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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
You’d think something might have changed while I was away the past few months. With all that free time spent not writing, I should have been able to pick up a skill or two. You’d think I’d emerge from my hiatus a new and better man — wiser, craftier, savvier.
Yeah. You’d think.
Meanwhile, back on our own planet…
Yesterday, after I’d made up my mind to resurrect this little den of drivel, I drove over to a local pool hall for league night. Just as I was parking, my old roommate from college called. He was on a business trip, watching my favorite college hoops team on TV, and decided to give me a call to rub it in that they were down seven points at halftime at home to a team whose mascot is a goddamned arachnid reminisce.
Aw. How sweet. Sort of.
I sat in the car and chatted with him for awhile, until it was league time. As we wrapped up the call, I instinctively patted my pockets to make sure all the usual pants suspects were present and accounted for:
Back right pocket: wallet, check!
Front right pocket: keys… not there. Oh, but they’re in the ignition. Of course. Check.
Front and center: everybody’s home, zipper all the way up, checkamundo.
Front left pocket: cell phone…. missing. Shit. Where the hell did I leave the cell phone?
As my friend and I said our goodbyes (yes, that’s right, over the phone, I know you can see it coming and there’s nothing I can do now to hide it), I mentally walked through when I’d seen the phone last.
‘I had it when I left the house this morning… played with it during the staff meeting, yep… three hour bathroom break to play tetris, and then… oh, right — I had to plug it in to recharge the battery. Oh dear lord, my phone’s still at the office!‘
Thank the gods I have the one feeble brain cell still churning, or I’d have said all that out loud. Which means the end of our conversation would have gone something like this:
Me: Sorry buddy, I’ve got to run. I just realized I left my phone at work.
Him: Okay, sure– wait. Your phone?
Me: Yeah, and it’s new, too. I’d hate to lose it.
Him: Your cell phone, we’re talking about?
Me: Right. I’ve really got to go and look for it, pronto.
Him: Dude. How the hell did you ever make it out of freshman year?
“You ever seen a neuron commit seppuku? It’s not pretty.”
As it was, it took me another full minute or so to realize that the phone wasn’t in my pocket because, obviously, it was in my stupid hand. Another few seconds and I would have had the unenviable dilemma of trying to put the car back in gear to go find my cell phone while figuring out where to put my cell phone so I could drive.
And I don’t think that last brain cell would have stood for that. You ever seen a neuron commit seppuku? It’s not pretty.
In my defense, all I can say is that last night is one of the first times in the month I’ve had my new phone that I’ve actually used it as a phone. It’s one of those fancy new Googly doohickeys, and though I use it for plenty of other nonsense on a daily basis, it’s rare that I make the actual wireless talky-talky on it. So I was as surprised as anyone to discover that the phone missing from my pocket was, in fact, plastered to my cheek. What a novel concept.
Come to think of it, I’m a little surprised that I have the phone in the first place. I’m not exactly what you call an ‘early adopter’ of new technology. I had the mobile phone it replaced for a number of years — it was a rotary-dial model and the size of a small doghouse, if that tells you anything. The phone before that, I picked up cheap sometime in the Cenezoic era; if the string hadn’t broken completely off the tin can handset, I probably would have never traded it in.
But the draw of the Googly phone was too much; I bought it the very day it went on sale. Changed carriers to get it, too.
(Technically — this is merely technically, now, understand — but technically, I ‘camped out’ to get it.
Which means I accidentally showed up twenty minutes before the store opened and had to wait in line behind some Asian kid and his mom, a gaggle of RenFaire rejects and a guy whose nickname at some point in his life, I’m certain, was ‘Jughead’. And probably still is.
Rubbing shoulders with royalty, I was. And I wonder why I don’t ‘camp out’ for things more often.)
Anyway, the thing that really drew me to this phone is how open it is. Without getting into all of the mumbo jumboterica, the key is that people who want to write nifty little programs for it can have access to just about anything they want. The address book. The GPS. Wireless connections. Credit card numbers. Your DNA sequence. Pretty much everything.
