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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’m not overly protective of many things. My wife, my dog — on a particularly ‘frothy’ day, my favorite sports team du saison, maybe. But that’s about it.
Or so I thought. Evidently, my condo is also on the short list. I did not see that coming. Yet come it did. Like this:
“Maybe one of them bit or peed on or ate the other; I’m a little sketchy on the details, usually.”
Yesterday, my wife returned from a walk with the dog and reported — as often happens — that they met another furry little leashed critter during their jaunt. Usually, she’ll tell me what happened in the mutt encounter — they got along, or they didn’t. Maybe one of them bit or peed on or ate the other; I’m a little sketchy on the details, usually.
But this time, the missus focused on the pet owner:
‘She was a really nice lady; we ran into her just down the block. Said they moved in just last month.‘
‘Mmm-hmm. That’s nice, dear.‘
‘I told her we lived up the street, and she said they looked at a place right around here two years ago. On the first floor, with lots of wood and an updated kitchen.‘
‘M’kay, I’ll take the trash out in a little while, hon.‘
‘That sounds like our place. I think they looked at our condo at the same time we bought it.‘
‘Wait… really? Well, that’s kind of cool. I hope she was duly impressed by our-‘
‘She said the rooms were kind of small.‘
‘The rooms? Small? She said that?‘
‘That’s what she said.‘
‘SMALL?!‘
‘Well, yeah.‘
‘YOU TELL THAT BITCH FROM ME THAT SHE CAN SUCK MY SALTY BAL-‘
‘She said she had a family.‘
‘-SAMIC VINAIGRETTE IF OUR ROOMS ARE “SMALL”. THAT WOMAN CAN BITE MY AS-‘
‘They were looking for something different than we were!‘
‘-TROLOGY CHART IF SHE THINKS THESE ROOMS ARE SUBSTANDARD SIZE. THAT TWA-‘
‘It’s not a big deal! Too small for THEM, is all she said!‘
‘-NGY-HAIRED POODLE-MUNCHER HAS A LOT OF NERVE, STICKING HER FAT IGNORANT DINGLE-‘
‘SHE HAS TWO TEENAGED KIDS!!‘
‘Oh. Teenagers. Well, sure, the place would be a little small for teens. I can see that. And if that’s the case, then she’s suffering enough already. Carry on, dear.‘
So that was fun. And eye-opening, to boot. Don’t talk smack about my condo, apparently, or it’ll put me in a huff. I had no idea.
Now I wonder what other things I’m more protective of than I’d realized. Somebody come over and bad-mouth my toilet seat or taunt my toaster. I want to see how I feel about that.
Permalink | 2 CommentsSometimes simple questions have more… challenging answers.
Take this morning, for instance, when my wife returned from her yoga class and asked:
‘Why is the inside of the bathroom door wet?‘
It’s a simple question. Not even a dozen syllables. You might think — as she apparently did — that it comes with an equally simple answer.
But no. It’s a far more twisted tale than that.
To understand the dampness of the bathroom door, I told her, you need to understand a few things first. About me. And the calendar. And men. And fashion trends. And successful marketing campaigns. And patterns in mid-20th century Western architecture planning.
(She walked away, because she’s smart like that.
But she’s also the curious type. So she came back. And I explained, thusly.)
First, I am not a ‘morning person’. What happened in the bathroom occurred in the morning, and as such, I can’t claim to have been thinking clearly at any point during the proceedings. That’s not a disclaimer; it’s just fact.
Second, it’s the weekend, and men — or this man, for starters — tend to be a little lazy on the weekends. We like to enjoy a comfortable day of lounging, napping, drinking, maybe watching a few innings of baseball or some light low-impact grilling, nothing too strenuous.
(She’s well familiar with her husband’s uselessness vis a vis the weekend, she informed me. But what the hell does this have to do with the bathroom door?
Patience, pet. We’re getting to that.)
Now, one of the chief lazinesses a man — or woman, for that matter — can enjoy on the weekend is ‘dressing down’. No fancy shirt or pressed slacks, ties and starch and monkey suits be damned. The weekend is the one time we can throw off the chains of societal business expectations and have a little comfort, for once.
