Early morning shout
. . . goes to Erin O’Brien for her provocative review of Liquid Love, the G-Spot Explosion. The intertubes need more high quality film analysis like this. Oh, and she’s raffling off the film, too, now that it’s, ah, used.
Speaking as a physician, I haven’t made up my mind about female ejaculation, and since I’m not an ob-gyn, I guess I’ll never have to have a professional opinion on this. But in all the documentaries I’ve viewed*, this stuff looks voluminous. Unbelievably voluminous. Nevertheless, according to the Wiki, it’s not urine. And Aristotle knew about it, the old dog.
More information can be found at the-clitoris.com. Of course.
D.
*But as Wikipedia points out, these documentaries have a commercial interest in creating spectacular visual effects, and thus are a dubious source of clinical data.
Work, part two
Here’s part one.
***
First summer home from Berkeley, I had grandiose hopes. My father had mentioned a job at a water-bottling plant with an unbelievable wage of $10 per hour. Money like that, I could save a bundle, and at last put into effect an escape fantasy I had hatched for my girlfriend. We would rent an apartment together. She would transfer to one of the many colleges in the area, and we could both take part-time jobs to pay expenses.
She knew nothing of this, and it was just as well; my first day home I spent chasing down a job that didn’t exist. Meanwhile, my gf was less than amused that I would put a nonexistent job above her — I didn’t see her until that evening.
I found a great job the next day, in the Classifieds. Minimum wage, but it was one of the best jobs I’ve ever had: I became a short order cook at the local golf course.
Work
We throw cash at my son to clean the litter box. It’s not his only chore — he feeds the fish, gives food and water to the cats, and makes sure the cats are out in the garage at night — but it’s the chore that brings him a steady income. His rates are exorbitant, but neither Karen nor I have a taste for cat poop. Besides, all the kid does is stick his cash in the bank. We could do worse things with our money.
My parents gave me $20 a month to do the dishes, mop and clean the kitchen, and clean the bathrooms. Not a great allowance, but you have to remember: back in the early 70s, you could see a movie for $2.50, and vinyl records were what, seven or eight dollars? Twenty a month just about covered expenses.
But for my first real job, I washed dishes at Sizzler.
Home alone
Karen and Jake are in Eureka tonight. They went down for a pediatrician appointment, and the roads are too dicey to risk a trip back in the dark. Not on twisty two-way highways with ice and snow on the road, granite embankment on one side, sheer drop to the ocean on the other.
That’s only a teensy exaggeration.
But they’re living high, spending the night at the Best Western with the limo driver who will schlep you to the restaurant of your choice. Avalon, to be exact, where Jake’s eating a yummy burger and Karen’s eating some sort of prawn dish. (Hmm. This is the woman who told me she was sick of prawns. Sick of MY prawns, apparently.)
Here I am, all by my lonesome. What to do? I’ve gathered up the garbage bags and taken out the trash; I’m recording The Daily Show and Colbert Report for the troops (and I might as well record Olbermann, too, while I’m at it); I’ve fed the cats and put them out in the garage. Lured them out with food — bet they’re pissed.
Karen and I are rarely apart. It’s infrequent enough that in a few minutes’ time I could probably write down all the times we’ve been apart and I doubt I’d miss more than a few instances. I sleep okay when I’m alone, and I presume (since one of us snores) Karen sleeps better apart, so that’s no big deal. Still, it’s odd being in my own home, not having my family around me. What to do, what to do.
I suspect it’s a non-issue. After I write this post, answer my emails, waste time on the net, shower & shave, it’ll be time for bed, or very close. Surgery tomorrow morning, so an early bedtime wouldn’t be a half bad idea.
By the way: the pediatrician was unimpressed with Jake’s problems. (This is good. You don’t want to impress your doctor.) “If he still feels this way in two weeks, call me.” The kid has been nauseated since New Years . . . but “call me.”
Which is fine, really, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to make that decision. There’s a good reason doctors try not to treat their own family members.
D.
Nostalgiarama
Sometimes I miss Rogue.
In grad school, Karen and I would hang out at my lab on Friday and Saturday nights, playing Rogue for hours. (Waddya mean, get a life? I was in the lab. Working. Heh.) See the @? That’s you, the rogue. The asterisk, that’s gold. Gold is good. The dashes and vertical lines are walls, the periods indicate you’re in a lit room. I tell you all this because there are people Shaina’s age in the room. Shaina, you move the @ with keyboard commands, and you fight the same way.
Yes, this was as good as it got, and it rawked over guess-the-parser games like Adventure or Zork. We could fight Ettins and Kobolds, Imps and Intellect Devourers (watch out, or you’ll get hormed by the Intellect Devourer’s ego whip!) Every letter of the alphabet was a monster, every punctuation mark a scroll, food item, piece of armor, potion . . . And, no, we never found the Amulet of Yendor. That bastard was hard.
For years, whenever I searched for Rogue online, I could only find a latter day version which didn’t quite capture the simple pleasures of the original. But today I found the real thing as well as some of the more “modern” knockoffs, like Angband. Classic Rogue kicks Angband’s ass, of course. After reveling in A Brief History of Rogue (Hawking, eat your heart out), I searched and found Zork and Adventure.
I had just killed the troll in Zork when I dragged Jake over. Look, look, you have to see this. We used to spend HOURS —
But it’s all old news to my son. Not only does he know about text adventure games, he has played the spoofs — and boy, are they funny:
Thy Dungeonman. (Keep trying to take the flask. Don’t take no for an answer.)
