About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
(For those looking for an injection of Christmas spirit — or “Christmas spirit”, nudge nudge, wink wink — feel free to have a gander over at ZuG.com, where the latest Zolton Does Amazon piece is hanging out: Nearly Naughty, Not So Nice.
Seriously, go see. Santa sees you when you’re clicking, you know.)
Speaking of Christmas, I’m currently at my parents’ place for it. But I’m not as entouraged as usual here, as my wife is still hanging out in our condo in Boston.
(We could argue here about who’s the ‘entourager’, and who’s the ‘entouragee’. The point is, I’m here and she’s there. Let’s not bog down in semantics, shall we?)
The reason for our separation this season was — as with most things distasteful and inconvenient in our lives — caused by the dog. You may recall that our pooch was recently quite sickly, and subsequently fitted with a poochie pacemaker. All of this is good, and she’s recovering nicely.
Which is not to say that she’s recovering quickly. Not exactly, anyway. Her energy’s up, and she’s eating well, and she positively thrives on decorating our back room with turds. Because that’s what she does. The little poopin’ bitch.
Still, she’s got this new electrode gizmo jabbed into her heart zapping her to life several dozen times a minute. And the docs say that until her heart tissue frays away from the jab site and scars around it — because that’s the sort of horrific thing veterinary surgeons say to people whose dogs have just been pulled back from the brink of death — she’ll be a bit ‘fragile’ for a while.
So the wife and I are Christmasing in shifts this year. Pre-Santa, I’ve flown to see my family, while she nurses the mutt and her ticker. On Christmas Eve, I fly back to Boston and the missus speeds off to her folks’ place on Christmas Day, leaving me holding the canine babysitting bag. Which is also, probably, full of poop.
I tell you that mostly as filler. But also, to tell you this — being wifeless for the holidays is a daunting and lonely prospect. There are certain, ah… shall we say, needs, that my beloved spouse fills during most of these trips that I simply cannot fill for myself. Itches that no one else can scratch. Or would want to. Very private and delicate matters, indeed.
Mostly, they involve gift wrapping.
Yes, gift wrapping. My wife’s the wrapper of the household. To save time and energy, we usually have presents sent our families before we fly, and then process them when we arrive. Meaning we wrap them. Meaning she wraps them. Because I’m hopeless with wrapping paper, and a danger to myself, others and society when it comes to tying a bow. For the sake of my sanity, our marriage and Western civilization, I defer to her expertise when it comes to gift wrapping.
When she’s around. Which she’s most certainly not right now. And so, the wrapping duties fall to me. Which is not a good thing, for anyone involved.
So far, I’ve wrapped exactly one present. It was a box, nice and rectangular, very regularly shaped. It contained a gift for my grandmother, and I took it to her today, right after I wrapped it.
“It looked like a cross between a Unabomber Yankee swap and Santa sleigh afterbirth.”
Actually ‘wrapped it’ doesn’t quite capture the procedure I employed to cover it with paper. ‘Swaddled it’ is too cute. ‘Engulfed it’ sounds like I meant to waste a tube and a half of pine tree paper, when I actually didn’t. I think I’ll go with ‘festively defiled it’ to describe the result. This poor little rectangular box became a wadded tumorous football of red and green, papered only mostly right-side-out and covered raggedly with bits of Scotch tape. It looked like a cross between a Unabomber Yankee swap and Santa sleigh afterbirth.
I handed it to my Grandma. She wept for humanity. Because that’s how I wrap.
In the next couple of days, I’ll ugly up the gifts for my parents. And we’ll all fall to our knees and curse the heavens that my wife couldn’t be here to save us all from my crimes against Christmas, Santa Claus and pretty red ribbons everywhere. Also, we’ll probably need more wrapping paper. And Scotch tape. And for that matter, Scotch.
Hopefully, your holidays are spent with those near and dear to you — and especially those who can cut in a straight line and tape down an edge without ripping the paper or pinning their pinky inside the gift. As for me, I’ll soldier on and try to make it home without (further) paper cuts, tearful grannies or citations from the Fashion Police, Under-Tree Division. And next year, my wife will either travel with me, or I’m getting everyone in my family a gift card.
Delivered electronically. No wrapping required. Now that’s my idea of a merry Christmas.
