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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’ve been dabbling in recent weeks in a number of different areas. Writing articles. Writing sketches. Helping out with a video project. That means less foolishness here, but I want to reiterate a pledge I made to myself a while back:
Every day, I’ll do something creative.
To the casual observer, it might appear that I’ve been slipping a bit this week. But no. By way of catching up, I’d like to present my case that I’ve been creatively occupied each and every day this week. And I will be again tonight, too, which I plan to prove tomorrow.
But first things first — just what the hell have I been doing since Sunday’s post (which totally counts as creative in my book, by the way)?
I’ll tell you.
On Monday, I met up with friend Jenn to discuss some details of a project that we’re working on together. Now, I can’t say much about it. It’s early stages, and there’s much to work out, and it being a collaborative thing, I don’t want to spill anything proprietary. Suffice it to say that it involves Shakespeare and Nazis and internet porn. And maybe Orange Shasta.
Now I don’t know what’s going to come of all that. But if it’s not effing creative, then I’ve been using the word incorrectly for the better part of four decades. I’m going to put a check-plus-plus next to Monday on the calendar now. Just try and stop me.
Yesterday was a little different. Yesterday, I worked up the latest Zolton Does Amazon piece over at ZuG. I decided to write about depression — because clearly, that’s always good for a pickle pail of yuks.
(There’s no such thing as “low-hanging fruit” where I come from, kids. And the ladders are all wobbly and bent. And often on fire.)
That wasn’t the especially creative part of the piece, though. Those Zolton bits involve writing actual reviews on Amazon.com, and they have filters for naughty words and swears and ridiculous verbiage that doesn’t belong in a respectable product review.
“A careless reader might believe I’m suggesting that there are Rohrscach blots which resemble my mother’s security blanket, or her Native American tribe, or some new Volkswagen hatchback model she decided to lease.”
Meanwhile, an intro bit I’d written to preface all of the reviews this week included the phrase:
“…paying some guy three bills an hour to lie on his couch and debate whether his ink blot collection resembles Russell Brand Chia pets or my mother’s vagina.”
Clearly, a rewrite was in order. What kind of rewrite? That’s right — a creative rewrite.
I gambled that the first ninety percent of that nonsense was unrecognizable enough as English to slip through Amazon’s filters. But the last word had to go. And I couldn’t use any well-known euphemisms to save me, either — they’d surely have thought of that, and blacklisted every analogue from hoohah to vajayjay, and all parts in between.
No, I had to use a new word, not immediately recognizable as what I was highly-inappropriately commandeering it to mean, yet obvious in the context provided. I spent two hours trying to find just the right term. And performed a number of Google searches that I’m really hoping my wife doesn’t find in the browser history. It actually was for research purposes. But somehow, I don’t think she would buy it.
(It probably doesn’t help that I bookmarked a few of those pages, for future ‘research’ later on. What can I say — I like to be thorough when I’m citing references. It’s just good journalism, baby.)
After much thought, I settled on ‘wahooga’. I’m not sure it was the perfect choice. A careless reader might believe I’m suggesting that there are Rohrscach blots which resemble my mother’s security blanket, or her Native American tribe, or some new Volkswagen hatchback model she decided to lease.
But I think it gets the point across. And it made it through the filters. And by god, it’s creative
Tuesday? Checkerooni.
That brings us to tonight, and my current assignment for the sketch class I’m taking over at ImprovBoston. In last week’s session, we were asked to take a cold hard look at what we’d written so far, identify common elements, and try to break out of our ‘comfort zones’. So I reviewed what I’d presented to date:
In some respects, I had decent range — some dialogue-heavy material, some more physical. A few were character-based, others relied more on premise. Long, and short. Winners and losers. Sophomoric, and just plain juvenile. Could be worse.
Then I started thinking about gender, and the balance fell apart a bit. In eight total sketches, I’d written a sum of two female parts. One was a zombie. And the other tortured her husband. ‘Comfort zone’, thy name is bromance, apparently.
