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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I recently changed roles at my job, which now has me reporting to a different building, and in another part of town. A busy part of town, with lots of schools and hospitals. And very little parking. I suppose the students are supposed to be too busy studying to have cars, and hospital patients are meant to arrive by ambulance only. Visitors to either are apparently out of luck. Maybe they hop a cab down and stay in the dorms, or park their Chevys between unused gurneys in the maternity ward.
Whatever they do, it isn’t any help to employees and staff who need to ‘visit’ the premises regularly. Like me. So, many of us end up parking several blocks away and trekking a path to the workplace. When it’s rush hour on most roads, it looks like a pilgrimage on our sidewalks. In the morning, throngs of nurses, assistants, administrators, vendors, trainees, and phlebotomists tromp towards the medical area from all directions. In the evening, they disperse along the same routes, back to their cars stashed in remote and saner areas, with treelined brownstones and ample parking.
“If it takes thirty years of working a rib spreader or jamming your fingers up people’s poopers to get a parking spot, then I’m quite content to get my walking exercise.”
The doctors, of course, are mostly exempt from this migratory procedure. The senior ones, anyway. They get spots in the garages — and frankly, that’s okay with me. If it takes thirty years of working a rib spreader or jamming your fingers up people’s poopers to get a parking spot, then I’m quite content to get my walking exercise. Unless I get to choose the poopers. But I’m pretty sure I don’t. So, no thanks.
(Also, I honestly don’t know if there are phlebotomists among us in the crowds streaming to and from the hospitals. I wouldn’t even know how to identify such a creature. A special tool they carry? A secret handshake? Beautiful plumage?
Mostly, I just wanted to work the word ‘phlebotomist’ into conversation. And now I have. So I’ll leave it alone.
Right after this:
Phlebotomist.)
So, the driving and the parking and the walking really aren’t a burden — he says this in spring, remember; ask me again how I feel about it in January, when I’m freezing my sneaks off in three feet of snow. But even now, there’s a small-yet-frightening inconvenience of sorts with which I’m having to deal: bird flop.
I say ‘small’ inconvenience because the car has been dung-bombed occasionally by the rogue cardinal or robin for years. We don’t have a covered garage, and there are plenty of trees around to launch from. So certainly, we’re no strangers to unexpected shit stains on the outside of our vehicle.
(Luckily, since we don’t have children, the shit stains on the inside of the vehicle have been kept to a rare and bare minimum. The dog may have had an accident or two in the back seat, but that’s it.
Other than the ‘Taco Bell Gordita Incident of 2002’, of course. But we don’t speak about that. Not in mixed company, anyway.)
But I say ‘frightening’ because the poo being pooed on our car at home is nothing compared to the torrential turds being flung where I’m parking for work. In terms of size, number, spatter radius, and — lord help me — consistency, our old suburban turds just don’t measure up.
And if you think I’m joking about the consistency part, ask to see my rear driver’s side window some time. At first glance, I thought we’d been caulked by a roving plumber. On closer inspection, I was convinced it was spackle; it looked more ‘stucco’ than ‘stinko’.
I have no idea what these city birds are eating, but from the looks of my window, I’d say it probably includes bubble gum, Silly Putty, and Elmers’ glue. If anyone out there has a kid with a paste fetish and a thing for Bazooka Joe, maybe we can compare notes on these poops. And while you’re at it, maybe you can give me a clue just how in the hell to get this stuff off my car. Because outside of industrial solvents or small thermonuclear devices, I’m out of ideas over here.
Permalink | 2 CommentsA doubleheader of Braves banter for you over at Bugs & Cranks:
Something Something TITANS! Something… — Does John Smoltz pitch any games that aren’t big matchups?
and(!):
Instant Momentum — Sometimes, a game is decided in the blink of an eye. Other times, it’s in the smack of a wall.
And below, a little something I concocted a while back for another purpose. It’s a little different than most things I post here — maybe ‘better’, maybe ‘worse’, maybe just ‘different’ — but it has the distinct and supreme advantage of having already been written already. Enjoy.
