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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
If you’re reading this — welcome! You’ve made the transition with me to my new server, and new blogging software. Well done.
I’m hoping to make this move as seamless and streamlined as possible — as in, ‘after another sentence and a half, you’ll hopefully never hear about it ever again — but in the event you see something amiss (other than my sanity, of course), please drop me a note to let me know what’s wonky. Otherwise, mum’s the word on the technical miscellany.
Now, back to the show.
Yesterday, I got a call from my parents. That’s not so unusual on the weekend, but it wasn’t the usual sort of call. This call was regarding… dun DUN DUUUN:
Hurricane Irene.
Now, like I said last time, I had no idea what Irene was going to smack us with in the Boston area. She could’ve kicked our collective Sam Adams-swilling ass, or — as it turned out — she could just dump a few hours of rain on us and muss our hair a bit.
I imagined the latter was somewhat more likely. My parents, on the other hand, assumed the worst. ‘Stay indoors!‘, they told me. ‘Make extra ice cubes! Buy lots of candles! Board up all the windows!!‘
I wasn’t especially sure whether they were trying to keep us safe from an impending storm, or taking one last desperate run at trying to get us to conceive a grandchild for them. Either way, I mostly blew it off — in much the same way Irene mostly blew off her visit to Boston.
“Drunk, dry and without a hair out of place is a spectacular way to go through life, son.
(Who in their right mind takes a left at Jersey and hits Springfield instead of Boston, I don’t know. I’m beginning to think old Irene was maybe a couple of gusts short of a sustained wind, if you know what I’m saying.)
To be fair, I did prepare myself somewhat for the big storm. I canceled all my plans for today, resolved to stay inside, and yesterday I bought a case of beer and got a haircut. Drunk, dry and without a hair out of place is a spectacular way to go through life, son. That’s my theory, anyway.
That just left one loose post-tropical Nor’Easter thread to tie up. My parents made me promise yesterday to give them a call once the meteorological fireworks were over, so they’d know we were safe, sound and undrowned. I agreed that I would. And around six this evening, it was time to make the call.
That’s when I decided I’d finally have a little ‘fun’ with this whole hurricane business. If Irene wasn’t going to provide any local entertainment, then I’d do it myself, dammit.
So before dialing the folks, I made myself a little call station. In the bathroom. First, I lined the bathtub with aluminum foil.
(No, this isn’t some sicko Blade Runner fantasy or something. Jesus. Stick with me here. You’ll see.)
We have a window behind our tub / shower — heavily glazed, naturally; for our peace of mind and the neighbors’ peace of eyeballs. So I put a box fan in the window, and turned it on high. Then I turned the shower on, the better to pelt — noisily pelt — the foil below. I dialed my parents’ number, put them on speakerphone, laid the phone down on the window sill near the fan, and backed out into the hallway. When I heard my mother answer, I shouted, twelve feet away from the receiver:
‘HI, MA! YOU SAID I SHOULD CALL WHEN THE WORST WAS OVER TODAY!‘
She said something. I couldn’t hear. How could I hear? I was getting a lap dance from a hurricane, probably.
‘YEAH, MOST OF THE CARS HAVE STOPPED FLOATING NOW! HOW’S DAD? HE PLAYING GOLF TODAY?‘
She said something else, louder. I couldn’t make it out. I ran some water from the sink into a cup.
‘GOOD, GOOD! WE’RE DOING OKAY HERE, UNDER THE CIRCUM*gargle gargle ggnngghhh*!!‘
Something else, louder still. Might have been singing. Might have been Swahili. I was in an aluminum wind tunnel. How the hell should I know?
‘OKAY, WELL, I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW WE’RE GOOD! TURNS OUT OUR COUCHES FLOAT, AND THE DOG’S PADDLING LIKE A CHAMP! TALK TO YOU SOON! LOVE YOU!‘
I turned off the phone, the water and the fan, tossed the foil and went to ‘innocently’ find my wife, who was in the kitchen, a couple of rooms away. By the time I got there, her cell phone was buzzing. She distractedly picked it up, and got an immediate earful of ‘OHMIGODWHAT’SGOINGONUPTHERE CALLFEMAGETTOHIGHGROUND RENTAHELICOPTERJUST SAVEYOURSELVES!!!‘
Or something to that effect. It was hard to make out, what with the tinny phone speaker and my maniacal giggling. And now my mother and my wife want to lash me to a piece of driftwood and throw me in the Caribbean to wait for the next storm to come through. Seems a little harsh, if you ask me. I just made a phone call — like I was asked to do. Sheesh.
