Balls and Walnuts
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Monthly Archives: September 2005
A Birthday Wish List: Part 3
This is it, folks. The home stretch. Soon, you will be privy to my most intimate hopes and dreams.
It’s still not too late to click over to Boing Boing, where you can treat your eyes to Flying Spaghetti Monsterotica. Hey, there’s a reason why Boing Boing is number one: they give you guys just what you want to see. In this case, a naked woman (I think) clothed only in Saran Wrap and spaghetti.
On the other hand, all I have to offer is the warped Woody Allen-meets-John Waters schtick that runs through my head. Here ya go.
#4: I want my body back!
A couple years ago, I decided that a man really ought to be able to see his penis when he goes pee. Is that so much to ask? At the urging of a doctor-friend, I plunged into the Atkin’s induction diet and discovered the wonders of bacon, eggs, cheese, and more bacon, with a few more eggs for good measure.
The weight came off, I had to buy a new wardrobe, but I still felt crappy. I had no energy. I felt like I had Crisco for blood. When I tried a more reasonable diet (South Beach), the weight came back, a pound a day. I realized there was nothing for it: I needed to add some carbs back to my diet, but the only way I could do that was to exercise.
I used to laugh at my hospital colleagues whenever they’d been injured biking or doing something else vaguely athletic. “No one ever broke or sprained anything sitting on their couch,” I’d say. That’s how much I hated exercise — I made lame jokes to excuse my torpor. But a year ago, desperate to feel like a normal human being again, I joined a gym.
I surprised myself by sticking with it. And, you know, I found out something surprising: I’m a mesomorph. I put on muscle with relative ease.
I began to look pretty damned buff.
Then, about a month ago, my gym closed. Just for a few days, the manager said. We have to bring the plumbing up to code. Four weeks later, they’re still closed.
And now, damn it, I can’t pass the pinch test.
What I dream of:
Looking like this again.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Avoiding a return to my fat clothes’ drawer.
#3: I am such a whore for brains, beauty, and fame.
It’s true. If a woman has all three, I’m lost. There was a time, a very brief time, oh, for maybe a few months after I saw Beetlejuice, when Winona Ryder did it for me. The fact that she was tribe, well, that only added spice (Winona Laura Horowitz — you figure it out). But then she got all klepto for Dolce & Gabbana black leather purses and Gucci dresses, and, you know, I’ve never looked at her the same way. (Click the link to find out what else Winona had in her trench coat!)
I mean, she might be able to play smart women for the movies, but how smart is she really?
Y’all know about my jones for Olivia Hussey and Jacqueline Kim, but honestly, I don’t know much about either woman. Not in the brains department, anyway. On the other hand, 10,000 Maniacs’ Natalie Merchant has it all, and damned if she doesn’t choke me up whenever I see her on TV. Now, if only she would jam with Trent Reznor, I’d be in heaven.
Ah, well. I can only pick one perfect dame for this particular birthday wish, so I’m gonna choose Cintra Wilson.
If any of you aren’t familiar with Ms. Wilson, you might begin by checking out Bookslut’s interview with her. Karen and I own both of Ms. Wilson’s books, and we read her weekly column in the Bay Area’s Freep, The Wave. (Note: to read Cintra’s column, The Dregulator, online, you’ll need to download the pdf — see link in upper lefthand corner of The Wave’s home page. It’s worth it. You’ll get to see Cintra’s newest photo, Cintra in dark lipstick, gggrrrahghglllrlll.)
Not only is she beautiful, but she looks like a different beautiful woman in every photo she takes. Don’t you see? She’s a one-woman harem! And oooh, is she ever smart. I especially loved her snark on the Bush Campaign in the last election, saying that Bush’s only plank was “the strengthiness of strengthy strength.”
Arguably, Cintra’s master work is her collection of essays (A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Re-examined as a Grotesque Crippling Disease, and other cultural revelations). Here’s a quote from her rant on Los Angeles, which is sort of a latter day nonfiction version of what Nathanael West had percolating in his brain when he wrote The Day of the Locust:
“L.A. is the place where Satan squats with an enormous ladle and dips deeply into his black cavity to extract huge soiled wads of cash, which he then pitches at the heads of the inhabitants below with such speed and force that they are rendered first unconscious, then punchy and depressed. This affliction causes them to overfeed the Dark Lord a-more with their incessant compromises in the workplace, and He devours and digests their creepy and self-negating decisions by day, and befouls them anew with the sooty issue of their moral failures each evening.”