Sweet and Sour Summer
The last dregs of pale yellow liquid spiraled down the toilet, my dreams of independent wealth disappearing with them. I had turned ten years old the week before, and immediately set out to make my fortune. “Yer double-digits now,” my old man had barked around a mouthful of birthday cake. “Don’t think ye’ll be gettin’ any more of that ‘allowance’ welfare from me, son.” Apparently, my father had been abandoned onto the streets of a bleak Dickensian landscape as a small boy, and was making sure his own child had a taste, too.
I decided to open a lemonade stand. I don’t know how Dad made his ha’pennies back in the day, but I wasn’t about to submit myself to real physical labor. The salt mines were way on the other side of town, and I’m allergic to coal dust. Or so I assume. It was either a lemonade stand or underage prostitution, and my mother wouldn’t lend me her lipstick and push-up bra. Life handed me lemons. I knew what to do.
My ‘stand’ was made from the wooden shell of an aborted Go-Kart project. It didn’t have wheels — Dad was never good with axles — so flipped upside-down, it made a respectable table. I dissected a square of cardboard from an old air conditioner box, and scrawled:
LEMONADE
25 CENTS
REFRESHING!
“Ten years old is far too mature to be looking cute on a street corner. Not without the lipstick and bra, anyway.”
I’d seen the ‘Refreshing!’ part in a TV ad. I figured if it could sell RC Cola, it could sure as hell move my lemonade. I briefly considered going ‘cute’ with shaky lettering and backwards ‘E’s. But ‘cute’ hardly fit with my slick professional ‘Refreshing!’ message. Ten years old is far too mature to be looking cute on a street corner. Not without the lipstick and bra, anyway.
My first day on the job, I made three sales. My parents each bought a cup, and when our nosy next-door neighbor came to investigate, I shamed him into a purchase, too. With almost a dollar right out of the gate, I figured I had it made. In my head, I was already blowing the wads of cash — sipping milk out of slippers in Vegas, snorting powdered sugar off the backs of Tijuana hookers. I called the local banks to haggle over rates on long-term CDs.
Six days later, I had the same seventy-five cents, and I was pouring the last batch of rancid week-old lemonade into the toilet. “Don’t you dump that in the kitchen sink,” Mom hollered. “It’s been out in the sun. Prob’ly got salmonella or somethin’.”
I needed a new business plan. Customer retention was dismal, my sign was a total flop, and I was down to my last two scoops of Country Time. Evidently ‘Refreshing!’ wasn’t good enough for the modern jaded citrus drinker. I needed a gimmick, a hook. Lemonade with pizazz. Something to put me back on the money train.
I retreated to the kitchen for inspiration. At my ten-year-old height, only the bottom shelves were accessible, and the pickings were slim. Pots. Dish towels. A pasta maker last used during the Truman administration. In desperation, I turned to the cabinet under the sink. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for — mint leaves? Brown sugar? Novelty ice cubes? But when I found my lemonade savior, I’d know it.
The undersink inventory read like a Mr. Yuk dinner party. Drano. Dawn. Pledge. Brillo pads. Comet. Bleach. A half-empty plastic bottle of off-brand vodka.
Bingo.
I don’t know why the booze was there. Maybe Mom took a nip between dishwashing sessions. Or used it to disinfect countertops. Maybe she was planning a Molotov cocktail for the nosy neighbor. At any rate, adults seemed to like the stuff, and they were the ones with quarters to buy lemonade. So I mixed a fresh batch of ade, added a few fingers of the secret ingredient, and returned to my post. I flipped the sign over and wrote:
LEMONADE
25 CENTS
INTOXICATING!
I forget how I knew that word; I think I’d heard it during one of Mom’s soap operas. I sat on the grass behind the Go-Kart and waited for the throngs of customers to arrive.
Three hours later, the throngs remained noticeably absent. Just as I was about to call it a career, my father’s car pulled into the driveway. I must have looked as forlorn as I felt, because he decided to throw me a bone. He flipprd me a quarter.
“Hell, son — it’s been a long day. I’ll take a cup of your stuff there.”
