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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Our new condo — which is not so new any more, but was just about to be new on the cusp of my hiatus a while back — has a fireplace.
It’s actually a rather nice fireplace. Nothing fancy, but wide and open and easily viewable from the comfort of the living room couch.
(I’m tempted to make an ‘I like my fireplaces like I like my women…‘ comment here.
This is me refraining, mostly. You’re welcome.)
Our old place had a fireplace, too — if you can call it that. It was a dismal affair, probably designed back when the whole ‘fire thing’ was new and poorly understood. The thing was tiny, for starters — we used to buy those ‘ready-made’ packs of firewood from the grocery store, because between us the missus and I have the ‘outdoors skillz’ of the Hilton sisters on a glue-huffing binge. But even the logs in those ‘Wood for Dummies’ packs were too long; we had to cut them down to cram them in that tiny fireplace.
“We had to look up ‘bark’ on Wikipedia to make sure it wasn’t some skin disease we could catch from handling the stuff.”
(Which was an ordeal unto itself, of course. We don’t cut wood. We’d barely even seen natural wood. We had to look up ‘bark’ on Wikipedia to make sure it wasn’t some skin disease we could catch from handling the stuff.
And just for the record, cutting wood is hard. Nothing in our experience of breaking things in two had prepared us for the wood-cutting experience. You can’t rip it. It won’t crack in two like an egg or an empty beer bottle. Scissors are powerless against it, and I couldn’t even begin to figure out where to apply a can opener. It really had us stumped.
Stumped, son. I say, stumped. That’s a gag, son — a joke, that is. Pay attention down there, boy. I’m pitchin’ ’em, but you ain’t catchin’.)
Also, the front of the old fireplace had two heavy metal pieces interlocking in the front, as though fire was some dangerous prisoner kept under maximum-security lock and key. The teeny little window in front supported that theory; we viewed our fires through a hole better suited for sliding trays of slop or shivving snitches than enjoying a roaring blaze.
So we were quite happy to see the hearth in the new place — four feet wide with a proper screen, and lined all around with smooth black marble. Good viewing angles, low-calorie, high gas mileage, grass-fed organic and whatever the hell else we’re supposed to look for in a fireplace. It fit us well — and requires zero wood surgery to operate, our Ginsus are happy to know — so we’ve used it quite a bit over the last two winters. Even during a chilly spell a couple of weeks ago, when we fired up the (probably) last fire of the season.
And the marble fell off.
Rather unexpectedly, and in the general direction of my wife, who was sitting on the hearth getting ready to light a starter match. Luckily, she was unhurt. For the large heavy slab of marble that once rested above — I can’t say the same. Shattered into dozens of small marbly pieces. The slab — and the fireplace — ain’t pretty no more.
So this weekend, we went shopping for replacement marble. Or tile. Or glass. Or papier mache, for all I know, because I realized quickly that I know nothing about what should go atop — and around, and beneath — a fireplace. My wife had all sorts of clever designery ideas, browsing through the tiles and marbles. I turned into Rain Man — what I knew is what I knew, and all I knew, and that’s what we had. And that’s what I knew.
The salespeople were not a fan.
Tilehawker: Fireplace, you say? How about something over here in sandstone?
Wife: Oooh, that could work. Honey, what do you think?
Me: It’s not black. The last one was black. Yeah. Very black.
Wife: Well, we could change it up. Maybe with some accent tiles?
Tilehawker: Absolutely! We have a wide range over on this wall.
Me: None of these are black. We had black. Black’s an excellent color.
Tilehawker: Well, sir… you wouldn’t accent with black, now, would you?
Wife: Excellent color. Excellent. Black is the new black. Yeah.
Tilehawker: I see. You married this guy, did you?
Wife: It was… uh, arranged. Sort of.
Tilehawker: Quite.
We visited a few stores, with similar results. I rocked in a corner mumbling about how things used to be, and my wife gawked at sandstone and silica, fired glass and shell mixes, and just about every color in the rainbow.
Except for black. Black is out, evidently. Read my lips: no more blackses. My inner Rain Man just convulsed.
I assume my wife is trying to find something less evil over the fireplace, something that won’t lie in wait and collapse on her again when her guard is down. And I’m sure she’ll come up with an attractive combo — stained glass and lobster shells with working neon Christmas lights, for all I know — but it’s not going to be black. We had black. And she’s been (nearly) hurt before. I don’t know what it’ll look like, but I have my reaction to the new look ready:
‘That’s definitely the right color, dear. Yeah. It’s an excellent color. Yeah. Definitely.‘
Even Rain Man knows when to (eventually) keep his damned fool opinions to himself.
