Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: October 2005
NYTBR Odds and Ends
I’ve never been a big fan of Robert Heinlein (I think I hit the limit with Stranger in a Strange Land), but it’s nearly impossible to read SF without becoming aware of Heinlein’s influence. He’s a controversial figure. Over the years, folks have accused him of being sexist, racist, fascist, you name it.
In this week’s New York Times Book Review back page essay, author M.G. Lord argues that Heinlein’s earlier work qualifies him as a feminist (Heinlein’s Female Troubles, NYTBR 10/2/05). It’s an interesting (and well written) essay, and I encourage you folks to take a look at it, even if you are not SF fans.
Elsewhere in the NYTBR: Eric Weinberger reviews George Saunders’ The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil without ever using the words science and fiction in close proximity of one another. The plot is plainly SF (um . . . all the action takes place on another planet, and concerns a variety of weird aliens), so what’s up? Weinberger chooses to call it satire.
I don’t know if I have a problem with this.
I asked Karen yesterday, “When are you going to blog again?” Since we’re an old married couple, she heard me when I telepathically added, “You know, you’ll never build your readership if you only blog once a week.”
“I’m not blogging to get more readers,” she said. “I do it to help organize my thoughts.”
I suppose that’s what I’m doing right now — trying to figure out how I feel about this. As SF writers, should we cheer when one of our own gets reviewed in the NYTBR, even if the SF-word isn’t used? Should we give Margaret Atwood a big stage wink when she slams science fiction?
Okay, Romance lovers: do you have a Margaret Atwood in your ranks, i.e., an author who aspires towards the literary and shuns the Romance label, even though that’s exactly what she is writing? How do you feel about her? (Or him. As Stephen has taught me, there’s a few blokes out there.)
Here’s what I think. Although some science fiction novels are written purely for escapism, many authors are writing social commentary. Hell, a good novel can do both. Just because the author has something to say — as Atwood did in The Handmaid’s Tale — the novel should not automatically pass Go, collect $200, and rate as satire (don’t nobody say SF).
If “genre” has any utility at all, it’s to help the reader know what to expect. To me, “serious literary fiction” is, as I mentioned to Pat recently, “boring pointless stories about characters with boring pointless lives who, in their inevitable epiphanies, find meaning in said lives.” The last thing I want is for a bunch of truly excellent SF writers to worm their way into the ranks of those literary doofuses. Because, you know something? If they do, I’m not reading them any more.
Thank heavens Jonathan Lethem’s Gun, with Occasional Music was filed in SF. That’s all I’m saying.
D.
My wife is one fine piece of arm
How low will I stoop to draw blog traffic?
That’s a difficult question. Yesterday, I learned over at Non Compos Mentis that I’ve been going about it all wrong. Why putz around with Technorati tags when one photo of nude women wrestling, appropriately labeled (or inappropriately labeled, as you shall soon see), will launch your blog into the stratosphere? Sex. Free porn. Nude photos. That’s where the action is.
I have two problems with this plan.
One: most of y’all are of the feminine persuasion, and while I don’t think of you as prudes, I don’t want to alienate you, either. You come here for the humor (I hope), not for photos of naked women making out. If I did put up photos of women with huge breasts french-kissing, you would think that I had photoshopped Ann Coulter’s and Michelle Malkin’s faces onto the relevant parties first. And you’d be right.
Two: if I do something like this, it had better be funny. Despite the things I say sometimes, I’m not a blog traffic whore. Much. I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere, and shameless exploitation of anyone except me, my wife, my son, and certain media figures who richly deserve it — oh, and actors and actresses and other people who catch my attention, not to mention old friends and acquaintances and other family members, associates, and folks I meet in the blogosphere — well, it’s just not right, and I’m not going to do it.
Besides: do I really want tons of traffic from pimply faced kids with megadoses of testosterone surging through their bloodstream? Well, sure, if they decide to stick around for the humor.
