Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: October 2005
IIPM sends chill through bedrooms everywhere
When the Indian Institute for Planning and Management gets tired of planning and managing, they indulge in their other great mission: harrassing bloggers worldwide.
It ain’t easy being IIPM.
(A note to my regular readers: yes, this is partly a whoring operation, but it’s also great fun to see if I can string all the Technorati top items together into a coherent tale. Try it sometime.)
“IIPM,” she said.
Damn. Helluva way to start the day; my wife was speaking in tongues again. Ever since she visited that locked library at Miskatonic University, it’s been one thing after another. If she’s not channeling Paul Krugman, she’s foaming at the mouth like a yahoo podcast.
It isn’t even limited to her speech centers. This demon can change Karen’s appearance, too. Yesterday, I watched in horror as the words kenyee and serenity etched themselves on her stomach in fiery red Helvetica font. Today, I woke up to someone who looked like a cross between John Tierney and Karl Rove. Imagine my consternation when I went to nuzzle against her now unusually bristly cheek.
It ain’t right. It just ain’t right.
I consulted an exorcist, and he told me what I had to do: capture a flock of mallards and sacrifice them to the earthquake god. What a quack! So I looked up some information on my Web 2.0 platform and figured it all out. Damn. It was so obvious all along.
She needed her coffee.
My John Tierney–Karl Rove hybrid of a wife guzzled down her Kona, the excess flesh melted away, and my beloved was back once again.
D.
Cal-Stanford Big Game, 1982
November 20, 1982: After racing through a sea of red (the Stanford band), Kevin Moen carries the ball into the end zone, making it Cal 25, Stanford 20.
I listened to this on the radio. I don’t even like football, and my heart was in my mouth. Good God. The Stanford band lost them the game!
You can watch the video here, and you can read the transcript of Joe Starkey’s play by play here. Tell me if you don’t feel at least a bit of schadenfreude, thinking about what the team did to the band members after the game. Blow me a tune through that hole, trombonist.
Now meet the Republican party’s version of the Stanford band.
Evangelist James C. Dobson recently opened his trap on the subject of George W. Bush’s Supreme Court nominee, Harriet E. Miers. From the New York Times story:
On his radio program last Wednesday, Mr. Dobson said, “When you know some of the things that I know – that I probably shouldn’t know – you will understand why I have said, with fear and trepidation, that I believe Harriet Miers will be a good justice.”
Seems Karl Rove has been whispering sweet nothings in Jimmy’s ear. Seems certain Senators, certain powerful Republican Senators like Arlen Specter, ain’t too keen on Amrrrka becoming a theocracy. Seems Jimmy D. might jes have to testify before a whole passel o’ angry Congressmen on this one.
Seems Jimmy D. done run out on the field before the game was up, shore ’nuff.
You can read the New York Times story here.
D.
Psilicious
The Society by Lilith Saintcrow
It’s tough as walnut shells being tall and well muscled, a rugged Charles Bronson kinda guy, only good-looking, too, a frigid burnt-out sorta handsome like Kurt Russell circa Soldier; yeah, it isn’t easy living with killer instincts strung violin-wire tight, psi powers so potent even your best buds cringe when you look their way because you could squash their brains like overripe grapes as soon as share a beer with them. But enough about me.
Justin Delgado is like that, too. Justin and me, we go way back. In kindergarten, we used to pit our mental powers against each other while the other pishers were racing Hot Wheels. Justin would make a June bug explode, then I’d send a few dozen bees screaming down on Mrs. Ehrenreich’s purple hair. We were bad kids.
High school happened. Justin had a thing for icy blondes, while I had a thing for any girl who had a thing for me. He claimed he didn’t use his power to score the babes, but I know better. Back then, you had to be all sensitive to get a prom date, but sensitivity wasn’t Justin’s strong suit. You can’t tell me Justin didn’t do a little pushing.
After high school, Justin seemed to disappear. I’d have never found out what happened to him if it hadn’t been for Lilith Saintcrow’s book, The Society. Justin got picked up by Sigma — that’s our benevolent government’s psi black-ops unit. They hooked him on Zed and turned him into a killer. I told him he shoulda come with me to Vegas.
