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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
A quick baseball diversion over at Bugs & Cranks before today’s missive:
Atlanta Rising — Another early-season swoon for the Braves? Not so fast.
Now on with the show.
As my role has changed at work, I’ve temporarily become a ‘floater’. I’m moving into an older, already well-populated building, and there’s no permanent desk available yet. So where I hang my laptop is home, at least for a few hours.
I’m okay with that. But sometimes I feel a little like Goldilocks, looking for a place to work that’s juuuuuuuust right. Some days it works out, but it can be a crapshoot. Some office areas are higher-traffic than others. Some are louder than others. Some are too hot, or too cold, or too bright, or too dark, and some look and feel and smell like janitors’ closets. Probably because they are janitors’ closets.
And then, there’s the office I tried out yesterday.
“Some office areas are higher-traffic than others. Some are louder than others. Some are too hot, or too cold, or too bright, or too dark, and some look and feel and smell like janitors’ closets. Probably because they are janitors’ closets.”
On the surface, there’s nothing much wrong with the office. It’s a shared area, with a few machines that people use intermittently during the day. But it’s not often loud or crowded, it’s nice and comfy, and there’s a little space where I can set up my computer and get cracking. Most importantly, it’s in an area where we’re allowed to have food and drinks.
(Some of our other offices don’t have that advantage, which is frankly damned maddening. It’s one thing to have to find another office — or closet — where you can have your lunch.
But trying to write code without caffeine anywhere in a twelve-foot radius? You might as well dunk my fingers in porridge. Too-hot porridge. It’s unpossible.)
I’d been encouraged to use this particular office space for a few weeks. The only drawback to the area — and the reason I hadn’t ventured there earlier — is that the network connection can be a little flaky. But I didn’t need the network for a few hours yesterday, so I gave it a shot and settled in.
And it was nice. My chair was comfortable, the lighting was good, and the room was nice and cool. There were only two other people in the office, conferring quietly at one of the other computers. In my head, I was already making a note to visit again, early and often, when there was work to be done. What, I thought to myself, could possibly go wrong in here?
Just as I was zoning in on my work, one little snippet of conversation from the computer nearby wafted in my direction. From out of nowhere (so far as I know), I heard the guy working there say:
‘Jeez, my pants are wet!‘
Now, that’s eyebrow-raising enough. Perhaps there are better men and women than me out there who can shrug off a wet-pantsed man sitting behind them while they’re trying to work. Even a wet-pantsed man who’s happy to announce the fact to the world at large. But I’ll admit — it threw me off my game a little. I’d have had an easier time concentrating with the three bears breathing down my neck. But my anxiety and mild intrigue took a grizzly-sized boost when I heard his female friend’s response:
‘Still!?‘
That’s enough for me. I don’t know how the dude’s pants got wet, or when they got wet, or which particular bits of his pants were wet. All I know is that they were wet, they’d been wet for some time, apparently, and the wetness of said pants was common knowledge. Maybe there’d been a rainstorm I didn’t know about, or an unfortunate coffee accident, or a tussle with an overeager cologne spritzer at the mall. These are the possibilities I can consider without losing sleep over the exchange.
(But there are others. Many others. Some of them involve sinks. Or water pistols. I’ve got one scenario that involves a bar bet, a road trip, and an overdue dairy cow.
No, I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Why do you ask?)
Whatever the cause of the long-enduring waterlogged leggings, I took the first chance I could to subtly excuse myself and run screaming willy-nilly from the room. And I’m afraid the soggy sordid exchange may have nixed the room for me for good. It was a nice room, too. I thought I might be happy there. But if it’s the sort of place where people sit around and compare their soggy pantaloons, then I can clearly never go back. I’m not even allowed to see that sort of thing on the internet; I sure as hell can’t have it in my office.
So I guess it’s back to the janitors’ closet for me. I just hope they’ve cleared out the dirty mops, or soon I’ll be waxing about my own wet pants. Eep.
Permalink | No CommentsBaseball first. There’s a new-ish bit of Braves banter over at Bugs & Cranks regarding the various ouchies suffered by the Atlanta staff this season:
Say It Ain’t Smoltz! — Braves’ ace John Smoltz dodged one injury bullet already this year. Can he do it again?
(As it turns out, he can. As of now, it looks like Smoltz will make his next start. I didn’t want you to lie awake worrying.)
And second, softball. Let’s get crack-ing, shall we?
It’s softball season, and my team takes the field again for the first time this weekend. I have to admit — as excited as I am to get back on the diamond, mash a few slow dribblers to shortstop, muff a few plays in the field, and head to the bar, I’m still a bit troubled about the state of our team.