These two concerns have led me to make the following two self-imposed requirements. Any naked skin which I show on this site will be (1) non-exploitative, and (2) humorous in some way.
Before I unveil my creation, I need to do something first. I have to frame the image with lots of raunchy words. I apologize if you’re offended by phrases such as
Tasty Bulgarian virgins bare all!!!!
Shaved underage midgets engage in unspeakable acts!!!!
Tentacle sex, cold pasta fetish, exquisite tickle torture, and more!!!!
HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT!!!
You must be 18 years old or older to view the image below. Click here if you are under 18.
Behold:
Girls so young they have acne on their tender buttocks!
Scroll down for more!!!!
Okay, I’m back. That’s Karen’s arm, bent at the elbow. Now think about all the thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds across America who are doing unspeakable things with that image up on their computers.
See how much she loves me?
D.
But Onan knew that the seed would not be his . . .
I imagine other homeschooling parents have well thought-out curricula for their children, complete with lesson plans, lectures, daily assignments, and weekly field trips. I suspect they would shrink in horror at our ‘just winging it’ approach, also known as, “Okay. What do you want to do today?”
As I’ve mentioned before, we homeschool the lad because he was bored silly in 3rd Grade and the school wouldn’t give him challenging material. Currently, he’s reading To Kill a Mockingbird and studying grammar from Strunk and White, chemistry from Larry Gonick’s Cartoon Guide to Chemistry, and geometry from a book so dense it swallows thought. He hangs out with Karen in the office. Since she’s online reading political blogs much of the day and Jake never stops asking questions (about one every two minutes), he’s getting schooled in politics, government, and geography as well. He knows enough about current affairs to call our preznut an asswipe.
Never did I think we would become the sort of homeschooling parents who teach their kid from the Bible . . . until now.
As a direct result of my evil atheistic wife’s addiction to the Television without Pity Duggar Thread, Karen rediscovered the Brick Testament this morning. The Brick Testament pops up in the blogosphere every few weeks. In it, the Rev. Brendan Powell Smith has reduced much of the Old and New Testaments to a Lego extravaganza.
I’d love to say the Brick Testament sparked in my son a burgeoning lust for spiritual knowledge. In fact, he noticed this picture of Lego Adam taking Lego Eve doggy style, and I guess the sight of it sparked a different kind of lust.
On a more uplifting note, I can honestly say that my little atheist son spent the whole day reading Genesis. Really.
I think Bible studies are important. Even if you’re not a believer, the Old and New Testaments are part of our cultural heritage. Take a look at Bartlett’s Quotations sometime — check out how many pages are devoted to biblical quotes. I bet you’ll recognize most of them, and in many cases you’ll find yourself saying, “That’s from the Bible?” So, yeah, this stuff is important.
Unfortunately, Jake’s newfound passion for Genesis meant Karen had to explain the concept of “spilling one’s seed” to an almost-ten-year-old boy.
To her credit, she didn’t say, “Ask your father.” First she tried to explain masturbation to him; then she had to explain coitus interruptus. It took her a long time to explain this because she couldn’t stop laughing. Jake says, “Mommy is seriously cracked.” (He means she was cracking up.) Karen says, “At least I managed to avoid the whole topic of orgasm.”
By the way: contrary to popular belief, the Onan story is not a criticism of masturbation or coitus interruptus. God got cheesed because Onan violated the spirit of levirate marriage. Here’s the deal: Onan’s older brother Er died without children. By the laws of levirate marriage, Onan was obliged to take Er’s wife Tamar as his own and impregnate her. Her children would be considered not Onan’s, but Er’s. That way, Er’s bloodline would not die out.
Tamar, however, was a babe. Yes, yes, I know you can’t really tell that from the Brick Testament photo linked above. They fuzzed out all the good bits, so you’ll have to take my word for it. Tamar was hot. Selfishly, Onan didn’t want to get Tamar pregnant because he wanted to keep her as his love toy for as long as possible. If you remember that we Jews consider our children to be our afterlife (sort of), Onan’s selfishness deprived Er of his immortality.