And what a load off an already-taxed mind, let me tell you. Oh sure, they said at the store, this little baby doesn’t do anything now. Nothing at all, really, but sit there and look not-nearly-pretty-enough-for-some-picky-people. But some day… some day Real Soon Now™, the world will be your cell phone’s oyster.
You want to surf the web? You got it. Pinpoint on a map where someone’s calling from? They’ll figure out a way. Play a nice game of Global Thermonuclear War? Greetings, Dr. Falken.
Why, in the not-so-distant future, they said, you’ll be able to program this system to ring an alarm to wake you in the morning, bring you Eggos and juice in bed, and toss a pair of fresh underpants in the dryer to warm to your liking.
(Of course, you’ll need a hardware upgrade for that last bit of functionality. And additional carrier charges may apply, if your laundry room happens to be in a roaming area.
Also, I’d probably get the phone with a software glitch, and wind up with my Fruit of the Looms covered in syrup and wrinkly waffles stuffed down my pants. And I’ve long said I’m never letting that happen. Again. Not after the Great Denny’s Fiasco of ’06.)
So I suppose my mistake was not thinking of my phone as an actual phone. I should really write myself a note to remind me of that. Hey, maybe the phone has some program that can help.
Now where the hell did I leave that damned thing this time?
Permalink | 4 CommentsSo. Hi there.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve dusted off the old site for writing. Things look mostly the same around here as I remember them — the same goofy picture, the blue-on-blue decor, the Simpsons mocking me with every click… but things are different now, too.
The sidebar has managed to hork itself out of a couple of sections, for one thing. How it managed to eat two blogrolls and a tribute list while I was away, I have no idea. I should have put that thing on a fricking leash.
That’s not the big thing, though. Things are differenter, still.
“I guess they don’t raise ’em like they used to up in the Frozen Tundra.”
What, you might ask, has changed recently to draw my grubby little fingers back to the keyboard grind? What kept me away in the first place? And what did I do on my summer (and spring, and most of autumn) vacation?
I’ll give you three guesses:
#1. I finally remembered my password.
Right. Like anyone who knows me would believe that I could somehow mentally misplace an important password for eight months, and then finally, heroically pull it back out of the vault and log in.
Please.
The people who really know me would realize that I forgot my password long, long ago, probably sometime during the Carter administration. If the browser hadn’t cached my login info after the first time I set it up, I’d have never made it to post number two.
Trust me — the ‘vault’ is a sieve. Turned upside down. And made from tissue paper. I’m lucky I remember the way to work and back every day; someday, they’ll just throw me on a bus and pin a sign to my chest to tell the driver where to take me.
I’m just hoping when it happens, the sign doesn’t read, ‘Bolivia. Pronto!‘.
#2. I had a baby.
Nice try, smartass.
The timing would be just about right, but no, in no way, shape or form did I have a baby. Nor did the wife. Nor the dog, who’s still kicking around.
(And still distributing various fluids and ungodly odors throughout our house, as usual. For those who’ve forgotten or are unfamiliar with our little terror-ier, feel free to refresh yourself with one of her more memorable moments.
More on the mutt soon enough. If she hasn’t gassed us to death by then.)
So no, no baby. Though it’s quite possible I’m pregnant — except for the whole anatomical dealie, with the ‘no womb at the inn’ and the penis and all. But I’m definitely starting to show.
(So I joined a gym last week. More on that in due time, too. Whoo.)
#3. Something shook me out of my unwriterly funk to post nonsense once again in a renewed spirit of justice, defiance and righteous indignation.
Yeah, I wouldn’t have voted for #3, either. It sounds like actual work.
And yet, here we are.
Over the weekend, I discovered that someone out there (and I mean way out there, as in Wisconsin, of all places) was ripping off my old work — dozens and dozens of posts — and passing it off as his own. And had been for months, even while I was still sweating out new drivel here in late 2007. I guess they don’t raise ’em like they used to up in the Frozen Tundra.