Also? Totally worth it. Maybe next year, I’ll impersonate a volcanic eruption. Or a plague of frogs. That’d be cool.
Permalink | No CommentsApparently, there’s some rain storm or cold front or rogue rotary lawn sprinkler headed our way in the Boston area. “Irene”, they’ve called it. Sounds like someone who gifts fruitcake at Christmas, not some scary beast that’ll rip open your house and drag you out to sea.
(As an aside, I’ve never been all that comfortable with the naming of tropical storms with actual people names. Sure, the anthropomorphism is handy — and we’ve got to call the things something, if only to give our meteorologists a word to repeatedly scream at us while they’re reporting from a deluge at the storm front for no discernible reason.
“We’ve constructed radars and computer models and predictive algorithms that take into account wind shears and prevailing currents and which dung beetle in a nest in the middle of the Kalahari farted for how long in which direction.”
But I always thought it was unfair to people who already had the names picked, and then have to live with the associated infamy forevermore. Take Katrina, for instance. Growing up, I had a cousin named Katrina. Still do, probably — she’s out there, somewhere, barring some unfortunateness I don’t know about. And how do you think she’s felt for the last half a decade, when ninety-nine percent of people using her name are saying things like:
‘Katrina was the worst disaster ever.‘
‘We’re still cleaning up after Katrina.‘
‘I can’t believe I survived Katrina — what a bitch.‘
‘Katrina flattened my house and flung my cat into a parking lot.‘
‘I hope this next terrible thing isn’t as bad as… Katrina!!‘
That’s got to weigh on you after a while. Even if people tack on the obligatory, ‘Oh, sorry, hon — not you,’ it adds up. I can just see my cousin, all grown up now, slowly building up pressure and steam until — maybe last year, maybe next year, maybe tomorrow — she finally explodes:
‘I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING, YOU LOUSY PISSANT COMPLAINING JACKHOLES! LEAVE ME ALONE AND FOR THE LOVE OF TROPICAL DEPRESSIONS, STOP. SAYING. MY. NAME!‘
I just hope she has a friend named Irene, or maybe Hugo, so she can give a little back. Kids are so cruel these days.)
Now. Irene.
There’s a certain facet of the human experience that becomes illuminated when one finds oneself in the path of an oncoming storm. It’s different than the facets revealed after the storm hits. Those facets tend to be writ more large — you may find, depending on where you live, that ‘everyone helps a neighbor‘ or ‘those who have the least sometimes give the most‘. Or possibly ‘a bitch will steal the silverware out of your ruined house if you’re not careful, so SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN‘.
Like I said, depending on where you live.
But before the storm — and well before even the calm before the storm — another, more consistent and predictable aspect of humanity is on display. Namely:
“Everybody’s got an opinion. And nobody knows shit.”
We pay some of the finest minds of our times — well, maybe not the ‘finest‘ minds, sure; but some pretty respectable semi-fine minds, at least — to predict the weather. We’ve constructed radars and computer models and predictive algorithms that take into account wind shears and prevailing currents and which dung beetle in a nest in the middle of the Kalahari farted for how long in which direction. The best they can do is paint an ever-widening ‘Cone of Hurt’ to trace the most likely path a storm might, or might not, decide to take. That’s the state of the art in meteorological divining, and it’s imperfect and unpredictable at best.
