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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I haven’t been entirely keyboard-silent since last week. To prove it, have a gander over at the new-look(!) Bugs & Cranks for my latest on the Braves:
Braves After Ten: Don’t Get Too Comfortable — The record after ten games? Good. The concerns? Several.
Now let’s step back up to the plate.
Sorry for the extended absence. A busy schedule, followed by technical difficulties on the server side, kept things quiet around here into the weekend, and a Nor’easter-related power outage delayed things for another day or so.
“I’m no genius, but I know when Mother Nature is preparing to blow rainwater up my ass.”
Luckily, other than a few downed tree branches, things are getting back to normal around here. The power’s back on, the house didn’t wash away, and the local Bible kook who collects ‘two of every animal’ every time it rains is busy putting pairs of raccoons and squirrels back in the trees.
(We keep telling him a rusted-out rowboat hardly qualifies as an ‘ark’, but no amount of anguing or rodent bites seems to convince him.
Besides, it’s either this or he runs around the neighborhood screaming about brimstone and devils. Better he should bother the chipmunks.)
With the storm happening over the weekend, I was lucky enough to mostly miss being caught out in the elements. In fact, I didn’t leave the house all weekend.
Except. The dog.
The dog doesn’t know when it’s raining. Not even when it’s raining sideways with fifty mile per hour winds, apparently. She only knows when she wants to pee — and who has the opposable thumbs to hold the leash. Peachy.
The wife pulled ‘monsoon duty’ the first couple of times the mutt needed a walk. Each time, they both came back in dripping, shivering — and quickly. The dog’s dumb, but not stupid enough to lollygag around in the middle of a rainstorm. I guess when you’re being pelted by raindrops the size of peaches, you learn how to speed-tinkle. Just like in the shower.
Or, um, so I hear. Moving right along.
Anyway, eventually it was my turn. You’d think the damned dog would learn — if it was spewing rain six hours ago, and it was spewing rain three hours ago, and you can still hear rain pelting the porch, then it’s probably raining. I’m no genius, but I know when Mother Nature is preparing to blow rainwater up my ass. That’s when I stay inside.
Unless there’s a pesky pooch making incontinent doggy eyes at me. The things we do for our dumb soggy animals.
At least it was quick. The mutt took three steps off the porch, realized she was wet, and gave me an annoyed look as if to say:
‘Hey, make this stuff stop — some of us are trying to piss around here.‘
A quick detour off the sidewalk, a shake, a squat, and we scampered back inside. I thought about leaving the dog tied to a tree for a while, to ‘encourage‘ her that she didn’t want to go outside again for a while — but even I’m not that mean. Plus, my wife promised us both Snausages when we came back in. So we had that going for us.
Other than that, it’s been a pretty quiet long weekend.
(We Massachusettsians get that funny ‘Patriots Day’ holiday, so we can sleep in and not watch the Boston Marathon, then start drinking early when the Red Sox play. Talk about a holiday I can get behind — oh, mama.)
Until next time, let’s all try and stay nice and dry inside. Next time it rains, I’m dangling the dog’s ass out the window. Let’s see how long it takes her to piss when she’s the only one getting wet.
Permalink | No CommentsOn deck, two more sluggers over at Bugs & Cranks:
30 Facts About… Brian McCann — First Barney? Then a foodie? And now this?
Daily Predictions: The Heart of a Homer — It was my turn today to predict the outcome of all the MLB games. I cheated, and turned in two sets of predictions. And they both sucked.
And now batting for the hometown team, playing third base and wearing lucky number three, it’s… this post. Enjoy.
I had a pretty frustrating day today from start to finish. A full day of nonsense and shenanigans often puts me in a grouchy mood, and tonight was no exception. That’s all well and good when the wife’s not around, but it’s hard to work up a good proper lather when she’s in the house, and trying to be sweet.
You’d think she’d just realize I’m going to be a poopyhead all night, smack me on the forehead, and wash her hands of me. But no. She’s a real trooper, that girl. So she rolls up her sleeves and tries to get to the heart of the problem.
“She assured me that there were no horse wieners, or horse wiener-related byproducts, in the lunchmeat.”
Naturally, I’m no help. Lathered-up grouchy poopyhead, remember? So she asked me how my day was.
‘Meh. Sucktastic.
She gave me a little space when I took off my shoes, flung them down by the door, and stormed off to the kitchen in a huff.
