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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
(AKA How I Paid Forty Bucks for a Free Paper That I Didn’t Even Get, Because That’s the Crap That Happens in My Life. All. The. Freaking. Time.)
The short version of the story is this: A few days ago, a very nice young lady from the local Brookline Tab newspaper asked me some interview questions via email, because I’d contributed a story to the Mug of Woe collection.
“I’m eagerly awaiting a call from my junior high school weekly student flyer, any day now.”
(And because MoW editor Jenn generously blanketed the contributors’ local papers with press releases. I’m eagerly awaiting a call from my junior high school weekly student flyer, any day now.)
Those questions begat answers, and together they turned into a nifty write-up on the Tab’s website, which I stumbled onto today.
Fun story. Happy ending. Good times all ’round.
So that’s where it ends, right?
Nah. Only in the short version. In the real world, that’s where I take over to shoot myself in the foot. Which is also probably in my mouth at the time, which is not exactly a prime foot-shooting location.
And yet. Here we go.
On discovering the piece, I thought I might like to have a printed copy, if one were available, for the old scrapbook. Or the shoebox full of ticket stubs and photographs and a guitar pick that might have once belonged to someone in a band I once saw, only I forget who and when I actually got it, and it’s quite possible it’s actually the plastic hood off an old Matchbox car, which makes it significantly less likely to impress any impressionable groupies of questionable moral fiber who might be hanging around the area. Who would now be in their forties, probably, which is not a good age for groupies. Impressionable or otherwise.
We should probably go back to the interview article again, before this starts to get weird. Yes. Let’s.
So I resolved to set off after work to look for a hard copy of this interview. It first appeared on the website yesterday, apparently, so I reasoned that if the Tab is a daily, it would likely be in today’s edition.
Only I didn’t know if it was a daily, or a weekly. I haven’t actually seen the Tab in a little while. But I knew it was free, and it comes in those little newsstand boxes on the street, and a lot of those papers are daily, so that’s what I went with. The Tab, I decided, is very probably a daily publication.
(Wrong. It’s weekly. But I’m jumping ahead — it took me at least an hour to find that out. And it didn’t much help.)
So I set out around my neighborhood to find a Brookline Tab box. Down to the nearest corner — nothing. The next corner had news boxes — USA Today, the Boston Globe, the Herald, but no Tab. Two blocks down, there were freebies — the Boston Metro, Stuff at Night, Improper Bostonian — but still no Tab. I wandered for half an hour, and still slumped home, Tab-less.
That’s when I remembered the website. When I’d discovered the article, I’d also seen a link to where the Tab could be found, live and in print. So I hopped back over, scanned the list, and found three close-by likely sites to scratch my throbbing Tab itch.
The first was the Trader Joe’s down my street.
(The very same one I mention in the article. This is ‘circles within circles’ stuff, folks. Like Hemingway, or something.
I’m not sure which one. But definitely like one of the Hemingways. Probably Muriel.)
Armed with solid intel, I burst through the T-Joe’s doors and cased the joint. Racks of wine. Kosher pastas. Cracker spreads from every corner of the globe. And hippies as far as the eye could see. But a single Brookline Tab? A sign, stand or label suggesting such a thing was ever offered there? Nada.
So much for everything you read on the internet being true. Color me aghast.
The next place was just down the block; the website promised that outside the local post office was a Tab sidewalk stand. I walked over, and sure enough, there it was. White and dented and a little run-down — like looking in a mirror, it was! — I’d finally found a fabled Tab stand. I yanked the rusty handle down, and–
Empty. No papers. All gone, but thanks for your interest, valued would-be reader.
That left option number three — my local bookstore.
Now, I didn’t want to go to the bookstore for this paper. Not that I don’t like the bookstore — it’s a lovely shop, and well deserving of patronage. But I’ve got books. I’m up to my ears right now in books I haven’t read. For books, I’m good. And then some.
On the other hand, I couldn’t very well walk into the bookstore, pick up a free paper — assuming such a thing actually existed, which I was beginning to wonder at that point — and leave without a book. That would never do. I couldn’t live with that kind of guilt, using a struggling book shop in that way.
(Actually, I have no idea if they’re struggling. I mean, they sell books. And the place is made of bricks and, presumably, mortar, so I just assume — struggling. But that’s just based on what I hear in the news these days. Which is probably sponsored by Amazon. So, you know — draw your own conclusions.)
Reluctantly, I made my way into the Booksmith, still on my quest for the Tab. And happily, I found it there, a whole stack sitting on a rack among other papers. So I snatched up a (precioussss) copy and moseyed back deep in the shelves to sneak a peek. That’s when I found out — the Tab is a weekly. Not a daily. And the current weekly came out last week, which means I’m nowhere within the pages. Bummer.
