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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’ve been watching the NFL Network a lot lately. It showed up one day a few months ago in our satellite channel list, and was fairly useless for the remainder of the offseason. Sure, there was the occasional NFL Films segment about an interesting game, or an interview with a favorite player, but the hits were few and far between. The ‘behind the scenes’ team cheerleader tryout documentaries were particularly disappointing. They barely showed any group shower scenes, and the pillow fight footage felt staged and hokey. And don’t even get me started about the hot tub makeout sessions. You call that a closeup? And what’s up with that lighting? Just dismal.
“They’re not constantly practicing or playing or shooting growth hormones into players’ eyeballs all that time — they must commute and shop and play and live like the rest of us occasionally.”
Happily, the approach of the NFL season has improved the content available to the flagship station for all things ‘football, the one with the fat guys and the face-stomping, not the one with the too-short shorts and the head-butting’. And I’ve been watching it all. Previews. Highlights. Recaps. Replays. Interviews. Press conferences. I’ve been living a life of total immersion in professional pigskin playing, and I have to say the network hasn’t let me down yet. If only they’d get the slow-motion shots and *boom-chikka-wakka* music right for those by-the-pool cheerleader wet T-shirt contests, I’d give them an A-plus across the board.
One aspect of the football season I’d never really explored before is the preparation that head coaches go through each week. Sure, I knew they put in an awful lot of work. Obviously, you can’t just show up on Sunday and expect the players to be on the same page without careful planning. Otherwise, one of your slavering behemoths on the offensive line could zig while another one zags, and they could end up falling and snapping your quarterback in half. And those fragile little bastards are expensive, so clearly you can’t have that.
What surprised me, though, is the dedication these coaches show for the game. I imagine they take a couple of months off in the spring, but when the preseason begins, these guys are on. Non-stop, twenty-four seven. It seems all they do is eat, drink, think, sleep, breathe, spit, fart, sweat, and bleed football. Probably, they poop footballs, too, but that sounds far too painful to think about very closely. The laces in particular would seem problematic and hurty.
It makes me wonder, though — if these coachines are so obsessed with football for nine or more months out of the year, how do they manage to survive in society? They’re not constantly practicing or playing or shooting growth hormones into players’ eyeballs all that time — they must commute and shop and play and live like the rest of us occasionally. So I wonder — does a head full of football get in the way? Do they line up the shoppers at the grocery store to coordinate a blitz on the checkout clerks? Do they give the fishmongers tossing haddock around down by the docks tips on how to throw a spiral? When making love to their wives, do they pause during foreplay to give a halftime pep talk?:
‘All right, we managed to get into the red zone a few times. That’s good. But I’ve been seeing a lot of sloppy play out there, and way too many mental mistakes. Those false starts are killing us. In the second half, I’d better see some smart decisions, crisp execution, and big licks in the backfield, or so help me god, we’ll be here for two-a-days until you can’t stand up straight.
Remember — this is sixty minutes of hell, and you’re only halfway through it. Stay focused, remember the play book, and dammit, stay hydrated out there. I don’t want any more of those cramping issues we had last week.
Now buckle up that chin strap, put yer head down, and let’s punch one into the end zone for a score. ‘Tight end’ on three… TIGHT END!!‘
Okay, probably they don’t do that.
But that doesn’t mean that I can’t. I am so going to try that next time the missus and I get snuggly. And I’ve always wanted to bring a whistle and a clipboard to bed. Just give me the damned ball, coach.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI spoke to my mother on the phone tonight. She mentioned that my uncle Doug has been having some minor health problems. He went to see his doctor, who prescribed medicine to help. In suppository form. Rectal suppository form. Yow.
Mom mentioned that uncle Doug’s been getting ‘gentle ribbing’ because of his new medicine. I’m no health care professional, but I’m thinking that if the suppository is touching his ribs, he’s probably crammed it in too far. I don’t care how ‘gentle’ it is; get some tongs and fish that thing out of there.
Mom thought that uncle Doug probably wouldn’t appreciate that very much. So she wrote it down for later, in case he ever pisses her off. I’m so glad I could help. That’s me — driving snarky wedges between family members for over thirty years.
“It can’t possibly be the first choice of delivery, for doctor or patient. I’m guessing the suppository system was probably invented by a doctor with a particularly troublesome patient.”
It got me thinking, though. Administering medicine via the poo cave — that’s a medical term there, ‘poo cave’ — seems an awfully strange way to get your health back. It can’t possibly be the first choice of delivery, for doctor or patient. I’m guessing the suppository system was probably invented by a doctor with a particularly troublesome patient. Like so:
Doctor: Okay, Mr. Jones. Here’s your prescription for the pills you need.
