Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: January 2006
Number 500: a giveaway
Yup, this is my 500th post. I’d like to celebrate by giving away a copy of one of my favorite books, Jorge Luis Borges’ Collected Fictions. If you already own it, or if you despise Borges, let me know, and I’ll send you a gift certificate instead.
The rules are easy. In the comments, tell me how you found your way here the very first time. I know the answer for some of you (the BBSers), but for most of you, I haven’t a clue — and I’m curious.
Tomorrow night at this time, I’ll write down the names of the commenters and draw one at random. The winner will need to email me with his or her snail mail addie.
Karen reads Kate Rothwell’s Somebody Wonderful . . . in one day!
Little Green Fascists tests the waters of poor taste . . . and finds them warm and inviting!
And . . .
I finally explain why you should belittle your children at every opportunity!
Plus . . .
Too many exclamation marks cause fingernail cancer!!!
And more.
D.
My little humorist
More later. I thought I’d dash this off before fixing dinner.
I’ve been teaching my son grammar from Strunk and White, and from Karen Gordon’s books, The Deluxe Transitive Vampire and The New Well-Tempered Sentence. He finished reading Gordon’s chapter on commas last week, so now I’m having him go back through it and write sentences demonstrating each of her major points. Here is what he has done so far, uncorrected by yours truly:
Monday:
He barfed, he heaved, he blew his nose.
I barfed Sparky up, and I saw her half-digested tail wagging. Sparky didn’t like being in Sam’s stomach, but she liked his intestines. He wanted lunch and she wanted a heart. He always salted her before eating, but he thought she was bland all the same. [Eeeew.]
I woke up covered in barf [I think I understand the theme of this composition] and said, “Let’s go again! Let’s go again!”
Tuesday:
Sam tumbled and splashed and rolled around in the radioactive waste. When the radio started saying, “Recently there has been a radioactive spill and we would just like to caution everybody from playing in it, that is all”, he started drinking the foul liquid.
Sam drank the water so that he would get 6 extra eyes. From the left, a boy rose up and Sam saw his tentacles. At dark he thought 30 tentacles were enough. Out of the murky water appeared a girl with 6 red eyes and 4 tentacles.
I’ll make him a blogger yet.
D.
Why is Bush so awesome?
Major tip of the hat to Jellio at YesButNoButYes for this hilarious video.
Okay. Now I can get to sleep with a smile on my face. G’night.
D.
Samuel Alito got me out of bed this morning
. . . at 6 AM.
I guarantee you, if I had set the alarm for 6 with the intention of spending an hour editing, or perhaps working out at the gym, I’d have groaned, turned over, and gone back to sleep. Nope, it took Sam Alito to motivate my ass out of bed.
Something strange is happening inside my head; the neurons are rearranging themselves, like one of those old mosaic puzzles where you had to scoot squares around in order to unscramble the choo-choo train. I’m becoming more political. Yeah, I’ve written political posts, I’ve donated to lefty causes and campaigns, and I’ve even emailed my representatives in the past, but nothing compares to the all-out blitz against Alito that I — we — took part in over the weekend.
Sure, we lost, but we picked up 23 votes against cloture that we didn’t have when this all started. We know who our friends are, and we know who the Vichy Dems are, too. We have some sense of the clout we can wield as citizens of the net. And we did it all without support from the established liberal groups, like People for the American Way.
But say what you will about blogs and the netroots, we are not effective organizers for this type of large-scale effort, with an opposition wielding tens of millions of dollars. That we got this much accomplished in the fact of that is simply incredible.
And a rallying cry from Meteor Blades that, I swear to you, brought tears to my eyes (but then, I cry watching sitcoms, too):
. . . But a battle is not a war. And, disappointing as it was, and as devastating as Alito’s tenure on the court may turn out to be, giving up is simply not an option.
No matter what the odds, and no matter how few of our elected representatives we can count on to stand with us on this matter, and a hundred others, we have to keep up the fight. The war against Big Brotherization is as crucial as that for abolition, for women’s suffrage, for civil rights.
