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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
On tap first today — a lyrical look over at Bugs & Cranks at the latest Braves’ news:
Camp Correspondence — My muddah and faddah would be so proud.
Now on to the latest embarrassing episode.
We got our water bill in the mail last night. It was nearly twice as high as usual, prompting my wife to ask whether I’d been engaging in some sort of in-home watersports recently.
“I wanted to be helpful. So I tried. In retrospect, that was the last thing I should have done.”
I bit my lip and resisted the urge to ask, ‘Does peeing in the shower count?‘ She already had her frowny face on; I didn’t want to escalate the situation. So instead I assured her that I hadn’t been filling up the basement for swimming lessons, or Slip ‘n’ Sliding down the stairs using overflow from the bathroom sink. So far as I can remember, my water usage has been pretty steady for several years now.
I wanted to be helpful. So I tried. In retrospect, that was the last thing I should have done.
Me: Hey — maybe it’s the upstairs toilet.
Wife: Why do you say that?
Me: Well, it’s been making this hissing noise for the past few weeks?
Wife: Hissing?
Me: Yeah, like a low *sssssssssss*.
Wife: Well, it’s probably been leaking this whole time! WHy didn’t you say anything?!
Me: I, um… I thought it might be snakes.
Wife: Snakes?
Me: Yeah, snakes. In the toilet tank. It could happen.
Wife: And how in the hell did you think snakes could get into the toilet tank?
Me: I don’t know — from the sewers? Maybe you put them there. I don’t know what you do when you disappear in there to get ready in the morning.
Wife: And you thought I was keeping snakes. In the toilet.
Me: Maybe. I was afraid to look and find out. I saw that movie, you know. Snakes are brutal.
Wife: ‘Snakes on a Plane‘?
Me: I was thinking ‘Jungle Book‘, but yeah — those were some scary motherfucking snakes, too.
Wife: Oh dear lord. What kind of jackhole thinks there are snakes in the toilet? What else did you think we have? Squeaky mice in the door hinges?
Me: Pffft. No, of course not. That’s silly.
Wife: Well, at least you-
Me: The snakes would’ve eaten those a long time ago.
Wife: Look, you. We don’t have snakes in our bathroom. Here, I’ll show you. Hear the hissing? Now I take the lid off the tank, and see? No snakes.
Me: No snakes?
Wife: No! None! Rest easy — the water-guzzling toilet is entirely snake-free!
Me: Or… what if they’re invisible snakes? I still hear the hissing! Run away! Auggghhhh!
Wife: Jesus. I’ve gone and married a retard.
So the missus has called a plumber to come look at the toilet. Until then, I’m staying away from the thing, putting police tape around it, and pooping in the back yard. It might get a little chilly out there, but at least I know the snakes in the wild aren’t around yet. I just have to avoid the poison ivy.
Permalink | No CommentsFor the baseball buffs, I’ve posted new Braves content over at Bugs & Cranks:
The Brundlefly Effect — How a famous mad scientist could help the Braves’ lineup this season.
And for those interested in current cinema and dubiously naked Englishwomen, read away below. You’ve been warned.
On Saturday, the missus and I took in a movie. We saw Notes on a Scandal, at our local theater / art film house / mecca for trendy pretentious assholes with film degrees and overdone gaudy scarves.
(For the record, I don’t even own a gaudy scarf. Or any scarf, for that matter. Nor do I have a film degree. I’m surprised they let me into an ‘artsy’ theater at all, frankly. Most places like that hand me a pamphlet for a local ‘Ernest Goes to…‘ festival and boot me out the door.)
“We go to movies like most couples pop out children, file for divorce, or engage in oral sex — once every two years, unless the urge is truly irresistable.”
This is the second movie we’ve been to recently — we saw Little Miss Sunshine at the same trendy theater a few months ago. I think that’s some sort of record for us. We go to movies like most couples pop out children, file for divorce, or engage in oral sex — once every two years, unless the urge is truly irresistable. Two movies in twelve months is simply unheard of.
It’s not as though we don’t like movies. We’re both fans of the cinema, though I’m not sure we have similar tastes. Since we recently joined NetFlix, we should have a definitive answer soon. If she orders up Bridget Jones’ Diary and Fried Green Tomatoes, I’ll know our cinematic tastes are hopelessly incompatible.
(And how could she not like Happy Gilmore and The Dirty Dozen? If she disses my classic movie selections, I’ll just cry; I know I will.
And not a good kind of cry, like at Field of Dreams, either. I mean a bad, ‘what the hell am I doing here?‘ kind of cry. Like when I got dragged to The English Patient. That was four and a half hours of my life I’ll never have back.)
At any rate, Notes on a Scandal was a pretty good flick. Not a ‘date movie’, mind you — were we just beginning our romance, there’d be a helluva lot in that movie to be squeamish about. But as a study of various pathologies and personality flaws inherent to human beings, it worked quite well.
Which is to say, it made me plenty squeamish. But in a ‘thinky‘ way, so it was worth the price of admission. I’d recommend it to most folks, save budding couples looking for a romantic laugh together. Princess Bride, this movie is not.
I don’t want to give away any bits of the plot, lest I ruin the film for you, but I will mention one thing — the Judi Dench bathtub moment.
That’s right. Dame Judi Dench — regal, distinguished, and not especially svelte. In a bathtub. Clothesless. It’s the sort of thing I think you should know about ‘up front’, so to speak.
But you need to know more. When I went to see the movie, I knew about the scene in question. I’d read a review that mentioned Dench’s nudity in passing. And not in a particularly flattering way, so I expected the worst. I was where many of you probably are right now, picturing the Dame en flagrante — and none the less nauseous for it.
Judi Dench is a phenomenal actress — but we don’t need to see all of her ‘talents’ on the silver screen. There’s something (occasionally) to be said for a demure air of mystery. Or at least a towel.
So it was with great trepidation that I sat down to watch Notes on a Scandal, with thoughts of an even more ‘scandalous’ image seeping through my brain. And that’s why I’m here — to assuage your fears. To tell you that things aren’t as bad as they seem. That it’s always darkest before the bathtub scene. Or words to that effect.
You see, I anticipated the worst. I half expected Dame Dench to don a leather corset and striptease her way into the bathwater. Happily, I was misguided. There was no shaking of the booty, grinding of the nethers, or lathering of the unmentionables in the movie.
Instead a disrobed but demure Dench lay in the bath with a forearm covering her upper naughties, and with her nether naughties well below the water or camera level. The scene was a mere few seconds long, and was over nearly before it began. All of the distraction and trepidation I’d felt for the movie was for naught.
(Well, not all of it. There’s still the matter of the flappy arm skin and the near-wattle. And the rather disturbing relevation before the bathtub scene that Judi Dench bears more than a passing resemblance to my grandmother.
Still, it could have been worse. Much worse.)
And that’s why I’m telling you of my experience. Should you have an interest in seeing this movie — and hear that Judi Dench is sans cover in the tub in one scene — don’t let that deter you. This isn’t Dennis Franz’ ass we’re talking about; it’s a much tamer shot in a far better context. Fear not the spectre of a bare saggy actress, and concentrate on the story, like I wasn’t able to. I guarantee you’ll have an easier time than I did.
Come to think of it, the same holds true for Little Miss Sunshine. Nobody wants to see Alan Arkin in anything resembling his birthday suit.
Man. I’ve got to find less disturing movies to watch. Or a less artsy theater. Or I need to buy an overwrought scarf. Yow.
Permalink | 2 CommentsTo kick things off, there’s a new steaming heap of verbiage over at Bugs & Cranks:
More Envelopes, Please — Handing out meaningless preseason hardware to a handful of Braves
Now back to the circus.
I recently rediscovered a joy that I haven’t experienced in almost twenty years. I’m not talking about Hardball on the C64, sleeping through trig class, or staring longingly at Kathy Ireland SI swimsuit pics.
I’m talking about making kick-ass mix tapes.
That’s right, mix tapes. Or, in modern terms, mix CDs. The technology may have changed, but I’m still a master of the art form. I’m convinced it was my ‘Valentines’ Love Tunes 1991′ cassette that convinced my wife to eventually marry me.
(I sucked her in with ‘Something So Strong’, and sealed the deal with ‘I’ll Be You’ by the Replacements. By the time she got to ‘Love Shack’, it was all over. She never had a chance.)
“You’d have nerds dating supermodels, mathletes going steady with cheerleaders, cats and dogs living together; it’d be chaos.”
Of course, I had to destroy my ‘love mix’ creations a while back. I’m already happily married, and that kind of power in the wrong hands could be devastating. A guy could land any girl he wanted. You’d have nerds dating supermodels, mathletes going steady with cheerleaders, cats and dogs living together; it’d be chaos. So I burned the tapes — all except the one I loaned to Lyle Lovett. The bastard never did return that copy.
These days, I concentrate on finding the essence of a band. And I have to admit, the old bands from back in the day are more fun to play around with. Sure, I’ve got nine old R.E.M. CDs — but which twenty songs or so are really the crux of their career? The One I Love? Driver 8? So. Central Rain? And how many of those songs could I stand to hear again, after having them played non-stop on the radio for a decade? These are the questions I’m struggling to answer.
So far, I’ve finished mixes for two bands — Pearl Jam and INXS. For each one, I’ve carefully selected a handful of songs from their repertoire and painstakingly ordered them to provide the optimal transitions between tunes, taking into account tempo, instrumentation, and thematic content. Each CD is stuffed with as many songs as humanly possible, calculated nearly down to the millisecond at which the burning software would balk at too much data. Naturally, the mixes kick major ass.
I assume they do, anyway. I keep them in the car, put the player on repeat, and cue up one of the three songs on each that hasn’t been done to death already.
(Hey, I said I make kick-ass mixes. I never said I wanted to listen to them. That’s not what an artiste does, you know. How many rock stars listen to their own stuff? How many prize-winning authors read their own books? How many famous actors watch their own movies?
No, no — besides the porn stars. You know what I meant. Perv.)
These ‘essential’ mixes work out pretty well, though. Instead of keeping three Everclear CDs in the car, for instance, I can consolidate the good stuff and save some space. Instead of lugging around umpteen old U2 albums, I can take the two good songs off of each and stash the originals in a closet somewhere. Instead of swapping out my two Hole CDs, I can… well, I can burn them, deny I ever bought them, and hope no one reads that I’ve actually voluntarily listened to Courtney Love sing. I guess mix tapes can’t solve all my problems.
So, I’ll be working on those over the next few weeks — and who knows, might have a few original CDs to sell. Or burn. Or claim belong to my wife, and why would you think that Tori Amos CD was mine in the first place, you bastard, I’ll take you outside to settle this if I have to.
But rest assured there’ll be no Crowded House mix CD. They’re from the right era, I’ve got a few of their discs, and lord knows a few of the tracks are filler. But too many of their songs qualify as ‘romantic’. With their sappy lyrics and my mixing mastery, we’d have another ‘Valentine’s Day 1991’ all over again. And I’m still recovering from the last one.
Permalink | 1 CommentI ran out of shampoo yesterday. That was my last bottle, so I was forced to use my wife’s sudsy hair goo this morning. I had no idea what sort of adventure I was in for.
(For the record, it was the wet, naked, drippy kind of adventure. But not the good wet, naked, drippy kind.
Just for the record.)
Now, I’m a Pert Plus man myself. I’ve been using it for years. Is it any good? I don’t know. It’s cheap, it’s quick, and it’s easy to find. Those are traits that make a painkiller good. Or a sandwich, or a remote control, or a Las Vegas hooker. Maybe it works the same with shampoo.
All I know is, when I need shampoo I reach for that big ugly green bottle, and it hasn’t failed me yet. By which I mean it hasn’t turned my hair a different color, made it smell funny, or caused it all to fall out. I have very simple needs from a head cleaner, so I like to keep head cleaners simple.
I wasn’t given that option today. My wife had a dizzying array of hair care products, and I frankly had a hard time deciphering what the hell I was dealing with.
“It’s cheap, it’s quick, and it’s easy to find. Those are traits that make a painkiller good. Or a sandwich, or a remote control, or a Las Vegas hooker. Maybe it works the same with shampoo.”
First, she had some bottle with a kangaroo on it. I don’t even know what brand it is; I didn’t make it past the wild animal to check. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t really want my hair to resemble a wild animal’s. Or to feel like it, or smell like it, or whatever the ‘roo is supposed to signify. That’s a hard and fast rule with me. So don’t come to me with any sort of gnu shampoo or yak conditioner, or ‘Gee, Your Hair Smells Like Water Buffalo’. I’m not interested.
Next up was some sort of fancy ‘salon product’. It was called something like ‘Tea Tree’ or ‘Coffee Shrub’ or ‘Hot Chocolate Bush’.
(Okay, probably not that last one. I think I was thinking of one of those Vegas hookers again. My bad.)
Anyway, I discovered two things about this particular shampoo. First, it smells like a peppermint stick wrapped in pine needles and shoved up a gingerbread cookie man’s ass. Very sharp and very strong, in a Christmastimey minty candy cane sort of way. I might like that on my plate, but not on my pate. Not outside of late December, anyway.
The second thing I discovered was the warning message. Apparently, the product in question can only be properly purchased from a licensed hair stylist. If it’s not, then the bottle could be ‘counterfeit, old, or tampered with’.
That pretty much precluded me from using it, ever. First of all, if it’s only sold by ‘stylists’, then it’s probably really expensive. I use a ‘barber’, and they don’t sell anything. Stylists have all kinds of gels and sprays and goops that they shill, and none of them come cheap. The four-ounce bottle in my hand probably cost more than my last fifteen-gallon tank of gas. Or for that matter, the car.
And besides, I myself am ‘old’, ‘tampered with’, and quite possibly ‘counterfeit’. Do I really want to use a shampoo that’s so obviously better than me? I have all sorts of household items to lord superiority over me, without some cocky shampoo getting into the mix.
That left only two bottles, a shampoo and conditioner set made by Suave. I set the conditioner aside — one kind of goop on my hair per shower, thanks — and checked the fine print on the shampoo bottle. More surprises.
First, the shampoo claimed to give best results when used with something called ‘Suave Amplifying Conditioner and Root Lifter’. I don’t claim to know anything about conditioners, but I do know this: if I want any ‘root lifting’ to happen while I’m in the shower, I’ll do it myself. Or I’ll invite my wife in to help. Or possibly one of those Vegas hookers.
(No, not that last one; I’m just kidding. Honestly, if she reads that, I won’t get my root lifted for a month. Shhh.)
The bottle also claimed that its contents were just as effective as L’oreal Matrix shampoo. I’ve never heard of L’oreal Matrix shampoo, but I did see the Matrix. If L’oreal’s got a shampoo that makes hair stand on end in slow motion and dodge bullets, then I’m all for it. Maybe it could learn judo and helicopter flying and flat wooden acting, too. That’d be cool.
But this Suave stuff didn’t do any of that; it just made my hair cleaner, and left it smelling of lilac. Also, estrogen. And shame — bitter, bitter shame.
Maybe I have the wrong idea about ‘Matrix’ shampoo. Or maybe Suave really isn’t as good. L’oreal’s commercials used to entice women ‘because you’re worth it‘. Maybe Suave is telling them, ‘you’re worth some small fraction of it, but not enough for bullet-dodging hair‘. Or maybe it’s telling me:
‘Hey, jackass — get off your damned duff and buy more man shampoo already.‘
Yeah, definitely the last thing. A man can only go so long with hair smelling like lilac. And my shampoo clock is ticking.
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