Permalink | No CommentsSome days it looks like I’m slacking off around here. But looks can be deceiving.
Which is not to say that I don’t look like someone who’d slack off — like it’s my frigging career, already. I’ve seen my picture. I know. Trust me. I know.
But what’s at issue here is not whether I’m slacking off; it’s precisely when I’m slacking off.
Take the Wednesday before last, just for example. For anyone scoring at home — which is a teeming throng of exactly me, I’m well aware; just work with me here, dammit — if anyone were scoring at home, then last Wednesday would have looked like it passed by without a blip. No posting here, nothing tweeted to alert the masses about new content elsewhere, nada. One might make the perfectly reasonable assumption that I was slacking off that day.
But hark!
(I’m trying that out, bringing it back from the olde school sixteenth century vernacular. It’s totally going to catch on. Don’t be a varlot. Just go with it. Forsooth.)
Hark, I say — for as it turns out, I was not slacking off; I was whipping up a submission for the latest prompt put forth by the good folks over at Writing Writer Writest, namely ‘Things I Should Know By Now’. Which said good folks were kind enough to use this week, and publish this afternoon. So if you please, take a quick trip over there for something I feel I should know by now, entitled:
“Also, sea cows, Bazooka Joe, the East River and pipe organs all get a mention. As does a SuperGlue enema.”
It’s a tale of insomnia, of personal discipline (and the extreme lack thereof), and of a particular comfort TV show — and it’s nefarious evil costar — that’s become a dangerous ‘gateway sitcom’ into the bleary-eyed early morning hours.
Also, sea cows, Bazooka Joe, the East River and pipe organs all get a mention. As does a SuperGlue enema. In other words, business pretty much as usual.
How could I possibly make any sense out of all those things in a mere few hundred short words? There’s only one way to find out — get linking over to WWWritest to see. It’s much appreciated, if you do.
And if you don’t, or you’re thirsty for more? Well, that’s the thing. I don’t have anything else on tap for this evening, so you’re out of luck until tomorrow. See, even though this post goes up now, it’s actually today that I’m slacking off, more or less completely.
Like I said, things aren’t always what they seem. Verily.
Permalink | No CommentsMy wife is a cultured sort. She’s into the opera, the arts, and has a season pass to a local classical music series.
(I go with her to the last one — sometimes. For me, it depends on who’s playing. I like Beethoven and Bach and Mozart well enough, but Haydn can suck a harpsichord.
These are not distinctions I ever thought I’d have to make. The closest I ever got to classical music pre-marriage was Camper van Beethoven. Who still kick ass. Maybe Haydn could learn a thing or two from them.)
I’m happy to tag along for the occasional Carmen or painting gawk — where ‘happy to’ means ‘accumulating points for‘, of course — but I tend to draw the line at one of her other periodic artsy interests: the ballet.
Oh, I’ve been to ballets. We were dating once, back in the Cenozoic Era, and I did all sorts of nonsense to crawl into her good graces. And into other things, maybe, that we’re not allowed to discuss here.
(She’s been to law school. And she might read this. So shush.)
“Opera’s usually in another language, but it has subtitles to read. Some of the classical music is familiar, at least. Ballet is a bunch of springy beanpoles flitting around and calling it a ‘story’.”
So I’ve seen the Nutcracker (oh, how I’ve seen the Nutcracker), Swan Lake and maybe one or two others. And that’s just plenty, thanks. Quota filled, boxes ticked, strap me down and Haydn me to tears if you must, but if there’s any love left in you for me, then please don’t send me to the ballet. Call me uncivilized, but I just don’t get it.
(Really, I don’t. Opera’s usually in another language, but it has subtitles to read. Some of the classical music is familiar, at least. Ballet is a bunch of springy beanpoles flitting around and calling it a ‘story’. Honestly, I think I’ve gotten out of most of them because when I do go, I have to ask what the hell is happening the whole time:
Me: Why are those two tippy-toeing all around each other like that?
Wife: They’re in love. Shhhh.
Me: Oh. … Wait, so why is he shaking his junk at that other guy?
Wife: He’s not shaking– lord. They’re fighting over the girl. Now hush.
Me: Sorry. … Hey, what about that guy in the back? Is he going to fight, too?
