Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Mishpucha (mi familia)
Courage
I’ve been thinking about courage lately.
Oops! Not that kind of courage. (Although, you must admit it takes real courage to show your camel toe.) I meant this kind of courage:
(From SueRob’s photostream.) Look at this little guy. You just know he’s about to make a great leap into the unknown, don’t you?
Gud riting
From Acquariando’s photostream. Pretty. Not particularly relevant, but this is Random Flickr Blogging Day.
With regard to writing, our homeschooling strategy has been simple: give Jake something worthwhile to read, then have him write one or two essays about what he has read. We’ve hit the wall, however. He’s older and we’re beginning to expect more from him. We want him to produce college-level essays.
Yeah, he’s eleven, and we’ll probably give him ulcers. On the other hand, Karen and I both wonder what we could have accomplished if we had been given the most challenging regimen possible.
There’s “challenging” and there’s “discouraging,” of course, and the art is pushing the “challenging” envelope without falling into the Veil of Angst that is “discouraging.” We’ve bombed out on more than a few projects — the kid won’t read The Great Gatsby, for example, no way, no how. And one of the key elements of our strategy is to keep it interesting (rather than detestable).
With his most recent project (Ethan Frome), we realized our approach has reached its limit of usefulness. Time for a more organized approach to writing. And so this afternoon, I spent a few hours putting together thirty-five assignments which will, I suspect, last him until the end of the school year.
Here’s the general strategy.
1. Draw exercises from two solid books on writing: Watt’s An American Rhetoric, which was my writing bible in high school, and Diana Hacker’s Rules for Writers, a book used in Berkeley’s introductory composition course.
2. To keep things interesting, intersperse these exercises with exemplary paragraphs and essays from a wide range of other authors.
This last point: since I had to draw from books in our personal library, these exercises were idiosyncratic, easily not the “best” essays in the English language, but hopefully good enough to get the job done. Here’s a short list of what I tapped:
The intro to The Wind that Swept Mexico, a remarkable history of the Mexican Revolution
Readings from Mark Twain’s Letters from the Earth, including his essay on James Fenimore Cooper
Walter Cronkite’s preface to Charles Darwin’s The Origin of the Species
A couple of Stephen Jay Gould’s essays in Ever Since Darwin
Chapter 1 of Marvin Harris’s The Sacred Cow and the Abominable Pig
Readings from Alistair Cooke’s America
The intro to P. J. O’Rourke’s Parliament of Whores
. . . and more.
My question: right this instant, are you thinking, “Oh good Lord, they’re not making him read X?” And if so, what is X? Remember, the goal is to give him exposure to exemplary writing. Great stuff. Because that stuff was the best I could do with the books at hand (remember, Karen and I were both chem majors, so our library ain’t exactly an educator’s paradise) but I’m sure we could do better.
Time to make dinner. See ya later!
D.
Chihuahuas
My parents’ 60th wedding anniversary is coming up next January, and for the occasion, my sister wants to put together some sort of scrap book. My sister, my brother, and I each have our own collection of photos. It’s always something of a shock when we compare photos. For example, my sis had never seen this photo of my grandfather.
My brother turned up a few black-and-white photos of our chihuahuas, Chi Chi and Perrita. That’s Chi Chi on the right. I’ve told you about her before — my canine sibling rival. My mother still blames my father for Chi Chi’s failed pregnancy. As far as my dad was concerned, a dog ought to be able to deliver her puppies without assistance. My mom wanted to let the vet deliver the litter. Chi Chi gave birth to live pups, but somehow, she smothered them within the day.
I suspect every family has stories like that one — something which, on the face of things, isn’t all that big a deal, yet it becomes emblematic for so much of the deeper pathology of the marriage.
I’m not sure what happened to Chico, Chi Chi’s mate. I remember him vaguely as a hyper hairless who wouldn’t leave Chi Chi alone. I also remember being very disturbed by his bright red penis, and by the way he would get twisted around (tail-facing-tail) when mating with Chi Chi. We didn’t have him for long.