Long story marginally shorter, his site is gone now. If you’re interested in the sordid details (and who doesn’t like to get a little greasy now and then?), I’ve laid out the mess in a post over in the annex. I don’t want the nonsense plastered all over the front page; a few incriminating snapshots and bits of evidence safely tucked away in the top of a closet should do just fine for now.
Meanwhile, I realized that I’ve missed writing here. And I felt an old familiar sensation swell in my chest — pride? Gumption? Acid reflux? I can’t say. But I’m back again to thinking of my words as my children — and if anyone is going to abuse them, exploit them, talk bad behind their backs and slap them around all over the internet, then by god, it’s going to be me.
So I suppose what I’m saying is:
</hiatus>
Welcome back, kids.
Permalink | 4 CommentsNovember 17, 2008
I was recently the victim of plagiarism.
Oh, I’ve had a piece or two ripped off before. You can’t spew as much drivel as I have in the past five-and-a-half years without a snippet or two making their way into scoundrels’ wayward and non-attributing mitts. A MySpacer lifts this, some forum hound copies that… in the grand scheme of things, it’s more trouble than it’s worth to scream, ‘Mine! Mine! Mine!‘ every time an old post makes an appearance attached to someone else’s name.
(And where’s the harm, anyway? If some LJ geek wants his three measly friends to believe he’s the ‘bestest Alton Brown fan evar!!!1!eleventy’, why should I be jealous?
I’m actually more interested to know how he managed to make three whole friends. Maybe I should be stealing from him.)
This time, though, it was different.
This was no one-time pilfering, nor some obscure site dawdling its days on the obscure outskirts of the interwebs. Instead, it was what appears to be a highly motivated, hyperly active and heavily advertising individual, pulling eyeballs and attention from every available avenue to read his site.
Which was full, to the overflowing brim, of my words. For eight months in his site’s most recent incarnation, and apparently for some time before that. Until a couple of days ago, I was entirely unaware. And quite taken aback when I made the discovery. It’s like there was another me out there, running around and saying the same (often verbatim) silly nonsense that I say. Quoting my quotes. Re-turning my phrases. Repeating every ridiculous, outlandish, filthy word I uttered.
It’s like the little brother my mother never wanted me to have. She’d be mortified.
And in my own way, so was I. My posts may be many things — goofy, long-winded, scandalous, dubiously fact-checked, incomprehensible, offensive to nuns, nubiles and Nebraskans — but above all, dammit, they’re mine.
So I’ve done some digging on the man who stole the words right offa my page for nearly a year. Since he felt compelled to tell the world about ‘himself’ in my voice, I thought I’d tell you something about him in my own.
The name of the (most recent) offending weblog was ‘Monkey Fables and Tales’. It exists only as a ghost in Google’s memory now; when I discovered my words frolicking on someone else’s site, I left comments asking for removal, or proper attribution to the originals. The ‘author’, going by the name Monkey Tales, evidently chose the former, deleting the entire weblog (and others he ran) within an hour of first contact.
Still, thanks to the caching prowess of ‘Big G’, I can show you something of what was there. On the last cached version of the site, there are three entries. Please for your enjoyment to be comparing them to earlier posts from my own archives:
11/14/2008: “A Different Type of Wing Man” to Interlude with a Vampire (11/01/2006)
11/13/2008: “Do They Leave Chalk in the Ladies’ Room?” to Man’s New Best Friend? (06/26/2003)
11/11/2008: “Belligerence Can Be Your Friend” to Whatever the Question, ‘Belligerent’ is Always the Answer (06/05/2005)
(I give him points for brevity in the title for that last one. But why no post on the 12th? What kind of self-respecting plagiarist was he?
For a good portion of my time here, I wrote one of those ridiculous posts every day. The least the guy could have done is steal them at the same rate. Slacker.)