Permalink | No CommentsI may have mentioned — several dozens of times over the past few months — that I’ve been taking sketch writing classes over at ImprovBoston. All the while, I’ve been eager to unleash my chops on unsuspecting sketch comedy audiences.
(As opposed to the four-and-a-half people who read this site. If any of you are still ‘unsuspecting’ at this point, I know a very nice prince from Nigeria who’s dying to send you millions of dollars for no especially good reason. I’d be more than happy to negotiate the deal.
For a small processing fee. Of course.)
I thought I’d found my ‘in’ when I weaseled my way into the inbox of the head honchess of The Ruckus, a resident IB sketch troupe. Back in October-ish time, the group was herding all of their writers together, coming up with a dozen or so sketches to work into a show. I was invited. I was so excited. I strongly considered the prospect of losing control. And I think I liked it.
I was told the first writers’ meeting would be “in a couple of weeks”. That was peachy. I had no other obligations, no dates marked off on my dance card — except tickets to a Patriots game one Sunday afternoon. But that was no problem, surely. Seriously, who meets in the middle of a day on a Sunday?
“We had a bar picked out. I bought Tom Brady earmuffs. My hands were tied.”
The group of writers for the Ruckus local sketch comedy troupe, is who. The conflict arose — as I somehow always knew it would — and pigskins won over script penning. My buddy already had the tickets. We had a bar picked out. I bought Tom Brady earmuffs. My hands were tied.
Still, I had a foot in the door. I apologized for missing the meeting, and learned that a few weeks later — after furious rewrites, updates and packing in the jokes about idiots — there’d be a final meeting. I could come to that one. And while I might not (or might!) sneak a sketch into the show, I’d at least be able to see a meeting. Learn how they work. See writers in their natural habitat. Maybe feed one of the tame ones from my hand.
Again, my schedule was free — except an invitation to another football game. But! This one was on Monday night. Sketch comedy is clearly a weekend activity. There’s absolutely zero chance that this second meeting would possibly also be at the same time as the only other Pats game I’d get to attend, especially on a Monday night. No way. Unpossible.
Clearly, somebody up there has it out for me.
All of which is to say, I almost hooked up with this ‘Ruckus’ crew to write and edit some sketches, to contribute to a show, and to see my name — if not in lights, then at least with a writer’s credit at the bottom of some small-run photocopied local theater program. But no. Bill Belicheck wouldn’t have that, apparently.
So, I took another angle. The next email went out looking for actors for this show other people had written while I was freezing my butt off in Foxboro. Twice. So I swore off football, said, ‘yes, please‘, and — for at least one run — joined the Ruckus to perform on Saturdays in January.
Assuming they don’t kick me out by then. Or make me play a lamppost in every skit.
So far, so good. We’ve had a couple of rehearsals — with some very funny people — and the show’s looking fantastic.
(Or it’s not — what the hell would I know about how it’s supposed to look after two rehearsals? I can’t even make it to the writers’ meetings, for crissakes.
But to me? Looking pretty fantastic.)
The roles appear to be pretty well set at this point. Without giving too much away, I’ll say that it looks like I’ll be playing, at various points:
Exciting, no? I’ve even got a shot at being added as Man Waiting in Line #1, or Random Non-Speaking Bus Passenger. I know, right? “Look out, Hollywood!”
Anyway, I’ll throw out another Ruckus-related update or two as the show dates near. If you’re in the Boston area, maybe you’ll slide by for a view. For now, I’m busy just learning my scripts, trying to act ‘corporate’ and practicing standing in line and keeping my damned fool mouth shut.
Sort of like they tell you to do on the way in to the Patriots games. I knew taking those tickets would come in handy for something.
Permalink | No CommentsSince I’ve told people around my office that I’m leaving, they all seem to have the same question:
“Why?”
(Never mind that most of them follow this simple question with the words:
“The hell did it take us so long to get rid of you?”
Smartasses. And people wonder why I pee in the eggnog at the office Christmas party.)
At any rate, several people around the workplace have inquired as to why I decided to leave. To most, I’ve listed the tactful sorts of reasons that most people would — I needed a fresh start, it was time to move on, the security guards were too chummy, too many Gantt charts, creeping bureaucracy, employee bios, rogue Belgians, self-evaluations, long lines for the ‘crying stall’ in the bathroom and of course, those $@!%ing meetings.