Karen and I chortled when, in the middle of Terminator II, the Wrath of Schwarzenegger, Linda Hamilton‘s character dreamed of a Los Angeles devastated by nuclear holocaust. (And, yeah, a lot of folks in the theater just sorta stared at us.) So you know where we stand with respect to Cintra Wilson’s take on L.A.
(Hmm. I wonder, though, if there’s a neutron bomb which would leave Sahag’s Basturma Sandwich Shop and all the great Chinese restaurants and sushi bars untouched.)
What I dream of:
An evening of dinner, dancing, and sparkling conversation with Ms. Wilson. We have one of those nights where we are both on, you know what I mean? We play off each other, our comic riffs building to feverishly trenchant heights.
Afterwards, she touches me on the hand — a light touch, but a lingering one — and says, “Call me, any time,” and with her lusciously dark mouth gives me a chaste but emotion-packed kiss full on the lips.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
I bought Karen some Max Factor “Black Cherry Truffle” lipstick. I have a well developed imagination.
#2: A night of male bonding.
Just so you know I’m not a total cooch hound, there are some guys out there I’d like to know better. I suspect Dr. Otter is a great guy, and probably has a few stories to tell, and if DHH doesn’t want me, I might as well experience things vicariously through Doc Ott. I’m also intrigued by guys that seem quick-witted and brainy, like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann, and it would be a blast if I could pal around with some of my favorite directors, like John Carpenter, Sam Raimi, Tim Burton, or David Cronenberg.
But if I had to pick one all-around great guy to bar-hop with, it would have to be Bruce Campbell.
I know him and love him from the Evil Dead movies, especially Army of Darkness, but Bruce has also had great bit rolls (from The Hudsucker Proxy to both Spiderman movies) and, hey, I happened to like him as an obese, elderly Elvis in Bubba Ho-tep. But there are two things you need to know about Bruce: he answers emails from his fans, and he has a heckuva writer’s brain, too.
We’ve bought both of Bruce Campbell’s books, Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way and If Chins Could Kill. The first is sort of a blustering guy version of Carrie Fisher’s Postcards from the Edge, in style, if not in content. The second is Bruce’s memoir. Karen and I just got it from Barnes & Noble, and it’s a fine read.
What I dream of:
Carousing Hollywood with Bruce Campbell, getting only drunk enough to enjoy myself, but not so drunk that I can’t remember every moment until I’m too old to care.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Watching Army of Darkness for the umpteenth time.
And . . . drumroll . . . my number one birthday wish (you knew it had to be about sex, didn’t you?) . . .
#1: An evening of exquisite torment at the hands (and whips) of Lydia McLane.
She’s bad. She’s beautiful. Performance artist and model Lydia McLane has been my wicked dreamgirl ever since her centerfold for City Slab (Volume 1, Issue 4: buy it!), wherein she wore nothing but a pair of devilish horns. Subscribe to The Slab and you’ll be treated with loads of Lydia, frequently in nasty vicious mean dominatrix garb, and not much of it.
(By the way: those of you who follow my Tangent Reviews know I loves my City Slab. Urban horror at its finest.)
Lest you think I’m some sort of shallow, testosterone-hypercharged vehicle for balls, I’ll have you know that Lydia is one smart cookie. From her website bio:
“Lydia is currently a student working towards her Masters of Clinical Psychology and is employed part-time with an agency that specializes in chronically mentally ill individuals. She is a trained Hospice volunteer. Lydia enjoys literature, Opera, all animals, live music, dancing, and other life enriching activities.”
See? She likes chronically mentally ill individuals and all animals. Lydia, I’m yours.
What I dream of:
Lydia, make me your bitch!
What I’ll be satisfied with:
How do you like the new outfit I bought Karen?
Don’t forget the spiked heels, Karen.
D.
Musharraf Sucking Up to Pakistani Fundamentalists
The unelected leader (i.e. dictator) of Pakistan, Gen. Pervez Musharraf, recently came out with a statement that denigrates the rights of women. He’s playing the “blame the female rape victim” game for the religious fundamentalists.