“You haven’t ironed a shirt since the Carter administration, and if there’s any starch in your entire wardrobe, it’s that French fry you sat on at dinner last night.”
(Look, she said. You go to work every day in shorts and a rugby. Jeans in the winter. You haven’t ironed a shirt since the Carter administration, and if there’s any starch in your entire wardrobe, it’s that French fry you sat on at dinner last night. Would you please tell me what happened to the door?)
One of the chief weapons in the dresser-downer’s arsenal is a pair of athletic shorts. Unlike those binding formal ‘business shorts’ that one wears to the office, with their belt loops and pockets and khaki-down austerity, athletic shorts are simple. Freeing. Unfettered. Lightweight cotton angels that flutter around your ankles after a weekend morning shower, and gently nestle up to keep you marginally presentable for all of your daily activities — whether you find yourself on the couch, back in bed, stretched on a Barcalounger, or simply lying in the floor basking in the brief not-weekdayness of life.
(Some people may call that last one ‘drunk’. I say it’s ‘basking’. To-MAY-to, To-MAH-to.)
Of course, the one thing that athletic shorts don’t usually have is a ‘fly’. Which brings us back to the ‘laziness’ bit again.
See, some of those weekend activities are thirsty work. And if one drinks, one eventually has to go to the bathroom. And if one is going to the bathroom without the aid of a ‘fly’, one has three choices for the process:
Those are the options. I didn’t make the rules. And I didn’t design the pants. I just wear them every weekend, and whenever I work out. Also, when I’m sick. Or the doorbell rings before 8am, and I have to try to look half-human before I answer it.
I think I can speak for most athletic-short-wearing men when I saw that we’ve tried the latter ways. Both of them, and multiple times. But we each have our preference. Some guys are ‘pullers’. Me, I’m a ‘hiker’. There’s no particular shame in either method. Different strokes for different folks, idiomatically speaking. Strictly idiomatically speaking.
(Oh lord, she groaned. I think I see where this is going.
Well shhh, I told her. Don’t spoil the ending. Somebody might still be reading.)
So, at the crack of some-hour-or-other this morning, I groggily made my way into the bathroom, called by nature, and hiked. It’s a maneuver I’ve performed many times over a number of years, and it’s never taken an unfortunate turn before. But this time, my hitch had a hike. Because of fashion trends, apparently.
I’m a boxer man. No briefs, no boxer briefs, for-the-love-of-god no Speedo briefs, and ‘commando’ only in the gravest of laundry emergencies. To prevent just such an emergency, I recently bought some new pairs of underboxers. They’re the same as my others in size, shape and snazzy plaid pattern, but there is one important difference. These boxers have a tight-stitched hem around the bottom of each pant-sleeve. All of the other boxers I’ve worn in the last twenty-plus years have straight loose legs. These have a hem. As such, they cannot be hiked. The boxers are unhikable.
I failed to notice, or even conceive, such a thing as I stepped to the bowl this morning. And — thanks to a very successful radio, print and TV ad campaign — I’d had three bottles of Vitamin Water since eleven the night before. Because they’ve convinced me — possibly subliminally — that their product is healthy, beneficial, Earth-friendly, tasty, cures hangovers, wards off demons, and probably other claims that haven’t been triggered in my neuronal cortex yet. It may also be The Best Stuff on Earth, though certain parts of my cerebellum are still fighting that out with the ones that prefer it when we drink tea.
The point is, I had to GO. With a capital ‘OOOOOH‘. And so, it was a confluence — a perfect storm, if you will — of circumstances, including innate laziness, common male habits, the recent change in underwear fashions, beverage industry trends and yes, 20th century architecture — ever notice how the toilet is always right next to the door in all of these converted brownstones? — that led, ultimately, to the dampness of the bathroom door.
“Are you suggesting“, she asked, “that the inside of our bathroom door is wet because YOU PEED ON IT?
“Heavens, dear — no! Of course not. Don’t be ludicrous.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Because I thought–”
“The door’s wet because I washed it off AFTER I peed on it. You can’t just leave pee on a door, honey. What, were you raised in a barn?”
So that’s the answer. You might’ve thought it would be simple. But things don’t always turn out that way. Meanwhile, my wife’s taken to using the neighbor’s toilet and has instructed me to NOT answer any questions that she asks me, ever again.
I’m sure we’ll forget. So I’ll just make this story the homepage on our computers. Yes. That seems best for everyone.
Permalink | 1 CommentEvery once in a while — read: constantly — life decides to slap me around a little and point out what a fool I am.
I’m not sure why life feels it needs to make the effort, frankly. I’ve got a wife, two parents, several neighbors, fourteen bosses, a financial advisor and three dental hygienists who are happy enough taking turns at me. Life’s just piling on at this point.
But does that stop life? No. Life’s kind of a weenie that way.
And so, I found myself strung up by my own snarky attitude last night — only it wasn’t last night’s snarky attitude; it was snark from twenty years ago, coming back to haunt me. Or verbally pants me. Probably both.
“Some assholes will try to tell you that their home theater Dolby 43.1 nineteen speaker MegaSurround system lets them decipher which of the violinists farted during the second movement of Bach’s Bradenburg Concerto No. 2.”
Here’s the thing. I’ve always been a leetle bit of a music snob. Not an audiophile; I want to be very clear on this point. I’ll listen to grainy old recordings on Ghetto-brand crap computer speakers that have been left out in the rain overnight. Sound quality is not my bag. Some assholes will try to tell you that their home theater Dolby 43.1 nineteen speaker MegaSurround system lets them decipher which of the violinists farted during the second movement of Bach’s Bradenburg Concerto No. 2. Those people can suck a tweeter. I like what I like, and if I can hear it, I’m happy.
It’s the ‘what I like’ part that’s somewhat problematic.
See, I grew up in a sleepy little mid-sized town — the sort of place where the local radio stations competed, seemingly, to see who could play more Styx and Loverboy and GreatWhiteLionSnake than the others.
(And if you won such a contest, what would you even get? A lifetime’s supply of hair-band wigs? A swift kick in the nuts? Deported?)
Interspersed with the contemporary snoozers were the obligatory ‘rock blocks!!!’ of the Rolling Stones or Lynyrd Skynyrd or Led Zeppelin. Meanwhile, I had the fantastic opportunity — if one can call something that one does at the age of seventeen that has absolutely zero chance of getting one laid an ‘opportunity’ — to DJ at my local college radio station. I worked there in 1987, and was practically inundated with fresh-off-the-press music that didn’t sound like every other band on the radio, nor like they were simply holding the guitar-jocks of the last generation’s heroes until the next cloned bunch of yahoos came along. I didn’t like all of it, but it opened my eyes to stepping out of the mainstream and finding something genuinely new. Expand your horizons once in a while. Take a risk. Step out of the formulaic box and do something different.
The way I felt I could best sum this idea into one succinct expression was: ‘Why in the world would you listen to the same boring music that’s twenty years old?‘
You can probably see at this point where life’s going to slap me. I never said I didn’t deserve it. Just that it freaking smarts.
Fast-forward to last night, when I was out at a bar with a few people from work. A few younger people from work, naturally. And at the end of the night, I offered to drive one of the guys back to his house. We hopped in the car, and music from a live-recorded CD blared from my speakers — music he’d never heard before. He asked what it was, and I explained, rather excitedly:
‘Oh, I just got it in the mail today. It’s a recording of an album release party from this band that I really love — it’s their first CD coming out, and they taped the whole show of them playing the whole album. I’ve only played through it once or twice, but it’s awesome.‘
Who is it, he asked?
‘Waxing Poetics,‘ replied I. He hadn’t heard of them, which is no surprise. They’re not especially well known.
I could have stopped there. I should have stopped there, and — if he liked the songs at all — I might’ve gained a little old-man street cred for having my finger on the pulse of some segment of the music scene. Maybe I’m out there, discovering bands and rocking out at clubs, with some secret living-the-dream alter ego life as an avant garde music connoisseur. You don’t know. Anything’s possible.
Until I opened my mouth again.
‘It’s from 1987.‘
A pause. Then, from the passenger seat:
‘Yeah. Dude, I wasn’t even born yet.‘
And suddenly there I was, driving through Boston with the fresh red imprint of life’s backhand across my cheek. I guess I should be glad life doesn’t wear any rings.
And here I am, as we virtually speak, listening to that same CD — yes, that awesome CD, dammit — which is very nearly twenty-five years old. And I suppose, grudgingly, I understand now. Nostalgia is a strange and involuntary beast, and it recognizes no calendar. The music of your youth — the songs you really feel like you discovered, just when they meant the most to you — that music will always stay with you. For me, it meant finding something different. For someone else, it might be the soundtrack of their first love, or the summer they rented a beach house, or the first time they really had their soul touched by a flugelhorn.
Only probably not the flugelhorn thing. That’s probably an audiophile. He can hug a woofer.
But I have become the monster I beheld, and I get it. I listen to old music, and I understand why. Some day in the 2030s, Mr. ‘Wasn’t-Born-Yet’ will get caught beaming Death Cab — or Fergie or P-Mac-Diddle-Puff or whatever the hell kids listen to these days — into his subneural songalizer implant, and some Martian kid will laugh and point at his ancient taste in music. It’s a vicious cycle, and we all have our ride on the turntable in store.
So yeah, life. I’m old. And I’m listening to CDs that could’ve graduated from college by now. You got me.
But Skynyrd still sucks. So, nyah.
Permalink | No CommentsI was reminded today of one of my rules for getting through life with as little hassle as possible.
(There are many of these rules. Most of them are easily circumventable by Fate, Nature, idiots, smartasses and the average toll booth operator.
So the rules aren’t especially effective. And yet, they’re a pain in the ass to remember and follow. Hassles within hassles, my friends. Hassles within hassles.)
This particular rule was not violated by me, but I’ve been swept up in the wake of its breakage nonetheless. The rule in question is this:
‘Never, ever ask for anything.‘
It’s not the sexiest rule, perhaps. It doesn’t have the same ring as ‘Do unto others‘ or ‘Don’t talk about fight club‘. But it’s still very useful, because it reminds me that the world — nay, the entire Universe — is one big hairy severed monkey’s paw, just waiting to bitchslap me around for daring to want things.
(My friend Jenn tells me when I bring it up — which is often — that most people won’t get the Monkey’s Paw reference. So I’m linking it, just in case.
But I have faith in you. The story’s over a hundred years old. They made me read it in school — and I went to some burned-out backwards schoolhouse in the wasteland of the 1980’s American public education system. Also, it was on the Simpsons.
Maybe we’re both right. In the general public, maybe it’s not a blip. But YOU? You know the Monkey’s Paw. I can sense it. This feels right; it feels good.
Unless you’re one of those drooling morons who got to this page searching for ‘Simpsons bitchslap’ or ‘pain in the ass violated’. You people can move along. There’s nothing to wank to here, sunshine.)
Now, where the hell was I? Ah — ‘never ask’. Good.
A couple of weeks ago, one of the many folks that I share an office with — because they cram us into subcubicles like hairy Mediterranean gonads into undersized thongs — brought up the fact that our room was turning into a sweatshop. Literally, this time. Meaning the air conditioning was providing neither of the features that you might expect, given the name ‘air conditioning’.
So he called up the facilities people and asked whether they could turn up the old cooling breeze, just a touch. Little skootch. Smidgen territory.
“And how did we get this number, anyway? This is the hotline for people who wear ties and shirts with buttons and pants that cover their knees.”
They told him they were all on break, and maybe call back during the four-minute window when they deign to receive requests from the plebes down in steerage. And how did we get this number, anyway? This is the hotline for people who wear ties and shirts with buttons and pants that cover their knees.
Eventually, though, they got around to honoring the request. Because today, we walked into not an office, but the interior of a wind turbine. Or the exterior. Whichever one is noisier, and more blowy.
On the bright side, the office is nice and cool. Very cool. Eskimo icebox cool, which is not so bad for some of us — at least while its still sweltering outside. But some of our officemates are, perhaps, less than enamored with the new climate control. One girl went home and put on a parka and mittens. Another guy built a snowman in effigy. It doesn’t have my eyes, exactly, but the body is hauntingly familiar. It could get ugly fast, is all I’m saying.