That’s why God iced him.
I bet Karen hopes Jake gets back to Geometry tomorrow.
D.
Your morning dose of fugliness
Because I love y’all so very, very much.
Porking the zeitgeist
About the time I began Shatter, I read this old piece by Bruce Sterling, wherein he explains why his blogging days were numbered:
To my mind, blogging is like stand-up comedy — it’s a performance art. In that line of biz, you should always do your best to scamper off the boards while they still want more.
No, I’m not thinking of calling it quits. I’m merely reflecting how very weird this business is, and how Sterling’s assessment is right on the money. We’re all a bunch of stand-up comics. Some of you folks are channeling Steve Martin, while the rest of us are getting booed out of Open Mike Night at the Y.
What makes a humor blog outrageously successful? Tapping into the zeitgeist, that’s the conventional wisdom. Not only does the blogger offer his audience something they can’t find elsewhere, but also, they believe they want this ‘something’ desperately. Whether they really need it or not is beside the point. Did anyone really need Wonkette’s below-the-Beltway gossip? No. But it felt so good.
Yeah, it’s about entertainment, and there are as many ways to entertain people as there are people. Nevertheless, it seems to me that the humor which really sizzles is the stuff that not only taps the zeitgeist but gives it a thorough all-night porking. Take this remixed movie trailer to The Shining (which I plugged a few days ago, but y’all were sleeping): it works because it riffs off the rigidly formulaic style which seems to possess all movie trailers these days. Unless you’ve never been to a theater or watched trailers on television, you’ll recognize the satire. And if you’re familiar with The Shining, the joke is complete.
Maybe this is a tough gig for me because I don’t watch network TV, nor do I watch the videos on MTV (do they even show videos, still?) or listen to pop music on the radio. Between rentals and going to the theater, we probably see less than twelve movies a year. And so I’d love to be porking the zeitgeist, but hey, the zeitgeist and me, we don’t have much to talk about these days.
That’s why I need to win the lottery: so I can quit my day job and do nothing but go to the movies, watch TV, read People, scratch my ass, and write the funny stuff.
Oh . . . and, by the way? Just thought you ought to know that I’m Bikini Bettie.
You’re Bikini Bettie, you love being warm and
cheery. Hanging out with your friends is great
because your so fun to be around!
Which Bettie Page Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
D.
Future History: A Wikipedia Article From The 22nd Century
The Decline of the American Republic
The decline of the United States was due to several factors which are obvious from the perspective of the 22nd century. However, even at the time, the weaknesses were well known; political and financial leaders chose to ignore the warning signs.
America rose to economic, political, and military superiority at the end of World War II. European and Asian countries had been devastated by the damage to their cities and industrial base while the U.S., due to its relative geographic isolation, had suffered little harm. This, coupled with an educated populace, allowed their economy to achieve substantial growth, far outstripping its rivals.
At least you girls have Fabio
I’m feeling a bit wiped out from my editing work, so I decided to hand today’s blog off to Bare Rump. In case you don’t know her, Bare Rump is a ten-foot-long, eight-legged research scientist from the Tromatopelman planet M833-G1a. Like the rest of her kind, she has a rather odd take on romance which I’m sure you will appreciate. Actually, Bare Rump is an atypical Tromatopelman female; she’s had her share of lovers, but presently enjoys a long term relationship with a Grith Lyssome intelligence officer whom she calls Lord Valor.
As for why Bare Rump is here on Earth, you can read more about that here.
Oof. That’s it for me. Be nice to my favorite girl.
Bare Rump here, y’all. (Ooh, my Texas time is showing!) Doug wanted to take a bit of time off from the blog, and since I have been ever so negligent updating mine, I volunteered. Lord Valor offered, but what could he write about? Poop and software, that’s all my lover knows. Well, he also understands how to show a girl a good time. Dear me yes. If only you could see the way he rolls me onto my dorsum and sets me a-quiver with that magical proboscis of his — but, heck! This isn’t the Epigynum Monologues, for gosh sakes.