In every case, the warriors in those wars suffered immense setbacks, repeatedly so, and found it hard to get the politicians to speak up and stand up for them. Eventually, however, because they refused to surrender, and because they took the fight beyond the electoral arena, they won.
We will, too.
Read the whole thing.
One more inspirational link — Jane, at firedoglake: We shook things up.
Oh, yeah.
It may sound weird to you, but I finally feel like a citizen of this country.
The other day, my son asked my wife — and I’m paraphrasing here, cuz I wasn’t present for the discussion — whether we were just watching the world go to hell, or whether we were trying to do something to change it. It feels good to show him that we do more in this family than write checks to politicians, Amnesty International, and the ACLU.
I don’t think this is a flash in the pan, either. I keep popping over at my favorite political blogs, looking for marching orders. I’ve already pledged money and phone-calling time to Ned Lamont, the one dude who looks like he has a chance to unseat Windbag Lieberman in the primary. I’m angry. I want to do more.
And I’m not alone.
Yeah, yeah. I know I promised you more self-esteem BS yesterday, but I’m not sure anyone cares about that but me. Right now, I’m having a hard time firing myself up over what used to be one of my pet peeves, since I’m too fired up about other things.
Off topic: go say hi to Balls and Walnuts’s newest friend, Mark Hoeschletter, an 82-year-old gentleman who just began blogging less than one week ago. Today, Mark has some important words for the young people of today.
Finally, my apologies to all of you in the blogosphere whom I haven’t visited this week. I’ll do better, I promise.
D.
The merits of poor self-esteem: Part I
My mother, bless her labyrinthine heart, saved every scrap of writing and artwork I produced in elementary school, or at least she had saved every scrap until I moved out for college. Then, somehow, everything managed to fit into a single box in our garage. Some time between college and med school, I went through the box. It held no surprises for me — I had been through it several times before, looking for answers that I hoped would be more palatable than the obvious ones I’d known from the beginning.
Nope, nothing new. I saved the interesting stuff and tossed the rest. I kept my first grade report cards, quarter by quarter showing a teacher initially enchanted by me, ultimately exhausted. I kept a small folder of stories bound with three brass brads. And I kept another brad-bound folder from first grade, this one titled MY FAMILY.
The frontispiece consists of a family portrait, hand-crayoned by yours truly. You know the type — family in the foreground, names pencilled crudely under each, house in the background, smoking chimney, yatta yatta yatta. The smallest figure’s legs are fused in one column, he’s armless, and his head sits atop his body, an undifferentiated lump. That’s me.
I imagine any post-Benjamin Spock child shrink would have had palpitations over that drawing, and he would have been right. I was one fucked up kid. And look at me now.
Yeah, admit it. You missed that photo. (My son says, “You know, it’s kind of obvious it’s faked.” To which I say: “What? What? What’s fake about it?”)
I’m grappling for some image or memory to convey how self-hating I was as a kid, but you know something? So much of it was internal. I don’t have it in me to be self-destructive, so I can’t cough up any stories of drug abuse, insanely reckless behavior, or failed suicide attempts. Mostly, I stayed depressed.
Fred Delse, my med school mentor I told you about in this post on ego boundaries, once said that it was nearly impossible to diagnosis major affective disorders in kids. I don’t recall if he said, “It’s impossible because they’re all sick,” but that’s what I took home from that conversation. I thought: It’s okay that you spent your whole childhood wishing you were anyplace but where you truly were. Other kids were undoubtedly more screwed up than you.
Not surprisingly, I did have one addiction, schoolwork. I aced everything I touched. My one kernel of self-worth came from the knowledge that I was at the head of the pack. I earned this bit of self-esteem; I didn’t have it foisted upon me by teachers eager to praise my every artistic, literary, or spoken turd. I clung to it like a life preserver, and in the end it did, indeed, save me.