I find it very suspicious that Musharraf suddenly spews out a statement like that. Why should Musharraf suddenly throw a bone to Islamic fundamentalists with close ties to the Taliban? Granted, the fundamentalists are a very large and powerful group in Pakistan but why suck up to them at this particular time? I think he’s getting nervous and he’s not the only one making suspicious statements.
Hamid Karzai, the president of Afghanistan, is trying to act like some type of Afghani patriot and whining about U.S. airstrikes and other abuses to civilians. Funny, it didn’t seem to bother him before (snark).
The Iraq War continues to deteriorate for the U.S. military and the public wants to withdraw troops. How long can the U.S. occupy Iraq and Afghanistan? If Bush cannot have both, he’ll stay with the oil in Iraq. At least, he’ll try. But, how much does he really care about Afghanistan?
Karzai has good reason to be nervous given the fate of the last puppet ruler of Afghanistan, Mohammad Najibullah, in 1996. Click here if you want to see a gory picture. The Taliban dragged him out of a UN compound and hanged him from a street light. Recently, news reports state Iraqi insurgents have exported their guerrilla tactics and munitions to the Taliban. Thus, the Taliban have strong international support from the Middle East and from Pakistani religious fundamentalists. Granted, the recent elections seem to encourage Karzai’s government and the Taliban are not the most popular group in the world, but historically, Afghanis hate foreign invaders. They’ve hated them for at least 2500 years and I don’t think that will change in the near future.
If we pull out of Afghanistan, will we keep throwing $billions to Pakistan and Musharraf? Can we even afford to keep on throwing money around with a massive budget deficit?
The Iraqi insurgents will continue to support the Taliban and teach them urban guerrilla warfare. That must be making Karzai nervous. Will the Taliban teach these techniques to an insurgency in Pakistan? Is that making Musharraf nervous?
A Birthday Wish List: Part 2
#7: A wish-fulfillment fantasy.
Sometimes, bad things happen to bad people, and the spirit of Schadenfreude takes hold. Like the feeling you get when that jerk in the Trans Am who cut you off three minutes ago gets pulled over for speeding, you know?
When we were kids, my brother and sister had this odd habit. If my brother got punished, my sister would rub her hand over her breastbone and say, “Aaaaaah.” She pronounced it with a guttural flare, as if the sound came from deep within her viscera. If my sister got punished, my brother would return the favor. Since I had a cast iron ass, they got little satisfaction in seeing me punished, and any “Aaaahing” from them would be met by my laughter.
It seems to me that as adults, we get to say “Aaaaaah” far too infrequently. What better birthday present could there be than to see a rich and powerful hypocrite brought low?
What I dream of:
George Bush caught on tape telling us what he really thinks about the displaced poor of New Orleans.
Pat Robertson indicted on child pornography charges.
One day, at a press conference, White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan says, “You know, folks? This is all bullshit — I mean, I could tell you stories that would knock your socks off. Aw, hell. No time like the present.”
Rush Limbaugh . . . wait. He’s already shot himself in the foot so many times, what else could happen to the guy?
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Photoshopping rude images of Ann Coulter.
#6: The perfect father for just one day.
Remember the sitcoms of the 1960s? In Father Knows Best, Jim Anderson was, like a modern day Odysseus, never at a loss. No matter what you threw at the guy, he handled it with sensitivity and style. Princess having boy trouble with those creeps from the local frat? Jim would bust a cap in their ass and dance a jig on their graves. Kitten having menstrual cramps? Jim would give her a few tokes from his pipe and teach her the secrets of Far Eastern meditation. Bud busted for having the neighborhood’s first methamphetamine lab? Jim would post bail and buy his son a trampoline so that the boy can channel his energy more constructively.
I want to be that kind of dad, if only for a day.
You know. The kind that never raises his voice, solves every problem, and finds himself at the center of every group hug.
What I dream of:
A day wherein I’m the perfect father to my son.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Not raising my voice above 80 decibels, and not making the kid cry.
#5: The great discovery!