The scope of this gentleman’s re-post self-gifting was not limited to the current holiday season, I’m afraid. The archives stretched all the way back to February, when love was in the air — and when I was still posting here regularly, to boot. Some Monkeys are apparently cheekier than others.
I haven’t scoured the entire cached archive, and I wouldn’t waste your time with a blow-by-blow rundown if I had. Suffice to point out that my August 10, 2005 was his March 6, 2008, my August 24st of the same year was his May 31st of the current one. November ’03 becomes August ’08, three years ago October is reprised this September, and an old number from 2003 reappears more than five years later.
(He took the time to change ‘Boston drivers’ in that last one to ‘Midwest drivers’, but didn’t think to remove a derogatory reference to Yankees fans, to the apparent chagrin of one of his New Yahkah commenters. Nice catch, sparky.)
Frankly flabbergasted, I dug for more on this mystery Monkey man. And I found it.
Turns out he was quite the busy bee, maintaining four weblogs (all shut down at once soon after my comments were submitted) and advertising them relentlessly using social networking communities, EntreCard and BlogCatalog in particular. I joined the former to learn — and teach — a little more about the culprit, and used the latter to track down more specific information, as well.
It turns out that Monkey Tale (‘monkeytale’ on BlogCatalog, ‘mikster’ on MyBlogLog, StumbleUpon and elsewhere) used to have another weblog called ‘Reality is Over Rated’. And shockingly, it was composed, to a large degree, of the same content as his more current (lack of) effort. Namely, my content.
(Fortunately for my sleuthing activities, FeedShow has kept a log of his old blog’s content, with preview text. Astute — and even not-so-particularly-astute-until-you’ve-had-your-morning-coffee — readers will recognize February 5, 2008’s “Do They Leave Chalk in the Ladies’ Room?”, January 26, 2008’s “Some People Are So Touchy” and January 4, 2008’s “Make a Decision Already!” from the links above.
For my part, I recognize the opening riffs of the very 2nd post (“Presumptuous Bastard Anyway”, 09/27/2007) as the intro to I Don’t Think So, Beermonger, the 3rd (“At Least There Are Less Rules Now”, 09/30/2007) as Slacking Off for Sunday, and right on up to the last post on 04/08/2008, “Has Someone Turned Big Bird Loose?”
Indeed. I did, on July 5th, 2005. Thanks for asking, boyo.)
I had uncovered a great deal of stolen material by this point. But my Herculean Holmesian heaving hadn’t yet produced any real information about this mikster/Monkey himself. Other than a ‘Midwest’ subbed for a ‘Boston’ here, a ‘Red Sox’ replaced by a ‘Packers’ there, I really didn’t know much about the man behind the malingering.
Until, that is, I stumbled onto his profile on StumbleUpon.
And there I found the face — well, the alleged face, anyway; he may have yoinked that from someone, too — of my personal (and perversively perserverant) plagiarist. He’s 48. He’s from Wisconsin. And he’s been a member since mid-September, 2007 — just a few days before the first proof I have that he’s been ripping my shit off as his own for well over a year, on at least two (now-defunct) weblogs.
And I’m satisfied. I ‘ve stared into the cold digital eyes of my online identity thief, the offending materials have been removed, and now I can go back to whatever the hell it was I was doing before obsessing over this little brouhaha. Probably reading comic books, or counting toes or playing chicken with the garbage disposal. Something brainy like that.
In an odd way, this experience has encouraged me to think about writing on my own site again.
(I mean, obviously. Look how many freaking paragraphs we’ve come so far.)
I’ve been on ‘hiatus’ for a few months now, but I do miss putting fingertips to keyboard. And — if the popularity of this Monkey guy’s ‘writing’ and the number of people wondering what happened to his site(s) is any indication — there might be at least a modest audience who’d enjoy my particular brand of drivel. We’ll see about that soon. For now, it’s enough to take one more good look at the plagiarist’s face, turn off the light, and get a sound night’s sleep.
(And just look at the guy. Seriously. How could people think those words were coming from him?