It’s nothing to do with our ‘field readiness’, or the talent level of our players. Nor am I concerned that our bats — or livers — will be out of game shape after a long winter off. We’ve been pretty much the same group of fielders, swingers, and guzzlers for the past few years; we’re all getting a little older, fatter, and slower, but I don’t anticipate any big surprises. Our outfielders haven’t forgotten how to track fly balls since September, nor have our sluggers lost the ability to swing a bat. And no one’s given up beer for Lent, or switched over to drinking wine coolers or girly daiquiris.
Please, for the love of god, tell me no one’s switched over to wine coolers or girly daiquiris. I’d hate to see somebody relegated to the bench because their decision-making skills have obviously deteriorated.
(And it’s happened before. We lost a second baseman for the season last year for wearing shorts with writing on the ass.
It’s one thing when the girls do it. But when the message comes sandwiched between two hairy legs and a plumber’s butt, it’s time to put a guy on waivers. There are rules in softball, for crissakes.)
“Would you steal third against a bunch of Desperate Crack Junkies? I think not.”
I have to assume that our team name would discourage any out-of-the-ordinary alcoholic shenanigans. We’re Team Guinness, and have been for the better part of a decade now. Not all of the players drink Guinness, of course — but we’ve coaxed most of the guys and a couple of the girls to ‘go Irish’. The rest of them have their Sam Adams and IPAs — but they know if they stray too far from the course, the repurcussions will be swift and severe. A used sweatsock tossed in your wine glass may not have the immediacy of IcyHot in your jock strap, but it gets the message across. You can drink that frou-frou stuff on your own time; on Sundays, you’ll fall in line and like it.
Unfortunately, our team name is just what’s troubling me right now. As much as it sends the appropriate message to our players, it hardly instills fear and awe into our opponents. We had just the same sort of problem last fall with our individual nicknames. And we haven’t fixed that, either. But one crisis at a time. I’m trying to fix ‘Team Guinness‘ right now.
The problem is, I don’t think our current name is quite scary enough. I can almost hear opposing captains looking up the schedule, seeing who they’re up against, and saying:
‘Guinness, eh? Enh. We could take ’em.‘
And that’s what I want to get away from. I want a new name — one that will have the opposition shaking in their cleats before we even show up. A name that buys us at least a forfeit or two a season, because the other team is simply too scared to risk showing up. Here are a few of the early candidates:
Team Incontinent — This works better the older we get. Maybe we won’t pee on your infielders as we round the bases, or splash your catcher as we swing. But who knows? It’s out of our hands. And quite possibly our pants.
The Drunken Fran Dreschers — Would it be humanly possible for a full team of people to scream loudly in a nasal Jersey accent for an hour and a half? I don’t know. But I do know that we’d only have to do it once, and we might not have to play another game for the rest of the season, as everyone forfeits around us. Which would be good, because I’m pretty sure we’d all need intensive therapy at that point.
Local Lepers #151 — What’s scariest? The gross-out factor? The risk of contagion? The fact that we’ve apparently formed a union of some kind? Or that we’ve become especially fond of saying, ‘When we play, we leave everything out on the field‘? It could work.
Team Tuberculosis — Speaking of contagion, why not cash in on the health scare du jour? ‘You don’t mind if we cough on you, do you?‘ ‘We just got off a long plane ride, and boy did it get stuffy in that cramped little space.‘ ‘Hey, can we sit in your dugout with you to shoot the breeze a while?‘ And in a couple of years, we’ll change our names to the ‘Bird Flu Bombers‘. Super.
Desperate Crack Junkies — We’ve probably only got one or two people on the team who could look the part. (No, I’m not naming names, silly… but look at that picture at the top of the page. I could pass for ‘whacked-out hobo’ any day of the week.) But the name alone should be deterrent enough. I wouldn’t step on the field — inside two long white lines, mind you — against the Desperate Crack Junkies. Or try to tag out a Desperate Crack Junkie, no matter how early I got the ball. Would you steal third against a bunch of Desperate Crack Junkies? I think not. It’s foolproof.
So there you have it. This weekend, I’ll be lobbying to change Team Guinness to the Desperate Crack Junkies. I think it’s high time we got down to business and intimidated some of the teams in this league. And if we’re not going to do it on the field, then we’ll just have to do it on the schedule.
Of course, we are going to need some changes to the team uniforms. We’ll have to be a hell of a lot shabbier to pull off the look. And there could be just a smidge of confusion about what to order at the bar now. Or whether to go into the bar at all, as opposed to hanging out in the alley behind the dumpster.
No matter. If it’s for the good of the team, then we’ll have to sort out those issues as we go along. That’s just the way the Desperate Crack Junkies operate. I’m sure going to miss that Guinness, though. Maybe the Fran Drescher thing would be better, after all. Heh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-enh-heh.