So I resolved to come up with a sketch this week involving a strong female character. Which I did, and that’s what I’m writing — ahem, creatively writing — tonight. Finally, a sketch with an independent, authoritative, intelligent and charismatic woman. Hooray.
There’s just this one teensy little thing. She’s barefoot and grimy, and living in the Dark Ages. Also, she works in a kitchen.
(Yes, the suffragettes are going to have a special wahooga-shaped pitchfork waiting for me in hell. That’s gonna be unpleasant.
Enh. At least there’ll be Shasta.)
So, I’ll be posting ‘Girl Meets Gruel’ tomorrow. And then figuring out what in the hell to write that I can actually show up in class with on Saturday. The creative juices, they never stop flowing.
I hope.
Permalink | No CommentsI’m proud to announce that the Mug of Woe essay collection is now an actual, live, honest-to-god thing.
Not as proud as the people who did actual work on the book, of course. That would be co-editors Jenn and Kyle. Me, I just wrote a little essay about some stupid thing I did when i was a kid. I had the easy job. These two put me — and several dozen other people — in a book. Nobody’s done that since the White Pages people. Pretty sweet.
Also, on Friday, they threw a party at a local pub and drinkery concern for all of the authors to celebrate the book release. Those phone book bastards never bothered to do that. But so far as I know, the phone book’s never been available on Amazon, either. Fair’s fair, I guess.
Of course, there was just a teensy little catch. When we’d all arrived and lubricated up a little, it was announced that the book was, in fact, at that moment live on Amazon.
In Korea.
“Would it be called ‘Teacup of Woe’ instead? ‘Earthenware Pot of Misery’? ‘Bridge Over the River Kwai’?”
Now, that raised two immediate questions. First, was the book being translated into other languages? Because that seemed like a bit of an issue. These are tales of raw, excruciating embarrassment — inappropriate family members, regrettable dating choices, animal hijinks, underaged drinking, public urination… and that’s pretty much just in the Foreword. Surely the mortification would lose something in translation. Even the title — are mugs common in Korea? Would it be called ‘Teacup of Woe’ instead? ‘Earthenware Pot of Misery’? ‘Bridge Over the River Kwai’? We had no idea.
Which led to the second question — was this Amazon South Korea, or North Korea? Because that could make a big difference, too. There’s at least a chance this silliness and heartbreak would play in Seoul. But in Pyongyang? The retitling to ‘Tales of Western Pig-Dogs with Lives Pitiable By Exalted Leader Kim’ might help, a little. If it still fits on the book jacket. But otherwise, I can’t see it breaking any sales records among the Korean Worker’s Party. Not in paperback, anyway. Kindle, maybe. A man can dream.
Meanwhile, on domestic-shored Amazon, the book is currently listed as ‘Available Soon’. How soon? I don’t know. Sooner than anyone in Korea is going to order it, perhaps. Will the volume hit other virtual shelves first? Will it debut next on Amazon Madagascar, or Amazon Papau New Guinea? Amazon in the Amazon basin, perhaps?
These are mysteries I cannot hope to unravel. I’m having trouble unraveling whatever opinions we shared about such things after about 10:30 Friday night. What I do know is, I’ve got a Mug of Woe on my dining room table right now.
And it’s delicious.
Permalink | No CommentsIf it’s Saturday, it’s sketch writing class time over at ImprovBoston. This week, I set aside Wednesday to tackle the sketch. Which I did. I hammered out four pages of silliness, saved it, and emailed it to myself to have a look at revising and cleaning up before class time.
Yes, I was very proud of myself. In a gold star, smiley sticker kind of way.
Time passed, and it was this morning — about an hour before class — before I thought about the sketch again. Still, that was plenty of time to make a few edits, tweak a few zingers, and generally wonder what the hell I was thinking about when I barfed this train wreck onto paper in the first place. So I hopped over to my email, downloaded the file, pulled it up in my sketch/script editing software, and this is what I saw:
ACT I
Scene 1
Nothing else. No zingers. No ha-has. No barfed-down Amtrak disasters. Just ‘ACT I / Scene 1‘ Somehow, I’d managed to hork up the file, and emailed myself a blank script template. Which is not especially helpful as a sketch. Sure, you could ham it up, Shakespeare-style: ‘AAAACT ONE!‘
” It’s short. There are no punchlines. The pacing is all wrong, and the stage directions are for shit.”