This reality in no way stops Cletus over at the gas station I go to from positing, with what looks like certainty:
‘Yup, that big ol’ storm’s gonna miss us. It ain’t got the sustained wind speed to make it up this fer.‘
Or the neighbor lady next door from claiming:
‘We’ll be under a foot of water by Sunday night. This thing’s heading right for us, and dumping 1.38 inches of rain every hour. Our draining infrastructure can’t sustain that.‘
Or the mailman:
‘I have it veering east by the time it hits New Jersey. Given the rate of spin and the water temperatures off Ocean City, Irene’s going to seek the ocean waters. Guaranteed.‘
Who’s right? None of them, of course. None of these people know anything more about storm tracking or weather models than I do. And what do I know? I know hurricanes are spinny, and they make everything wet and expensive. That’s about it.
However. One of these people — and many, many more amateur storm-nosticators up and down the Eastern seaboard and beyond — is going to seem right, based on whatever the hell this storm finally does, and for whatever inscrutable reasons it does it. And that’s only going to encourage them.
‘Dang it, I TOLD you that thing was gonna go and (do whatever the thing went and did)! You could learn a thing or two from me, boy-o. This tinfoil hat ain’t just for looks, y’know.‘
That’s the real tragedy of a storm like this — a subset of opinionated idiots finding evidence that suggests their particular take on life is validated, and therefore worthy of greater and louder exposition to as many people as possible.
(Sound like the aftermath of an election result? Like I said: tragedy.)
At least, I hope that’s the real tragedy. All the loss of life and property and pets flung through the air is terrible, obviously. So if Irene could just mosey through quickly and keep the real horrors to a minimum, then we’ll deal with the ‘told you so‘s when it’s all said and done. Just hurry up already, is all I ask. This shitstorm of asinine predictions is almost worse than the real thing.
Permalink | No CommentsI’m always a little anxious around here about repeating myself.
(Unless — I say, I say, unless — I’m in a Foghorn Leghorn sorta mood.
That’s Leghorn, son. It’s a bird joke! I say, a bird joke! Your firehose don’t go all the way out to the reservoir tip, do it, son?)
Repetition, as they say, begets… well, I don’t know what they say it begets, exactly. But it’s pretty boring reading the same thing over and over, so I try not to do it. That’s the idea.
Of course, with several hundred entries piling up in the archives, it’s not always possible to be entirely novel. So when I thought about posting something tonight that has to do with a certain security guard where I work, it occurred to me that I’d already posted something about a guard once. Different guard, but same office. And a different complaint. Still. Would it seem too similar? Would people read it and think, ‘ah, he’s running out of ideas; it’s this old thing again‘? Dare I risk falling into a guard-bashing rut? Oh noes!
So I looked up the other piece. Turns out I wrote it two-and-a-half years ago. This I can remember, but I have to write my own phone number in the waistband of my underpants. Memory is a fickle bitch sometimes.
And I’ve decided to press on with my plan. So at the risk of some random asshole checking in here once every thirty months and saying, ‘Pffft, all this guy does is bitch about security guards,‘ I’m going for it.
You didn’t need to see all of that. I just thought you’d like to know the lovingly nurtured batshit neuroses that go into each and every post. Even behind the scenes. I can’t turn it off. Heaven knows I’ve tried. So enjoy. Somebody ought to.
At the office where I work, we pass a security station when we come in the door. And one of the regular guards is kind of getting on my nerves.
(SUHR-PRISE, SUHR-PRISE, SERGEANT CARTER!, because you didn’t see that coming after eight paragraphs of explaining it, did you?
Sorry. I’m done now. No more parentheses. For a while.)
Most of the regular guards these days just sort of sit there, most of the time. At least at the side door I usually use. Maybe the main door security team is a crack staff of ID checkers, threat assessors, emergency exit path clearers and old-lady-across-the-street walkers. For all I know, they kick name and take ass all up and down the joint, seven days a week — over at the main entrance.
“If we have to risk letting a whacked-out maniac in the door just so I and the other legitimate employees can shave a few seconds off our schlep through the gates of hell, then so be it.”
The side door? Not so much. And that’s just peachy with me. I’m not remotely interested in fishing my ID out of my pants every time I walk through that door with a laptop or a lunch burrito or a pillow and down comforter, the better to nap underneath my desk. If we have to risk letting a whacked-out maniac in the door just so I and the other legitimate employees can shave a few seconds off our schlep through the gates of hell, then so be it. Frankly, they’ll fit right in.