On second thought, crack junkies it is. Pass the pipe, dog.
Permalink | No CommentsOn Friday, I called a man ‘chief’.
I don’t know what came over me. I’m not a ‘chief‘ kind of guy. There are all sorts of characters around — especially here in New England, it seems — who are comfortable calling perfect male strangers all sorts of clever names. You’ll get a lot of ‘kid‘ in these parts, the occasional ‘brutha‘, the odd ‘sport‘ or two, the personally perplexing ‘boss‘, and yes, once in a while, ‘chief‘.
But not from me. I’m strictly a meat-and-potatoes name-caller. I stick to ‘guy‘, ‘dude‘, ‘man‘, and maybe — if I’m feeling particularly frisky — ‘buddy‘. That’s it.
Until Friday. At approximately 1:15pm on Friday afternoon, I ‘chief‘-ed a man, for the first time. I feel like I’ve stepped over a line somehow. Or maybe onto a line. Whatever it is, it’s squishing between my toes now. Not so pleasant.
“At approximately 1:15pm on Friday afternoon, I ‘chief‘-ed a man, for the first time. I feel like I’ve stepped over a line somehow.”
So how did I become a ‘chief‘-er? I’m honestly not sure. It was a lunchtime like any other around my new office. There’s a little food court nearby, and I’ve slipped into a comfortable little routine in my brief time there. I always walk over to the burrito joint — they claim to prepare ‘healthy’ fake Mexican food, and the burritos beat the pantalones off the Subway across the aisle. On the other hand, they’re not exactly fast with their ‘fast food’. I suspect the staff mostly bags off for a siesta in the early afternoon, but I can’t confirm it. The girl at the counter won’t let me past the nacho station to see for myself. Damn my obviously gringo features.
But that’s okay. The long lag in landing lunch gives me a chance to walk over to the place that sells… um… well, honestly, I don’t know what kind of food they sell. But they’ve got bottles of soda that I can cart back to the office, which the burrito joint doesn’t offer. So while my carne is being asada-ed, I hop over for a soda. The guy there recognizes me now, and sometimes even has a bottle waiting for me. It’s a good deal. I tip him an extra fifty cents every day, and he pulls me out of line as soon as he sees me, no matter how long the line is. Everybody wins.
Still. Does that make him a ‘chief? My first ‘chief‘? Good grief.
But that’s what happened on Friday. With the lunch rush over, I moseyed down for a meal — and that bottle of Pepsi. When I went for my soda, he ribbed me for being late, I told him I’d try to do better next week, and then, as though I were looking on from a nearby table, I heard myself say:
‘Thanks, chief.‘
I still don’t know what compelled me to say it. He didn’t bat an eye — probably, around here, he gets ‘chief‘-ed three times an hour and double at lunchtime. But never by me — and now I wonder what’s coming next. Will I be ‘boss‘-ing people soon? Throwing ‘kid‘ around at the local watering hole? Calling the mailman ‘Sparky‘? Or ‘Scooter‘? Or ‘Sugarbuns‘?
I think maybe I should find a new soda guy. Either that, or a much hotter mail carrier. Otherwise, my name may soon be ‘mud‘.
Or ‘Loverdrawers‘. Jesus. The price I pay to get caffeine and junk mail.
Permalink | 4 CommentsYikes. It’s been a busy week, and a few days since we’ve talked. First, let’s get the Bugs & Cranks updates on the table:
Purging Platoons — The Bravos started the season with some time-sharing positions. But will they end the year with any?
Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead! — With the release of Mark Redman comes the vanquish of a ravenous, filthy beast — his ERA.
Daily Predictions: Heartfelt, or Headstrong? — Predicting the winners of Thursday’s games. But not particularly well.
Titanic Tussle, Take Three — Smoltz versus Glavine, again? If these guys weren’t so damned good, this could eventually get old.
Whew, that’s a lot of baseball! Now back to the usual silliness — and I promise not to be gone so long before the next batch of yuks. Happy weekend, folks.
Summer seems to have elbowed its way into the Boston area this week. That’ may be good news for the thinbloods and mosquitoes, but not for me. I take little pleasure in ninety-degree swelter, for a very good reason. It’s already too damned hot to beat around the bush here, so I’ll come right out and say it:
I’m a sweater.
“There are only so many times a man should have to spend three hours dripping in an underventilated gymnasium with the bodies of thirty slicked-up strangers.”
That’s right. Some people ‘perspire’. Others ‘bead’. I’ve had several ladies of the female persuasion try to convince me that they simply ‘moisten’. I’ve never actually seen such ‘moistening’, so I’ll have to take their word on the matter. Or so the restraining orders say.