Dih-skuhv-ur the truth!
These are all valid reasons. But they’re not the REAL reason I’m leaving. You people, reading right here, I’ll tell the real reason. Somebody needs to hear this. Better you than my HR representative who wears the ass-out-the-door-kicking boots.
Here’s the thing. My current employers have a set of core values. They’re very proud of them. They even post reminders up on the walls with keywords, so we’ll remember these sacred values with the help of just five little words. I managed to snap some of these words in this picture here, including:
Excellence
Discovery
And some other stuff; I frankly never make it that far down the list. Also, I accidentally cut the first one off the top. Was it ‘Awesomeness’? ‘Obedience’? ‘Cheeseburgers’? Who the hell knows? Let’s run with what we have.
Now, I’ll say right up front that I don’t disagree with these core values, per se. Excellence is — well, excellent. And discovery — so long as it doesn’t involve some stranger you’ve brought back to your place after a night at a seedy bar — is usually a good thing, too. I’m sure the rest are similarly positive. Who doesn’t like cheeseburgers? I’m just saying.
Rather, my beef comes with the way they’ve presented these values on this sign that’s plastered all over the building. They chose, for some artsy, grade-school-throwback reason that I fail to understand, to present these words both phonetically and syllabically.
(Or whatever the fancy grade-school-throwback word for “separatin’ into sound parts” is.
Some of us may have slept through fifth grade English class. Just a bit.)
“They could slap their core values up on the wall in blinking Comic Sans, for all I care, and I’d probably have no comment.”
This was their choice, mind you. I didn’t tell these people how to write their words. They could slap their core values up on the wall in blinking Comic Sans, for all I care, and I’d probably have no comment. But no. They chose phoneticational and syllabicalicious.
But one of them doesn’t match.
Look at “Discovery”. Just look at it. Broken down, the ‘s’ is in the first syllable. Phonetically, no — it’s in the second sound. The ‘r’ is also in limbo, jostled back and forth between the ‘e’ and the ‘y’. It’s jarring. Confusing. Maddening. I’ve spent hours staring at that damned sign, locked in battle and mouthing ‘discovery’ a hundred different ways to reconcile the two.
‘dis-KUHV-er-ee‘?
‘dih-skuhv-EE-ree‘?
‘DIS-kuh-vuh-REE‘?
It’s embarrassing. And I just can’t do it any more. So I’m leaving. To get away from those godforsaken signs. Now you know.
(And yes, I’m aware that the disconnect may not be ‘wrong‘, exactly. The sign-hoisters seem to have gotten their information from Dictionary.com — and if you can’t trust a fly-by-night, online-only, Johnny-come-lately internet reference source, then who can you trust, right?
Maybe Merriam-Webster? I”m just spitballing here. Don’t mind me.)
So anyway, that’s my real reason for quitting. Just don’t tell the people at work. I want them to think it’s the Gantt charts. Also, if I’m good until my last day, I might get cheeseburgers. It’s one of our core values, probably. So don’t let on. Thanks.
Permalink | No CommentsIt’s officially holiday time in our house. Over the weekend, my wife made her annual demand that we go out and purchase a Christmas tree.
That’s right. The sap of yet another innocent New England evergreen is on our hands. As repeat offenders, I’m pretty certain we’ll someday be spending eternity suffering in tree hell.
Which is mostly like other hell. Only tree Satan uses pine cones instead of pineapples.
(Or he doesn’t, since pine cones are innocent unborn trees, too. Tree hell is kind of complicated, I bet.)
“Tree hell is kind of complicated, I bet.”
Anyway, my wife wanted a tree. A tree makes her happy. So on Saturday we went and picked out a tree. I’m not sure what goes into “picking out a tree”, exactly — if you’ve seen one dead conifer, you’ve seen ’em all, I always say — so I mostly stand around and nod in agreement that this one is too tall, or that one’s not full enough, or the needles on the one over there don’t ‘pop’.
For all I know, these trees are clones. Pray to tree Jeebus that someone you love is never kidnapped by a rogue blue spruce from the wrong side of the forest, if I’m the only witness. There’s no way I’d pick it out of a police lineup. Call me tree-judiced; they all look the same to me.