Sometimes I worry that my son’s childhood is too happy. I feel a little better after yesterday’s brouhaha.
The fiction writer in me cringes. Show, don’t tell, remember? But I can’t show you, not while my parents are still alive and capable of reading my blog. Irrational as it may sound, my father’s command to me in first grade still carries weight.
I had blabbed to my first grade teacher. At our first open house, she asked my parents about the stories I’d told her. My dad denied everything, of course, but when he got me home, he laid down the law.
Don’t ever, ever talk about what happens in this house.
So I can’t show you. Some of these things you’ll just have to take on faith. Besides — when have I ever lied to you?
But I’m still cringing. This is not effective writing.
I’m not here to whine about an unhappy childhood. In fact, my second choice title for today’s post was, It’s never too late to have an unhappy childhood.
I never would have become who I am today if I hadn’t been fueled by a ton of self-hatred. I couldn’t continue being who I am and doing what I do if I didn’t still have that hatred burning inside me, constantly requiring appeasement. My worst enemy is my best friend.
And I am resolute in my belief that a groundless “high self-esteem” is a bad, bad thing.
Tomorrow: Sociologists agree with me.
D.
Letter to the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee
(Feel free to use this yourselves. The DSCC’s email addie is info@dscc.org. Now, I’m off to post this as a Kos diary. See ya later!)
Dear Sirs,
I am a registered Democrat, and my wife and I contributed heavily to the last Democratic Presidential campaign. In the 2006 election, we fully intend to contribute both time and money to help defeat the Republican majorities in Congress.
However . . .
It has become increasingly difficult to support a party that fails to show spine in opposing the Republicans and their imperial President. I am opposed to the confirmation of Judge Samuel Alito, because I feel he will push our country further from democracy, closer to fascism. Judge Alito has made clear his opinion regarding the unlimited range of Executive power. I feel that his opinions are discordant with my wishes and the wishes of a majority of my fellow citizens — and even if most Americans wanted to be led down the path of fascism, I still don’t think his confirmation would in any way be good for the country. It’s the old, “If your friends were jumping off a cliff, would you jump off a cliff too?” routine.
I will not donate my money or time to a Party of Lemmings.
Actually, lemmings are not that stupid. This is a myth, but it is also a useful metaphor. In reality, humans are this stupid.
Let me be very clear: at this time, more than ever before, I expect to see leadership and resolve on the part of the Democratic Party. This may be the last chance we have to oppose an Imperial Presidency. Please, for the health of our democracy, get our Democratic Senators to vote to oppose cloture, and to support Senator Kerry’s filibuster.
Thank you.
Douglas Hoffman
Is there a dog whisperer in the house?
I had to share this with you. This morning, RaZen at YesButNoButYes brings us a video of a possessed dog. I think St. Francis needs a day or two a month, not just one day a year — this dog needs to be blessed big time.
You may not know this if you’re sane, but dogs will acquire the psychopathology of their masters. I’ve seen it again and again. Mostly in my family. But I do have one family-safe story to tell regarding psycho canines.
As some of you may recall, I volunteered at Napa State Mental Hospital for a few years, during my time at UC Berkeley. Napa had a halfway house on their grounds, a building that looked and functioned like a real home, nothing ward-y about it. Folks who were ready for the real world could spend a few weeks there, cooking in their own kitchen, using actual knives.
The halfway house had a pet dog, one of those creatures that looks part poodle, part terrier, part chihuahua, and part Tasmanian devil, and this dog had a favorite pillow.
After you’ve watched the possessed doggy video (linked above), imagine our runty little hero treating his pillow in just this manner. Just when you think he had given that pillow what-for, he would change tactics and hump the pillow. A minute or two of fruitless humping, and he’d back in full attack mode, snarling, biting, ravaging that poor pillow.
I’d never met a dog with borderline personality disorder before, but I’m sure he had it.
For those of you who read my boogers blog, I’ve posted a long rant on ear wax. Just what you wanted with your Sunday coffee.
D.