A new standard by which to measure infamy.
William S. Burroughs’s monologue memorialized the captain of a sinking ship who dressed as a woman to get prime seating on a life raft. As measures go, this one barely registers on the modern Richter Scale of infamy. Think about it: this week alone, we’ve seen George Bush perseverate over his war of vanity, Abu Gonzalez play the fool to shield the boss, John McCain jest about bombing Iran — and then defend himself rather than apologize, and a psychotic undergrad turn a college into a slaughterhouse. Here in the 21st Century, one cowardly captain warrants less than a footnote.
But for some reason, Alex Baldwin ripping into his 11-year-old daughter hit a special chord for me.
See, I know myself well enough to say with near certainty that if I were President, I wouldn’t murder thousands of US soldiers and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis just to line the pockets of my rich friends. If I were the Attorney General of the United States, I would regard it as a position of trust, and I would try my best not to disrespect that trust. If I were a presidential candidate, I wouldn’t joke about killing thousands of Iranians, and if I were a depressed college student, I sure as hell wouldn’t buy guns and bulletproof vests.
But I’ve yelled at my kid, and that’s why Alec Baldwin’s tirade gets under my skin. Is that how I sound?
I don’t give a damn that you’re 12-years-old or 11-years-old, or a child, or that your mother is a thoughtless pain in the ass who doesn’t care about what you do.
That’s one of the tamer quotes. Then it dawned on me: he doesn’t know if she’s 11 or 12? Whaaaa?
Nope. I’ve never ripped into Jake like Alec ripped into Ireland, his daughter. Alec, you are such a dick.
Wait, that’s not quite what I wanted to say. It was this:
Alec, thank you for being such a dick.
D.
what a gal!
So in this dream, Karen and I are at a resort, and Robert Redford comes over to our table. He wants to have sex with Karen and he’ll pay us a million bucks for the privilege. We’re all “heck yeah!” And before you know it, I’m listening to them through the wall, grunting and gasping.
Then Karen comes back to bed and I say, “You know, I never saw that movie, but I remember hearing that afterwards the guy and his wife –”
“Demi Moore,” Karen says.
“Whatever. So after she gets dorked by Redford, she and her husband can’t get over it.”
“Your point?”
“Um, just that I really don’t think I’m going to have any problem getting over this. How about you?”
“Me neither. Now, let me tell you what I think we should do with the money.”
And for the rest of the dream, we’re talking mortgages and investments.
D.
One outa four ain’t bad
We took off a four-day weekend for Easter — my employees’ idea, which I supposedly approved — and I’d had great hopes of finishing my romance, but it was not to be. Not that it was a wasted weekend. On Friday, I dashed off nearly 3000 words on a weird little erotica short story. Great, thought I, I’ve broken the block! Yet I still kept gagging on the manuscript.
A few months ago, I threw away the last quarter of the novel and started afresh. Today, I reread the newer material, and I’m happy with it. The big sex scene may be a little too kinky for some of my beta readers but I’ll bet I’m underestimating y’all. And now none of my characters are behaving with extraordinary stupidity. No dumbass misunderstandings, no improbable emotions. I think I see the way forward.
And I probably could have written more than five hundred words today, too, except this was the first sunny day of the last four, and the boy and I were stir crazy. Hard to resist this:
Home alone
Karen and Jake are in Eureka tonight. They went down for a pediatrician appointment, and the roads are too dicey to risk a trip back in the dark. Not on twisty two-way highways with ice and snow on the road, granite embankment on one side, sheer drop to the ocean on the other.
That’s only a teensy exaggeration.
But they’re living high, spending the night at the Best Western with the limo driver who will schlep you to the restaurant of your choice. Avalon, to be exact, where Jake’s eating a yummy burger and Karen’s eating some sort of prawn dish. (Hmm. This is the woman who told me she was sick of prawns. Sick of MY prawns, apparently.)
