Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: November 2007
We’ve got to stop getting the kids drunk.
This is one of two good photos I took yesterday.
No, they weren’t really drinking all that wine. At least not while I was watching.
D.
Friday Flickr: Turkey Babes
Our first chef has attitude to spare, no doubt because some jackass is taking her picture while she’s hanging onto a twenty-pound bird. Meet “Turkey,” by Ara Alexis.
She’s cute, don’t you think? I don’t know her, but I like her.
More turkey babes below the cut.
Thirteen things I love about the Bay Area
Negative thirteens sorely tempted me this morning:
- thirteen things I hate about Thanksgiving (forced gaiety, turkey, overeating, turkey leftovers, dishes, the mess, memories of getting the short end of the wishbone EVERY single time, soggy stuffing, eating at the wrong time of day, wasting food, Thanksgiving Day Parades on TV, canned cranberry sauce, spending a day of vacation cooking/cleaning/eating turkey when we could be having fun in Berkeley),
for example, or
- thirteen things I hate about our hotel (down comforter, down pillows, ten dollar a day internet access, five dollar coffee, eighteen dollar LOUSY breakfast brunch, I mean for eighteen dollars they ought to have a chef preparing omelets stuffed with foie gras, don’t you think?, ten dollar creme brulee that looks good on the outside but has the texture of scrambled eggs on the inside, over-chlorinated pool that makes my eyes burn and gives my son a stomach ache, double beds and not queen-sized beds, no MSNBC on their basic cable, watered-down drinks at the bar, teensy weensy ice bucket I mean would it kill you guys to give us a normal-sized ice bucket?, nothing but anime on Adult Swim not that it’s the hotel’s fault but I have to listen to my son bitch about it, don’t I?, and no affordable suites)
but I’d rather not subject my readers to such a barrage of anger on a feast day. Instead, I give you thirteen things I love about the San Francisco Bay Area: below the cut.
Talking cats, and the translation
Good day today. We had merciless dim sum at Ming’s, spent four hours at the Exploratorium, and had an awesome dinner fixed by Mr. Corn Dog. Corn Dog & her Mister, Jake, Karen, and I spent a good bit of time futzing on the computer. Yes, that’s what blogging geeks do when they get together.
Y’all have probably seen this before: two talking kittens. But have you seen the translation?
If either of my cats ever does this, I’m hiring an exorcist.
This talking cat is hard to believe. She really says, “Hello.”
Easier to believe. Equally cute.
Oy, that’s quite enough of that.
D.
The contest winners are . . .
Yes, yes, I’ve been remiss. Blame it on vacation. I promised you a pair of winners, and I haven’t delivered.
Reminder: this was the Gimme A Good Book Contest, which has proven quite useful. Thank you.
Winners: protected static and MEL. Would you prefer an Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift certificate? Email me, or respond in the comments.
D.
Pals
It’s a rare thing, friendship, and so very difficult, finding like-minded people with whom we can hang out. In college, Karen and I knew a lot of people who were “our kind of people” (an elitist phrase, perhaps, but that’s how we think about it). Even by the time I got into med school, it had become harder to make friends. They were different, these medical students. Residency was worse, and private practice? Forget it. Most of the docs I know are Republicans.
That’s why it was such an unexpected pleasure to meet Kenney and his wife, Val, four or five years ago. We met them through our friends Stan and Elissa, who used to live in the condo below Kenney and Val. Stan and Elissa have moved on, but Kenney and Val have roots in the area.
I remember thinking, This is great. We make it down here [the Bay Area] at least once a year; now we’ll have some friends to visit. And, indeed, we did visit Val and Kenney the following year; but as y’all know, Karen broke her hip two years ago, and that threw a wrench into our usual travel habits. We haven’t seen them in ages.
Here we are (minus me. Until we figure out the timer, someone has to clicky clicky) in Kenney’s studio.
I had very particular ideas about the composition of this photo: I wanted to capture the assy assness of the painting behind Jake. It’s a lovely ass, don’t you think? Here’s a better view. I suggested to Kenney that he do more S&M-themed work. Maybe I should commission it?
Kenney has an interesting attitude toward modern art, which we discovered when we told him about our trip to MOMA today. I’d say more, but I don’t want to get him into trouble with his peers. Anyway, MOMA wasn’t terrible. We liked the Olafur Eliasson exhibit (the yellow room was our favorite) but the rest of that place was, well, meh. “How did they do that one?” Jake would ask. I’d say, “They smeared blue paint on a dog’s ass. Dogs don’t like paint on their asses, so he wiped it off on the canvas. Best I can tell, they did it to the poor dog three times.” “Okay,” Jake says, “then how did they do this one?” “They smeared gray paint on a cat’s ass. Cats don’t like paint on their asses, so . . .” and so forth.
