I’ll say this for President-elect Obama: he has balls. Ten official balls, at last count, where he’ll personally be on display. Who knows how many unofficial ones there will be?

But here’s the thing about Obama’s balls: they’re big. And while his staff claims he’s got the first-ever Neighborhood Ball, the neighborhood around the White House pretty much threw their own ball when they stormed the president’s house after Andrew Jackson was elected. (His balls were apparently too small for their liking.)

Of course, taxpayers need not fret: we’re not footing the bill for Obama’s big balls. That’s the job of the Presidential Inaugural Committee, which has been busily raising funds to fete Obama’s balls. Sure, actors and other artsy types are happy to fork over $10,000 per head for one of Obama’s balls — and Oprah hasn’t named her going rate yet — but even those steep prices don’t cover the entire expense associated with his balls.

Taxpayers will pay in part for Obama’s balls by footing the bill for House and Senate members to plan the inauguration and balls, by paying for the preparation of alternate locations in the event of inclement weather, by paying for the archiving of documents relating — however tangentially — to the inauguration itself. Oh, and we’ll also pay for the massive security force (Secret Service, Capitol Police, U.S. Army, Marines, Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard) needed to not only secure D.C. and the various environs of Obama’s balls, but to also screen each and every individual who personally attends Obama’s balls.

Perhaps this is what Michelle Obama meant when she said Obama would make us work? Even though she may have warned us, it’s rather infuriating to realize we, too, are now tasked with the responsibility of supporting Obama’s balls although few of us can afford our own. And, meanwhile, we’re all getting the shaft.

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This is my grand-niece, Gwyneth. If you’ve read any of my blogs for long, you know that I have never, ever posted a picture of a family member before, and that I have a strict policy about using pseudonyms for my relatives, particularly children.

This time I’m making an exception.

Today we learned that Gwyneth has methicillin-resistant Staph aureus, a frequently lethal skin infection more commonly known as MRSA. Please pray for her and her young parents, or if you don’t pray then please keep her in your thoughts.

Since I’m still sick with the crud that just won’t quit, I’ve pretty much spent the day watching television and slipping in-and-out of consciousness. Meanwhile, my intermittent fever and codeine-laced meds have led to occasional confusion over whether I’m dreaming or not.

Like when I saw the “ShamWoW” commercial with the guy who’s wearing a headset while he talks about some cloth that supposedly holds 21 times its weight in liquids (much like my midsection does at least once a month).

Since I could see no reason why on earth he’d be wearing the headset — and since the guy looks a bit like a young Willem Dafoe, whom I’d been watching earlier in Platoon — I figured I must have dreamed the whole thing.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from later looking the things up on Amazon where I ran into one really freaking funny review.

I didn’t dream that, right? Amazon really left that one up, right?

There’s something about New Year’s Day that brings out the rebel in me.

Perhaps it’s the phrase “Happy New Year” itself, which seems to imply that misery and discord marked the previous 12 calendar months so here’s to hoping the upcoming ones will only be better.

Frankly, if we don’t count health problems and death in the family, 2008 proved to be a pretty damned good year for me, and there are definitely some parts of the past 12 months which I’ll mourn over not being able to live through again.

Or maybe it’s the way that people whose names I barely know somehow feel free to inquire what New Year’s Resolutions I’ve made. Whether it’s the lady who’s waxed my bikini line every two weeks for the previous year, the pharmacist who alone knows just how many pills or ointments I’ve needed and why, or the clerk at the drive-thru liquor store who’s grown accustomed to seeing me pull up in my pj’s without makeup at 5 minutes to closing time, what makes them think we’re on that good of terms?

What a truly hate about New Year’s, though, is all of the blank spaces ahead. The new wall calendar hanging pristinely in my kitchen, its empty dates begging to be filled with appointments and reminders of things I mostly want to avoid. The unfilled date line on the checks I write, each a small test to determine whether the passing of time has truly sunk into my brain. The empty Moleskine notebook I bought to use as a journal, and which now mocks my lack of personal insight.

Now that the Christmas decorations have been taken down and packed away, even my home looks empty and blank like the face of a model after her makeup has been washed off.

Yes, I suppose that barrenness could represent hope, a canvas upon which my life can take on new vibrancy, new detail. Those empty dates could easily represent possibilities for adventure, and upon the pages of my empty notebook perhaps I’ll write the next great American novel.

But they could just as easily suck and, if the past is any indication, most likely will. Why should I expect the ticking of a clock’s hand and the turn of a page on a calendar to change any of that? Seems like a lot of pressure to put on a year that’s only seconds old, if you ask me.

