Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: June 2005
September 13, 1975
My son and I went up to our house in Harbor today (the one that is unlivable, since we’re mid-remodel) because Jake was jonesing for his old Battlebots videotapes. This meant we had to dig through every last dusty box labeled ‘Jake’s Toys’ until at last we found the one with his videotapes; of course, his Battlebots tapes were at the bottom.
I took the opportunity to pick up my old diaries. Because it’s funny (funny in an I’ll never be able to show myself in cyberspace again kinda way), here’s the first page of the first volume, reprinted as is.
DATA: BOUGHT SATURDAY, SEP. 13, 1975 52 CENTS
VOLUME I. First Quarter, First Semester, 9th Grade.
Sept. 13:
I bought this notebook with the grand hope of keeping a day-by-day account of my high school years, and perhaps college as well. I admit that I have future fame in mind which will make these ‘diaries’ valuable, but the reason that I prefer is that I can show this to my kid(s).
But first, a brief autobiography. I was born ***, in the Pasadena Hospital. I won’t give any crap about my family because I don’t think I’ll forget that too fast. I went to the Emperor Elementary School in which my favorite teacher was Don Agatep, who taught science. Then I went to Oak Avenue Junior High in which my favorite teacher was Bud Camfield, who taught Social Studies. Throughout Oak I maintained a 4.0 grade average academically. I am about to attend Temple City High School.
That, I hope, will be the only line of crap in this whole bit. Why do I say that? Because I feel that such an oration is insincere, and thus crap.
***
What strikes me the most is how different I am now. For example, nowadays, I’m much less egocentric and fame-obsessed. By the way, it has come to my attention that some of you have yet to vote on my blog. Just look at the colorful gizmo on the right margin (Rate me on BlogHop.com!) The green square with the smiley face is the correct button to press. Once I get 15 votes, BlogHop will give my site exposure on their home page, assuming you all have clicked on the correct square. That’s the far left square, the green one with the smiley face. Click on it. Click now. I’ll still be here when you get back. And get all your friends to click, too. Clicking is fun.
Thank you. Old timers here will recall that this blog is an integral part of my plan to rule the world. Don’t make me pull out my matzoh square with the Virgin Mary on it. I’ll do it, too.
D.
*** Partly, I’m paranoid over identity theft; partly, I wanted to steal Steve Martin’s line: I was born the child of poor black sharecroppers . . .
I think I can, I think I can
I had a student dream last night. You know the one: you’re late for the final, can’t remember where it was supposed to be held, forgot to cram for it anyway, and when you finally get there you’re naked, the proctor is your great aunt Helen in a black corset (with red trim), and she intends to punish you severely, young man if you haven’t brought three sharpened #2 pencils —
Well, maybe not that dream.
My all-time favorite student dream: after racing around trying to find the final, I get there an hour late. The first question is
1. Tamarind is to homily as espresso is to
A) 2.01
B) 5,134
C) 0
D) pi
E) all of the above
and the rest of the questions make no sense at all.
If I remember my Freudian bullshit correctly, and I doubt that I do, student dreams are an indicator of performance anxiety. So here’s my analysis. Karen isn’t getting pregnant any time soon. I’ve already done my tough surgical cases for the week. The only ‘performance’ I have to be anxious about is my novel.
Tomorrow, I start righting my second-to-the-last chapter. You need a sense of scale. This mother is going to be at least 270,000 words when it is finished. I have five major POV (point of view — although I think most of you out there are either writers or writer-wannabes like me, and knew that already) characters, three almost-major POV characters, and two characters who are important enough to require a bit of time in the big climax. I’m wrapping up a trilogy. This is my Battle for Gondor (if I’m mangling that, forgive me; I like Lord of the Rings, but I’m not a big enough fanboy to remember the details).
So far, I have thirteen scenes mapped out. It’ll have to be twelve or fourteen, since I’m superstitious about thirteen*. After I finish a-bloggin’, I’ll reread all my notes and do what I always do before starting a new chapter — I’ll sleep on it. Here’s hoping I’ll have better dreams tonight.
D.
*I dated a girl in college who wore a gold necklace — a ’13’ — her grandmother had given her. Gran was a Northern Italian witch, Carmela told me, and the villagers burned her workbook after she died. Carmela had recurring dreams that she was a young virgin living in ancient Greece. The girl in the dream aged along with real-time Carmela.
My Catholic almost-girlfriend Carmela told me (repeatedly) that her father would kill her if she got pregnant. She left to my imagination what he would do to me. How Carmela would get pregnant is still something of a Catholic mystery to me, since we never even kissed.
We didn’t last long. Nevertheless, I think of her fondly.
So how’s this for brilliant?