Of course, we have a thermostat in the room to control the temperature, and therefore the air flow. And naturally, it’s solely for looks. They might as well have painted it on the wall, because sliding the little lever does an enormous bunch of nothing. Set to forty degrees: Arctic ice fan. Set to eighty degrees: no change. Turn off, pry out the battery, rip off wall: ditto. We’re working on a list of fifty words for ‘brrrrrrrr!‘
So far, we’ve just got the one. Or did, until our lips started sticking together while we tried to roll our r’s.
Tomorrow, we’ll have to do the only thing we can do, which is also against the rule listed above: ask facilities to turn back the fans a hair. Only a touch. Like, one iota.
I fully expect to see bedouins crossing through our office on camels next week, stopping only to say, ‘Yeech! Ees so hot here! Like sauna in August!‘
Because that’s how the Universe works. Don’t ask, don’t get. Ask, and get much more than you bargained for, or probably have the wardrobe to protect against. I’ve really got to start posting these rules on the office door. I think it’d save a lot of hassle.
Permalink | No CommentsApologies to anyone who might notice such things for my unusual three-day absence.
(Not that it’s especially unusual. Or particularly noticed. Still.)
Due to a lovely weekend visit from my parents — and a not-so-lovely technical glitch on Saturday night — I managed to neglect posting for longer than I’d hoped. But that doesn’t mean creative juices weren’t bubbling — no, sir.
(Well, something was bubbling, anyway. Maybe creative juices, maybe just heartburn. The bubbles are not always so forthcoming regarding the nature of their business.)
Three things I can say for certain are these:
1) On Thursday night, I attended a show over at ImprovBoston, where I’ve been taking a sketch writing class. It was my first ‘Harold Night’, where the troupes performed skits and gags all related to a single central theme, supplied up front by the audience. All three of the groups were very good, and the night went something like this:
The first group was given the word ‘tickling’, and most of their material centered around tickling.
The second group was given the word ‘pipe’, and most of their material centered around pipes. Also, marijuana.
The third group was given the word ‘kangaroo’, and most of their material centered around… lactose intolerance.
That last one’s kind of a long story. I’d tell it, but I don’t really understand it. So I guess we’re all on our own on that one. Your guess is as good as mine.
2) On Saturday afternoon, our sketch writing class met for the final session. Our assignment was to take a fresh look at one of our older sketches and edit it line-by-line to ‘tighten up’ the premise and execution.
That all sounds very important and fancy, which is good, considering the time and money we’ve all spent taking the class. But the perspective changes, just a bit, when you find yourself staring at a laptop screen at three in the morning trying to empirically decide whether ‘wang’ or ‘Johnson’ fits better in the dick joke on page three.
I’m not saying it’s not ‘important’. Just maybe a little less ‘fancy’ than one might at first perceive.
Also, I won’t bore you with my updated sketch. It was a somewhat less wordy version of Roadshow Surprise from last week, but it wasn’t a huge rewrite. Maybe should’ve been. But wasn’t.
However.
3) From Thursday night on, this ‘kangaroo’ business bugged me a little bit. I felt just a little cheated, frankly, that I didn’t get to see any actual kangaroo material onstage, after the audience had gone and selected ‘kangaroo’ from any of the nearly infinite number of prompts we could have provided. We made a collective request, and it got morphed into something else entirely. Something very entertaining and humorous — but something else.
So I started wondering what I would have done with ‘kangaroo’.
And then I went and did something with ‘kangaroo’.
And, most likely, found out in the process why those very smart people on stage did nothing with kangaroo. The comedy, she is harder than she looks.
So my last act as a Sketch Level I student over at IB was to present, with a mostly-straight face, the kangaroo-related skit below. I did this because A) my obsessive mind was never going to leave ‘kangaroo’ alone otherwise, and more importantly, B) I’ve already signed up for Sketch Level II and I’m pretty sure they can’t kick me out on the basis of one sketch.
And lord help me if I’m wrong.
At any rate, here you go. It’s kind of my ‘graduation piece’ from Remedial Sketch class. And it’s about kangaroos. Why? Hey, like I said — your guess is as good as mine.