Here I am, all by my lonesome. What to do? I’ve gathered up the garbage bags and taken out the trash; I’m recording The Daily Show and Colbert Report for the troops (and I might as well record Olbermann, too, while I’m at it); I’ve fed the cats and put them out in the garage. Lured them out with food — bet they’re pissed.
Karen and I are rarely apart. It’s infrequent enough that in a few minutes’ time I could probably write down all the times we’ve been apart and I doubt I’d miss more than a few instances. I sleep okay when I’m alone, and I presume (since one of us snores) Karen sleeps better apart, so that’s no big deal. Still, it’s odd being in my own home, not having my family around me. What to do, what to do.
I suspect it’s a non-issue. After I write this post, answer my emails, waste time on the net, shower & shave, it’ll be time for bed, or very close. Surgery tomorrow morning, so an early bedtime wouldn’t be a half bad idea.
By the way: the pediatrician was unimpressed with Jake’s problems. (This is good. You don’t want to impress your doctor.) “If he still feels this way in two weeks, call me.” The kid has been nauseated since New Years . . . but “call me.”
Which is fine, really, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to make that decision. There’s a good reason doctors try not to treat their own family members.
D.
My wife’s ass
Yup, that’s my excuse for the late entry today: my wife’s ass. Specifically, her sacroiliac joints. I finished work early so that I could take her up to Gold Beach, where her doctor stuck long needles into her ass to make her feel better.
So far (*knockingonwood knockingonwood*) so good. Beam good thoughts her way, please.
QUESTION
And yeah I know I asked this before . . . about six or seven months ago. I have a few new readers now, though, and maybe some of y’all have had new life experiences relevant to this question:
What’s a good eBook reader?
The consensus six months ago was (A) the Sony eBook reader is teh bomb, but (B) wait a bit, and the price will come down. Well, it hasn’t. It’s still $350, and as far as I can tell, all it can do is serve as a reader. I’d like something that would also allow me to check my email, do some word processing, and provide me with internet access. Which led me to . . .
The Hewlett-Packard iPAQ Pocket PC, of which there are a jillion different models. The prices are comparable to (or cheaper than) the Sony eBook reader, yet these pocket PCs do so much more. The only problem is the tiny screen. How well do these puppies function as eBook readers?
Bear in mind, please, that I live in a small town. I can’t run down to Fry’s Electronics and look at a bunch of different models. I have to guess what these toys are like based on web info. Are the screens agonizingly tiny, or do you get used to them? Can anyone but a six-inch-tall person learn to type on those eensy weensy keyboards?
I’m eager to hear your thoughts. Dish it!
D.
The Talk
The following conversation is entirely fictitious. My son demands I preface my comments with that sentence or else he’ll sue me.
Litigious little not-quite-a-bastard*.
It can be rough trying to raise an independent-minded kid. We give him a steady diet of Stewart, Colbert, Olbermann, and Howard Zinn, and yet we’re up against a huge corporate/governmental propaganda machine. I shouldn’t be surprised some of the brainwashing leaks through.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “You used drugs in college?”
“It was only pot. And alcohol. A few times. Nothing much, really.”
“Nothing much? Don’t you realize that leads to harder drugs?” The implicit suggestion: Before long, you’ll be a bum in the street lying in your own vomit, and maybe a few other people’s vomit puddles, too.
“You’re kidding me, right? Don’t tell me you actually believe any of that. It’s all government propaganda.”
“So drugs are good.”
Oy! So young!
Who says cleaning the garage is a thankless task? It’s only 99% thankless. Yesterday, I found a cache of old photos, including a little packet of wallet photos, much the worse for wear. Here’s the gem, from our first year of marriage, circa 1984:
I’m holding Baby, a Columbian red-tailed boa constrictor, and Karen’s holding Red Sonja, a corn snake. But jeez! That hanging sunset thingie in the background, I’d had that since senior year of high school. And I’m wearing a Garfield shirt (where did that come from?) and I have hair! And Karen, oy, she looks so sweet in her Berkeley College of Chemistry shirt.
I tried to find a better copy of this photo, but this was the best I could manage: