Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Mishpucha (mi familia)
It’s not me. Really.
| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid Personality Disorder: | Very High |
| Schizoid Personality Disorder: | High |
| Schizotypal Personality Disorder: | High |
| Antisocial Personality Disorder: | High |
| Borderline Personality Disorder: | Very High |
| Histrionic Personality Disorder: | Very High |
| Narcissistic Personality Disorder: | Very High |
| Avoidant Personality Disorder: | High |
| Dependent Personality Disorder: | Very High |
| Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder: | High |
— Take the Personality Disorder Test — — Personality Disorder Info — |
|
But I’ll bet my sis knows who this is.
D.
Reruns. Better than bupkes.
For all of you folks living on the edge of despair, take heart. Things can turn around overnight. I can’t go into details — would you believe it? I have limits! Who knew! — honestly, I’m happy to tell you anything about myself, but when it affects my family or my friends, I have to keep shtum. But let’s just say that starting with this, I have become a happy man.
Of course, since I’m Jewish, I know it can’t last. I’m already cherishing the memory.
I have an overwhelming desire to regurgitate an old post — my favorite — because when I’m happy, what do I want to do most?
Share my ‘nads with the world.
From nearly a year ago, I present,
Say Hello to My Little Friend
They done good
When I came home today, my wife sung happy birthday to me while my son accompanied her on the didgeridoo:
What with all of us laughing and Jake insisting on getting the entire rendition done without mistakes, it took about thirty-four attempts before I got my song. Afterwards, we went out for sushi, and then we came back home to chocolate cake (which, cuz of my reflux probs, will have to wait until tomorrow).
I’m a very happy man.
D.
PS: This was Jake’s idea, by the way — pretty damned original, if you ask me. Also, he wants me to mention how he actually sung “Happy Birthday” through the didgeridoo. No mean feat.
The Black and White Thirteen
Black and white photos carry a potent wallop of poignancy and nostalgic feeling, don’t you think? Nearly any black and white photo makes me wistful, longing for an earlier, better time.
For example, remember when Dax Montana stopped by?
Oh, Dax. You nearly put my eye out with that, ah, outfit. Who would have thought a breast could carry such momentum.
Yes, those were the days.
Below the cut: thirteen (plus one) slices of the past. I’ve pared down the files as much as I dare, but dial-up users, you’ve been warned.
Depth of memory
After my August 16 post about my grandfather, my sister made copies of some old black and white photos of her and Papa. They arrived in the mail today, a most welcome surprise.
Photos in a minute. Dean, I’m working on your meem*, honest. I wrote a quickie scene this morning before the creativity organ pooped out like a whoopie cushion; I’m hoping I’ll finish tomorrow. The rest of you, check out Dean’s meem. You won’t regret it.
‘Kay, here’s Papa and Sis. Check out the cool car in the background:
With Paintshop Pro, I can enlarge things down to the individual pixel. So I thought, wouldn’t it be kewl to enlarge the car’s license plate? Just like in Blade Runner when Deckard used his high tech toy not only to enlarge a photograph but look around corners, too. If that worked, this should be a piece of cake.
Didn’t work, damn it. Technology SUCKS!
What I like about this picture: Papa’s Hawaiian shirt, and the way they’re both squinting into that hot Southern California sun.
Here’s another one. Sis’s comments:
My personal favorite. I never saw the girl by the fence til I enlarged the picture.
Hmm, let’s get a closer look:
If you stand back, it’s, it’s Abraham Lincoln! (Is that joke too obscure?) Anyway, the photo (not the dopy close-up) really makes me nostalgic for Southern California. Love that palm tree. And the look of joy on both of their faces, too: she was his first grandchild, and his pride shows.
D.
*Dean’s definition: A ‘meem’ is like a ‘meme’, only crappier. I love that line.
California dreaming
When my uncle died, the house on Atlantic Boulevard stood vacant save for decades-old furniture, piles of trinkets (in Yiddish, tchotchkes), and garbage of one form or another. My parents wanted to know if there was anything I wanted, so I told them: one thing, only one thing. I wanted my grandfather’s talent agency publicity photo from his time as a failed actor.