But you’ve still got problems. It’s short. There are no punchlines. The pacing is all wrong, and the stage directions are for shit. You can’t even follow the ‘Rule of Three’, because you don’t have three fricking things to work with. No good.
I scrambled frantically through my computer, hoping I’d just attached the wrong file or saved into some temp folder accidentally. But no. What I saw was what I had. Bupkis. And with forty-five minutes left till class.
(Also, I was a little unsteady and bleary-eyed from the events of the night before, which I’ll talk about tomorrow.
Just as a hint, I’ll tell you this: it was the Mug of Woe book release party.
Not pictured: me. Though it’s quite possible I was lying on the floor under some of those shots. More news on that at eleven. By which I mean, ‘tomorrow’.)
Tick tick tick tick tick…
So I did what I had to do. I rewrote the sketch, as best I could from a shaky four-day-old memory, saved it — for realz, this time — and ran to class with copies hot off the printer. I got there late, but I figured that was better than coming in empty-handed.
Or, god forbid, trying to explain what the sketch is about, without having it written down. You have a look, and see whether you think that would’ve been a picnic. My guess is no. No picnic would it be.
Anyway, here it is — twice-written, never shy. Enjoy.
THE VENDOR’S APPRENTICE
[Joey stands center stage. He’s wearing a ballpark vendor uniform — black shoes and shorts and bright yellow shirt, with a baseball cap askew on his head — and has a tray of neatly ordered bottled water strapped around his neck. Hanging on the strap is a sign reading:
“WATER $2.00”
His shoulders slumped, he looks bored and annoyed. Joey clearly doesn’t want to be here.
An older man, Hank, also in vendor clothes, approaches Joey, full of ‘motivational energy’.]
HANK: Hey, kid, you’re here. On time, too. I like that. You’re gonna be dynamite out there, I can already tell. You got any jitters, kid? Butterflies? Knots in the old pucker-upper?
[Joey shoots Hank a look that says, ‘Really?’]
HANK: Attaboy, nerves of steel, eh? Outstanding. You remind me of a young me, kid. But taller, and with better cheekbones. You’re gonna be a star, sport. A bona fide star. Now let’s go over the basics. You tell people you have water. They tell you they want water. You give ’em water, they give you cash, lather, rinse, repeat, we all go to Disneyland and live happily ever after. Any questions?
JOEY: I wanna sell hot dogs.
HANK: Hot dogs? Kid, you’re ambitious; I’ll give you that. You’re like Dale Carnegie, without the hairpiece. But I can’t send you out there with hot dogs on your first day. Hot dogs would eat you alive, kid. You see that guy over there? That’s Steve. Steve’s a hot doggin’ man. Look at those legs on him. He cracks walnuts with the backs of his knees. Not for eating, just for fun. Then he puts ’em back in the bag, as an example to the others. That’s a hot dogger, kid. Drink him in. Drink him in deep.
[Joey glances in Steve’s direction, and makes a ‘Pffft’ sound.]
HANK: Anyway, kid, you’ve got the top job right here. Water’s number one with a bullet. It’s hot out there. Humid, too. You got ice cream puddles and shirtless fat guys as far as the eye can see. Who’s gonna bring those people some tiny speck of relief in their miserable, sweaty lives? I’ll give you two hints — you, and you. You’ll be a hero, kid. Like Superman without the sideburns, or a skinny midget Godzilla. Water’s where it’s at, kid.
JOEY: Can I throw?
HANK: What?
JOEY: The water. Can I throw it?
