Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Memoirist BS
The Weather Thirteen
Smog, hail, storms, wind, and more . . . below the cut. By the way: the photographer says the above photo is true color. I can believe it.
What can I say, he’s on my mind lately.
This is a rerun (below the fold), but it truly is one of my favorite posts. When I finally figure out how to make YouTube videos with my birthday present, I might start here.
After reading this, if you want more of my grandfather, read my short story, “Heaven on Earth.” That story, too, is one of my favorites.
Massage
I got a massage today. Not for any particular reason; I guess the October Special (one hour for thirty dollars) was reason enough. I hadn’t had a decent massage since my previous masseur went off to Mykonos to make his fortune.
Massage used to be a lifesaver for me. Until I discovered exercise, massage was the only thing that helped my lower back pain. Now that I exercise regularly, massage is little more than a treat.
It didn’t used to be that way. During residency, if I popped good money for a massage, it meant something horrible had happened. Maybe I had pulled a 40-hour stint on three hours of sleep, or maybe one of my senior residents had lit into my ass over something inconsequential. Or, as happened right before my first massage, maybe I had almost killed a patient.
Thirteen Ephemeral Thoughts
For several months, I’ve thought of doing this Thirteen, but it’s a treacherous theme. It’s not as bad as “Thirteen Things I Forgot,” but it’s close.
These are memories which flit into my skull unbidden. They usually have no relationship to the moment; I’m not getting food memories when I’m hungry, nothing that comprehensible. I suspect a mild case of temporal lobe epilepsy.
The only way I can write this is incrementally. Just as I cannot induce these memories, I usually can’t remember them for very long, either — until they come again. And they do. My memory is a vinyl record with more skips than music.
Let’s allow this one to grow over the course of the day. I’ll add to the post when the memories occur, so it may take me a while to reach thirteen. Onward!
Wheels
Spurred on by Shakesville’s Mustang Bobby, I’d like to tell you about my first set of gas-powered wheels. But first, check out my idea of procrastination . . .
Jess’s Eight Women Who Look Better Bald Than Britney. Yeah, it’s outdated, but I found this while making a point to an old friend and well PERSYS KHAMBATTA IS HOT, OKAY? Do hhhaawt bald women need any other reason?
Jackie Kessler gives it away. (An iPod Nano, three iPod Shuffles, and a Byzantine bracelet, to be exact.) No purchase necessary.
Who says ear, nose, and throat docs aren’t fun-loving guys and gals? All depends what you call fun. Watch that video to the end, and you’ll understand why some of the women I scope say (while watching themselves on the monitor), “Is that . . . ? NO! You couldn’t be down that far!”
Amazing, the poor anatomic knowledge some folks have.
Follow me below the fold for the coolest car ever made.
The Talk
I figure if my eleven-year-old son wants his sheets changed, he can damn well strip his own bed and bring everything to the washing machine. However, once a year or so, his sheets achieve sentience and cry out to me in their filthy anguish.
“I suppose we might start finding crumpled Kleenexes under his bed soon,” I said to Karen last night before we went to sleep.
“Kleenexes? Is that what you used?”
“I think so.”
I remember stuffing them between the bed and the wall, where no one would be any the wiser. Like me, my mother never made my bed or washed my sheets, not that I ever noticed.
“How old were you?” Karen said.
“Twelve, I think. I woke up one morning with a mess in my shorts and figured the plumbing was working. Some time after that, I checked.”
And I thought my parents were overprotective.
In yesterday’s post, my sis asked if I’d ever given my father a heart attack — you know, me doing dangerous things, the way Jake climbed to hair-raising heights on those damn slippery rocks.
I’ve thought about her question, and, um, NO.
Klondike
Yesterday, Dean wrote about his dad splitting wood, and I was sorely tempted to hijack his comment thread. Because it’s a funny thing, the actions we associate with our parents. Memory’s a fickle beast.
Right now, my dad is likely doing the same thing he’s doing in this photo from forty years ago: playing Klondike. I can hear him shuffle, spread, and turn cards as clearly as I can hear myself tapping the keyboard keys. When I think of my dad, he’s shuffling, spreading, turning cards. Dean thinks of his dad chopping wood; I think of mine playing solitaire.
Back then, my father could have chopped wood. He’s short, like me (though not as short as me), and used to be muscular, powerfully built. I don’t know how he kept in shape — he shunned exercise. But when I was a kid, those biceps scared the crap out of me.
I’d rather remember him chopping wood, but there he is, shuffling again. “You pay fifty-two dollars for the deck,” he says. “Aces go up, and you build upward in suit. For every card up here, you get five dollars back.” He keeps score on the back of an envelope, and he never finishes in the red.
If you asked me to give you a second memory, a second common association, it would be of the man sitting in his chair, reading a paperback or working a crossword puzzle. Yup, real dynamic. He taught high school math for many years, and by all accounts was a superb teacher. I’m sure he’d prefer to be thought of that way, but I never saw him teach. He came home tired, like all us fathers do, and to unwind, he read books, worked a crossword puzzle, or played Klondike.
I wonder what memory Jake will associate with me? I’d prefer if he remembered me scrambling around in the kitchen, fixing dinner, but he doesn’t often watch me. Maybe he’ll remember me climbing rocks with him at the beach — that would be nice, maybe even as nice as splitting wood. You know, I might even like being remembered as a doctor.
But I have a bad feeling he’ll remember me as I am right now, sitting in this chair, my legs tucked under me, futzing at my blog.
D.
Thirteen blasts from the past
The future is now, folks. Anyone who has had to explain the concept of a “carriage return” to his 11-year-old kid knows what I’m talking about.
Follow me below the fold for rabbit ears, and more . . .
The queef story
Soon after my 21st birthday, my brother took me to a San Gabriel Valley strip club called The Other Ball. This place has to be the most upscale nudie bar I’ve ever been to, which means it has all been a downhill experience since then. But really, the women were stunning, and (unlike all my subsequent strip joint experiences) they knew how to dance.
Follow me below the fold for some nasty, nasty fun. (If you are my son, under the age of 18, a family member, a patient, or a hospital administrator, please click here. And no, you can’t go below the fold. No, no, NO.)