As a kid, I used to fantasize about black ops agents coming to my school and spiriting me away from my classmates. “You’re far too important to our nation’s security to waste your time here,” one would say. Then the other would chime in: “We need a four-foot-tall boy genius to man our special space ship. This craft will make you the master of space and time. Do you think you can handle it?”
And I’d think: Can I handle it? Fuck yeah!
Only I wouldn’t have used the F-bomb back in elementary school. I’d heard it once or twice, soon learned it wasn’t in the dictionary, and was the only word guaranteed to put my mother in shock. Oddly enough, the word “frig” seemed to have the same effect, even though I was certain I’d made it up. Guess not.
Nowadays, I don’t particularly care to be the master of all time and space. As I learned in high school from watching the movie Laserblast, absolute power corrupts absolutely. I’m already a corrupt son of a bitch.
No, I’d be content if someone else discovered me.
What I dream of:
Some big agent, say Neil Gaiman‘s agent Merrilee Heifetz, finds my blog and sends me an email dripping with praise and wishful solicitations. Then comes The Phone Call (cue Scarlet O’Hara’s vocal inflections): “Oh, Dr. Hoffman, Ah am evah so hopeful that you are unrepresented, because it would be mah honah and privilege to be your agent.”
Don’t know if Ms. Heifetz has a Southern accent — actually, I kind of doubt it — but that’s part of the fantasy. I’m sure she’d oblige.
What I’ll be satisfied with:
Getting my damned sitemeter to top 100 for the day. Where the hell do you people go on the weekend? Don’t tell me you have lives.
D.
A Birthday Wish List: Part 1
Whenever my birthday draws near, I get contemplative. I like to think about what I’ve done with my life and what I still want to do. At the risk of being a downer, what if this next year is my last? What can I do in the next few months that will make my life more complete — or, for that matter, make a difference in the lives of the folks around me?
In some respects, this comes down to a list of wishes and unfulfilled dreams. While I believe we should all strive to fulfill our dreams, I’m also a realist. Sometimes our dreams are self-destructive or hurtful to the ones we love. Sometimes they’re damned expensive. Thus, we must temper our dreams with a dose of good old-fashioned common sense and practicality.
It is in this spirit that I tender for your consideration the first installment of my 44th Birthday Wish List.
#10: A Good Massage.
I hope you’re paying attention, Michelle, cuz I bet you give a damned good massage. And, no, I am not talking about ‘sensual massage.’ Once, when we were visiting Karen’s parents in Los Altos, I went to a local masseuse whose name I pulled from a phone book. I’m a shiatsu fan, so I picked a Japanese name out of The Book and crossed my fingers.
So, what do I get? Some old gal whose idea of massage is running her fingernails up and down the insides of my thighs. I wanted to tell her, Lady, if you’re trying to give me wood, get your granddaughter in here to take over, ‘kay? Instead, I suffered in silence and payed my $$, because I’m still self-hating enough to figure a woman deserves that kind of money just for touching my naked body.
As for my wife, any day now I expect her to kill me for the insurance money. And you know? She’ll deserve it, too.
What I dream of: a half hour in a hot tub followed by a skillful two hour massage.
What I’ll be satisfied with: if I rub my back with chicken fat, our cats will walk all over me and give me a good licking.
#9: Dinner at Hoppe’s.
Picture this: it’s 1996. Jake is eight months old and he has already hit the terrible twos. I’ve just finished my remedial year *cough cough* my year as faculty at USC, and I have some down time before San Antonio expects me to show up and, um, be a doctor or something.
Karen and I decide to have one last fling on the California Coast (thank heavens we were wrong about that!) so we drive up north with our screaming, why can’t you understand I am the alpha and the omega, eight-month-old son. We have clams and lobster at a superb seafood joint on the Ventura Pier — which, sadly, has since washed away — and great grub at The Palace Cafe in Santa Barbara. Onward up the coast, until at last we come to Cambria, Morro Bay, and Cayucos.
We have a price fixe dinner at Hoppe’s in Morro Bay. Jake is in fine form; the only thing that will quiet him is constant stroller-strolling. Karen and I take turns eating and pram-pushing, and we both manage to eat a dinner that’s not quite hot and not quite cold.
Guess what? Even given those less than ideal circumstances, we agree to this day that our dinner at Hoppe’s was the best eats we’ve ever had, ever. Perfect food, from the salad to the vegetable garnish.