HANK: Ah, I get you. You’re an entertainer, eh? Give the folks a little show with their H-two-O. I like it. It’s like Joe Namath and Bette Midler had a love child, and that kid grew up to be me, standing here talking to Mr. Razzle Dazzle himself. Well, okay, sport, show me what you got. [Hank backs up a few feet.] Put ‘er in there. Gimme the heater.
[Joey pulls a bottle from the tray, makes an awkward throwing motion, and slams the bottle straight down on the floor.]
JOEY: It slipped.
HANK: Gee, kid, I don’t–
JOEY: Slipped!
HANK: Well, all right, then. We’ll give you another shot. This is the land of second chances, right? Here and Albania. You give it the old college try, now. Pop it right in the mitt, tiger.
[Joey pulls another bottle, flails again and manages to throw it backwards over his shoulder.]
HANK: Tell you what, champ. How about we keep that cannon in the holster for now, eh? We’ll work you up to throwing — maybe play some marbles, rock a little bocce ball out back. But in the meantime, let’s work on ‘handing’. Not so much throwing. Just the handing. Always with the handing. Okay — any more questions?
JOEY: I’m thirsty. Can I take a water?
HANK: Well, geez, kid, that’s not really part of the model. You’re thinking outside the box, and I like that. You got that free spirit wild horses soar like an eagle thing going, and that’s great. You’re gonna make some barefoot hairy-legged chick named Starfruit very happy some day. But right now, I’ve got to put the kibosh on you. No waters while you’re on duty. I hate to be all Mean Joe Greene about it, but that’s how it’s gotta be.
Now — are you ready to get out there and move some agua? This is your big moment, kid. Deep breath. Big smile. Jazz hands. And go, go go!
[Joey shuffles listlessly offstage.]
HANK: That kid’s gonna make it big. He’s got a gleam in his step and a bounce in his pocket. He reminds me of a bald Filipino Jessica Alba–
[Joey returns. His tray is empty, save for two empty bottles and assorted trash. His hat is gone, and the WATER sign is tucked into his pants.]
HANK: Kid, you sold out in record time. Nobody moves product like that. Not even Steve and his iron calves of steel. You’re an animal, kid. An ocelot, maybe, or an antelope. Something with lots of fur that starts with a vowel. Anyway, you’re the tops. How much did you make?
JOEY: Seventeen.
HANK: Seven…teen?
[Joey produces a few coins and hands them to Hank. He takes a swig from an open bottle of water with his other hand.]
HANK: Seventeen *cents*. I see. Well, that’s a tough day, kid. But you’ll get ’em tomorrow, I can feel it. You’re like Rocky, you’ll come out swinging next round. Only Rocky the Raccoon, not the fighter. You got no calves for boxing, kid. You’d fold like an accordian. Now whaddaya say we hit the showers and get out of here before the game starts, eh?
Permalink | 1 CommentThere are lots of reasons why I enjoy living in the little patch of condominium that my bank mostly bought and allowed me to move my cheap furniture and toothbrush into.
(A few years ago — and two years into a thirty-year mortgage — I made the mistake of trying to calculate in square footage what portion of the house I actually owned free and clear.
“And conversion to metric to make it sound more impressive doesn’t help. There’s nothing sexy about ‘square millimeterage’.”
Don’t ever do that. Besides depressing yourself by discovering that the return so far on the most significant investment of your life is the back half of a broom closet, that whole ‘square footage‘ thing is a misnomer.
And conversion to metric to make it sound more impressive doesn’t help. There’s nothing sexy about ‘square millimeterage’.)
Anyway, there’s a lot to like about the location of my current abode. There are restaurants and bars nearby, offering easy access to the essentials — pizza, beer, curly fries and takeout Chinese, among others. I’m close enough to walk to work — though that’s a double-edged sword, of course. It’s great on days when I don’t want to hassle with the Massholes on the road. But after a blizzard, I can’t exactly weasel a day off to dig out my car. Dig out my shoelaces, maybe. But that doesn’t buy me much.
One of my favorite things about this place, though, is that we’re right down the block from a Trader Joe’s. Though not, perhaps, for the reason you might think.