A moment ago, I installed the ‘blog hop’ rating gizmo. It’s over on the right margin, just below the links to other blogs. I clicked randomly on it to see if it worked, and what do I do? I give myself a ‘This blog sucks’ rating. Now my GPA anxiety is kicking in.
D.
Violet survived her squeezing
If you were to ask me, “How could anyone hope to improve on Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”, I wouldn’t say, “Have Tim Burton direct the remake.” But hey, that’s a great idea. I’m a Tim Burton fan, although I must say his latter day movies have never quite matched the promise of Frankenweenie. And I wouldn’t say, “Cast Johnny Depp in the role of Willy Wonka,” even though that’s a great idea, too. I remember Depp from his 21 Jump Street days. He was just another pretty face. Who ever thought he had an edge? And yet, unlike wussie twenty-somethings like Matt Damon or Josh Hartnett, Depp has consistently chosen meaty (and dangerous) roles. To name a few: Dead Man; The Ninth Gate; Once Upon a Time in Mexico. (And then there’s Pirates of the Caribbean, proof that no one bats a thousand.)
No: I would say, “Kill off all the Oompa-Loompas.”
Me hates the Oompa-Loompas. There’s something deeply offensive about beating the viewer about the head and shoulders with a message, any message. Guess director Mel Stuart felt it essential that every last two-year-old get it.
But on to the point of today’s blog: where are they now? I am happy to report than none of the Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory kids ended badly. Hey, not all child stars follow the same paths as Danny Bonaduce, Dana Plato, or Todd Bridges. Take me, for example —
Oh. That’s another story.
Here’s the run-down.
Michael Bollner (Augustus Gloop) is a tax accountant in Munich.
Paris Themmen (Mike Teevee) works as a business manager for Disney. He had an uncredited roll in The Big Lebowski.
Denise Nickerson (Violet Beauregarde) gave up acting in 1978 and became a nurse. Her acting career is also notable for her involvement in a musical production of Nabokov’s Lolita.
Julie Dawn Cole (Veruca ‘I want it NOW’ Salt) is the only one of the five who is still in the biz. Julie is my personal favorite. A quick IMDB run reveals she has been very busy in the TV world.
And (drum roll) . . .
Peter Ostrum (Chuckie himself) is a farm animal vet in Upstate New York. Here’s his full story.
Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory opens this July. Yippee!
D.
Because Maureen asked for really bad angst-ridden poetry
I’ve decided I would make one rippingly good homosexual. I’m obsessed with my body; I cook like there’s no tomorrow; I cry at the end of every episode of Dead Like Me; I think Winona Ryder is hot. (Wait. No. That would make me a lesbian.) My high school girlfriend once called me ‘one of the girls’ and, now that I think about it, she’s never taken it back.
There’s just that one picky little detail. You know, the one about having sex with men. Like, eeee-ew. Is that strictly necessary?
Anyway, for Maureen, I’ve posted a poem today. Read it and see if you don’t agree that I am a total bitch. Here’s the set-up:
Third year of med school: that’s when it starts to get tough. You take call with the big boys and girls; you’re actually expected to do some thinking on your own; the hours are long and you’re beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, this isn’t all a big mistake. Unfortunately, you get used to it, and learn to ignore that inner voice.
Bad turned to worse when our med school newspaper began running whiffy poetry written by a sensitive, angst-riddled soul* who regularly opened a vein for our benefit. His metier: the cryptic rhyme scheme, the mangled metaphor, the trite simile, the archaic contraction. His chief gripe: not being able to spend enough quality time with his loved ones.
Perhaps I should have been more sympathetic. Instead, I decided to shut him down.
I was a Teenage Angstwolf
Mistah Donahue — he dead.
Oh faithful collie at my feet
Do not ask me why I weep
For I might tell you, and you must sleep;
Sometimes it hurts to feel so deep.
Spring is the cruellest month, sigh;
Winds whisper the throbbing question, why
The swollen hopes of huddled masses,
Hardened hearts, and real tough classes.
In a dream, I asked the Deity why
She told me
“Everything I tell you is a lie
Including this.”
Her saffron robes were the color
Of Existential Panic.
A toast to my colleagues, Sturm und Drang,
Angst and Ennui, that noble gang
Though only geists, their spirits sang,
They never forgot for whom the tolled bell rang.
(Bonus points if you can name the kid.)
Post script: my poem worked. Mr. Sensitive’s Rod McKuen-aspirin’ days were over.
Next up on the book review list: an oldie but (if the first two chapters are any indication) a goodie. Hint: Nebula Award Winner; chief influences, Carlos Castaneda & Joseph Conrad. Pat, no fair guessing, since you recommended this one to me.
*I forget his name, but he’s undoubtedly one of those HMO docs who is on the phone all day telling other docs how to practice shitty medicine, then goes home and whines to his family about how rough his life is.