What I dream of: a quiet, romantic dinner with Karen at Hoppe’s. Jake can eat a burrito.
What I’ll be satisfied with: we had not-half-bad sushi tonight at the NWTEC Internet Cafe.
#8: The best birthday cake in the whole, wide world.
Which requires, natch, a Tahitian virgin.
What I’ll be satisfied with: a forkful of Bailey’s Irish Cream cheesecake from the NWTEC Internet Cafe.
D.
How weird is this?
Thanks to Rae for giving me this sugar load for the morning. Strange thing is (as Debi and Maureen know, but I’m not sure about the rest of y’all), my novel is all about oversized, too-intelligent-for-their-own-good parakeets. With, um, arms and hands instead of wings. Anyway . . .
This popular bird is kept as a pet in homes all over the world. Originating from Australia, parakeets like warm weather and lots of seeds and fruit. They are also known for being messy and quite loud! But you cannot look at one without falling in love.
You were almost a: Monkey or a Kitten
You are least like a: Turtle or a DucklingTake the Cute Animal Test!
Guess that character
Who Am I?Thanks to my powerful daddy, I found me a cushy spot in the American National Guard. Before long, I held a position of considerable rank and authority. Many fine young soldiers depended upon me for their lives. They died, but that wasn’t my fault. Nothing is ever my fault.
Hard liquor and me, we go way back. Some folks think you can’t find courage in a bottle, but I say, courage is as courage does. One man’s cowardice is another man’s good judgment. Besides, a stiff drink never hurt no one. Thing is, you can’t get yourself excited, and you can’t go losing your head while others about you are losing theirs.
All I ever wanted was to make Daddy proud. Make him see what a man I was. In the end, I’ll show him. One way or another, I’ll show him.
Give up?
Props to The News Blog for mentioning the movie Attack! a few days ago. Karen and I were sufficiently intrigued by the premise that we bought the DVD from Barnes & Noble.
Here’s the scoop. Eddie Albert plays the villain, Captain Erskine Cooney. Towards the end of WWII, Cooney is given command of a National Guard Infantry Company. He receives this command because he’s good at sucking up to positions in authority — networking in as sleazy a manner as possible — and his father is a judge. Lieutenant Costa (Jack Palance) sees Cooney for what he is, a coward unfit for command.
Through his cowardice, Cooney gets a squad killed. Costa vows revenge if Cooney ever screws up like that again. I think you can guess the rest.
Attack! (1956) has a modern sensibility. The film openly condones the idea of killing a commanding officer who is a danger to the soldiers under his command. The ending has a touch of the moralistic, but there’s also a strong (and cynical) hint of politics-as-usual.
Despite a strong cast (featuring not just Albert and Palance, but Lee Marvin, Richard Jaeckel, and Buddy Ebsen), it was a low budget film and lacked the usual Hollywood sensibilities as regards rah-rah WWII war movies. According to IMDB, the US military wanted nothing to do with the film and did nothing to lend support. Congressman Melvin Price criticized the military, labeling their disinterest “a shameful attempt at censorship.” The filmmakers capitalized on this, plastering their movie posters with, “Is this the most controversial picture of the year?” They grossed $2 million — not a bad haul.
You won’t find this one at Blockbuster, and I doubt you’ll ever see it on TV. Netflix has it. Rent it. You’ll be treated with top notch performances from Eddie Albert, Jack Palance, and Lee Marvin. And the sleeper hero of this pic is one William Smithers. No, not Mr. Burns’ sycophantic employee. (Remember Captain Merick on the old Star Trek? The episode about ancient Rome? Kirk and Spock as gladiators? Am I the only science fiction geek left on this blog?)
D.
What’s your perversion?
Know what’s really weird? Karen and I have the exact same perversion:
You sick bastard….but it’s soooo good.
What’s your sexual perversion?
Created by ptocheia
D.
Why I need to read Monica Jackson’s blog more often
Okay, I’m a day late with this one. Sue me.
Check out Monica’s Creative Ho Linkage. Cooch paintings, ‘pop star or porn star’, and more.
On ‘pop star or porn star’, I scored 90%. See if you can beat me.
D.