As a rule, I don’t go to Trader Joe’s. Not because I have anything against it — it seems a fine store, with its eclectic fare and friendly font and J. Petermanesque product descriptions.
(“Ypres, 1917. You hunker in a foxhole, caked with filth and grease and the blood of your fallen comrades. The blast of mortar fire illuminates the night sky like a macabre fireworks display, skittering ghostly shadows of the dead and dying across No Man’s Land. You huddle with what’s left of your squad — MacDougal, Lumpy, Deadeye and Old Joe. The final push comes at down; with the morning comes victory, or the fate of the damned bleeding slowly away in the killing zone. Sleep is but a memory, your home a distant mirage.
You reach into your rucksack for the last comfort you may ever know… a bag of Trader Joe’s Reduced Guilt Skinny Fries. As the bag passes around the circle, spirits lighten a bit. ‘Gents, it’s been an honor,’ says Lumpy, as he crunches a delicate lightly-sea-salted morsel. ‘With these air-popped low-fat goodies in our bellies, Fritz doesn’t stand a chance!'”)
What I like more about living close by a Trader Joe’s is the other people who shop there. Locals, often, who wind up walking down my street with their bags of groceries. Their many bags of groceries, and their staunch refusal to fire up the car to run a few blocks to the store. Good for them, and good for the environment, too.
Good for their straining arms, and those veins popping out of their foreheads? Not so much.
I was once like them. A few apartments ago, I lived a block and a half from the local grocery concern, and did all of my own shopping. And it didn’t go especially well. I’d put off the trip as long as I possibly could — maybe three weeks or more, if I’d stocked up on ramen — and finally relent and shuffle over for my punishment. Usually on a busy Saturday afternoon, with people and lines and screaming kids snaked through every aisle and cranny. And because I hated it so much, I’d buy as much as I possibly could — the better for not having to go back for nearly a month. So I’d overflow my cart with barely-perishables — soda, cereal, crackers, and yes, ramen. Bags and bags of almost-noodles and their little pupil-dilating packet-sized hits of MSG. I could have built a fort with those things. Turrets and all. Probably a drawbridge. Lots of ramen.
And then, of course, I’d have to carry all that shit home.
It was only two blocks, but it was often torture. The noodles aren’t heavy, but they’re bulky and awkward. Add to that a half gallon of milk, maybe a two-for-one deal on soda — I could never resist a deal involving caffeine — and the mandatory six-pack of beer, and suddenly this wasn’t a two-block jaunt back to the fridge. It was a World’s Strongest Man competition, and Gunter van Gunterson had just toted twelve bags of groceries up that sidewalk path. These thirteen were for all the glory, and the championship title. Or for ripping both biceps from the bone, essentially leaving me one of those flaily inflatable things they plop in used car lots. Game on, brother.
Fortunately, I never entirely shredded any muscles that I know about. But I’m much happier with the current shopping setup — my wife usually does the grocery runs (at a further-away store she prefers to TJ), and I go bring the bags in from the car. Only half a block away, and two at a time. And if I desperately need a loaf of bread, a jug of milk, or half a dozen oatmeal stouts, then Trader Joe’s is right there, too.
But I love seeing the guys — and sometimes, girls — around the neighborhood doing the old heavy lifting bit that I remember so well, and hated so much. Part of me feels sorry for them, watching them strain and grit against the juice bottles and Lunchables weighing them down. A few have to stop and rest — as I often did — every fifty yards or so, just to ease the burn. I want to pat them on the heads, ease their burden, and tell them there’s another way.
But mostly, I want to make fun of them in my head. Because I’ve been there. And it sucks. And if there’s anything that loves company more than misery, it’s the memory of miseries past, commiserating with someone else’s misery now.
Or something like that. Probably, I’m just kind of an ass. But I’ve got six two-liter bottles of Pepsi in the house right now, and I didn’t give myself a hernia getting them in the door. Which is more than the guy currently collapsed face-first outside my place onto a big bag of Scoopable Tostitos can say.
Good times. Good times.
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