Still, that left me with a dilemma. Now I was in a bookstore. And a bookstore that, as fate would have it, the Mug of Woe folks are hoping to have carry the book in the near future. And maybe even have a few stories read by the authors. Like me, who lives right down the street. Seems natural.
Unless they ban my mooching ass first for walking out empty-handed — or coming in just for the free papers. Of which I’ve now read one, right smack in the middle of their store. And probably on security camera. If I walk out now, it’s over, man — GAME OVER.
So I put the Tab back and bought a book. Two books, actually, because books are like beers and ruffled potato chips — one is never enough. You really need multiple for the effects to work properly. So I found two books that looked interesting, and by god, I supported my local bookstore. Hopefully, they’ll keep that in mind when Mug of Woe comes their way, and they’re debating having a bunch of mouth-breathing wild-eyed humorists invade their space for a reading. We may be scary looking — and sounding, and on occasion, smelling — but we buy the occasional book. We’re cool in that way. And in nearly no others.
And that’s how I went out for a free paper this evening, and walked home without the paper — though I held it in my hands, and even read a bit — but instead with two new books where the forty dollars in my wallet used to be. And while checking out, I found that the Tab — the WEEKLY Brookline Tab — comes out on Thursdays or Fridays. So some time in the next forty-eight hours, I’m going searching again. And god only knows what the hell I’ll come home with on that trip.
But I bet it’s not a Brookline Tab. That’s just not how it works. Not in my world.
Permalink | No CommentsIt’s difficult to define what sets us, as humans, apart from the rest of the species on the planet. This is especially true in times of extreme stress, or in a crisis, or in the infield of a NASCAR racetrack.
In these situations — and countless others — we often revert to the instinctive, primal drives that helped our distant ancestors to survive millennia of perils — like an ice age, sabertooth beasts and cars that you pedal with your own feet. But does that really make us unique? Haven’t mice and alligators and Joan Rivers done mostly the same thing? What is it that makes humans special?
“Haven’t mice and alligators and Joan Rivers done mostly the same thing?”
Every time I’ve seen this question answered, some critter comes along to throw a wrench into the works. Someone will say that we’re the only species capable of using language — and then some chimp will emerge who hand-signs “I’m a Little Teapot” on cue and deconstructs Neitzsche for bananas. Another expert will claim that we’re the only ones with fully articulated digits suited for detailed work — which is all well and good until some zookeeper trains Bobo the bonobo to give that expert the finger every time he walks past the monkey pen. Say that only we use tools, and a gorilla might literally fling a wrench into your works. You don’t want that. The wrench doesn’t want that. And your works will never be the same.
So I’ve given the matter some thought. If none of these important-sounding things truly set us apart from the rest of the menagerie, then maybe the difference is more subtle. More superficial. Trivial, even.
And I can do trivial.
So here are a few things that I’ve come up with that I believe really set us humans apart from the world of beasts. So long as we’re not attending a pro wrestling match together. Because in some settings, all bets are off.
Be a grammar nazi:
Let’s say I’m standing in my kitchen, holding a Snausage. I can call my dog using a hundred different sentences of varying grammatical quality — “Here, girl” or “Come and get it” or “Yo, stupid” or “Ain’tchu want this here goody?” — and she doesn’t give a particular slobbery damn. Just so long as she gets the treat.
Only we care about how others of the species say something. The rest of the fauna are too busy barking and hissing and growling and purring at each other to worry about whether it’s spelled “meow” or “mrow” or “I say, that’s quite a fetching saucer of cream you’ve just laid out, by jove”.
While we’re busy running spell-check and conjugating verbs, animals are… well. Just conjugating, most of the time. I’m kinda wondering whether we missed the boat on this one, as a species.
Cheat on our taxes:
We’re actually in luck on this one. There are animals out there that make a bit of scratch, one way or another — horses, dogs, certain trained monkeys and Zach Galifianakis, just for instance. But these species also happen to also be some of the most honest in the animal world. So while they may pay taxes, they’re not the sort to cheat on their taxes.
Not like, say, hyenas. Hyenas would bilk the balls off the government, if they ever had the chance. But who’s going to hire a hyena, or fill out its W-2 form? Nobody, that’s who. Ditto for raccoons. And blue jays. Most lizards. Beetles, too. And millipedes. You turn your back on a millipede, and its probably got its thousand grubby paws all over your wallet. Distasteful little critters.
And yet — no money. So no taxes. Only lower forms of humans can turn that cheating trick. So, you know — yay, us.
Check the toilet lid before peeing:
Sure, you can teach a dog to use the toilet. But to perform the simple task of lifting the seat first? Apparently not.
Don’t ask questions. Just trust me on this one. And weep for a handful of fuzzy seat covers, sullied in the prime of their lives.