(Yeah, sometimes I lay it on a little thick when I’ve had a bad day. It’s cute; she eats that stuff up.
Or so I tell myself. The reality of the situation may be drastically and alarmingly different. Don’t try this at home, kids.)
Soon enough, she ventured in. I was busy opening cupboard doors, sighing dramatically, closing the cupboard doors, and repeating. She very sweetly asked if I was looking for something for dinner.
‘There’s no poopy food here. I’m gonna starve, I bet. *sigh*‘
She gamely tried to help. Did I want some soup and crackers?
‘Soup sucks. And crackers blow.‘
How about a sandwich?
‘I bet the bread’s all full of mold and maggots and anthrax. And the lunchmeat’s prolly made from horse wieners.‘
She assured me that there were no horse wieners, or horse wiener-related byproducts, in the lunchmeat. She claimed that she has two strict rules when shopping for processed meat and fish products — they must be dolphin-safe and devoid of any horse wieners. I almost cracked a smile, if only for her heroic effort.
Instead, I said it just proves the bread has anthrax. And I flicked the loaf across the counter. Dismissively.
She’d had just about enough. How about a frozen dinner?
‘Don’t want it.‘
A bowl of cereal?
‘Cereal’s for babies.‘
Bag of popcorn?
‘I’d probably just choke on a kernel and die. Real sensitive, honey — thanks a lot. Pfeh.‘
I finally grabbed a granola bar — a dry, icky, poopy granola bar, probably made of gravel or something — and stomped into the living room. She started to ask me what I wanted to watch on television, probably anticipated my response — ‘Law & Order sucks. And CSI blows.‘ — thought better of it and tuned in to Home & Garden TV. Some skinny effeminate man was cutting fabric into draperies while the overly-perky hostess gushed about how ‘faboo‘ they were going to look.
Presumably, the missus figured that if I wanted to be miserable, she’d give me something to be miserable about. Smart lass, that one.
We sat for a while not particularly watching the show. My wife was eating dinner — a bowl of chicken poopy noodle soup — while I busied myself with grumbling under my breath and making disgusted smacking noises while I ate my granola bar. Finally, after my wife had finished her meal, she got up, hugged me, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and said:
‘I’m sorry you had a bad day. I love you. I’m going to bed. Now stop being a jackass.‘
And with those few sweet, smartass words, the fog lifted. My brow unfurrowed, my shoulders untensed, and I could finally enjoy myself in the comfort of my own home, with my loving wife.
Mostly, anyway.
After all, she was going to bed, and I had to stay up to finish a couple of writing projects. And there was still no food in the house, and I was watching some ridiculously annoying home makeover extravaganza program. They were just about to discuss throw pillows. I considered slitting my wrists with the CD in my laptop drive, but everything considered, that didn’t seem like the best way out any more.
So I hugged my wife, asked her to leave me the remote on her way to bed, slapped her lightly on the thigh for subjecting me to the monstronsity on the screen, and flipped the channel to The Simpsons. It’s the episode where the family moves so Homer can work for Hank Scorpio, who turns out to be a Bond movie-style evil genius. It’s just about over now — ‘Work hammocks? It’s genius! Why didn’t I think of that?‘ — this post is wrapping up, and the missus is tucked away snugly in our warm soft bed.
All’s right with the world again, and I think it’s high time I join her for some shuteye. It’s a bullshit world out there some days, but nothing I can’t handle with the help of a few finished projects, a good animated sitcom, a hug from the wife, and eight full hours of sleep. I’m off to recharge. Ciao.
(Wait. Did she call me a jackass?!? Ooooh, that woman. I am so putting her hand in a bowl of warm water when I get up there. The nerve.)
Permalink | 3 CommentsTwo more Braves-y baseball bits are brewing over at Bugs & Cranks:
One Great Day for Davies — A young Atlanta hurler proves that you don’t have to be ‘great’ to have a great game.
and(!):
BREAKING NEWS: Water Still Wet — Mike Hampton? Hurt? Naw, get out. Really?
Now on with the show.
I’m having a bit of a crisis.
My role at work will be changing in the next few weeks, and the reconfiguration includes a shuffling off to a different office in another building, far away from my current location. That poses several logistical questions, the most hotly burning of which is this:
Where the hell am I ever going to find another rusty old truck with fresh burritos inside?
