Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: May 2006
State-dependent truth
I’m between cases at the moment, so this will have to be quick.
Music on this morning’s commute included Depeche Mode’s “Policy of Truth“. Snippet (but take a look at the rest of the lyrics — they’re good):
You had something to hide
Should have hidden it, shouldn’t you
Now you’re not satisfied
With what you’re being put throughIt’s just time to pay the price
For not listening to advice
And deciding in your youth
On the policy of truth
Here’s the question: who out there hasn’t screwed this one up? — Hasn’t blurted out the truth when by any conception of morals, ethics, or reason, the lie was the only correct response?
But we never speak the truth during the calm times. Only when the blood is up. And that reminded me of the Psych 101 concept of state-dependent memory: you recall things better if you’re in the same state (drunk, caffeine-toxic, depressed, in love) as when you learned them. Maybe I’ll get Dave Munger over here to comment. For all I know, state-dependent memory has been debunked.
My next leap of thought brought me to the idea of state-dependent truth. What if some things are only true during the height of anger? I’m not talking about hurtful lies, but hurtful truths blurted mid-argument. How many people revisit these things once everything cools down?
Not that any of this applies to me. I’m just sayin’.
Tonight, if I’m still in the mood for it:
The sadomasochistic psychodrama of swimming lessons
D.
I waste time so you don’t have to
Lyn Cash, the sweetie, has been trying to send me a video. Something nasty, no doubt. Unfortunately, I can’t get the vid to work and I’m not enough of a tech wonk to figure out the problem, so I tried finding it on Google Video.
Meat Loaf
No, not another recipe. I’ve never made a successful meat loaf. In fact, I’ve given up on it entirely. Even the sound of the words meat loaf makes me think of a meat-brick slathered in ketchup and baked to leathery badness.
Naw. I’m feeling weird and tired this evening, wishing I could be one of those blokes who drinks espresso at night and still gets to sleep. Even George Bush’s scraping-bottom approval ratings and Rove’s impending date with fingerprint ink can’t energize me. And that’s why I’m taking the easy way out.
Hat tip to Pat Johanneson for shouting out (A) Terry Bisson’s short story “They’re Made Out Of Meat,” available online, and (B) linking to the video dramatization of that same story. Pat got the links from BoingBoing. You don’t really need a link to BoingBoing, do you?
Recognize anyone on that “They’re Made Out Of Meat” video? How about Tom Noonan, uber-tall character actor whom I most fondly remember as Frances Dolarhyde in Michael Mann’s 1986 movie, Manhunter? Screw Anthony Hopkins’s version of Hannibal Lecktor. Brian Cox is Lecktor, just as Noonan is Frances Dolarhyde. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, rent the damned movie and see for yourself.
There. Amazing. I wrote an evening post, feeling like crap.
D.
ETA: It was bound to happen. Spock has a MySpace blog. Make sure you check out “Video 2”.
Let’s talk consummation
For Smart Bitches Day, I’ve decided to cede the stage to Bare Rump. For her last SBD, my lovely Tromatopelman gal introduced you to her favorite author, Bronwyn Webweaver. I wonder what she’ll write about today?
Just in case you don’t remember the salient details of Bare Rump’s appearance, here’s a picture of her at a cast party for All My Children. She’s a big, BIG fan.
***
You know what I find most puzzling about your President Bush? He’s so old. On my world, males rarely live more than three years past their sexual maturity. At first, I assumed he had to be a virgin, but then I learned he has two daughters! How mysterious is that?
At first, I thought: Laura, you devil!
Of course, when I met President Bush’s lovely wife, it all became clear. Of course! He’s had the old girl defanged.
House of Pancakes
A while ago, I had the bright idea of drafting the Cooks Illustrated buttermilk biscuit recipe into the service of a better pancake. (If you like biscuits and haven’t tried that recipe yet, try it.) Here is the successful result:
1 cup unbleached all purpose flour
1.5 teaspoons double-acting baking powder
1 tablespoon brown sugar
0.5 teaspoon salt
0.5 teaspoon baking soda
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus more for frying
1.25 to 1.5 cups buttermilk
Combine the dry ingredients with the melted butter and mix well. Pour maple syrup onto a microwave-safe plate and microwave about 30 seconds to heat it up — or heat the syrup separately in a bowl. Point is, DON’T pour cold syrup on hot pancakes. Such a buzz kill.