At least when it comes to those nosy people who insist on asking what my New Year’s Resolutions are, I’ve come up with an answer: in 2009 I plan to read the complete works of the Marquis de Sade, and also to find a better hiding place for the dead bodies.

That ought to shut ‘em up.

Birthday wishes and a Happy New Year to Buckley at The Nose On Your Face, my favorite source for political parodies and conservative humor. (And Islamic Rage Boy, too!)

Every so often, an author writes a poignant, incisive portrayal that accurately captures the disillusionment of a free-spirited rebel who grows up to find him- or herself living in the suburbs, saddled with a mortgage and trying to navigate the treacherous path of raising children without losing touch with the child within.

Rocket Man, by William Elliot Hazelgrove, is not one of those books.

The opening pages introduce us to our protagonist, Dale Hammer: a dried-up novelist who is a petty, self-absorbed ass tilting at windmills of his own creation to avoid facing the possibility his creative well may have run dry.

While fuming over his own father’s neglect throughout his childhood — an emotional wound reopened when his ne’er-do-well father moves in with him — our “hero” in turn both neglects and humiliates his own wife and child. This, miraculously, comes clear to him in a climactic scene that was predictable from the first third of the book. But is he changed by it? We’ll never know, as the book’s final scenes make clear that Dale continues to take pride in the same misconduct he’d engaged in at the start of the book.

There are, I’ve heard, some authors who possess the talent of making an irritating, ordinarily unlikeable main character somewhat endearing to readers. Unfortunately, Hazelgrove fell far short of that mark with Rocket Man. Rather than finding myself charmed by Dale Hammer, I simply wish he’d blast off.

I know I said I’d name the Caption Contest winners last Monday, but there aren’t any. You all sucked.

Maybe next time?

After getting all excited over the prospect of my first tattoo, it turns out I’m not getting inked after all.

Seems that, according to my doctor at any rate, getting a tattoo while being miserably sick isn’t such a good combination. I don’t really remember her exact reasons, but it had something do to with me coughing and sneezing while ink-laden needles are jabbing into my skin.

Then when I pointed out the obvious solution — that I get so intoxicated as to pass out, thus making it unlikely I’d cough or sneeze — she pointed out that I can’t drink while taking the meds she prescribed, and if I actually want to get over this stuff that’s had me sick for going on 3 weeks now, I’d better take the damn pills.

So, no tattoo for me this year. Which is probably a good thing, because I never did ask VH how he’d feel about my ass bearing a tat which read “If lost, please return to…” followed by George Clooney’s address.

Thanks, Ron and Matt for a wonderfully profitable year!

My latest column, Hooking Up is Nothing New, is up at Pajamas Media.

I have to admit, I got quite the chuckle out of the Americans in Paris video that’s going viral on the net. Seriously, what couple hasn’t experienced some kind of distraction in the midst of what should be a terribly passionate kiss?

On the other hand, the video revived my travel jones. It’s been over two decades since I last visited Paris, and just seeing it in the background was enough to ensure I’ll be renewing my passport this month. I’d always promised the Venomous Daughter that the two of us would take trip to Europe when she turned 18 (an age when, I hope, she’ll actually be a fun traveling companion). With that day just six months away, it’s now time to get serious. Not that I’m suddenly feeling cash-flush, mind you. It’s just that I figure if I start scrimping and saving now there’s a chance we’ll be able to afford that trip as promised.

The folks at LastMinuteTravel.com are making that easier, as they can make anyone’s travel plans easier, by offering last minute prices in advance. How do they do it? That’s not my business. But let’s just say their air travel and hotel package rates are so low that treating my daughter to a 2-week trip Paris in June to celebrate her high school graduation will actually cost less than the car she’s been pestering me for. And, unlike the car, I get to enjoy Paris with her!

Oooh, la la.

(By Scott McLeod and Jeff Brenman)

Very cool, and very thought-provoking. The soundtrack’s pretty good, too.

(Via Boing Boing… and yes, it’s really him!)

Winners announced Monday.

What a tale my thoughts would tell… oh, wait. You don’t have to wonder. Now you can read the new incarnation of Queen of Snark (me, uncensored… unfiltered… unkind) where I tell ALL as well as tell off every idiot who’s ever annoyed me.

But be warned: you just might think that blog entry’s about you, and, chances are you’d be right.

*Apologies to my beloved Gordon Lightfoot.

Striking in the nude to protest low wages for nude models? Reminds me of something about a cow and buying milk….

My tattoo-artist friend is coming to town next week. For my Christmas present, she wants to give me a tattoo since she’s been trying to talk me into getting inked for years. For her Christmas present I’m going to let her give me one.

A small one, most likely on my shoulder where I’ve been told it will hurt the least.

So, what should I get?