JOEY
[Open on Beth, sitting in a waiting room chair reading a magazine. Gary enters, wearing a blue smock and rubber gloves, which he removes as he approaches Beth.]
GARY: Um… hi, Mrs. Waterman. Can I have a word with you?
BETH: Of course.
GARY: Yeah. So, we’ve run some tests on your daughter, and… I’m not quite sure how to put this, but… we think she might be… a kangaroo.
BETH: What?! Are you sure?
GARY: Well, not conclusively, no. I mean, none of us are animal…uh, -ologists or anything. But the signs are pretty clear.
“I’m not judging. I’m just connecting the dots. The many, many dots.”
BETH: Signs? What signs?
GARY: Well for starters, the fur. Haven’t you noticed the… all-over hair covering?
BETH: I figured she’d grow out of it. Like baby fat.
GARY: And the big pointy ears?
BETH: She often wears her hair down. They’re barely even noticeable.
GARY: What about the tail?
BETH: Well, you know… my family’s from Kentucky, originally.
[Gary looks at her, puzzled.]
BETH: It’s not completely unheard of, is all I’m saying.
GARY: Ooo-kay. Let me ask you this: what exactly did the adoption agency tell you?
BETH: Well… they said she was from Australia…
GARY: Sure.
BETH: …and she came from an underprivileged home…
GARY: Because most kangaroos are poor and homeless.
BETH: …but that she was a real fighter.
GARY: And kangaroos are legendary boxers. Look, Mrs. Waterman — I’m not judging. I’m just connecting the dots. The many, many dots.
BETH: Oh, I don’t know. It seems so… wait, here she comes now. We can settle this once and for all.
[Joey, a teenaged girl, hops on both feet onto the stage, past Gary, and flops into a chair near Beth. Joey has enormous fuzzy ears and feet, a long tail, and once seated, boredly eats potato chips which she pulls from inside her obvious pouch.]
BETH: Joey? Honey?
JOEY: G’day, ma.
BETH: Yes, Joey — “g’day”. Now you know Mommy loves you very much, right?
JOEY: Yeh.
BETH: Okay, sweetie, good. Mommy just needs to ask you one little question, okay?
JOEY: Fire away, ma.
BETH: Joey… are you a kangaroo?
JOEY: A wha’?
BETH: A kangaroo, dear.
JOEY: A ‘roo?
BETH: Yes, that’s right.
JOEY: Like, a hippity-hoppah? Box yer ears, stomp yer feet, bounce about the outback sort of ‘roo?
BETH: That’s the one, yes.
JOEY: Nah. Don’t fink so.
BETH: Are you sure, dear?
JOEY: Yeh, ma. Pretty sure I’d know if I’s a ‘roo. There’d be signs.
BETH: [to Gary] You see? Not a kangaroo.
GARY: You can’t be serious. Just look at her ears!
BETH: Don’t you dare make fun of my daughter’s ears! She is a blossoming young lady, and you will treat her with the respect and dignity she deserves!
GARY: Well, sure, yes, of course. But… a pouch? Come on.
BETH: And I’ll bet you had acne as a young man. How did you feel about know-it-alls pointing that out all the time, eh?
GARY: She has a tail!
[At the mention of ‘pedicure’ in the next line, Joey crosses her enormous hairy feet and admires the gobs of nail polish on the ‘toes’.]
BETH: Look, mister, I have heard *enough*. I brought my daughter here for a pedicure — a really expensive and sloppy pedicure, I might add — not to have her publicly ridiculed by the likes of you. We will be taking our business elsewhere!
[Beth stands, in a huff.]
BETH: Come on, Joey — we’re leaving.
[Joey continues eating chips and admiring her toes, oblivious.]
BETH: I said, let’s go. Hop up!
[Beth glares at Gary and holds up a finger in a ‘not one word’ motion. Joey ‘hops up’ and hops offstage, with Beth following. Gary holds his arms open, wondering what the hell just happened. After a moment, he composes himself.]
GARY: Wow. All right, who’s next? Ah, Ms. Fossey, here for an exfoliation. Come on back.
[A woman beating her chest and making gorilla noises crosses the stage past Gary. He sighs heavily and follows her offstage.]
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