Wife: Which… oh. He, uh, apparently has an itch. Don’t look at him.
Me: See, now how am I supposed to know that?
Wife: Shhhhh!
Honest curiosity or willful ignorance? I’ll never tell.)
The missus has pretty well given up on me attending the ballet with her — she has a handful of culture-seeking lady friends who are always happy to sip a chardonnay and watch the plum-smugglers dance — but every once in a while, she gives it another shot. Like this weekend, when she had two tickets to a Saturday night performance. And the enticement, the carrot to try luring me back to a sworn-off art form?
Boobs.
I’ll give her credit. The girl knows me.
Apparently, in the current Boston Ballet show, there’s some sort of topless female scene. So my wife’s pitch this week for the ballet was:
‘There’s gonna be niiiiiip-ples!‘
(It’s interesting, actually, to see the way the show is advertised in various places. In the link above, or in the Boston Dig, say, said nipplature is clearly prominent. Also, it appears that they keep it pretty chilly on stage. I’m just saying.
But in billboards and on buses around town — and even in their own trailer for the show, those bare breast points have been softened down. Airbrushed away. Denipped in the bud. One husband’s ‘enticement’ is someone else’s ‘scandalous exposure’, I suppose.)
Bare boobs or no, I stayed strong. I said:
‘Honey, thank you for the offer. But you go — take your friend, have a nice dinner, drink some wine, see the show. Please. Enjoy your nipples together.‘
(I mean, seriously. I have the internet. If I wanted to see nipples on a Saturday night, I’d just have to type the word into a search bar.
I’m not saying I did that. I’m just saying, I could. And I wouldn’t have to sit through two hours of inscrutable prancing to make it happen.)
So she went to her performance, reported that it was lovely — with very tasteful nipples, erect presumably with artistic integrity — and I wriggled my way out of another ballet.
Which will probably cost me a Haydn-heavy concert somewhere down the road. And that’s unfortunate. But I’m looking on the bright side — maybe they’ll play it topless, too. I wouldn’t see much from our seats — and I might not stay awake through the whole show — but it’d certainly be a change of pace. Maybe we can learn a little something from this ‘ballet’ thing, after all.
Permalink | No CommentsSoftball season kicked off last week; I’m playing on a new team this year, and our first game didn’t go quite as well as we’d hoped. We lost a real heartbreaker — the final was 27-6, I think. I suppose that’s less of a ‘heart-breaker’ and more of a ‘heart-grinding-into-a-fine-powder-and-stomping-on-repeatedly-er’. Our remarkable lack of run-scoring ability is not the point, though.
At least, I hope it isn’t. Because that would be depressing.
To congratulate ourselves on successfully completing a game without major injury, we adjourned to a local bartending and grille concern for food and adult beverages. And that’s where I learned that things weren’t always this way. Just last year, the team had quite a bit of success. Much of that success seemed to be directly attributable to a guy who wasn’t able to play this season. His name is Bob. I heard a lot about Bob at the bar that night. A lot. And the more I heard about Bob and his exploits on the softball field, the more I was reminded of another figure of legend: Bill Brasky.
“A well-trained dog could hit a double in slow-pitch. I don’t care if Randy Johnson went back in time and had a three-way love child with Cy Young and Bob Feller, and that kid was on the mound.”
(Yeah, I know a little something about Bill Brasky. And a few of his friends, to boot.)
There were three guys doing most of the talking about this ‘Bob’ fellow, and the saga of his prowess grew with each turn they took. Only they didn’t seem to realize exactly how epic the story was getting. It went something like this:
Guy #1: Well, our pitching was a little rough tonight. Hey — remember when Bob used to pitch?
Guy #2: Oh yeah! Man, Bob could put it anywhere he wanted.
Guy #3: Every single pitch a strike. I don’t think he threw a ball all season.
Guy #1: Yeah, and he’d work it in and out, high and low. The guy’s an artist.
Guy #2: I don’t think Albert Pujols could hit him! He’s a monster!
(To be clear, this is slow-pitch softball we’re talking about here. A well-trained dog could hit a double in slow-pitch. I don’t care if Randy Johnson went back in time and had a three-way love child with Cy Young and Bob Feller, and that kid was on the mound. It’s sloooooow pitch. The pitches come in underhanded, eight feet tall and at around twelve miles an hour. You’re not going to fool anyone with a ‘baffler’ out there.
The hyperbole continued, unabated.
Guy #3: Hey, remember when he struck out the side in that one game?