As you can imagine, this anxiety is keeping me awake at night. Almost as much as the burritos do.
“Between the lunch truck waitstaff’s broken English and my semester of Spanish twenty years ago, we have three words in common. And one of them is ‘chihuahua’.”
See, it’s not that the mystery wraps falling off the back of my favorite diesel-powered vehicle aren’t frightening any more. They most certainly are. And even if the quality of the food wasn’t a big lard-encrusted question mark — and it is, no doubt — then the process by which I gain access to said mystery grub would keep me staring at the ceiling and sweating well into the wee hours all by itself. Between the llunch truck waitstaff’s broken English and my semester of Spanish twenty years ago, we have three words in common. And one of them is ‘chihuahua’.
(As in, ‘Ay, chihuahua!‘?
Precisely.)
The thing is, I’ve grown accustomed to these burritos. There’s just something strangely exciting about walking across the street and putting my life and a wad of cash in the hands of a swarthy stranger of questionable hygeine selling goodies off the back of his truck. It’s probably a good thing I don’t work in a seedier part of town, or I’d be bringing home all sorts of pawned watches, hot electronics, and illegal narcotics. Possibly hookers, too — though I suppose those are ‘rented’, rather than ‘bought’, really.
Just like the burritos. Ole!
To be fair, the fare from the truck is not without its charms. The meat in the burrito certainly passes for beef of some kind — tail, perhaps, or snout, or maybe hoof. But it tastes like it came from the carcass of a cow, anyway — possibly mere seconds before going into the tortilla. And the truck keeps a nice array of salsas and sauces to spice up the meal — mole, picante, verde, you name it. I think they keep them warm on the truck’s radiator. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure they make the mole sauce in the radiator. It’s smoky and chocolatey, with just a hint of transmission fluid. Very subtle.
My favorite bit about the burritos, though, is the pea. I don’t know how they do it, but every burrito I’ve ever had from the truck contains a single solitary pea. Just one. It’s like a little lunchtime game of ‘Where’s Waldo?’, to take your mind off the fact that if you look closely enough, there’s a good chance you’ll find that the little green crunchy thing isn’t really a pea at all.
I don’t look closely. To me, it’s still just a pea. Don’t shatter my world, damn you!
Clearly, the truck burritos are a crapshoot. But they’re tasty, they’re cheap, and they’re right across the street, whenever I need a fix. Will I have that sort of culinary convenience at my new building?
Not a chance.
First of all, I’m moving back to work in the hospital that employs me. And if you think you’ll find a truck burrito — or any ethnic delicacy served from the back of a working motor vehicle — within five hundred yards of a self-respecting hospital, then you obviously haven’t been perusing your Surgeon General’s warnings closely enough. In my new digs, there’ll be three options:
Actually, door number three isn’t as bad as you might expect. Hospitals do have a mandate to keep their patients healthy — but these food courts have to serve the doctors and nurses and ostensibly-not-at-death’s-door family members of the patients, too. So the ease up on the bran flakes and raw vegetables, just a little.
Our food court does have healthy options — salads, fruit, grilled vegetable medleys and the like. But there’s also a coffee and muffin joint, a subpar sandwich counter, and — surprisingly, at least to me — a McDonald’s. How the hell are you supposed to keep Joe Patient’s heart afloat, if his family is smuggling in French fries and McFried apple pies? You might as well fill his IV bag full of rendered pig chub and get on with the funeral.
It seems the closest I’ll have to real food around the joint is a lonely little Subway tucked in the back of the food court. It’s not exactly ‘exciting’ food, nor particularly delicious, nor nearly as good for you as that wooden jackass Jared keeps insisting, but it’s edible and convenient and I suppose I can choke down grilled chicken subs with peppers and lettuce a few times a week.
I never thought I’d actually miss eating burritos off the back of a truck, but that seems to be where I’m headed. I wonder if I can convince the Subway lads will drop a pea into my hoagie, just for old times’ sake?
Permalink | 5 CommentsOn tap over at Bugs & Cranks, though a bit less timely now that the game has started:
Clash of the Titans: It’s Smoltz. It’s Glavine. It’s April. Cue the ‘epic battle’ music.
And now, back to the irregularly scheduled program.