He doesn’t look anything like Joe Piscopo. Or Fozzie Bear. Or even (I still don’t get this one…) Tim Curry! Packer Backer, please.)
Permalink | 19 CommentsSo, I’ve been sick.
Not deathly, gasping my last breath, ‘I’m coming to join you, Elizabeth!‘ sick, maybe. But still — sick. I’ve spent much of the past ten days coughing up bits of things that may or may not have been attached to my internal organs. And someone evidently replaced my sinus fluid with some sort of napalm-‘n’-molasses mixture, to see if I would notice.
Trust me, I noticed. Shove a bean up it and blow, Folgers.
“You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face.”
Anyway, I’m better now. But it was a tough week and a half or so. You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face.
Yep, you might think karma would cut me a break for once.
You might think that. But then you’d be an idiot.
Instead, I found myself last Friday morning — at the very height of my infirmary — standing in the driveway in the midst of a steady downpour, hacking and sniffling and contemplating the very, very flat left rear tire on my car. I was heavily medicated, had pressing work at the office and had already put on my ‘out in public pants’. Still, the sight of that soggy saggy deflated rubber doughnut led me to strongly consider giving the world the big fat finger and crawling back into bed.
But no. That’s just what karma would want, the little bitch. Instead, I got in the car and drove to a tire repair shop down the street. And things were all downhill from there.
I have this theory, you see. In the long and storied history of mankind, I contend that there has never — ever been such a thing as a ‘repairable tire’. I’ve personally flattened a few, busted a bunch, punctured a passel, and deflated a dozen or more. Not one of those holey wheels was deemed patchable. And neither was this one. The resident tire care triage expert broke the bad news — as usual:
Tire Guy: Sir? I’m sorry. We couldn’t save your tire.
Me: Ah. I see.
Tire Guy: We can sell you a new one, of course.
Me: Well, of course you can.
Tire Guy: Let’s see… looks like the only tire we have in your wheelbase is the Blingerator here.
Me: The Blingerator?
Tire Guy: Yeah, it’s great. Platinum-belted radials. Gem-encrusted treads. And the inner bladder is gold-plated.
Me: But… you can’t even see it.
Tire Guy: True. But you know it’s there.
Me: Peachy. I assume this thing is outlandishly expensive, then.
Tire Guy: Oh, you know it. Way more than those ‘peasant tires’ on your ride right now.
Me: Fine. Look, how about we just call in one of those ghetto tires, anyway? I like to match.
Tire Guy: Whatever you want, buddy. I’ll order one for you, and it’ll be here before you know it.
Me: Good. Because I’ve got an important meeting this afternoon.
Tire Guy: Oh, no problem. I’ll check the computer now. Just so long as it’s not back ordered.
Me: Okay.
Tire Guy: Uh-oh.
Me: Yes?
Tire Guy: It’s back-ordered. You won’t see it before August.
Me: Nice. Aren’t there any other models you can get?
Tire Guy: Oh, sure. I can think of three others that’d fit your car. Lemme see here.
Me: Great, thanks.
Tire Guy: Hmmm. Back-ordered.
Me: *sigh*
Tire Guy: Back-ordered.
Me: Of course.
Tire Guy: Hey, then there’s this one.
Me: Back-ordered?
Tire Guy: Nah. ‘Recalled due to spontaneous explosions’.
Me: Really? That’s it?
Tire Guy: Also? It’s back-ordered.
Me: Naturally. The Blingerator it is, then.
Tire Guy: Wonderful. I’ll just need the deed to your house, one of your kidneys and the rights to your first-born child. Nice doin’ business with you.
An hour later, I snuffled my way back the car, poorer in mood, wallet, and probably health. But I did have a fancy new tire, I did make it to work, and I did sit through that big, important, interminable, excruciatingly boring meeting.
Yip. Fricking. Pee.
The next time karma comes around, remind me to smack it around with a gold-plated bladder. Kick me while you’re down, will ya?
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