Guy #1: The side, hell. By the third inning, I was reading a book out in left field.
Guy #2: Bob’s a helluva pitcher, all right. And can the guy ever hit!
Guy #3: Power to all fields!
Guy #1: He hit the longest home run I’ve ever seen! Fenway wouldn’t have held it!
Guy #2: Remember that game where they kept telling the center fielder to back up?
Guy #3: Yeah! The guy was standing in the parking lot by the time he stopped.
Guy #1: Bob didn’t care — he said, ‘I’m hitting it over him, anyway.‘
Guy #2: And then he DID IT.
Guy #3: That ball smacked a Toyota and ricocheted into the street — I bet it’s still rolling.
They were dead serious. And maybe all those things happened, just exactly the way they said. But I couldn’t help myself. I like a good tall tale as much as the next guy, and this one looked like fun. So I waited for a lull and jumped in.
Guy #2: Best softball hitter I’ve ever seen, that Bob.
Guy #3: Yeah, he’s one hell of a player.
Me:: Bob once hit a ball so high, he rounded the bases before it came down.
Guy #1: Yeah, I… wait, what?
Me: Nobody would stand under it to catch it — when it fell, it sunk four feet into the infield dirt.
Guy #2: I don’t think I remember that.
Me: Bob hit an opposing third baseman with a wicked line drive once, right in the groin.
Guy #3: He did what, now? When wa-
Me: Turns out the guy had undiagnosed testicular cancer. Bob knocked it right out of him. True story!
Guy #1: I don’t know if… hey, do you even know Bob?
Me: Bob? Big Bob? Rock-em sock-em, pop-‘n’-lock ’em Bob? Do I know Bob, you’re asking?
Guy #1: Yeah. You know him?
Me: Nah. Never met the guy. But still.
Guy #2: Still what?
Me: Best damned softball player ever!
All: Yeah! To Bob!
Me: Pitches like Nolan Ryan!
All: Yeah!
Me: Socks the ball like Babe Ruth!
All: Big-hittin’ Bob!
Me: Cures ball cancer with one swing of the bat!
Guy #2: Don’t push it, new guy.
Me: Sorry. Yaaaay, Bob.
So that’s Bob, apparently. Larger than life, hitter and pitcher extraordinaire, and the savior of an entire softball team.
And he’s not playing this season. So we’re very likely going to get the shit cleated out of us in all the other games, just like the last one.
Maybe we can get Bill Brasky to take his place. I hear that guy’s pretty good at stuff. Sure, he’s no Bob. But who is, really? Nobody’s better than Bob. Ask anyone.
Permalink | No CommentsI’ll be tickled pink like a pigskin when the NFL players and owners get their collective (bargaining) act together and agree to have a football season already. I’m eager not because I’m anxious for football to start — it’s only barely spring around here, for crissakes — nor because I’m afraid that they’ll pack up the jock straps and forgo the season altogether. Rather, my reason for wanting an agreement in place is both simple and selfish:
I want people to frigging stop asking me about it.
Sure, I understand — to a point. This sporting snafu is on a lot of people’s minds right now. The labor talks have stalled, there are court decisions being judicially decreed, and the NFL draft is this weekend — it started last night, evidently; who starts anything important on a Thursday? — and football fans want to know whether these young stars will be in uniform this year, or whether teams just acquired their rights to sit on their thumbs and play Madden on XBox for nine months out of the year.
I get it. ‘Hot topic’. Lot of buzz. Sure.
But what the hell do I have to do with it?
“I don’t watch football for the articles. If I wanted to follow a bunch of complicated legal and financial arguments, I’d have shown up for my court dates, ever.”
Sure, I watch professional football — even make it to a few of the games. I might be able, on a given play, to give some straight-faced and nominally accurate description of what’s happening on the field. But this behind-the-scenes jockeying and preening? I’ve got less clue then the next guy what the hell it’s all about. I don’t watch football for the articles. If I wanted to follow a bunch of complicated legal and financial arguments, I’d have shown up for my court dates, ever. No thanks, coach.
As this football brouhaha has dragged on in recent weeks, there have emerged three distinct types of people who seem to want to chit-chat about it with me, regardless of my palpable lack of interest in the details. These are:
People Who Don’t Watch Football:
Most people who don’t care about football do a proper job of it, and don’t give half a fire-retardant commemorative Super Bowl potholder whether the games ever get played or not.
However.