Patient: Pills? Oh, doc, I can’t take pills. They’re too chalky.
Doctor: I see. Well, it’s also available in a syrup. I can write you–
Patient: Um, no. Those syrups taste nasty and spill everywhere. No syrups.
Doctor: Hrm. Well, let’s see. There’s also a salve.
Patient: Too greasy.
Doctor: A paste?
Patient: Too sticky.
Doctor: Intravenous delivery?
Patient: Afraid of needles.
Doctor: Inhaler?
Patient: Makes me sneeze.
Doctor: Dissolvable powder?
Patient: Too powdery. Also, I don’t like the word ‘dissolvable’.
Doctor: I see, I see. Well, here’s an idea, Mr. Jones — why don’t you take your medicine, and shove it right up your ass?
Patient: Hmm. Will MediCare cover it?
Doctor: Sure, why not?
Patient: Okay, you’re on.
And thus, the ‘pooper pill’ was born. At least, that’s the way I assume it happened. And probably, that’s more or less how it went down with uncle Doug’s doctor visit, too. Sure, the guy is family, but sometimes he’s just a big pain in the ass.
Which is why he ended up with those suppositories, I suppose. It all makes sense, once you get to the bottom of things. Heh.
Permalink | 3 CommentsI have a dilemma. As usual.
My office has encouraged us to participate this Friday in something called ‘National Denim Day’. It’s an event that involves donating money to a worthy cause — curing breast cancer — and wearing blue jeans to work.
(According to the website, it also has something to do with Pierce Brosnan, though what the ex-Bond has to do with healthy boobs and casual pants isn’t entirely clear.
At least he’s posing in his denim, and not with his breasts. There are many bits of Remington Steele I’d prefer were left to the imagination. Or not considered at all, frankly.)
Now, I have no issues with making a monetary donation. And the breast cancer cause is one that I can fully get behind. There have been incidences of breast cancer in my family. And in general, I’m absolutely in favor of a world with more happy, healthy, and — presuming they’re outside my family — scantily-clad breasts. Sign me up on that bandwagon.
“The last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I’m not thinking about their boobs.”
But here’s the thing — for most people, wearing jeans to work this Friday probably represents dressing down from their usual attire. As for me, I’ve been wearing shorts to work for the past four months. Putting on long denim pants would constitute a dressing up. Breasts or no breasts, that hardly seems right.
So, I thought I might wear my shorts, and compensate for my non-compliance in another way. I could double my donation, perhaps, or hand out pink ribbons, or volunteer for duty on the local hospital Mammary-Mobile. Hey, if herding women into a van, squishing their boobs, and taking pictures will further the cause, then I’m here to help. I’m just that kind of stand-up guy.
(It didn’t get me anywhere in high school, but that was different. Most of the time back then, I wasn’t wearing any pants at all.)
I can only find one problem with my plan — the women I work with won’t know anything about the other contributions I’ve made. They’ll see the shorts, note the glaring lack of denim on ‘Denim Day’, and presume that I’ve turned a cold cotton-clad hip to their plight. And I have to live with these boob-toting ladies five days a week, so that simply won’t do. Half of them kick me in the shins when I walk by already.
(And it’s not like the other half don’t kick. They just aim higher. Lately, I’ve been wearing an athletic cup to staff meetings, just in case.)
So I guess I’ll wear those jeans on Friday. The last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I’m not thinking about their boobs.
Wait. That’s not right. The very last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I am thinking about their boobs. Maybe I shouldn’t wear jeans, after all.
Jesus, this is complicated. How much money do I have to donate to just not show up at work on Friday at all? A hundred bucks? A thousand? Five thousand?
Whatever it is, it’s money well spent. Somebody just tell me whose boobs to make the check out to.
Permalink | 2 CommentsMy refrigerator has become ‘The Place Where Leftovers Go to Die’.
It’s been a gradual progression from ‘icebox full of fresh tasty food’ to ‘air-conditioned coffin for last week’s takeout moo shu’. Partly, it’s because my wife and I aren’t home for many meals, because of our busy schedules. Also, when we are home, we have this quirky preference not to eat the same damned fried rice or soggy pizza for six nights in a row.
Mostly, though, it’s because we’re both waiting for the other to finish the last of the leftovers. Neither of us wants to rudely hog the last dregs of edible food in the house. It’s a little game we play. And we’re very stubborn. And very patient.
Right now, a chess match is developing over half a garden salad sitting in the fridge. I bought it last night, along with some pasta, and we shared it for dinner. There was a bit left over — but not quite enough for two. So, I left it for my wife and fended for dinner elsewhere — because chivalry is not dead. Not in my kitchen.
“Also, there’s only so much nasty rabbit food a man can eat in one twenty-four hour period without the benefit of beer, hot sauce, or some sort of crispy-fried dead animal.”
(Also, there’s only so much nasty rabbit food a man can eat in one twenty-four hour period without the benefit of beer, hot sauce, or some sort of crispy-fried dead animal. Having none of those, I left the lettuce for the lady of the house. Chicks dig the veggies, you know.)
She came home tonight and took the bait leftovers, as planned. Except she left a big honking wad of salad hanging out in the fridge. I told her she was welcome to finish it. She told me she couldn’t possibly. I insisted. She ignored me.
Game on, baby.
Now it’s my turn. Over the next few days, I’ll eat dinners out, bring dinners home, fix myself sandwiches, and generally act as though the salad in the fridge doesn’t actually exist. Meanwhile, my wife will be doing the same. We’ll dance this foodless fandango until one of us breaks down and eats the stupid salad, or until it morphs into something unrecognizable, moldy, and possibly oozing — at which point it goes in the trash. Either way, whoever touches the leftovers last loses. The goal of the game is to take the next-to-last portion, then hide behind ‘being polite’ to deny any responsibility for the final scraps of food.
Over the years, we’ve had some legendary matches. There was a half a can of olives that sat in our fridge for three years before I finally gave in, put on a hazmat suit, and disposed of them. Then there was the order of cheesy bread that occupied a shelf on the refrigerator door until they were but shriveled and petrified shadows of their former selves. I won that round when my wife turned to me and asked, ‘When did we buy beef jerky, anyway?‘ Luckily, she asked before she tried eating one, or we’d have both been in big trouble.
I have the utmost confidence that I’ll win this current ‘salad round’. I have a very good record with vegetable-related leftovers, and particularly those in clear plastic containers, like this one happens to be. If the missus has a weakness in this game, it’s that she can’t stand to watch the food deteriorate. Her specialty is cans and jars; I haven’t won a ‘screw-top battle’ for years. The closest I got was the ‘draw’ we called on a dubious-looking jar of jelly that was nearly old enough to vote. That was an epic.
But salad? Fuggedaboutit. It’s in the bag. I just hope she gives in and eats it, rather than trying to wait me out. Those hazmat suits are expensive as hell to rent.
Permalink | 1 CommentOne of the things I like most about the Boston area is the sense of history here. Plymouth Rock isn’t so very far from here, and tourists have been crawling over the area ever since the Mayflower dropped anchor on it nearly four hundred years ago. Rumor has it the native Americans were waiting for the pilgrims, bearing gifts of Red Sox caps and coupons for Dunkin Donuts.
“Rumor has it the native Americans were waiting for the pilgrims, bearing gifts of Red Sox caps and coupons for Dunkin Donuts.”
For people like me who’ve moved to Boston later in life, living in a city steeped in so much history is enormously useful. Most of my family had never visited Boston before my wife and I got here, so there are plenty of ‘new’ old things for them to see. The Freedom Trail, the Old North Church, the site where the “Shot Heard ‘Round the World” was fired — these are all spectacular ways to spend a few hours entertaining visitors from out of town.
In contrast, I lived in Pittsburgh a few years ago. It’s a lovely town, really. But there are only so many times you can take your family to Primanti Brothers to watch a Steelers game before they start to ask, ‘Isn’t there anything else around here?‘
(The answer — yes, there is. But unless grandma’s into crashing a kegger over at Pitt or stopping by one of the titty bars on the edge of town, I think watcing football’s the way to go.
Unless granny wants to get up on stage for a dance or two. The least she could do is earn her own beer money, right?)
The people I feel sorry for are the ones who move here from somewhere else in the world. Plenty of students and professionals come to Boston from Europe, Asia, Africa and elsewhere. How do you think a kid feels when his parents visit from, say, Paris, and walk around town saying:
‘So dis building ez three hundred years old, eh? Only zree hundred? Ptui! I took a zhit older than zat dis morning!‘
It’s times like this when I’m almost glad I grew up in a boring little backwater burg where we watched the grass grow and the cars go by, and we called it a ‘wild weekend’. It makes spending a Saturday in Harvard Yard and watching the leaves turn colors seem tolerable in comparison.
Of course, hitting a Boston College kegger and watching football on TV until the booby bars open still sounds better. Grandma would be proud.
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