Doug has left it up to me to introduce you to my planet’s top-selling Romance novelist, Bronwyn Webweaver. A bit of background: Bronwyn was born the only daughter in an egg sac of eight. She excelled at her schoolwork and rapidly grew big and strong. As an only daughter, she had to skip college and take work as a legal secretary. “I could type fast but couldn’t spell. I was the worst legal secretary ever,” she says now.
She took a mate who survived their first encounter only to get too zealous on the second. Now fat and pregnant, Bronwyn took a job as a botanist’s assistant at the University of South Underland. Her work forced her aboveground on a daily basis, collecting moss and lichen samples for her bosses. The now famous mugwasp storm of 4079 forced her to stick to her tunnels, and out of boredom, she took up a pencil and notepad and wrote out the rough draft for her first novel, Silk Bondage (4080).
Silk Bondage suffers from first novel syndrome, sadly. Way too much angst and not enough sex. For my money, Web of Desire (4081) was her first true hit.
I love this book, but Miss Webweaver, puh-lease, what is up with your cover artist? Start with those silk sheets. Girl, it looks like your red-kneed hobag of a heroine has just worked her way through the entire South Underland Males’ Varsity Yabbaball Team on those very sheets. My advice? Find a good dry cleaner.
And those little black balls. Are those . . . no, please don’t tell me those are thought bubbles. Your heroine apparently fantasizes about beady-eyed males with Fu Manchu pedipalps. And where are the rest of his legs? Good God, girl, have you been snacking?
I have only one word to say about the male on the cover of Bronwyn’s next book:
HAWT.
Take me, take me now, you great savage wonderful hairy bastard you. Burn me with those Palps of Fire. I promise I won’t even snark on that weird-ass floral arrangement you have on the left margin — what is that, Baby’s Breath? — okay, I said I wouldn’t snark. But gaaawd look at those stout glorious pedipalps. You know they don’t make pedipalps that big in nature, so what is this, some sort of cruel photoshopping stunt? Cover artists are mean bitches, I tell ya.
Only one problem. He’s a little too perfect. He’s like, “Look at me, God’s gift to females. You’d be lucky to come within a mile of my sperm web,” and I’d be like, “Dude, if you don’t get over yourself, I’m going to fix those two buttonholes on your thorax,” and he’ll be all, “I don’t have two buttonholes,” and then WHAM! I’d be all, “You do now, dude.”
Um, Doug? Don’t let Lord Valor read those last two paragraphs. He can be awfully possessive.
And now, on to my favorite Bronwyn Webweaver novel:
“I salivated for days!” says Emma Longfang of the Silken Times. Yeah, you would, Emma. You haven’t tasted male-meat in decades, you desiccated skank hobag. (That’ll teach you to snark on my abdominal hair condition on network TV, bitch.)
Damn, she pisses me off. Such a perfect cover, and Emma “Drool Problem” Longass has to ruin it with her stupid witticisms — not. Grrrr.
Okay. Take a deep breath, clear head, concentrate on Sex at Seven, Dinner at Eight. Aaah.
Everything about this book is perfect. Start with the title: why not treat copulatory arachnicide with honesty and a sense of fun? Girls, be honest: who among you hasn’t sucked dry your share of males? The one who says no, she’s an anorexic. You humans aren’t so different than us.
Then there’s that dude on the table. Man, they don’t get more dashing than that. Yeah, he looks like he’s about ready to dash clean off the table before I get my chance to pounce. And the way he’s holding his forelegs, he almost looks intelligent, don’t ya think? Sure, it’s not realistic, since most of our males can’t be trusted to dig a tunnel without burying themselves alive. But a girl can dream.
He sure is one handsome bad-ass brute. Only thing I don’t like about it is the wine glass. If I have to listen to one more “I don’t drink . . . wine” joke, I’m going to barf. And you wouldn’t like me when I barf.