The events that transpired after Dad placed the cup to his lips are a blur. There was shouting — Dad at me, Mom at me, Mom and Dad together, both of them at the neighbor pretending not to listen. At some point the vodka bottle was fetched, and the lemonade dumped onto the lawn. The spankings came later, followed by more shouting. And then the grounding, and the lemonade stand was closed for good. Worst of all, I had to give up the only dollar I’d ever earned to pay for the borrowed booze.
On the bright side, my old man didn’t bug me to get a job for the rest of the summer. He marched me downtown on the first day of the following June to get a job delivering papers, of course. But I got my one extra summer of lazy childhood days, thanks to a little luck, a salesman’s instincts — and a bottle of rotgut vodka my parents forgot to hide. And to this day, my father still won’t drink my lemonade.
Permalink | 1 CommentA quick nod in the direction of America’s Team and the national pastime, over at Bugs & Cranks:
Testing, Testing — Ten questions (and answers) about recent Braves’ happenings. Don’t sweat it; it’s multiple choice.
Now on with the madness.
My apologies for the unplanned several-day absence here. In my defense, I’ll say that weekends are usually the best time for me to catch up in the writing department. But this weekend, I was wholly distracted by participating in Boston’s 48-Hour Film extravaganza. I joined up to shoot a film with a crew of mostly comedians, including Jenn, our organizer, producer, director, editor, and general mastermindess of the whole endeavor.
(Mastermindette? Mistressmind? Brainiatrix? Meh. You know what I mean.)
In case you’re unfamiliar with the 48-Hour Film concept, here’s how this bit of creative insanity works:
“Forty-eight hours later, the film is to be turned in. That leaves precious little time in between for plotting, writing, acting, taping, re-acting, re-taping, editing, crying, arguing, rueing, and floundering bare-kneed on a rough carpeted floor.”
1. On Friday evening, each crew is randomly assigned a genre. These range from the manageable (Comedy, Buddy Film, Romance) to the tricky (Silent Film, Sci-Fi, Fantasy) to the ridiculously impossible (Historical Fiction, Eskimo Porno Thriller, Musical or Western).
(Okay, they don’t really have a ‘Eskimo Porno Thriller’ category. I was just seeing whether you were paying attention.
Anyway, that’d be easier to make than a Musical or Western. Especially since I can’t sing, don’t own spurs, and the only way you’re getting me into a ten-gallon hat is if you stuff me through a woodchipper first and pour me in.
Plus, I’ve already got the polar bearskin Speedos, and I can think of three ways to kill someone sexily using three hundred pounds of seal blubber.
Make that four ways. I can’t believe they don’t have this category. Oops — five. Moving on.)
2. As the genres are being assigned, the teams get other ridiculous information, too. Every film — even the Silent Period Musicals — must include a specified character, a particular prop, and a line of dialogue. So no matter what movie you plan, it has to meander its way past a transsexual Samoan named Moose riding a hobby horse and exclaiming, ‘Beatrice, this is the finest meatloaf you’ve ever served!‘
Assuming those were the three bits specified. Happily, those were not the bits specified to us. Our film had to have a gossip, a shoelace, and someone saying: ‘When you think of something good, let me know.‘
(Of course, there’s nothing in the rules that say the gossip can’t be a transsexual Samoan. But we couldn’t find one. So we used this guy instead.
I decided not to tell him about the first idea. It just didn’t seem right.)
3. Forty-eight hours later, the film is to be turned in. That leaves precious little time in between for plotting, writing, acting, taping, re-acting, re-taping, editing, crying, arguing, rueing, and floundering bare-kneed on a rough carpeted floor. More on that last bit later.
4. There is no 4. Why would you lollygag around looking for 4., when there’s now less than two days to make a movie? Tick tick tick, sparky. Those Inuits aren’t going to grease up, boink, and stalk themselves, you know. Chop chop.
But back to our movie. We pulled a relatively uncomplicated genre in ‘Spy Movie’, which was a relief. That was Friday evening. Nine pizzas, several beers, a splash of tequila, forty-nine hours, and a whole Samoaload of work later, we had a finished film.