Thy Dungeonman II. (Too long for me to play right now, but damn, this one is just as funny.)
Thy Dungeonman III. (Thou art surrounded by . . . thy graphics!)
Now . . . why do I drop fifty bucks a shot for computer games, when there’s great stuff like this on the web?
I’m going back to Zork. Or maybe Dungeonman III — the graphics are truly stunning. You can’t discount the value of top notch graphics.
D.
Extreme cuisine
Over at the Rara Avis mailing list this morning, the hb/noir folks are having a high time discussing whether art can be immoral and whether art has an obligation to be moral. Interesting discussion, but too dry for this boy. (If you’re curious, you’ll have to sign up, then look back into the archives a bit to find the thread.) I would rather talk about Challenging Food.
Stop complainin’
I’ve wanted to read Frank McCourt’s memoir, Angela’s Ashes, ever since I saw him on The Colbert Report. He was promoting his new book, Teacher Man, the third volume of his memoir. The man impressed me with his wit and kindness; if I remember correctly, Stephen Colbert didn’t even try to give him a hard time, but instead kicked back and enjoyed the moment. Unfortunately, YouTube doesn’t have the interview.
I have to admit to some shallowness, though. The title, Angela’s Ashes, sounded like chick lit. And then, when I found out it was a memoir of his early childhood, I figured the title referred to the death of his mother or grandmother (it doesn’t), and that put me off. While in Orlando, I decided to stop procrastinating and buy the book, and . . . wow.
I’m the sort who likes to revel in his awful childhood, so I’m impressed when someone out-awfuls me. Not only does McCourt out-awful me, I may never complain again. (Or at least I’ll stop complaining until I feel like complaining, and then I’ll undoubtedly hear McCourt’s voice in the back of my mind telling me to grow a spine already.)
During the Great Depression, Frank McCourt and his brother Malachy are born in New York City to two Irish immigrants. The death of Angela McCourt’s daughter pushes her into a deep depression, and her relatives decide the thing for her is to move children and husband back to Ireland. Trouble is, Ireland is in even worse straits than America. What follows is an eye-opening tale of survival in the face of crushing poverty, a story that would have been depressing were it not for McCourt’s clear, strong voice.
McCourt has been compared to Joyce, but I found his journalistic spareness and lack of sentimentality more reminiscent of Hemingway (minus the machisimo). Angela’s Ashes seems uncompromisingly honest. McCourt reports the facts, even — especially — when they reflect poorly on him.
I was struck by this comment from the publisher:
Wearing shoes repaired with tires, begging a pig’s head for Christmas dinner, and searching the pubs for his father, Frank endures poverty, near-starvation and the casual cruelty of relatives and neighbors — yet lives to tell his tale with eloquence, exuberance and remarkable forgiveness.
Forgiveness? Really? For me, the most fascinating part of McCourt’s story is his relationship with his mother. Perhaps there will be a rapprochement in McCourt’s second book, ‘Tis, but Angela’s Ashes ended on an unsettled if not hostile note. And for the father who abandons his wife and children, McCourt shows no inclination to forgive.
I think I’ll have my son read this as part of his schoolwork (the joys of homeschooling — we set the curriculum). Then, whenever he kvetches, I’ll tell him, “Stop complainin’. You coulda grown up with nothin’ to eat but bread and tea.”
***
I’m outa here. See you next Saturday for live blogging 😉
D.
PS: There’s a movie (I haven’t seen it), a documentary, and a memoir by Frank McCourt’s brother, Malachy.
Friday morning question
Yesterday’s Question of the Day at Shakespeare’s Sister inspires me to ask:
What’s your favorite YouTube video?
Give us the links so we can all waste buttloads of time, ‘kay? By the way, if Suisan made a YouTube video of her Devil Rat, it would be my favorite.
D.
PS: I haven’t live-blogged in a while. How does Saturday night sound, 7:00 PM PST?
Thirteen things about Keith Olbermann
You can thank Balls for today’s Thirteen theme. I had wanted to write a quick “intro to KO” post for my Canadian and European readers, but Karen thought a Thirteen would be more fun. As for “Thirteen Things I Learned at My Sleep Disorders Meeting,” come back next week — it should be interesting.
1. KO is Teh Newsman. Every evening, at the conclusion of his news show Countdown on MSNBC, KO signs out with Edward R. Murrow‘s famous phrase, “Good night and good luck.” With any other TV newsman, this would be the heighth of arrogance, but not with Keith. Reminiscent of Murrow — who publicly took on Senator Joseph McCarthy when no one else had the guts — Keith Olbermann has repeatedly challenged the Bush Administration, even back when it was unpopular to do so. And the man does not mince words. His Special Comments are legendary. If you’ve never watched one, start here: Special Comment about ‘Sacrifice.’
2. While CNN’s Anderson Cooper travels to the Amazon to “brave” the dreaded Goliath Bird-eating Tarantula, Keith gets the job done. Last night’s stories: the Scooter Libby trial (will he or won’t he flip on Cheney? Will Bush pardon him?), the Justice Department’s revelation that it has been inflating its terrorism statistics, and the Coalition of the Willing’s flight from Iraq, led by England. Yes, KO’s producers make him cover the latest schlock about Britney Spears and Anna Nicole Smith, but he relegates that to the end of the show.
Meanwhile, Anderson Cooper screams like a girl over a big, hairy spider. (Um, we don’t know that for a fact. The show hasn’t aired yet.) Remember to wear clean undies to your date, Coop!