As for the story, here’s the deal. Bawb is a handsome young home-spinner who gets drunk one night with his buddies. One of them, Dood, bets Bawb that he can’t survive six matings in a row with the ladies from the Girls Who Don’t Suck dating service. Bawb takes the bet, figuring he won’t mind too much if he loses since he’ll be dead. Little does he know that Dood has lined up his sister Scythee as Bawb’s last date. Scythee is legendary in their community; no male has ever survived her embrace. Will she be his last date, literally?
WARNING! SPOILERS!
*
*
*
*
Bawb’s sister warns Bawb of Dood’s trickery and tells him to tell Scythee that he (Bawb) has a rare blood disease, making him unpalatable. The first five girls learn about Bawb’s supposed blood disease and they are righteously pissed that he didn’t warn them. Comical hijinks follow. Meanwhile, Scythee has little else to do but admire Bawb’s good looks, and, lo and behold, she falls in love with him. She saves Bawb from the other girls’ attacks.
Bawb desperately wants to inseminate Scythee, but Scythee is leery of the blood disease. Bawb gets his sister to explain everything. Scythee falls in love with Bawb’s sister. Together, they eat Bawb and then take a long vacation in the Crystal Caverns.
Various and sundry
We’re watching a Xena: Warrior Princess marathon on Logo, a network dedicated to gay viewers. I always knew there was something special about those Gabriele-Xena bath scenes. Hey, I was just looking for the soap.
Maureen is hosting a 72-er at Writer’s BBS. Kinda like the NFG 69-er, but with three more words. Click on over if you want to read; if you want to play, you’ll need to join Writer’s BBS, but hey, it’s free.
I finished my first read-through-and-edit on my novel, The Brakan Correspondent. It took a while — 651 single-spaced pages, and I can only get some decent editing time in on weekends. Now for the last step (I hope): I need to fix all the problems I’ve found on the first read-through. I’ll be losing scenes, adding others, patching plot holes, axing evil wases, and replacing as many lame speaker attributions as I can with action tags.
At the risk of sounding arrogant (of course, when has that ever bothered me?), I think this story is something special. I’m feeling confident an agent will pick this up and get it published. Will it make it into Paperback Writer’s 2% that sell more than 5000 copies? Hey, right now I’m high enough on it that I can see it pushing LaHaye’s Left Behind schlockfest off the shelves.
Ya gotta dream big.
D.
Groucho snarks proto-muffin: myth or reality?
From snopes.com, the urban legend clearinghouse:
The most infamous remark of Groucho’s You Bet Your Life years supposedly occurred when he was interviewing a Mrs. Story, a contestant with twenty-two children (reputedly the largest family in America at the time):
GROUCHO: “Why do you have so many children? That’s a big responsibility and a big burden.”MRS. STORY: “Well, because I love my children and I think that’s our purpose here on Earth, and I love my husband.”GROUCHO: “I love my cigar, too, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while.
True or false? Read the whole story here.
D.
The Technorati Grand Slam
I knew a Maureen Dowd in high school. Not the Maureen Dowd of New York Times fame, but a fairly sharp cookie nonetheless. While other girls’ only goal in life was to sing Bali Hai for the school musical, South Pacific, our Maureen Dowd had higher aspirations. She applied herself, got good grades, and went to college.
But enough about the Maureen Dowd I knew. What I really want to tell you about is the serenity I experience when I search for pictures of the Doodlebops. I don’t even know what Doodlebops are, although I gather they are possessed versions of the Teletubbies, which is good enough for me. Hell, it’s not like I write for TV Squad, after all. From a quick perusal of Technorati, I gather Doodlebops are the love children of Scooter Libby and Judith Miller. ‘Nuff said.
By the way, if your name is John Tierney, please get lost — along with Karl Rove, George Bush, and Dick Cheney.
I am such a Technorati whore.
D.