Where’s the basement?
Bush hits 29% in new Harris Poll, and that’s before the latest bad news on domestic spying — you know, the fact the bastards are sniffing their way through millions of American phone records.
“Domestic data mining” — aw, come on. Call it what it is: domestic spying.
Don’t worry about the government.
D.
Pre-adult Swim
Temple City had one bowling alley, one miniature golf course, and one movie theater, the Temple Theater. This last caused me no end of confusion as a kid. “We’re going to the Temple” could mean a baffling and stressful trip to the theater (Dad liked his war movies) or the interminable boredom of Temple Beth Shalom. Why, oh why couldn’t my parents leave me with a babysitter?
We had one mall (by the early 70s), one small library, one park. The mall had not yet succeeded in killing off our one short but thriving Main Street. We had a few big nurseries nearby — always fun for catching bugs and lizards — and a few elementary schools, which in those days were ungated and stayed open on the weekend.
And we had one public pool.
Thirteen things I wish I’d said
. . . to that nice young man who gave me a speeding ticket last week. Seems I got up to 70 mph when I passed a Mazda truck.
Caveat
for my auto insurance provider and various and sundry individuals in law enforcement. This is SATIRE, capisce? Not an admission of guilt. Heck, most of this isn’t even true.
Thirteen things I’d like to say to that strapping lad from the CHP:
1. You mean there’s a law against that?
2. You may have clocked that Mazda truck at 55, but when I passed him, he was doing 54. I swear it.
3. While we’re on the subject, this 55 thing? Doesn’t work for me.
4. But anyway, that was pretty slick passing, huh? I mean, the way I slipped around that guy, it was like he was standing still.
5. Yes, it DOES matter to me if I get home forty seconds sooner.
6. Huh? Why? Because my childhood sucked. (The My Parents were Mean to Me defense. Hey, it worked for Zacharias Moussaoui.)
7. Live hard, die young, eh? You know what I mean. I saw you strutting back to your car, fondling your big hard billy club.
8. I don’t understand why you can’t let me off with a warning, like those last six officers who pulled me over for speeding. Excuse me — alleged speeding.
9. What if I promised to spend the remainder of my working career helping the old and sick?
10. It was just my crappy luck, you being there at that instant. You wouldn’t want to penalize a guy for bad luck, would you?
11. Look at the way my hands are shaking. I’m not sure I’ll even be able to drive again, let alone speed. I’d say I’ve been punished enough, wouldn’t you?
12. Tell you what. You rip up that ticket for me doing 70, I’ll take off like a bat out of hell, and you can nail me for doing 85. Think how much better that will look.
13. Look, over there in the redwoods — I saw a flash of orange. It’s an escaped Pelican Bay prisoner, I’m sure of it! Hurry, you have to hurry!
D.
Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
You know what to do. Do it.
Sigourney Weaver’s acting skills suck.
Ever get the feeling your best posts were behind you?
I’m idea-starved this week. Is it possible I’ve so thoroughly ransacked my memory that there’s nothing left inside but recipes?
Naw. Ain’t true. But as I’ve mentioned before, all my best stories are off limits. I mean, I have to live with these people.
I have a great Thursday Thirteen in store for you tomorrow. Maybe that will make up for this otherwise anemic week. For tonight, here’s a quickie memory. Not my best story, but over the years, its appeal to me has never faded.
We grew up next door to an old Southern nurse named Sadie. Sadie was so benign, even my mother couldn’t hate her, and my mother hated all of our neighbors. Worst thing my mom could say about Sadie: her floors were filthy. Which was true.
Sadie had a Cocker Spaniel named Baby. Every day, she played fetch with Baby, and she encouraged us kids to throw the ball for Baby, too. We liked Sadie because she didn’t mind if we played keep-away on her front lawn or pretended her overgrown backyard was the Congo. She never lost her temper with us, not once, not even when I ate her hibiscus flowers*.
One day, while all us kids were playing touch football in the street, Sadie tossed the tennis ball into the bushes and Baby dashed after it. He came back with not one but TWO tennis balls. Okay, now you have to imagine this old lady with a genteel Southern accent. Ready?
“Wah Baby, lookah that! Baby’s got two balls, don’t you Baby? You got two balls!”
We kept repeating this to each other — Baby’s got two balls! — laughing ourselves silly. To this day, I’m sure I could get my brother to crack up just by saying, “Baby’s got two balls!” With the appropriate accent, mind you. And now I’ve passed the story on to my son, who says the same thing at every opportunity. Baby’s got two balls!
Us Hoffmans, we’re easily amused.
D.
*I had pica — remember?
PS: I pinched that photo from this website. (Evil me . . . but at least I’m giving attribution. That’s a step forward.) Lots of great Spaniel photos, but do yourself a favor: turn off your speakers first.
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: