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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
With the baseball season finally under way, we’re all abuzz over at Bugs & Cranks. If you’ve missed me here in the past few days, then you can rejoice (or recoil, if you like) in the knowledge that there’s a Braves-flavored twofer waiting for you over B&C way:
The Rotation Carousel Spins Early — a view of the just-before-opening-day state of the Braves’ starting staff.
and(!):
TiVo Takeaways: Textbook Braves — It’s not live. It’s not Memorex. But it is a Braves win on Opening Day. Huzzah!
And now back to the non-baseball sort of affairs. Carry on.
Sometimes I might go just a tad too far in making life ‘interesting’.
One of my favorite weekday games is ‘How Short Is My Commute?‘ Within the bounds of reason, most laws, and marginal sanity, how quickly can I get to or from work? The timer starts when I start the ignition, and the race ends when I turn off the engine. In between, it’s all about shortcuts, spouting filth at long red lights, and not getting stuck behind slow stupid jerks. It’s a pretty spectacular game — like GTA without the body count, or Spy Hunter without the cool soundtrack.
“It’s hard enough cutting off some squinty-eyed old grandma on an onramp during rush hour; try doing it while adding three minutes and forty-one seconds to the six minutes and change the last two songs lasted.”
Only, my version does have a cool soundtrack. My car clock doesn’t have a second hand, so I keep track of time elapsed using the CD counter. I even burned a disc of all five-minute songs, to make the math easier during the drive. It’s hard enough cutting off some squinty-eyed old grandma on an onramp during rush hour; try doing it while adding three minutes and forty-one seconds to the six minutes and change the last two songs lasted. It might help if I’d paid for the steering wheel abacus option on the car. Or stayed awake in math class, one or the other.
Meanwhile, the new CD comes in handy. Before that, if I found a song that ended after exactly a certain number of minutes, I’d play it over and over so I could concentrate on the game. My current record — set during a ten pm drive home after a late night at the office — is two complete versions of Spybreak! by the Propellerheads, plus an extra ‘dun-dun-dun-de-dun-dah-dun-dun‘ or two. Or fourteen minutes and twenty seconds, if you’re scoring at home.
(If it helps, Spybreak! is the music playing during the ‘lobby scene’ in the original Matrix movie. It’s no coincidence that it helps to get home faster if you imagine heavily armed groups of people shooting at you from all directions.
See, this is the really useful sort of advice they don’t teach you in drivers’ education class. I hope you people are taking notes.)
Of course, I don’t get to play the game every day. It’s rare that I visit the office on weekends, for instance, so I have to find alternative entertainment — like ‘How Many Cheerios Will Fit Up My Nose?‘ or ‘Can I Retrieve the Sunday Paper Without the Neighbors Seeing Me Naked?‘ As you can see, weekends aren’t quite so enjoyable for me as for most other people. Also, they’re quite a bit draftier.
Sadly, I can’t play the game as often as I’d like on weekdays, either. Many evenings, I don’t travel straight home from work — and the game can’t be played with just any old destination. It might be impressive to reach the gym in ten minutes, or the hardware store in twenty, or Rhode Island in under an hour, but how many chances do I get? How realistic is it? And why the hell do I want to be in any of those places to begin with, much less be there faster? When I race home, I’m travelling toward beer. And when I race to the office, I’m at least on my way to earning money, with which to buy more beer. No game is worth playing without incentive.
The biggest weekday interruption to the game is taking my mutt to ‘doggy day care’. Yes, I know how it sounds — and yes, I know I can never fully hide my shame. Still, better that the pooch should earn the occasional treat and have plenty of crotches to sniff than to sit at home eating our couch all day. That’s got to get boring after a while, even for a tickturd terrier.
What’s excruciating, though, is that the first half of the commute to deliver the dog is the same as the trip to work. And some days when I have the furball in tow, the traffic gods get their twisted rocks off by smiling on me. Every light turns green, every shortcut works, and every blue-haired glacial old fart stays the hell in the slow lane where they belong. I’ve made record time — up to a point.
But I can’t take the dog to the office. Some crotches just aren’t meant to be sniffed. And I work near a lot of them. Believe me.
So I’ve got to turn away from near-certain records and racing immortality, and drop off the drooler before schlepping the rest of the way to the office. I know I could beat my best — coming in under two Spybreak!s, or two fivers and a Jesus or a Gun, is the holy grail — but I don’t often get the chance. Someday, I’m just going to go for it. The boss will find me and the dog in the parking garage, running around like idiots and scarfing Milkbones to celebrate. If we beat fourteen minutes together, the mutt can sniff whoever’s crotch she wants.
Permalink | 2 CommentsBefore the fun starts here, be warned that there’s fresh baseball fun over at Bugs & Cranks:
‘Battle’ on the Braves’ Bench — When there’s no Spring Training drama, we’ll make up Spring Training drama.
And now back to our irregular programming.
My wife had a fantastic idea a few weeks ago. Our schedules are pretty busy, which sometimes means we don’t make it to the grocery store. Or we eat a lousy dinner. Or none at all. When they showed us that Food Pyramid back in school, they never told us how much stupid time it took. If good nutrition isn’t easy, then what the hell’s the point?
So the missus found this cool local service. Every two weeks, some guy dumps a box of fruits and vegetables on our porch. We don’t have to eat them, necessarily — but at least we have them. Baby steps is what we’re taking here.
“When they showed us that Food Pyramid back in school, they never told us how much stupid time it took. If good nutrition isn’t easy, then what the hell’s the point?”
On the other hand, it’s a shame to waste food, so we eat what we can — which is most of what they bring. And roughly seven thousand times the roughage we usually get. I’m spending half my waking life at home with some sort of greenery stuffed in my gob. And the other half in the john, pooping it back out. I assume bodies eventually get used to ingesting vitamins and fiber and the like. Until then, I’m getting an awful lot of reading done.
Meanwhile, I’m learning a lot about edible flora that I never knew or remotely cared about. You never know what’s going to be in the next green box by the door. Could be oranges, could be Brussels sprouts. Here are a few vegetatative adventures we’ve encountered so far:
Rutabagas: I never knew what a rutabaga was. I thought they only existed in joke punchlines and Cold War Eastern Europe. I wouldn’t have known a rutabaga if it hopped into my lap and sang Hello, Dolly.
Until last week, that is.
Turns out, rutabagas look a lot like turnips. And they smell a lot like turnips. And, not surprisingly, they taste a lot like turnips, too. I’m beginning to suspect there’s no such thing as rutabagas. There’s only turnips, and a huge conspiracy to call them ‘rutabagas’ when you want to convince people you’re not serving them turnips.
I know what you people are up to. You can’t fool me, turnip-pushers.
Avocados: I knew avocados were real. I just thought whoever picked them — or cut them, or dug them up, or hatched them — immediately squeezed them into guacamole. That’s the only way I’ve ever seen avocado; for all I knew, guacamole is a just a natural stage in the growth cycle of the modern free-range wild avocado.
Not so.
The thing these people are calling an ‘avocado’ didn’t come in a bowl, next to a tub of salsa and tequila shooters. It’s a big green warty looking thing. Like if Kermit the Frog had a goiter, that’s basically what it looks like. Only much bigger. And not nearly so cute.
It’s no prettier when you slice it open, either. At the very least, I thought there’d be guacamole inside the avocado. But no. There’s a big honking pit, surrounded by a bunch of solid green flesh that you have to mash into guacamole. How did anyone ever think of making something edible out of these godforsaken things, and why haven’t they gene-spliced together something requiring less manual labor by now? If we can put a man on the moon, we can damned sure breed a tree that shoots guacamole out the stems when you squeeze the trunk. We have the technology.
Meanwhile, with our ‘old style’ avocado, I got as far as cutting it into little pieces, mushing it until my hands hurt, giving up, and feeding it to the dog. Who also wouldn’t eat it, because apparently she’s a guacamole snob, too. And the mess I made was nothing like guacamole. It was diced frog goiter, at best. At least I still had the tequila. That’s made from veggies, too, right?
Kiwifruit: I have to say, I really like the taste of kiwi. My wife sliced up the first one, and the flavor was very nice. Sweet, berry-ish, tangy — I was genuinely impressed with a fruit that I hadn’t experienced often in the past, and never when fresh.
Then we ate all of the first kiwifruit, and it was time to cut my own. That’s where things went downhill in a hurry.
The problem with kiwifruit is the appearance. They’re small, not much bigger than a chicken egg. They’re ovalish. And — I don’t know how, them being fruit and all, but hand to god, it’s true — they’re hairy. And goiters are one thing. I’m even less inclined to peel and eat a scrotum. Or a fruit that looks like one.
Actually, I’m not sure ‘peeling’ is the advised next step. I’m sure as hell not going to bite into the thing as-is. And sticking a knife into it just seems… rude. So I stared at it, horrified, from across the room for a while. Then I gave up, draped a towel over it, and made myself some ice cream. There’s a time for good nutrition, and there’s a time to cut your losses and turn to Ben & Jerry. Guess we’ll just have to see what comes in the box next week.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI’ve decided that I need to befriend an asshole.
Also, an idiot, a lazy teenager, a wet blanket, an unbalanced wacko, and a holier-than-thou skeptic. And, if I can find one, someone who looks as much as possible like the Elephant Man. With really bad hair. And moobs.
It’s not that I want to hang around with a bunch of outcasts, malcontents, and freakshow rejects. But if I’ve learned one thing from a lifetime of watching sitcom television, it’s this:
Every group of friends has an idiot. And a slacker, a boor, a crank, a cynic, and somebody really ugly. And absolutely, every group has an asshole. Sometimes two. And sometimes hundreds.
“Some of them are definitely too attractive. You’d think just one could contract leprosy, to let the rest of us off the hook, but no. Some friends these are.”
This is the message that’s been fed into our soft, pliable brains for decades. And it’s human nature to assume that if there’s no obvious asshole, for instance, in one’s circle of friends, then whoever’s most assholish must be the culprit. And therein lies my problem:
My friends are too nice.
And hard-working and interesting and sane and reasonable, and quite possibly too attractive. Some of them are definitely too attractive. You’d think just one could contract leprosy, to let the rest of us off the hook, but no. Some friends these are.
So I look around the room at parties thrown by friends, and see the grim truth — no crackpot. But here I am with my theory that Jerry Springer is an interstellar version of Steve Irwin, come from Aldeberan to study us.
(Hey, think about it. It just makes sense.)
Then I check for ugly people. Sure, there are a few cockeyed eyebrows, and hairs out of place, and — did she really think that would look good on her? — but nobody stands out as eye-avertingly horrific. So I check the mirror — oops, I forgot to shave this morning. On the left side, anyway. And how’s my hair doing that without a stiff breeze or a gob of Elmer’s glue? And man, I should really have that growth looked at. Otherwise, I’ll have to name it soon, and get it a Social Security card.
I scan the room again, and there’s no slacker. Especially my wife, who baked brownies for the party, made a salad, and bought two bottles of wine. All of which I made her lug inside, because carrying things makes me tired. Damn.
Speaking of my wife, don’t get me started about her friends. She’s working in a law firm now, and quite successfully. If anything, her crowd is smarter, prettier, more rational, and successfuller than mine.
Also, they don’t use words like ‘successfuller’. Seems I need to find an illiterate friend, too.
If it’s true that life imitates art, then I know my new circle of ‘friends’ is out there. I’m looking for George Costanza, for Eric Cartman, and for Screech. I’ll need a Homer Simpson — a Milhouse wouldn’t hurt, either — a Balki, an Urkel, a Meatwad, Cliff Clavin, and a Bill Dauterive. With that posse of pathetic persons for comparison, I should look good in any situation.
Only, who wants to hang around with those people? If those were the friends I had to choose from, I think I’d just forget the whole thing and stay home.
So apparently, I need a snarky antisocial friend, too. Does anybody have Bender the Robot’s home number? I can have my wife bake him some brownies.
Permalink | 5 CommentsTime for another beisbol update, amigos. Mosey on over to Bugs & Cranks for the latest in Braves’ analysis:
That Was Then, This Is… When? — Will the 2007 Braves look more like the ’05 division winners, or the stinkers of ’06?
When you’re done there, come on back for today’s somnabulatory nonsense, below. Gracias!
It’s been one of those weeks when the weekend can’t arrive soon enough. This one was a whirlwind, with an illness, a couple of late nights, and a plumbing emergency leading to a new toilet.
(For the record, I’m not suggesting my illness was a ‘plumbing emergency’. Though it may have led to a couple, at the fevered height of its run.
But under no circumstances did the illness lead to the new toilet. If I’m ever that sick, I think I’ll just hang it up and climb in the coffin. If only to avoid cleaning up the mess.)
“I haven’t taken two naps in the same week since I was sucking warm milk from a bottle and watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.”
Things got so hectic, in fact, that during the course of the week I took not one, but two naps. And I’m not a napper. I haven’t taken two naps in the same week since I was sucking warm milk from a bottle and watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.
(And no, that’s not how I spent my Sunday mornings in college. The rumors are untrue.
If you must know, it was strained peas and Sesame Street. I tended to regress a bit with Monday morning classes looming. The semester I had calculus, I spent most of my weekends in the fetal position, tucked in a laundry bag in a dark closet.)
It’s not that I’m opposed to naps, in principle. I’ve always heard that the optimal sleep pattern is two-to-three hours, three or four times a day. Just like we’re supposed to eat seven small meals a day, floss our teeth every hour, and have ‘quickie’ sex fourteen times a day, or until we can’t walk any more.
(My wife didn’t go for that, either. You can’t blame a guy for trying.)
The catnapping scheme is great in theory. Do a little work, take a nap. Wake up refreshed, do some more work, take another nap. Have some dinner, take a nap. Watch TV, take a nap. Breakfast, nap. Lunch, nap. Brush your teeth, have a quickie, blow off calc class, take a nap. Sounds wonderful.
Sadly, it doesn’t work that way for me in practice. I have a debilitating condition that renders naps a non-option under all but the most desperate circumstances. Perhaps it’s a genetic defect, or the result of some forgotten childhood naptime trauma. Whatever the cause, the grim reality is this:
I’m a grumpy waker.
It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been asleep, or what time I wake up. When my eyes open, I’m tired, noncooperative, and generally poopy-mooded. I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t want to see anyone, and I certainly don’t want to hear from anyone. Mostly, I want to lie perfectly still and grumble under my breath to no one in particular. It doesn’t help, especially, but at least I feel like the gods of sleep are getting an earful about their abuse. Short of smacking around the Sandman, that’s the best I can do.
I’m not sure why I wake up woozy, but that’s the way it’s always worked. It’s bad enough to go through that once a morning, and gradually wake up enough to face the world. A nap just starts the cycle over. I don’t wake up rejuvenated; I wake up rejerkified, with a head full of fuzz and a mouth full of ‘meh‘. For an hour, I’m like a bitter addled old geezer with lots of irrational opinions and a healthy set of lungs.
(I eventually recover, of course. Then I go back to the lovable addled old irrational geezer you see now. Different, see?)
So I’ll be glad when this week is over, and I can go home tonight to a nice warm bed and sleep for as long as I want. And then I can wake up, grumble through a shower, and face the world anew. And most importantly, put this nasty napping business aside for a while. That should improve the outlook around here, at the very least. Because you don’t want to see me nap. You wouldn’t like me when I nap.
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