Meanwhile, my perspiratory puddling is somewhat less than dainty. I’m just like other people in the fall through spring, but when the summer swelter sets in, life gets just a little bit sticky. I’d frankly be happiest if it were a cool sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit all year round — like a global-warmed Anchorage, say, or a nicely chilled San Diego. Sadly, Boston doesn’t work that way. In January, it’s twelve below zero with three feet of snow. By late May, it’s an oppressive eighty-five. This is one time where taking the ‘law of averages’ is a big fat sweaty load of no help.
The worst times for me are the last few sessions of indoor spring volleyball. The leagues run through early June — but by mid-May, jumping around in those gyms is like flashdancing in a steam sauna. And in my case, slightly wetter. When it’s hot and humid — like last night — I walk out looking like I’ve been sprayed down with a fire hose and dipped headfirst in a hot tub.
I had to change into a new shirt just to get into my car. If I’d hopped in with those slick clothes on, I’d have slid down the seat and split my testes on the brake pedal. I’m all right with sustaining injuries in the course of a game, but how the hell would I explain that to the missus? I ask you.
Luckily, we only have a couple of more weeks to play indoors. There are only so many times a man should have to spend three hours dripping in an underventilated gymnasium with the bodies of thirty slicked-up strangers. It’s not like I’m training for the Olympics, for crissakes. Or shooting a movie on the Hustler network. No mas, already.
So things should dry up a bit soon. There’s still the matter of a hothouse home sans central air conditioning, and three more months of sunbaked, sweaty summer. But it’s nothing a few sticks of antiperspirant — and maybe sweat gland removal surgery — can’t dry out. Or at least ‘moisten’.
Man, it’s gonna be a long summer. Can a brother get a towel?
Permalink | No CommentsFirst off, two more baseball-related goodies over at Bugs & Cranks:
A Series for the Cynics — Are there chinks showing in the Braves’ early-season armor?
and(!):
A Smoltz with a (Bum) Hand Beats Lerew from the Bush (Leagues) — Braves and Red Sox. Day-night doubleheader. It was wacky, and I saw it all live.
And now for something significantly more disturbing:
My wife and I are having a problem with our toilet.
Now, before we go any further, I should mention that it’s not a serious problem with the toilet. It’s not as though it’s backing up, or shooting stinkwater out the valves, or growling ‘GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!‘ when we reach to flush it. Those would be serious problems. Our problem isn’t nearly so bad. Or poltergeisty.
Our problem is merely with the toilet seat. And the problem is that it’s somewhat unstable, wiggling and shifting undercheek while we sit. I’ve traced the problem to two screws that hold the seat down and seem to have loosened themselves over the past few weeks. Tightening them should be a simple matter — except that every screwdriver in the house is in the basement, two flights of stairs away. When you’re perched precariously on the john playing a game of ‘Slip ‘N’ Slide’ and trying desperately not to lurch your bare ass onto the floor, trudging up and down two stories is well off the menu. And once you’ve finished your business, you tend to figure it’ll be someone else’s problem next. Such is the life of a couple with a short memory and regular bowels.
“These days, it’s a little like trying to poop in the dead center of one of those twirling teacups at DisneyWorld.”
And so, our saga of the shimmying seat continues — and worsens by the day, as those screws get looser and looser. At first, it was a minor nuisance. Then, it was a challenge; so long as you held on tight and braced your legs, you could treat the toilet like any other. And now? These days, it’s a little like trying to poop in the dead center of one of those twirling teacups at DisneyWorld. Which is neither easy to do, nor well appreciated by anyone in the vicinity.
(In my defense, I didn’t know that wasn’t allowed on the teacup ride. I’d just seen a bunch of kids lose their lunches on the Tilt-A-Whirl; I just thought it was ‘that kind‘ of amusement park.)
At this point, I can see this little episode ending in one of two ways, neither of them good. In one scenario, my wife — whose balance is infinitely better than mine — will get fed up with all of the wiggling and shifting every time she needs to tinkle, and she’ll hound me and poke at me until I trudge down to the basement for a screwdriver to fix the damned seat.
Rightly so, of course. After all, it’s my tool box that the screwdriver is in, and my wide shifty ass that probably loosened the screws in the first place — unless the dog has been using the toilet seat as a tug toy when we’re not looking. So she’ll probably point these facts out soon enough, and that’s one way the scene could end.
The other way, of course, is that one day I’ll attempt to sit down, slip around the seat, fall over, and end up face-down and ass-up in the bathtub. That’ll probably be just enough to convince me that a trip to the basement is worth the trouble.
Unless it happens when my wife is out of the house, of course. If a jackass slips in the bathroom and no one’s around, it never happened.
You hear me? Never. Happened. I don’t care what my lying mutt tries to tell you. She’s probably the one who tore down the shower curtain and kicked over the towel rack, too. Come on — who are you gonna believe?
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