And now, we had a guy saw a few inches off the bottom of one of these things, and we plopped it in our living room. Because that’s what Christmas is all about, apparently. Unless you’re a pine tree. I don’t know what Christmas is about if you’re a pine tree. But it seems pretty gruesome.
We’ve also hung stockings by the fireplace. Because we have a fireplace, and again — that’s what you do, apparently, is dangle your oversized novelty footwear off of it. Heaven forbid you’d actually use it for fire. I don’t make the rules. I don’t understand the rules. That’s just what you do. So says my wife.
As usual, we have three stockings — one for me, one for the missus, and one for the dog. A stocking for the dog is the most asinine idea ever, for lots of reasons. First, the only sorts of ‘presents’ she wants are things she can eat. Nasty things like marinated pig ears or beef knuckles or petrified sheep scrota or whatever livestock part leftovers they’re selling in the pet stores these days. These are not items I want anywhere in the house, much less in the living room. And far less dangled over the fireplace, where we might actually start a fire one of these days and waft the aroma of severed yak ‘nads all over the freaking building.
For another thing, the mutt sniffs out treats like a police dog in an opium den. If we actually used the Christmas stocking the way most people do, putting gifts in several days — or minutes, even — before Christmas, the little turdhurler would have plastic and felt and unspeakable animal parts strewn all over the condo before you could say, ‘Deck the halls with jowls of piggy‘.
Fa la la la la, la la la bleeeeergh!
So the dog gets a stocking. We buy her treats, which we then hide like evil puppy misers until the very last minute, and place them in the stocking for approximately four seconds. And to save a horrifying — but festive! — mess, we then remove said treats from stocking and watch the dog stuff them down her greedy gob post-haste.
And then, most likely, hork them back up again all over the carpet. And, if there’s any mercy in the world, all over the tree. Some people make a turkey for Christmas. Others sing carols. These are my holiday traditions. Tree heaven help us all.
Permalink | No CommentsToday marks the last session in my latest sketch writing class over at ImprovBoston. We had a good run this time around — and even get to do a staged reading of our favorite scripts. Sadly, I have to miss the reading this Tuesday night.
(Though they still decided to include one of my skits, which was very sweet. I chose Mail Call, so if you’re in the Central Square, Cambridge area this Tuesday evening with time on your hands, slip over and see the gang. Good people. Good sketches. Ample parking, probably. How could you not?)
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, son. But not THAT mysterious.”
Happily, my reason for missing the reading is another sketch-related something that I’ll talk more about later in the week. But it should be a hoot. So keep an eye out for that.
Meanwhile, our last assignment was to each write a sketch around a theme. We decided, somehow, on ‘religion’ as the thing tying the skits together, and I went off on my merry way to poop something out. Below is the fruit of said pooping.
My angle was to think about faith healers, and other professions in which they’d be really probably pretty awful. Financial planner came to mind. Also, marriage counselor, computer repair person and customer support rep. In the end, though, I settled on mechanic.
(Probably because I once myself went to a garage where spooky, unexplained things happened. I thought that guy was a magician. Maybe he just had THE POWER! Who knows?)
Anyway, I hope you get a chuckle out of it. And I hope you don’t get any ideas about home car repair. I saw The Exorcist. That shit can go south in a hurry. Happy weekend!
[TOM pulls his car into a garage; the car makes various pinging and clunky noises. Tom parks and gets out, looking around the empty garage.]
TOM: Hello? Anybody here?
[CARL bursts into the room, arms raised to the heavens. He’s wearing a long priest’s robe, made out of denim with a name patch ‘CARL’ on the chest. Carl has Donald Trump televangelist hair and the mannerisms of a faith healer.]
CARL: Hallelujah! Another soul, come for automotive salvation! How can I serve you, my son?
TOM: Um… Sorry. I’m looking for the garage.
CARL: Then your prayers have been answered, child! You’re in the LORD’S Garage now! Tell me what ails your weary vehicle today.
TOM: Well, uh, okay. It makes a lot of noise when I drive.
CARL: He says it’s making noise!
TOM: Yeah… sort of knocking and pinging.
CARL: Pinging, child! Testify!
TOM: And some grinding. Sounds like grinding.
CARL: Lordy be, that is a troubling tale. But I can help you, my son. I can bring your car back into the light. Will you help me do that today?
TOM: Uh, sure. I guess. What do you need me for?