Evidently, the office is pretty pleased with this particular brand of no-getters, because mostly the same few guards have been on duty for several months now. I see the same faces in the morning and evening, or occasionally aimlessly wandering a hallway or taking a whiz in the alley out back. Most of them will greet you — assuming they’re not actually whizzing in the alley out back when you see them — with a nod or a quick ‘s’up?‘ in the morning, and a ‘see you‘ or ‘g’night‘ at day’s end. Simple, friendly, low-effort and pleasant.
Except the one guy.
The one guy is not like the others. He sits a little straighter in his chair, his eyes shine a little brighter. His tail, I can only venture to guess, may fluff a little bushier. I don’t know whether it’s ambition, a desire to be noticed, a desperate plea for human contact, or if he was just raised a ‘nice boy’ by his parents somewhere outside the ‘eff you, neighbor!‘ Northeast United States. But the one guy doesn’t give you a nod. Oh, no. He gives you a greeting. Fully-enunciated, achingly polite, and with impeccable sentence structure, the one guy GREETS you. Like some kind of cheerful cunning tiger. You think you’re safe, and then out of nowhere, ‘RAWR! — oh, it has done been greetened up in here.
Take a typical Monday morning for me. I’ve got a meeting at 9am sharp, so naturally, I’m hitting the front door at maybe 9:03, 9:10, something like that. I’m in a rush. If I bothered to have breakfast, it’s mostly on my shirt. I might have one shoe on, and may well have shampooed with Aquafresh. That’s my Monday, and I’m speeding past the security stand to get to the rest of the fun, fun, fun. And usually, I can. But if the one guy is working, I’ll hear:
‘Hello, sir. I hope you have a very pleasant morning today.‘
Often, that’ll stop me in my uni-shoed tracks, just to process it. I mean, who says that? I haven’t spent that many consecutive spoken words on one human being that wasn’t either paying me or married to me in years. But if I stand there long enough, trying to formulate an appropriate response, he’ll hammer the next person with something just as mind-blowing:
‘And you, ma’am. Best wishes for a lovely day.‘
Sometimes we pile up just past the desk, smoke pouring from our tangled bodies like the human aftermath of some flabbergasted demolition derby. The guy’s got us by our short and not-enough-coffees. We’re just not prepared for that kind of interaction, of putting words together to acknowledge another human being — and wish them a happy day! — on such short notice. It’s unhuman.
I usually end up stammering out a ‘you, too!‘ or ‘yeah!‘ at him. Or possibly, ‘bleargh!‘, because let’s face it — at that hour of the day, I’m lucky to be walking on only two legs. Language skills will likely not kick in till noon.
(You’ve seen those ‘Evolution of Man’ posters, where we rise from chimp to Homo sapiens in four or five hairy hunchbacked stages? That’s me, every morning. You schedule a meeting with me at ten, I might discover fire in the conference room, or sharpen a stick for hunting. But the conversation’s going to be less than sparkling, I’m afraid. Try me after lunch, there, Tarzan.)
And even this tiny, inadequate victory goes not unpunished. If I manage miraculously to respond in the affirmative, he’s back on the prey like an impossibly polite bird of prey on a half-asleep addled hamster:
‘Why, thank you, sir — I will have a good day, too. Much appreciated!‘
I’m telling you. The guy is relentless. It’s like having tea with the Terminator.
And then, at the end of the day — just when you’ve forgotten all about the morning gotcha — he’s there again at the desk. Happily — some might say inexorably — wishing you a super evening, momentous night, joyous weekend, or whatever the hell else he can think to throw at you. Wave after wave of pleasantness, day in and day out. He’s no man; he’s Miss Manners incarnate, come back to shame us mere rude mortals into behaving better. Or taking a shitload of sick days. Or maybe using the main door for a change.
Me, I’ve taken to wearing a neck brace to work. I take it off in the elevator in the morning, and strap it on again on the ride down at night. If I look sufficiently injured, and maybe my jaw’s wired shut or something, I figured it might keep the banter at bay. Clearly, it would be painful — maybe even impossible — for me to respond.