I liked Papa better than any of my other grandparents. I suspect he related better to kids than my other grandparents. We had/have similar personalities, too. We’re both dreamers and bullshit artists. We’re both forever imagining riches around the corner. For Papa, it was the breakout acting career, or the properties in Hesperia and Ontario, or (I discovered today, talking to my mother) investments in Long Beach oil. For me, it’s the breakout novel, the movie deal, or (when I’m feeling glum about the writing) a stroke of luck with the lottery.
Prevailing wisdom
I’ve decided the only way to ensure a windless day at the beach is to bring a kite.
Yes, we had another warm, clear weekend, so I convinced the boy that he needed to get some sunshine. Off with the shoes and socks, off with the tee shirts (we don’t get to do that very often around here), and into the water — knee-deep, anyway.
Here’s my flickr image for the week. The magic number is 4416:
World of Warcraft ate my family
World of Warcraft is the biggest MMORPG on the planet (MMORPG = massive multiplayer online roleplaying game). When we first bought into WoW, they had a population of one million. Eighteen months later, six million people participate in WoW.
We’re three of them.
I was the first addict, but after a while I realized I could either write a novel or spend half my life in a fantasy world. I put WoW aside, but soon after that, my son took up the battle. He became distracted by Warcraft’s other attractions — Warcraft Online, in particular — but this summer, he’s back in action with his undead warlock, Khufu.
I never thought Karen would go for this stuff. She hasn’t gamed since Civilization I; most computer games give her motion sickness. But now, she’s up to level 30 or 31 with her elf hunter Mygale. (Mygale = the genus name for one of her tarantulas, if I remember correctly.)
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. With these sleepless nights I’ve been having, there’s nothing much to do but take my troll rogue SheWitch around the Arathi Highlands, killing raptors, fleshstalkers, and a variety of elementals. I’m up to level 39 and I’m one mean bitch with a poisoned dagger.
WoW has spilled over into the real world, and vice versa. Search You Tube for “World of Warcraft” and you’ll find a wealth of videos (4,340) based on WoW’s pre-packaged animation* — WoW’s version of Too Sexy, for example, or the infamous show tune, The Internet is for Porn. In China, WoW is a big enough sensation that Coca Cola references it in their commercials. Folks have had their wedding ceremonies in WoW, and the WoW creators have honored the deaths of famous gamers with in-game tombs. Recently, an in-game funeral (for a guy who died in real life — just so we’re on the same page here) was raided by a rival faction, creating quite a controversy, since funeral attendees were all unarmed.
Like all good addicts, the three of us believe we are in control of our addiction. I’ll only play when I’m too tired to do anything else. Jake and Karen only play when our high speed internet connection is working and the house power isn’t out. We have limits.
Enough BS’ing. Time for me to do some real writing.
D.
*It’s considered a novel film genre, an emergent property of gaming known as “machinima“. Here, for example, is a machinima version of the famous courtroom scene from A Few Good Men. I think the Half Life 2 version of Tom Cruise is a better actor than the real thing, but that’s just me.
A 10-year-old’s ruminations on HEAs, apropos Wedding Crashers
I had meant to have this Smart Bitches Day post rarin’ to go for this morning, but one thing led to another, yatta yatta. Sorry, Miss Beth. Besides . . . Spartacus down there would have my nuts if I pushed him down the page any sooner than 6 PM.
Here’s Jake’s comment on romantic comedies (and, by extension, the entire romance genre): “It’s boring. You always know what’s going to happen in the end. Can’t someone die for a change?”
We’ll get back to that. First, I want to show you the best thing about Wedding Crashers:
Of kites and guilt and forty-four
Harris Beach is kind to 44-year-old men. On a warm, clear day like this, people of all ages strut their stuff, from the beer gut-wielding sixty-something men to the tattooed, lean, hard-bodied fifty-something women. A handful of lookers are out there, too, but unlike my native Southern California, the babes here aren’t waxed, perfect, or plentiful. I can gawk without becoming despondent. It’s a good show.