Kenney tried to explain why there was a urinal prominently featured in the middle of the permanent exhibit, but all this art stuff goes over my head.
Here’s a cool photo from the ground floor of MOMA. After the ground floor, the docents wouldn’t let me take any pictures. How annoying!
What’s up for tomorrow: breakfast — dim sum if we can find it — then the Exploratorium, then Corn Dog’s place for dinner. More pals.
D.
Supporting the war effort
Apparently, I support our President, because today I followed his advice “to go shopping more.” Yeah, that’s all we did today. Eat. Shop. Eat. Shop.
I needed clothes. My shirts have threadbare cuffs, my dress slacks are getting threadbare in the knees, and just the other week, one ripped clean through. I haven’t split the asscrack on any of my pants (lately), but only because I tend to wear the knees out first. Did I really need to spend this much money on clothes? Probably not, but I have a funky body. My neck is a 17.5, my arms are Lilliputian. When I find clothes that fit, I buy them.
Meanwhile, my son got his grandma to buy him a Roboquad. We were almost defeated by the packaging. Almost. Jake is downstairs now, trying to get the hotel staff to dig up a Phillips-head screwdriver so he can free Robie from his packaging base.
Jake to the TSA gal in the airport: “What do you mean I have to leave the water bottle? It’s water. See? I’m drinking it. Isn’t that proof enough for you that it’s a nontoxic substance?”
Nope, didn’t wash. I reminded Jake of all the Kafka he has read, and told him the TSA rules would fit well into any Kafkaesque bureaucracy. You would think that would convince my son to suppress his sense of humor, since TSA operatives are humorless by definition, but no. On the way to the plane, one of the agents said something condescending to him (he looks several years younger than his true age), and he replied, “No. I expect you to die, Mr. Bond.”
That worried me. Would TSA Dude interpret this as a threat and jail his twelve-year-old ass? But I guess Jake’s apparent youth saved him. The guy wrinkled his upper lip as we passed, grunting, “Nice kid.”
Thus far today: crappy eighteen dollar breakfast in the Hyatt’s restaurant (um, that’s the bill just for ME, got it?), crappy five dollar coffee from the Hyatt’s lobby, top notch die and go to heaven lunch at Amber India, shopping trip at the Stanford Mall, mandatory pilgrimage to Fry’s Electronics, where Jake scored his Roboquad. We haven’t decided on dinner yet.
It’s been fifteen minutes since Jake went off in search of a screwdriver. I wonder when I should alert the authorities?
D.
Sitting on my tush
. . . waiting for time to pass because our plane is delayed. Delayed at the San Francisco end, which will come as no surprise to those of you who have traveled through SFO.
Oh, well. Guess we’ll just have to eat dinner in the City, maybe take my family to Ti Piacera, which I loved when I was there by myself. We could do a lot worse. All of this assumes we get off the ground at 4:30.
If all goes well, perhaps I’ll be able to post some photos later. MUCH later.
D.
My day to whore Daily Kos
. . . a site which hardly needs blogwhoring, I know, but this is huge.
Really huge.
Pastafarianism hits the big time.
But this weekend marks a new era for The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (FSM). This weekend, His Noodly Appendage will make an appearance at the Annual Meeting of the American Academy of Religion in San Diego.
According the Associated Press
The appearance of the Flying Spaghetti Monster on the agenda of the American Academy of Religion’s annual meeting gives a kind of scholarly imprimatur to a phenomenon that first emerged in 2005, during the debate in Kansas over whether intelligent design should be taught in public school sciences classes.
Three University of Florida students majoring religion in popular culture have gotten a panel on FSM-ism on the agenda at one of the field’s most prestigious organizations. The AAR web site has abstracts for each of the papers to be presented:
You’ll have to read Carolita’s diary (linked above) to check out the abstracts. Okay, while I’m waiting for folks to show up for live blogging, I’m going to buy me some Pastafarian holiday greeting cards!
D.
Oooh, scary pumpkin!
As usual, we’re late carving Mr. Pumpkin. No genitalia this time; Jake and I wanted to capture the look of pure evil.
I present to you the leader of the National Socialist Pumpkin Worker’s Party, Adolf Pumpkin.
This made more sense before the rain washed off our black marker-drawn hair. I’ll have to photoshop it back in for you.
Adolf Pumpkin, ally to Benito Zucchini, foe to Josef Onion, terror to inferior squashes throughout Europe.
We’ll give him the treatment he deserves; we’ll launch him down the hillside. His head will burst open, his stringy brains will be food for crows.
Live-blogging tonight, folks.
D.