Happily, it works like a charm. Now, while Joe Friendly guard piles people up like a sniper with a magazine full of .38 caliber well wishes, I step over the mangled heap with nothing more than a grin and maybe a quick thumbs up. A really friendly, enthusiastic thumbs up, sure. But does that require a response? No. No, it doesn’t. Like a charm.
Of course, it’s been a few weeks now. I think he’s starting to get suspicious that anyone could be in a brace for this long without getting better — or dying, or something. So I’m just waiting for him to ‘accidentally’ drop a book on the floor or clap loudly, getting me to turn my neck on the way by. And then the jig will be up. And I’ll be back in the two-a-day greeting line, taking my polite medicine with the rest of the cretinous heathens again.
Or I’ll walk all the way around the stupid building to the main door. That’s got to be easier. It just has to.
Permalink | No CommentsMy parents came for a visit a couple of weekends ago. It’s always nice to have them here on ‘our turf’, where the missus and I can show them around Boston and take in the sights and tastes and history of the area.
Except.
We’ve been here for over a decade now. In terms of ‘touristy’, we’re all tapped out. At the same time, I don’t have a great memory — so the first few hours of the trip were spent being reminded that the things I’d thought of doing, they’d already done. As in:
Me: Hey, you guys want to check out Faneuil Hall?
Mom: Well, sure. But… isn’t that the place we went to a few years ago?
Dad: Yep, I think it was. Near downtown, right?
Me: Oh… right. Well, what about a whale watch?
Mom: I don’t know if I’d want to do that… again.
Me: Ah. Crap. Uh… catch a Red Sox game?
Dad: Like we did last year?
Me: Dammit. Museum of Fine Arts?
Mom: Seen it.
Me: Sam Adams brewery tour?
Dad: Done it.
Me: Wanna ride around on a duck boat?
Parents: Again? Yawn.
“Salem, to see the witch kitsch. Plymouth, to see the rock. Providence, Rhode Island, to see… well, to see how far out of the city she’s willing to go, apparently.”
What do you do with a couple who’s done everything? I don’t have a good answer for that.
My wife is much better at these things. Her mother’s in the same boat, having seen all the touristy sites around Boston proper. So when she comes to town these days, she gets whisked off to the outlying areas for entertainment. Salem, to see the witch kitsch. Plymouth, to see the rock. Providence, Rhode Island, to see… well, to see how far out of the city she’s willing to go, apparently. If we’re here a few more years, I’m pretty sure they’ll end up in Canada at some point.
I don’t have that option. My mother-in-law flies up to visit. But my parents drive — a two-day trek through, what, six states or more — and I just don’t have the heart to get them here and then say, ‘Okay, hop back in the car — we’re driving two hours to Maine!‘
(Oh, I’ve considered it. But they always give me the sad puppy dog ‘I don’t wanna go back in the car’ eyes, and I just can’t do it.
I tell myself, these are the people who sent you to cotillion in junior high school. And that gets me close. Very close. But eventually, I take pity.)
So we stayed local. And in lieu of new and exciting sights to see, I stuffed them full of food all weekend. Italian, sushi, seafood, Chinese — you name it. The way restaurants come and go in Boston, there’s no way we’ll run out of places to eat. I don’t know whether it counts as ‘touristy’, but they seemed pretty happy when they left.
Or maybe just happy to leave, so they wouldn’t have to eat again every four hours.
Hey, don’t blame me. I asked if they wanted to go whale watching.
Permalink | No CommentsI mentioned a while back that the sitcom writing class I signed up for at my local Adult Education concern was unceremoniously canceled.
(Actually, I don’t know that for certain. They may well have had a ceremony. I know Jenn, who was to teach it, had a little party about it. I think I scared her with my zookeepers.)
I also mentioned that the Adult Education concern was highly unconcerned about giving my money back, instead insisting that I take ‘class credit’ for a future offering in the fall. Well, now it’s fall — or close enough — and their offerings are officially out. I’ve got the brochure right here. And I want a do-over.