CARL: Sir, I need you to believe. Do you BELIEVE, child?
TOM: Believe in what?
CARL: Son, I am but a vessel for the power that flows from on high, these healing hands an embodiment of the sacred trinity of the muffler, the piston and the holy spark plug. But it is YOUR faith that will set your car back on the freeway of righteousness. So I ask again, do you BELIEVE?
TOM: Yeah, okay. Sure.
CARL: They cannot hear you in the cloisters, son! DO YOU BELIEVE?!
TOM: Yes. I believe.
CARL: SHOUT IT TO THE HEAVENS, CHILD!!
TOM: I BELIEVE! I BELIEVE!!
CARL: Good. Now let’s have a look at this wayward soul.
[Carl raises his arms, as if commanding the hood to rise.]
CARL: Raise up the hood! Raise it up and let the Lord shine in!
[Tom watches Carl with wide eyes. The hood doesn’t move. Carl waits for a beat, arms still high in the air.]
CARL: Sir? If you could raise up the hood, please?
TOM: Oh! Right. I thought you were… like, you had the power. Or something.
CARL: The Lord works in mysterious ways, son. But not THAT mysterious.
[Tom opens the driver’s door and pops the hood. Carl peers in, inspecting various bits.]
CARL: Oh, my… Dear me… mercy, mercy, mercy.
TOM: What’s wrong? Is it bad?
CARL: I’m afraid so, child. It appears your car is suffering from a demonic possession. Dark, evil spirits have your baby in their clutches!
TOM: (doubtfully) Evil spirits? Really?
CARL: Indeed! Demons sent from the depths of hell to clog your valves and befoul your crankshaft! But we can defeat this evil, son! We have the POWER!
TOM: We do, huh?
CARL: That’s right! With your faith and these healing hands, we shall exorcise these spirits from your vehicle. Can I get an ‘amen’?
TOM: Fine. Amen.
CARL: Shout it like you mean it, son! These are Satan’s minions we’re dealing with here!
TOM: AMEN! AMEN!! All right?!
CARL: Good. Now the healing can begin. Just one thing, first.
[Carl pulls out a basket and holds it out to Tom, shaking it as though he’s looking for money.]
TOM: Oh. Do I pay the bill up front?
CARL: Heavens no, sir — this is our donation plate. We maintain a non-profit charity center for orphaned auto parts. It’s the Lord’s work! Praise be!
[Carl shakes the basket again, meaningfully. Tom shrugs, pulls some change from his pocket, and drops it in. Carl checks the basket and shakes his head sadly.]
CARL: Thirty-eight cents. Mercy. There are gonna be some cold hungry hubcaps in the orphanage tonight! All right — let’s exorcise some demons! Can I get a ‘hallelujah’?
TOM: (shouting, but without enthusiasm) HALLELUJAH!!
CARL: Amen. I will now lay my healing hands on your troubled car and drive the demons from her.
[Carl places both hands on the engine, shouting and convulsing.]
CARL: Out, foul demons! Release this innocent Tercel coupe back into the light! In the name of our patron Saint Goodwrench and the Church of Napa Auto Parts, I command thee — BEGONE!!
[As Carl finishes his speech, a huge THUNK! is heard. Carl peers over into the engine.]
TOM: What was that? Did it work?
CARL: That appears to be your engine block, son. On the ground.
TOM: The ground? As in, fell out?
CARL: So it seems. The demons were powerful strong in this one. I’m sorry, child. Your car’s with the Lord now.
TOM: Let me get this straight. I came in here with a few knocks and pings for you to look at.
CARL: Tell it, brother!
TOM: You tell me that’s caused by ‘demons’ possessing my car, and you want to perform an exorcism.
CARL: Praise be!
TOM: So you slap your hands on there, and the engine falls out, and that’s because these evil spirits were ‘powerful strong’. Do I have this right?
CARL: Perfect as an angel!
TOM: I see. Well, all I can say is… thank you so much, Reverend Carl! I could still be driving around in that satanic deathtrap. You saved my life!
CARL: WE saved your life, son. WE HAVE THE POWER!
TOM: HALLELUJAH!
CARL: Now how about we go have a look at those poor orphaned hubcaps?
TOM: Absolutely! I’ll write you a check!
CARL: Praise be!
[Tom and Carl exit.]
Permalink | No Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