That’s right. Forty-nine hours. Unfortunately, we had some technical difficulties in the editing process, and missed the forty-eight hour deadline by a hair. Or a hair and a nose. An Eskimo’s nose.
Still, all is not lost. We have a lot of good footage, and any number of New England area film festivals, showcases, and open screen nights at which to embarrass ourselves with this little endeavor. So as not to ruin the various surprises involved, in case we can someday make the movie available, I’ll give only these details:
And there you have it. Perhaps it doesn’t ‘excuse’ my absence recently, but it certainly was a worthy diversion. And maybe someday I’ll do it again, because it really was a load of fun. Only next time, I’ll get to be on top I’ll be sure not to get the rug burn.
Not a porno. Honest.
Dammit.
Permalink | 1 CommentIf there’s anything I hate worse than blindly stumbling like an idiot into some embarrassing and unfortunate situation, it’s stumbling like an idiot into something stupid when I can clearly see it coming. That’s just about where I am right now. I’m standing on the railroad tracks. I’m watching the train barrel towards me. And I don’t seem too interested in getting the hell out of the way. Chugga chugga chug.
Here’s the deal. My job has changed a bit recently, with me shuttling back and forth between two offices. In two different buildings. Roughly three miles apart. So it’s to my advantage to be able to work pretty much anywhere — on the road, on the go, even on the john.
No. Especially on the john. Some of my best project notes have been written on two-ply Charmin. If I could keep my legs from falling asleep, I’d start having status meetings in there, too. The afternoon ones, anyway.
“To maintain my maximum mobility, I’ve reconfigured my laptop computer as a lean, mean, high-powered instrument of getting shit accomplished.”
To maintain my maximum mobility, I’ve reconfigured my laptop computer as a lean, mean, high-powered instrument of getting shit accomplished. All the frivolous, time-wasting games — gone. The file-sharing gizmos — deleted. The piles and piles of softcore women’s billiard league pinup pics — wiped clean. All that’s left is a light, sweet LINUX base, a few rich and creamy development tools as frosting, and an a la mode of cold, delicious intranet applications.
Well, those and the forty-seven gigs of obscure 80s band MP3s. I call those ‘sprinkles’.
The point is, I’m carrying my laptop around a lot more lately. And I’m whipping it out in a lot of strange places, which I sometimes need to vacate for a while — to get lunch, say, or attend a meeting. Or find more Charmin. So when that happens, I need a safe place to stash the machine, so some jackhole doesn’t swoop in behind me and steal it. That means locking it up in a desk drawer. And taking the key with me.
Therein lies the problem.
These aren’t my keys, so they’re not on my keyring. But they’re shiny, and pretty, and fun to play with. So instead of dropping them in my pocket, I jingle them and toss them in the air and twiddle them around my finger. Which means, sooner or later, I’m going to lose them.
It’s inevitable, really. I’ll fumble them down a sewer or accidentally fling them into a moving convertible, and they’ll be gone. And I’ll be left standing there, keyless, with my laptop computer in a perfectly safe, secure, intruder-repellant location that I have no way to access myself.
It’s going to happen. I know it’s coming. I can even see the look that’ll be on my face — the horror, the disgust, the anger. And that sneery, awful glimmer of ‘I told me so!‘ from the part of my brain that knows better, and is regularly and soundly ignored. The train is a-comin’. All aboard the Assbag Express.
I guess it’s better than having the stupid computer stolen. But I’m not at all looking forward to walking into my boss’ office and explaining why I can’t finish my project. Or reply to his emails. Or play him any more Oingo Boingo tunes. Damn, am I going to be in trouble. Sometimes I think ‘Dead Man’s Party’ is the only reason he keeps me around, as it is. Ouch.
Permalink | No CommentsIt’s all baseball all day here today, kids. First, over at Bugs & Cranks, an homage to the newest ex-Brave:
The Rise and Fall of Ryan Langerhans — What three hits in a month gets you in the major leagues.