Air guitar:
Most animals can’t play the guitar. The ukulele, maybe. A mandolin, on a good day. But the guitar? Hardly.
So you’d think they’d be queuing up in herds to play air guitar. We humans have proven that air guitar takes absolutely no talent, particularly as said talent might pertain to actually playing a guitar.
And some animals would put us to shame, too. Take giraffes. Giraffes would totally eat our lunch at air guitar. Or octopi. They could air guitar, air drum and air keyboard all at the same time, with limbs left over to air fondle groupies and throw devil horns at the air crowd.
I’m not sure how you make devil horns out of a suction-cupped feeler, but I imagine the octopods would find a way. It’s not like they’ve been sitting on their many thumbs all these years.
Luckily for us, none of the animals seem interested in putting us in our air place. Maybe they just can’t appreciate the dulcet strains of a Ry Cooder jam or Yngwie Malmstein solo. Or maybe they’ve seen themselves playing air guitar in a mirror, and decided to maintain a shred of public dignity.
My vote’s for the second one.
Surf for internet porn:
I used to think this was because only humans could properly control the computer mice, or type naughty URLs into the address bar. But with all the advances in technology these days — eyeball-laser pointing devices, bark-to-speech converters, pop-up blocker blockers and the like — I’m pretty sure a randy moose or horny buck could get their furry rocks off via the interwebs.
But they don’t. Not so far as I know, anyway.
So now I blame Animal Planet. Let’s face it — when people look for porn, it’s to see other people having sex. Or pretending to have sex, or recruiting other people to have sex, or eating exotic fruit in ways that are both reminiscent of sex and would probably have gotten the fruit held up in customs, had the agents only known how it was going to be used.
Just me? Riiiiiight.
Anyway, why would animals need to go through all the trouble, what with the myriad of nature shows slapped all over the satellite dial? That’s all Animal Planet and their ilk are — animals boinking and grinding and schtupping and humping and chomping Chiquitas like they’re made of chimp cocaine. If there were channels full of people doing all that, all day every day, most people would never leave the house.
Correction. If there were FREE channels full of people doing all that, most people would never leave the house.
Except maybe to buy mangoes. Dirty, dirty mangoes.
So that’s what sets us apart from the beasts. Kinda makes you proud to be a human, dunnit?
Permalink | No CommentsTomorrow, the missus and I will be attending a wedding.
That’s not a complete shocker, but it is a bit unusual for us. We’ve aged past the point where summers are filled with wedding invitations and reception hall bands. We’re more in the baby shower and child birthday stage — which is not a huge change for me, personally. I still don’t know most of the people involved, get lost in any conversation, and still drink just about as much. Only now, I have to hide it in sippy cups. Otherwise, same.
(Soon enough, we’ll move on to the next stage of invitee life, which is either kids’ graduation announcements or funerals. I’m not sure which to hope for. The grad parties will probably have some killer keggers, but everybody boozes it up at a wake. Color me torn.)
“I’m not condoning the actual burning of someone who may be a witch, or may not be a witch, or who may merely have a thing for tall pointy black hats.”
Anyway, back to this wedding.
I don’t know the couple involved — one’s a lawyery friend of my wife’s — but I wonder already whether there’s something odd afoot. Because the wedding is in September — the Hallowe’en season, semi-officially — and they’re getting married in Salem, Mass. The witch hunt town.
I’m intrigued, if only to hear the best man’s speech and whether it involves broomsticks, or accusations of heresy. At the very least, he should call for a dunking. Or to weigh the bride against a duck. And if the reception has a bonfire, I want to see a stake in the middle.
Just for looks, mind you. I’m not condoning the actual burning of someone who may be a witch, or may not be a witch, or who may merely have a thing for tall pointy black hats. But I also didn’t get married in Salem during the witching season. I think the bride’s going to have to roll with this one a little bit.
Of greater concern to me personally is the reception dinner. I’ve been to Salem in the fall before, and the place is crawling — after dark, often literally — with Hallowe’en revelers and props and paraphernalia. It’s an eight-year-old emo’s dream, perhaps — but if they serve candy corn and caramel apples after the nuptials, I’m not going to be happy.
(Especially the apples. My mother always said those things have razor blades in them, because everyone in the world is out to hurt you.
I asked if that included her. She said if I didn’t hand over the fruit and stop asking stupid questions, it would. Eep.)
Also, I’m staying away from any marbled rye on the buffet line. Ergot poisoning is all fun and games, so long as it happens three hundred years ago.
Meanwhile, there’s the practical issue of attire. What does one wear to an autumn Salem wedding? A vampire cape? Puritan buckles and a pilgrim hat? Frankenstein face paint?