The Society, they’re the good guys. They ‘extracted’ Justin, kept him safe while he kicked his Zed jones. Eventually, he became their ichiban, their top dude, their Neo. If you got a psi-gifted novice at risk of a Sigma pickup, Justin’s your man. And he would’ve gone on being their primo bitchenest operative if it hadn’t been for Rowan Price.
Rowan, she has it all. Psi powers right off the charts, makes all the little red bulbs go pop! She’s a leggy blonde and she touches Justin in ways he desperately needs. The healing touch — but, yeah, there’s a bit o’ the nasty there, too. Justin snapped her up right under Sigma’s nose, but the extraction was messy. Now she’s damaged goods, an emotional train wreck, a kid with way too many ghosts — exactly like Justin.
Can Justin be an effective Sigma-killing machine with nothing but Rowan on his mind? Cuz damn, he’s hooked on her worse than Zed. Will Justin and Rowan heal each other? Will they commingle their psyches as well as their bodily fluids?
Maybe, maybe not. Never mind true love’s irresistible attraction; with Sigma hot on their trail and suspicious goings-on in the heart of the Society, it would be a miracle if they managed to stay alive.
Am I playing coy? Sure I am. I know what happens to these two lovebirds. I read the book. And you should, too, if you want to know how Justin and Rowan make out. I ain’t spoilin’ it for you.
D.
It’s a BIG ad
Here’s a video clip of an Australian beer ad.
It’s a big file, so consider yourselves warned. Also, you’ll be humming the tune all day.
D.
Chicken Run, with rabbits
I had hopes of going to Medford this weekend. That’s the big city in this neck of the woods. My jejunum had other plans, so instead of Medford we went to see Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.
For those of you not familiar with Aardman’s lovable characters, Wallace is a cheese-loving inventor and Gromit is his dog. Gromit doesn’t talk (I mean, what could be more ridiculous than a talking dog!) but he likes to knit, drives a mean getaway car, and generally keeps Wallace out of trouble.
Wallace and Gromit are in business. Their company, Anti-Pesto, captures the pesky rabbits plaguing local vegetable gardeners. They trap the bunnies humanely, then keep them in their basement, cozy, dry, and well fed. This appeals to the villagers — we all know how wonky the British get when it comes to small furry things.
Wallace comes up with an invention which will brainwash rabbits into no longer liking vegetables. Things Happen, and before long a giant were-rabbit terrorizes the countryside.
I’d tell you more, except I dozed through most of the movie. I think it was good. Jake laughed a lot, and Karen says it was better than Chicken Run. Me dozing had more to do with being under the weather & the cat waking me up at 6 AM than anything else.
Karen and I love anything Aardman produces. The first thing we ever saw from them was a short entitled Creature Comforts. Apparently, they made a TV series based on Creature Comforts, which leads me to ask: why the hell isn’t it on MY television? I want my Creature Comforts!
Feeling this crappy (hah! Get it? Crappy!) you’d think I wouldn’t get anything done on the manuscript, but you’d be wrong. Editing requires only that I sit in a chair, read, and type. I can do that. I’m also hoping to finish Lilith’s novel The Society tonight so that I can have an appropriate post for Smart Bitches Day. Lilith, please don’t be mad that I mentioned your book in the same paragraph as the word ‘crappy’.
D.
Editing update
Like my pal Michelle, I’m editing my fat mothah manuscript. I punched it in earnest this morning and revamped the prologue, turning it into chapter one. This involved selecting the word “Prologue”, deleting it, and typing “ONE”. Aah. The feeling of accomplishment.
But seriously, folks. I can’t dredge much humor out of the editing process, so I’d rather not post on it too frequently. Here’s the plan. I’ll put up a ditsy graphic on my right sidebar, and I’ll post the stats in this entry, which I will update as needed. Aforementioned ditsy graphic shall be linked to this post.
Debi, you’re probably the only one who gives a damn about this, since you’re fool enough to want to read TBC a second time.