For the first time in quite a while, I’ve been tasked at work with building a ‘proper’ website. Most of the programming work I’ve done over the years has been for intranet applications. For the most part, that means that as long as the thing works properly, it can look a little ugly. Or a lot ugly, for that matter. A fair number of my systems have started life in ‘four white walls and a naked light bulb’ mode. And when I could get away with it, they stayed that way.
“I’ve got no eye for color, limited knowledge about proper composition, and the mad Photoshop skillz of a lobotomized arthritic moose.”
It’s not that I don’t appreciate aestetics and beauty, mind you. It’s just that I’m no good at creating them. I’ve got no eye for color, limited knowledge about proper composition, and the mad Photoshop skillz of a lobotomized arthritic moose.
Luckily, it doesn’t usually matter.
Only, unluckily, this time it does.
Of course, as usual I have help. Lots and lots and lots of help. There are at least a half dozen people who could — and therefore will — have strong, loud, and no doubt mutually exclusive opinions about how the site should look. Which leads me to remember the first principle of designing public web sites, The Law of Diminishing Redesigns:
In this case, we need something to demo by the end of the month, and an active site a couple of weeks later. The structure is relatively simple, so it should be no problem to post a perfectly reasonable, attractive, and informative site in that time frame.
On the other hand, project ‘completion‘ should occur by — lessee, carry the four, three times nine is twenty-seven, add six weeks for debating the color of the logo, and… we should just be able to squeeze it in by June. Two thousand and twelve. If we hire the graphics designer now. Chop chop.
Nah, I kid. These are all reasonable people, and the site’s just a small part of what I’m supposed to be doing. It couldn’t possibly turn into a ‘thing’, right?
RIGHT?
Dammit. Can I go back to intranet stuff now? Some of us just weren’t meant to make pretty things.
Permalink | No CommentsOoh, how the baseball bits are flying! For the Braves’ fans among you, I can offer two more Opening Week tidbits over at Bugs & Cranks:
Brian McCann for McMVP — A little early-season hyperbole never hurt anybody, right?
and(!):
TiVo Takeaways: Prelude to a Rally — A close look at the turning point that sealed the Braves’ series sweep of the Phillies on Thursday night.
Now, on to other pressing and important matters. Namely, the current state of my pants.
My wife, sweet and wonderful woman that she is, bought me a new pair of blue jeans over the weekend. Today, I slipped them on and took them to the office for a test drive. Overall, I was impressed. The fit is nice — snug, but not too snug. The pockets are deep and roomy. And the pants are faded and soft, just the way I like them. All in all, I’d say these jeans are just about perfect.
Except.
“Whereever I put the zipper, that’s where it remains until I adjust it again. Down, boy. Stay. Play dead. Now jump up! Gooooood zipper.”
Now, I don’t mean to nitpick. These really are fantastic pants. I’ve been wearing them all day, and they’re really quite comfortable. I might even wear them to bed tonight; it almost feels like I’m not wearing any pants at all. Only not in a creepy way. Honest.
There’s just this one thing. About the pants.
It involves the zipper.
Luckily, it’s not one of those things where the zipper falls down on its own. Or zips up on its own — which is less common, but significantly more dangerous. But that’s not a problem with these pants. Whereever I put the zipper, that’s where it remains until I adjust it again. Down, boy. Stay. Play dead. Now jump up! Gooooood zipper.
The problem with these pants is the zipper itself — specifically, the tab by which I gingerly yank it up and down. Because the tab — that little flat metal bar used as a zipper handle?
It’s mo-frigging HUGE.
Seriously, it’s at least three times the size of the zipper tab on any other pair of jeans I’ve worn. I’m starting to think these are training pants of some kind, like ‘Baby’s First Zipper‘, meant to get someone used to the concept of zippering. Because it’s just not natural. It feels like I’m walking around with a big metal ruler hanging from my crotch.
(As opposed to — no. No, even I’m not going there. You people make your own crotch ruler jokes. I can’t do all the work.)
On the plus side, I’ll never have to worry that my fly is open. I’m pretty sure that if I walked around with my zipper down in these pants, the tab would scrape on the floor and shoot sparks three feet in front of me. I can barely operate the thing with one hand; I’m seriously thinking of having some sort of pneumatic rig installed in the lining of the denim to hoist the tab up and down on command. I honestly think that would be easier — and the extra bulge up front with all that equipment can’t hurt, either.
A little of that, and we’ll be making crotch yardstick jokes around here. Maybe these are the perfect pants, after all. Thanks, honey!
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