I’ve always been lazy with my Hallowe’en costumes, so in college I used to put on shorts — so far as you know — under a long trenchcoat and go as a flasher. I ran the idea past my wife, and she was less than amused. One might even say unsupportive.
But of course I know why. She probably had her heart set on a matching Bride of Frankenstein outfit. First thing tomorrow, I’ll start putting on the makeup, and superglue some bolts to my neck. Maybe I’ll even get into costume before she wakes up, and surprise her in bed. That’d go over well.
I’ll just have to make sure first that she doesn’t have any fire pits nearby with stakes in the middle. Witches aren’t the only monsters they hunt around here, you know. Not in this household.
Permalink | No CommentsIt’s interesting how set in our ways we can become — and how foreign other peoples’ choice and lifestyles can then seem.
Take last Saturday, for instance. My wife and I attended a party thrown by a new friend of hers. She seemed like a nice girl. Solid greeting technique. Respectable decor. No telltale psycho-nut pupil dilation. Perfectly normal, or so it would seem.
“Solid greeting technique. Respectable decor. No telltale psycho-nut pupil dilation. Perfectly normal, or so it would seem.”
Little did we know.
As we mingled among the other unsuspecting revelers, it gradually became clear that things were not quite as they seemed. There was something about this apartment we were blithely eating and drinking and chatting in. Something different.
My wife noticed the first horror. My wife innocently went to the fridge to grab a beer, and came back with a Sam — and an anomaly.
Wife: Hey, I noticed she keeps her eggs in little individual plastic egg cups, instead of leaving them in the carton. Weird, right?
Me: I don’t know. A little unusual, I guess.
Wife: Yeah. I smell disaster here. This is not going to end well.
Me: Oh, stop it.
We were able to put the shocking discovery behind us and enjoy ourselves. For a while. Until we decided to partake of the snacks laid out by the hostess.
Me: Look, there’s crackers and dip.
Wife: Ooh, that sounds go–wait a minute. What the hell is this?
Me: What?
Wife: A knife? In the dip? What kind of animal serves dip with a knife?
Me: I… don’t know. A human animal?
Wife: A filthy unwashed human animal, maybe. Dip comes with spoon. Not knife.
Me: Okay. You might be overreacting a little.
Wife: This knife is an abomination to everything that’s ever been sacred, ever. That’s all I’m saying.
Me: Fair enough. Now settle down.
That took a little longer to get past. We were just settling — cautiously — back into our party groove when the next bombshell landed.
Wife: What the?
Me: What now?
Wife: That clock. Her clock. It’s got Roman numerals.
Me: So?
Wife: In this day and age? Seriously? She thinks we’re all assholes, is that it?
Me: I don’t even know… what?
Wife: I mean, even owning a Roman numeral clock — and then putting it out for a party? That’s… gah! She’s worse than Hitler!
Me: Get a grip, would you? You’re embarrassing me.
I should probably point out that some — or all — of these conversations may have happened entirely in reverse. May.
Honestly, who can remember who said what to whom when there are dip knives and Roman numerals involved? I know I can’t.
Not on the record, anyway. That’s for sure.
Meanwhile, back at Satan’s Cotillion:
Wife: I just got back from the bathroom!
Me: Uh… congratulations?
Wife: Do you know what I found in there?
Me: No. But please tell me you didn’t take a picture of it.
Wife: Not that. The toilet paper. My god, the TOILET PAPER!
Me: What’s wrong with it?
Wife: Wrong?! I’ll tell you what’s “wrong”. Overy-undery. That’s what’s wrong.
Me: Lord. So?
Wife: It’s like a party from caveman times. Or the Third World. I’ll tell you, this whole thing smacks of something.
Me: Smacks? What?
Wife: Communism. This girl is a Marxist. Absolutely. It explains everything.
Me: Did you… huff Drano while you were in the bathroom?
Wife: I’m serious! The knife, the egg cups, the capital economy-hating overy-undery — the signs are all there, hon.
Me: …
Wife: Open your eyes and smell what the proletariat’s brewing!
Me: …
Wife: Commie convention here! Get yer plowshares and drab outfits and wait in line for Levi’s, like the rest of us!
Me: All right. It’s time to go.
Wife: We’re number ‘i’! We’re number ‘i’!
Me: Jesus. Come on.
So we left. On the way out, my wife — or, just possibly, me; again, who can recall, really? — said a few more things that could make for some uncomfortable encounters later. Something about the Cold War and Cuban “missiles” in a Roman bathhouse, involving a spoon. Or ‘spooning’. It’s all kind of a blur, frankly.
Let’s just say it was perhaps not the finest moment for whichever of us was needlessly riled up at the time. And I don’t think we’re invited back any time soon. Even if we bring the wodka. So that’s kind of a bummer.
On the other hand, where’s the loss? Overy-undery? Pffft. Philistine.
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