Melt butter in a frying pan over medium high heat. While the butter is melting, mix the buttermilk into the dry ingredients. Mix quickly and don’t overdo it.
Ladle or spoon out batter to form four or five 2-inch-diameter pancakes. Fry until crispy and dark brown on the bottom, then plate them out onto the hot syrup. Serve ASAP.
I used 1 cup of buttermilk today, but the batter looked too thick, so I added more buttermilk. Hence the “1.25 to 1.5 cups of buttermilk”.
Oy, these are diet-killers.
D.
PS: Remember — tomorrow, Bare Rump holds forth on Smart Bitches Day in a post entitled, “Let’s Talk Consummation,” and no one knows consummation better than she does, nosirree.
Frank Rich behind the firewall: It’s Too Late for United 93
When is Rich scheduled to show up on Colbert? That’s what I want to know. I’m dying to hear Rich’s response to Stephen Colbert’s trademark question, “Sir, why do you hate America?” — which Colbert only asks of true patriots.
B12 Partners Solipsism has posted Frank Rich’s op-ed column in full. Here’s a teaser:
Iron-effin-chefin’, that’s what
Where have I been today? You mean, besides helping Bare Rump with her Smart Bitches Day post? (She uses way too many semicolons. I get on her about that all the time. Unfortunately, I have to allow her a few semicolons, or else she’ll flick her butt hairs in my face.) And besides writing up next Thursday’s Thirteen (bwaahahahahaha)?
I’ve been playing Iron Chef today, that’s what I’ve been doing.
You remember this guy:
Don’t run the other way. It won’t bite. Today, I made two different kinds of ravioli with two different sauces because, ya know, if you’re gonna do one, it ain’t that tough to do two.
Kate and I have done it. What’s the matter with the rest of you?
We’ve signed on to the Online Blogintegrity Statement of Principles, which includes:
NO CUSSIN’. Fuck that cursing shit. I mean, like, fuck it. FUCK.
Hey, I don’t understand half of those other Principles, but I get that one. I’m sold.
So . . . what are you waiting for? Do it!
The one-nippled* Starship Captain commands you!
D.
*I’m deadly serious. I’ve magnified it 400% in Paint Shop Pro and the dude has no left nipple.Â
I don’t know how you single-topic bloggers do it.
Four days of Snape-bloggery, and I’ve had enough. I hate to be tied to a single topic. That’s the real reason why I had to kick him and Mrs. Snape out yesterday.
That, and my fear that the REAL authors who read my blog will worry that their character will be next! If Hoffman will do Rowling fanfic, no one’s safe. Griffin Calverson might show up to render his version of How to Handle a Woman. Dr. Cherijo Veil could be forced to lecture us on the barbarous medical practices of the 21st Century, and Dubric would feel obliged to investigate that dead body we swept under the rug last week.
Justin Delgado might have to come ’round to pop a cap in my ass, but Lili, with access to so many psychics, you already knew that. On a brighter note, all you erotica writers might each donate one of your characters, and we could have quite the orgy, yessirree. That chick at the top of Selah’s blog can sit on my desk. I don’t care if she’s 96 by now — she’s hot. Sam, if you would send over Darla’s Valentine, I’d be much obliged.
I’d pimp my own characters, except y’all tend to run the other way whenever Bare Rump has a guest spot.
Anyway . . . I’m back.
D.
Newsflash to Professor Snape
Professor:
Explain to our cats why their tails burst into flame every time they race across the Punishment Veil. I don’t think Melantha will ever come out of the attic.
Explain to our fish why your fireball spell missed Mrs. Snape and hit their aquarium instead. Oh! That’s right! You can’t explain it to them. They’re dead.
Explain to my son why, when Mrs. Snape belted you with our cast iron pan, you had to use his every last Bagel Bite to treat your black eyes. NO, they are NOT “still good.”
But, best of all, the feather that broke the hippogriff’s back:
. . . polyamory potion induces in its user a lust for the first person he or she sees. With proper planning, and with access to a squadron of college cheerleaders, one milliliter of polyamory potion could give a wizard a night of unsurpassed bliss. Desite Walnut’s blusterings, polyamory potion is the reason I know he will help me in my designs on that Font of Fecundity, Michelle Duggar.
Explain to my wife, WHO READS MY BLOG, why you were going to bribe me with polyamory potion. You a$$hole.
That does it. Pack your bags. You’re on your own trying to win the heart of She Who Must Conceive.
D.