One other thing. I’m still feeling a bit shaky on this prologue — erm, Chapter One. If there are any TBC virgins out there who would like to read a 4600 word first chapter and give me feedback, email me privately. Let me know what file types you can read. (I don’t need a line crit. A simple “this works for me, this doesn’t” will do.)
10/16/05: Slow-going. I’ve been working over Chapter One, trying to get it just right. Many thanks to those of you who sent me your comments on this chapter; I think I’ve incorporated a great deal of those suggestions.
10/22/05: I finished Chapters Four and Five, which includes Bare Rump’s first POV chapter. She’s such a wonderful character.
10/23/05: I finished Chapters Six and Seven. Looking gloomily forward to next weekend, when we move back into our Harbor house. I doubt I’ll have much chance to edit during the move.
D.
Your Joe Dirt fix for the weekend
I’m under the weather this weekend, thanks to dysentery*. No, I didn’t eat food sold out of the back-end of a trailer, but I am reappraising the infamous “three-second rule” as regards food that falls on my kitchen floor. Next time, if the cat wants the scraps that much, she can have ’em.
Long and short of it is, you’re getting the short of it. No tomes from yours truly, but if I can’t make you laugh, I’ll lead you to someone who can.
My brother Jake holds the park record. He once jumped over 7 trailers.
Jake crashes a lot and talks real slow now. The doctor told him to wear a helmet.
Check out Averell’s Home Page. Is it PC? Hell no. In fact, I’m sure that once I’m back in my usual state of health, I’ll regret ever posting this link.
D.
*Only a mild exaggeration.
Will write Romance for beer $$. Pleeze help.
Another winner from the Maureen Archives:
Somehow, this does not remind me of boobage.
D.
For the fingerless bulimics out there
Props to Maureen for this delightful image. I think I’ll be able to skip that second chocolate chip cookie now.
D.
A blog meme with fangs
Candy, my second favorite smart bitch (sorry, Candy, but my wife takes the cake on this one), has tagged me with a blog meme. Here are the rules:
1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas…
5. Tag five people to do the same.
My twenty-third blog, “And you thought Metallica was a head-banger band“, concerned the history of the tarantula Poechilotheria metallica. (Beth alert! Don’t click that link!) Here’s the fifth sentence:
A bloke named Hendriks braved Bengal tigers, heavily armed Indian outlaws, and worst of all, the Indian Customs Export Bureau to take seven tarantulas back to Europe.
If I may be permitted a few liberties with the deconstruction, I hazard that ‘Hendriks’ is, here, symbolic of Everyman, Everyman in the Kierkegaardian sense, that is to say, Kierkegaard post-Derrida, and the ‘Bengal tigers’ are intended as Jungian shadows, or perhaps a masculinized version of the Triple Goddess. One might conclude that the ‘Indian Customs Export Bureau’ was Hoffman’s way of invoking the Freudian superego, but one would be erroneous. Rather, the ‘Indian Customs Export Bureau’ is a figment of an unfathomable Fahrvergnügen-deprived zeitgeist, an ersatz Bildungsroman as it were, and should be viewed in the context of the author’s angst regarding his recent unsuccessful attempt at autoerotic asphyxiation.
Lastly, what are we to make of the ‘seven tarantulas’ taken ‘back to Europe’? Taking into consideration the author’s Hebraic roots, we note that ‘seven’ is Yahweh’s special number signifying perfection and completion (e.g., Leviticus 23: 23-25). Yet a perusal of Hoffman’s personal library reveals a well-thumbed copy of T.E. Lawrence’s The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, and so the ‘seven tarantulas’ may signify his latent desire to bugger boys in the desert. That Hoffman has an extensive William S. Burroughs collection would only seem to corroborate this hypothesis, and ‘back to Europe’ might be rearranged, to wit, ‘European backdoor’, with obvious implications.
In summary, Hoffman, for all his heterosexual rantings, was, here, outing himself “in code”.
On the other hand, he may have been sharing a fun bit of tarantula lore.
I tag: Gabriele, Beth, Debi, Maureen, and Christine.
Oops! I want Demented Michelle in that group, too. Yeah, yeah, I know I can’t count.
D.