PS: and this is partly a note-to-myself, so that I can find the links first thing Monday morning . . .
Vichy Democrats has a one-stop resource in the fight against confirmation of Sam Alito: Senators’ local phone numbers, fax numbers, email addies, web forms, plus where they stand on the cloture vote. Also, links to online petitions.
For those of you wondering what all the fuss is about, Georgia at Kos says it better than I ever could. Many of us who oppose Alito do so because of his opinions regarding the powers of the Executive branch. In the context of the George W. Bush power grab, Alito is downright dangerous.
This may be our best chance to block the Imperial Presidency, folks. Let your voice be heard, preferably over and over again.
Tomorrow, I’ll be getting up an hour early so that I can make lots of phone calls and send lots of faxes before my day begins. We can do this!
Oy, what am I doing wrong?
Here’s what happened:
One of Jake’s pet millipedes died. He fusses over these critters to no end, spraying them once or twice a day with water, giving them bits of lettuce. He didn’t seem too upset by the death, but he kept talking about it. He wanted to show his mom the dead millipede, and she refused, saying it was a yucky, dead, decaying millipede (based on Jake’s description of brown stuff oozing out of its body).
Jake got insulted and demanded an apology. Karen wouldn’t apologize. Meanwhile, he was supposed to be reading his biology, and he kept turning the pages with his feet. Or something like that. I wasn’t there, didn’t see it happen. All I know is, I came upstairs, saw wrinkly pages in his nice new biology textbook, and said, “Um. You know, I wish you wouldn’t mess up your new book.” No anger. I didn’t realize Karen had already said something to him about it.
Next thing I know, we’re in Tantrum Central. Then he kicks me in the shin. Now, I’ve almost never hit this kid. One little slap on the butt to get his attention (at about 18 months old), nothing since, and he’s ten now. So I sent him to his room and told him if he DIDN’T get down to his room right away, no computer for a day. For three days. For a week. (I’m upping the ante because he’s standing there, refusing to go downstairs.)
I think he misunderstood me, because he thought he had to go to his room AND was getting booted off the computer. Next thing I know, he pops out of his room with his pillow, blanket, and flashlight. He leaves the house and begins running away. Slowly.
My parenting skills are exhausted at this point. In the old days, you were supposed to just let the kid go, right? Let him have his temper tantrum and wander back sheepishly. But this isn’t the old days, and besides, we live on a street where folks barrel down in their trucks at 50 MPH. Nevertheless, I had Karen come downstairs (her pelvis has mended well enough that she can get around with a cane, but still) so she could see Jake running away down the driveway in slow motion.
“Go after him,” she said. “Bring him back. I don’t want him walking down the road.”
I met up with him at the entrance to the driveway. Another ‘don’t you think you’re overreacting’ speech, to no effect. He wouldn’t come back. “I’ll carry you back if I have to,” I said, and he said, “You can try.”
I lifted him up and carried him back, with him kicking me in the shins as hard as he could all the way. We put him in his room and left him there. That was about an hour ago.
Karen’s thinking we should punish him extra (for all the shin-kicking): no computer, no TV. But I don’t think we’ve seen the end of this insurrection.
Look, folks. My parenting skills are for sh*t. As a kid, I didn’t get much of an example, and neither did Karen for that matter. Dr. Phil me, people (tell me what to do). Thanks.
D.
Support the Alito Filibuster
Gilliard has coverage. Be warned: every Senate office number I called has the same message (this mailbox is full), so I had to resort to emailing as many Senators as I could.
From Daily Kos, here is a great list of links to Senators’ web forms.
The main point to make, assuming this Senator is not your Senator: “My contributions of time and money to the DNC will depend on the outcome of the upcoming filibuster.” Or words to that effect. Even if he or she is not your Senator, this message should still hit home.
Update: here is the most recent action post from Daily Kos. We have 15 no votes for cloture — up 3 votes from this morning.
One easy thing you can do to help: sign the petition at SaveTheCourt.Org.
D.