my fear of the dark until med school. 12. My grandfather groped me once, but I didn’t hold it against him. (Hah! I love that gag.) No, this wasn’t one of those ego-formative moments, either. 13. To some degree, I live in a constant state of breath-holding, waiting for the next traumatic interval. 1. Dariana |
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D.
A Taste of L.A.
Remember the nuclear devastation of Los Angeles in Terminator 2? Karen and I saw that movie in L.A., and we were the only two people who chortled over Linda Hamilton’s dream of mushroom clouds. That’s how much we liked L.A.
Of course, that was before we lived in Texas, and that was also before we lived in the land of “Oh, God, please let that be a new restaurant, because our town really doesn’t need a seventh auto parts store!”
Without further ado, here are eight things I miss from Los Angeles, all food. (Sorry, Beth & all those other vegetarians out there, but I like meat.)
Mr. Creosote
1. Baci D’Alassio from Il Fornaio restaurant in South Pasadena. Think of Baci as two chocolate-hazelnut macaroons fused base-to-base with a dollop of semisweet chocolate. Here’s the recipe, and here’s a picture.
2. Fried smelt at Cafe Santorini in South Pasadena. Oh how I love my little fishies. I really, really don’t want to look up the mercury content of smelt on Fanatic Cook’s mercury chart. (Hah! They’re not on the chart. They must be mercury-free.)
Imagine a huge dish piled high with lightly battered smelt, fried to a golden crisp, sprinkled with finely chopped Italian parsley, and served with no shortage of lemon wedges. You eat these bad boys whole — head, tail, fins, bones, everything. The crunch is part of the experience. Oh, lordy lordy lordy lordy.
3. Creme brulee at Cafe Santorini. Perfect creme brulee should have a warm, flawlessly crisped top, and a smooth, cold center. No damned bubbles. If there’s bubbles in the puddin’, the cook don’t know WTF about creme brulee. Here’s the Cook’s Illustrated recipe — I haven’t tried it out yet, but I will very soon. My beloved has a yen.
Karen, a creme brulee purist, hates to discover funky flavors on the first bite (Funky = anything other than vanilla). But I like a surprise. My favorite-ever creme brulee at Cafe Santorini featured a strong hint of bay leaf.
4. Basturma at Sahag’s Deli on Sunset. Basturma is the king of cold cuts, the ur-pastrami. Food critic Jonathon Gold called it “less a foodstuff than a force of nature.” It has the beefy intensity of bresaola, but the spice rub (hot paprika, fenugreek, and garlic) packs a wallop. Eat some basturma and give your unsuspecting Dearest a deep, deep kiss for a food sex memory that will last a lifetime. Here’s Sahag’s address.
5. Peking Duck at Quan Jude in Rosemead. World famous for their Peking Duck, Quan Jude sports photos of Henry Kissinger and Richard Nixon dining at their Beijing restaurant. You can eat any part of the duck here — they even have duck tongue aspic on the menu (trust me — stick to the Peking Duck). Here’s the address.
If you’ve never had Peking Duck, this needs to be on your list of Things I Must Eat Before I Die. The whole point of Peking Duck is to render the duck skin of its fat and elevate it to crispy snips of heaven. The skin is served with a bit of meat, a bit of green scallion, and a dollop of plum sauce (or is it hoisin?) all wrapped in a thin, rather tasteless pancake. The pancake ain’t the point.
6. Pommes frites at Benita’s Frites on the Santa Monica Boardwalk. Pommes frites are the basturma of French fries. ‘Nuff said. What’s so great about Benita’s Frites? Not only do they get the frites just right, but they also have the greatest dipping sauces. My favorite was the sundried tomato aioli. Here’s a write-up and a recipe, but I can’t believe it’s that easy.
7. Vietnamese iced coffee . . . anywhere. This stuff is ubiquitous. You can’t walk into a Vietnamese restaurant and not get perfect iced coffee. Here’s the idea: aqua regia-strong espresso combined with sweetened condensed milk, served over ice. Take a look at this pictorial essay.
True fact: my evil wife once got my office staff addicted on this stuff to increase productivity. Who needs coca leaves?
8. Banh mi at any Vietnamese restaurant. I can think of many fine sandwiches: beef tongue on rye; hot pastrami on rye; Philly cheese steak sandwich. They all have their place in the Great Order of Sandwich Being, but even the best Jewish deli pastrami can’t compete with an average banh mi. They’re that good.
Banh mi come in a variety of styles, but they all consist of a French or Italian roll slathered in mayo and/or liver pate, layered with cold cuts (thinly sliced roast pork is my favorite) and produce. It’s the produce that makes the banh mi: cilantro, thinly julienned carrots and cucumbers (lightly pickled in nuoc cham), and a few julienned strips of hot green peppers. Assemble the sandwich and heat it up so that the crust gets crusty. Like great creme brulee, a perfect banh mi will be warm to hot on the outside, cool on the inside.
Read more about banh mi at this link.
You know what all of these things have in common? I can’t eat any of them. (Well, I could eat the basturma without any bread, but where’s the fun in that? And Peking Duck without the pancakes . . . the Chinese already think we’re barbarians.)
While living in L.A., I got up to my all-time max weight, 178 lbs. Take home message to me: be happy you’re not living in L.A., or else you’d have ended up like poor Mr. Creosote.
D.
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.?
Thursday Thirteen, a day late
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Thirteen Things about Doug 1. For as long as I can remember, I have had difficulty distinguishing Thursday from Friday.2. I also had trouble telling my left from my right. My usual response was, “What difference does it make?” Fortunately, I learned the difference before becoming a surgeon.
3. I named my first frog Cyrus Molybdenum. 4. By the end of third grade, I had memorized the symbols for all of the chemical elements (103, at the time). Despite this Badge of Extreme Geekdom, I still had lots of friends. 5. My grandfather, a Polish immigrant, claimed he’d been born with horns. He often showed me the scars. He also claimed he kept a monkey in the attic, but would never let me see him. 6. Pre-1970, my favorite film was Mysterious Island. I can imitate giant bee noises to this very day. 7. At age two, I developed my first crush on an older woman. She was six, and I kept losing to her when we played King of the Hill. She wouldn’t let me stand at the top of the hill, ever. Bitch. 8. The first dirty joke I ever learned was the Gomer Pyle joke. 9. In the early years of elementary school, with the Apollo missions all the rage, I wanted to be an astronomer when I grew up. Astronaut was the conventional response. Later, after I’d read a bit of science fiction, I decided I wanted to be a cryobiologist. Nobody knew what that word meant, and that was cool. 10. I used to fantasize about the Men in Black long before it became fashionable. Sinister men in dark suits and sunglasses would appear one day in our school’s auditorium and whisper things to our principal. He would say, “Doug Hoffman? Can you come to the front of the room?” and I would comply. “These men say you’re extremely important to our nation’s security,” he’d say quietly to me. “They want you to leave with them.” And I’d say, “Heck, yeah!” This was well before the era of extreme rendition. 11. I also had sexual fantasies long before I knew a thing about sex. In one, I stood on a pier and noticed that the Girl of My Dreams was drowning. I jumped off the pier, rescued her, and carried her dripping body back to shore. She would revive in my arms and say, “Oh, you are so special.” The End. The fact that I didn’t know how to swim never entered into it. I was special, after all. 12. I haven’t wet the bed since age two, I never set fires, and I never tortured any animals, large or small (unless you count tormenting red ants). I am thus better qualified to be President than George W. Bush. 13. And yet I have never, ever fantasized about becoming President of the United States. |
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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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.