Then, the latest attempt by various bits of my body to predict the outcome of today’s games:
Daily Predictions: A Homer’s Heart and a Hollow Head — When waffling once per game just won’t do.
And here, a warm and snuggly tale about my upcoming plans at Fenway Park. We’re rounding third now, and heading for home!
Later today, I’ll be attending my first Red Sox game of the young season. Baseball in New England is always an adventure, but these springtime games offer a whole new twist to the nation’s pasttime — unpredictable and rapidly changing weather. The climate can go from mild and seasonal to mad Nor’Easter in no time, and that wreaks a special kind of havoc on the games being played. Not to mention the fans getting drunk and pretending to watch.
The meteorologists are no help, either. Around this time of year, all the local weather weenies want to be the first to ring in blue skies and a warm sunny summer, so they’re prone to jumping the gun on calling the ‘all clear and sizzling’. That’s no big deal if you’re trotting out the short sleeves around the office for the first time in a few months. You might get a little nippy near the water cooler, but otherwise, you should emerge unscathed from your climatological faux pas.
“After my last trip to Fenway, my wife says I’m not allowed to use the Dustbuster to suck out parts of my body that have crawled up inside me any more.”
If, on the other hand, you’re spending six hours braving the elements at the ballpark, wearing nothing but cutoff shorts and a painted ‘B’ on your chest, you might be in for some trouble. Trust me. After my last trip to Fenway, my wife says I’m not allowed to use the Dustbuster to suck out parts of my body that have crawled up inside me any more.
(It’s just as well. It’s always a pain in the ass to empty that teeny little bag.
From the Dustbuster.
That’s the bag I’m talking about.
Boy, this is awkward, huh?
Moving right along, then.)
There was a bright side to freezing my coconuts that day, though. It was so cold, I could hang pretzels on my nipples when I needed my hands free for high-fiving. There’s always a silver lining, you see. Even if it’s an uncomfortable, nasty, mustard-stained silver lining — it’s still there. Attaboy.
This time around, I’ve vowed not to be caught unprepared. Tonight, I’m wearing long pants to the ballpark. And a parka. And mukluks. And one of those furry hats with the flaps that Canadians seem to think are appropriate somehow. I’ll tell people I’m from Wisconsin; it’ll be fine.
(Those are some crazy hats, but they’ve got to be pretty toasty, right? The last time I had that much fuzz that close to my ears was when I accidentally tripped onto the stage at a Vegas strip club. I wonder if the hats smell like vanilla musk and desperation, too?
I bet mine will.)
Precipitation could be a problem, too. So I’ll be taking an umbrella, obviously. And an ice scraper, in case the seat gets enslickened by a sudden cold spell. I might as well take a snowblower, while I’m at it. If the weather doesn’t require it, I can always use it to blow things up into fans of the opposing team. I sure hope they bring their Dustbusters, or they’re going to need that ‘seventh inning stretch’ pretty badly.
Of course, if it actually is warm, I should be prepared for that, too. So I’ll pack a T-shirt in my back pocket. Plus a pair of shorts in my coat, sunglasses in my shirt pocket, and a pair of light kicky sandals under my hat. And if sweaty comes to sweltering, I can always strip down to the Speedos with a big Boston ‘B’ on the ass. I just have to watch out for wedgies, or it looks like I’m cheering for a team starting with ‘E’.
(That got me into a lot of hot water when the Expos were in town. Now I just tell folks I’m supporting G.M. Theo Epstein, and they usually won’t question it.
After a couple of Fenway franks, people probably assume I’ve got his whole name hiding up in there somewhere. Those things will balloon your ass out like ‘El Guapo’ hooked to a helium tank.)
So no matter the weather tonight, I’ll be ready. Of course, I’ll miss the first four innings being patted down, and I’ll need to buy another seat for all the stuff I’m bringing. But my weather worries are a thing of the past, thanks to a little prudent planning. There’s just one question remaining:
Where the hell am I going to hang my pretzels now?
Somebody rent me a stiff nipple for the evening. Help a hungry brother out, won’t you?
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