Some of these people have pretty odd tastes. I suppose that’s to be expected — if you swear off football, who knows what kind of nonsense will seem like ‘fun’ to you? I mean, some of them listen to NPR, for goodness sakes. For entertainment! This is uncharted territory, is what I’m saying.
For some subset of these non-football watchers, this labor discussion clicks with some other interest of theirs. Maybe they did a paper on unions in college, or read an article about management lockouts or legal injunctions. Or at least know what those things are.
Maybe they always secretly wanted a career as a professional third-party mediator. I can’t tell you where these people went wrong. If they believe football is the debbil and wish their job was the vocational equivalent of Switzerland minus the cheese and the watches and the kickass tall mountains, then that’s their business. Someday, they’ll have to answer to their god for such decisions.
(And won’t they be surprised when it turns out to be Vince Lombardi?)
In me, these people evidently see a likely discussion partner. I’m into football — and they’re into this one ‘football thing‘; they’re so very proud of themselves — so we should totally talk about this thing that we have in common, and let’s be best friends and tattoo each others’ middle names on our inner thighs because that’s what ‘besties’ do in their world, probably because they heard it on some prison documentary. On NPR.
Meanwhile, we really don’t have this ‘thing’ in common. I care about the football part; they care about the finances or the mediation or what color suits the player reps are wearing to the meetings. And ne’er the twain shall meet. There’s really no common ground to discuss.
(It’s like going to a strip club with an old lady who scrapbooks pasties. I don’t have any opinions about the color of the things, or what they’re made from, or whether they clash with the leopard print G-strings and body sparkles. And she’s not interested in what’s rubbing up against them. It’s like we’re comparing apples and cantaloupes. Where the apples smell like sweat and desperate, and no one’s allowed to touch the cantaloupes.
Though it is one episode of Hoarders that I’d probably tune in for.)
So they’ll ask me about equitable compensation plans or the latest court-mandated mediation wrinkle, and I’ll have no clue what they’re on about. Unless ‘revenue sharing’ and ‘player pension plans’ are some kind of new after-touchdown celebration dance moves, then I’m not so interested. Or knowledgeable. Or able to spell the big words coming out of your mouth. What are we, George Plimpton? Give it a rest, pigskin poindexters.
Various Concerned Ladyfolk
I know several women with at least a passing interest in the NFL — some who like to watch, some who tolerate the games, and some who just want to know which weeks they can make a Sunday shopping trip unhindered. And it seems like they’ve all asked me recently:
‘So what’s up with this football work dealie? Are they going to play this year?‘
I don’t know how I became the ‘go-to guy’ for this sort of information. Or anything else, frankly. I’ve never provided reliable data on… well, anything, so far as I can remember. These girls have access to the same stories I would read — and most of them know more of the big words than I do. My football reading is strictly limited to box scores and captions on blooper reels.
So how did I become a font of expected knowledge all of a sudden? Are they so little interested that they’d rely on me for predictions? Are they asking every guy they know, and triangulating the ridiculous bullshit answers we give? Is it that since I know something about football, I should know everything about football? By that logic, any girl who shops at Victoria’s Secret should be able to get me Heidi Klum’s autograph.
(For the record, I don’t recommend using this logic. Particularly if it involves loudly demanding same of every patron at your local Vicky’s Secret store.
The mall cops have tasers now. Not a good time.)
People Who LIVE for Football
Then there are the people whose entire reason for being revolves around football. They paint their aging Wagoneers in team colors, wear replica jerseys to weddings and funerals and name their children after the local team’s offensive coordinator.
(If the trend also holds in Tennessee, then I apologize on behalf of the rest of humanity to all the little Heimerdingers running around down there. Ouch.)
These people are so desperate for news about football — ANY news about football — that they’ve dug themselves elbow-deep into this labor talk. Only they don’t understand it any more than I do, so they tend to treat the proceedings as though it were some sort of fantasy litigation league:
“Yeah, dude! I totally had the judge ruling for the players today. I knew when I drafted her on my bench back before the hearings started, I knew she was going to get us to the playoffs. Oh yeah!”
These are the same people who’ll wax poetic about their rock-solid tight ends and their quarterback’s tight zippy balls. In public.
Come to think of it, maybe talking about the work stoppage is an improvement in this case. I think I’m better off chatting with one of these people when neither of us know what the hell we’re talking about.
Sign me up for a appellate judge and give me the Vegas odds on overturning the latest ruling. I’m back in the game, baby!
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