First of all, there’s nothing remotely like sitcom writing on the menu. I suppose that’s to be expected when you offer it once, and some doofus with a blog and an idea about a bunch of giraffe brushers scares everyone else away. No problem. Point taken.
So I looked for other classes that might scratch the same itch. Or a similar itch. Or tickle and itch, and then scratch it. Sadly, the ticklings are slim. Here’s a short list of some of the actual sessions upcoming:
Yoga Dance: Awesome. I’ve always wanted to break my hip and slip a disc at the same time. Where do I sign, Starflower?
An Exploration of the Importing Business: You see this? This is me, already sleeping. Zzzzzz.
All About Water: I thought it might be about how that crazy swinger ‘O’ landed hot twin ‘H’s, and managed to hang onto them in the sexiest ‘menage-eau-trois’ known to chemistry.
“I’ll give you a hint: tap, shower head, drain, toilet. There. I just saved us all a few bucks.”
Instead, it’s about our town’s drinking water, where it comes from and where it goes. I’ll give you a hint: tap, shower head, drain, toilet. There. I just saved us all a few bucks.
Gluten-free Side Dishes and Desserts: …make the baby Jesus Poppinfresh cry. Fixed it!
Learning to Be a Hospital Clown: It’s comedy-related, sort of, and certainly a worthy cause. Because all children — even those who are sick in the hospital — deserve the opportunity to develop a deep-seated, shrieking fear of hobos in whiteface with impossible grins painted on. And many of these kids will never meet Jocelyn Wildenstein. So yay, clowns.
But I’m not paying money to be slathered in pancake makeup and mobbed by a bunch of kids. They’d probably be ‘practice kids’, too, that aren’t even sick. Which would just make them punchier and bitier, and I’m not down with that. Pass.
Learn to Play the Flute: Right. Because I never met my ‘getting wedgied’ quota back in middle school.
Mock SAT: “Ooh, you think you’re such an important test, do you? All big and scary when you’re picking on eighteen-year-olds, aren’t you? Y’know what? The ACT eats your lunch, asshole. That’s right. I said it.”
Wait. Not that kind of ‘mock’? Next.
Poetry for Artists: Because I never met my ‘getting atomic wedgied‘ quota? What’s wrong with you people?
Assertive Communication: I will NOT take this class. No, sir — I will NOT!
Apparently, I don’t need this one. Moving on.
Discovering What’s Next: I imagine each class is ten minutes long, and consists solely of reading the syllabus for the next class. Sorry. I don’t do ‘meta’.
Rock Climbing in a Rock Gym: Too hard. Call me when you’re offering ‘Rock Climbing in a Moonbounce’, or preferably ‘Rock Climbing in a Barcalounger with a Six-Pack of Beer’.
H.H. Richardson and Frederick Law Olmsted: A Walking Discussion: You lost me somewhere around ‘H.H.’ By the time we got to ‘Walking’, I was considering the flute lessons. No sale.
Cool Jazz Moves: (see ‘Yoga Dance’ above. At least I can scat while I’m writhing on the floor in pain.)
The Language of Paint: Painting Workshop: Paint has only ever said one thing to me: ‘You goin’ need to change them pants, messy.‘ I think I’m good here.
Long Lasting Terrariums: Why be bored for mere weeks when we can show you how to stretch the un-fun for years on end?
Also, hyphenation. Use it. I’m not taking any classes from a grammatical train wreck.
Aprons for Any Occasion: Bar Mitzvahs? Skinny dipping? How about a White House Cabinet meeting? Ooh, make one for riverdancing. And skydiving. That’d be cool.
Tap at the Studio: Why don’t you just stuff me head-first into a cafeteria trash can now, Adult Ed. people? That’s what you want, isn’t it? Clearly.
So that’s the list. It’s looking pretty grim for the winter. Maybe if they jumble a few together — they could teach me how to import flute-playing clowns who bake nasty affronts to creme brulee, for instance. Then we might have something.
In the meantime, I’m going to spend my weekends doing some ‘rock climbing’, if you know what I mean. I’m rappelling down the south face of ‘Mount Guinness’ as we speak. Good class!
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