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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Apparently, I’m a ‘thrill seeker’.
I’ve never considered myself to be pushing the envelope further than any other hyperactive and marginally sane person, but the proof is fairly convincing. I’ve been whitewater rafting. I’ve gone skydiving. And I’ve written this drivel for all to see and ridicule for more than three years. Clearly, I’m camped squarely in the ‘fast lane’. I even had a career counselor tell me so once.
But there’s one chance I’ve never before taken. Sure, I’ll switch jobs, or even career fields, at the drop of a hat. I’ll cavalierly rip the tags from mattresses, without a second thought. I’ll show up at potluck picnics without a dish, and assume that ‘things will work themselves out somehow’. But never have I driven a significant number of miles with the gas tank on ‘EMPTY‘.
Until today.
“It’s like prancing naked in front of the open bedroom window, then finding out the neighbors weren’t even home. What the hell’s the point, anyway?”
And let me tell you — gambling on not running out of gas blows. There are risks, and then there are risks. When you’re teetering on the verge of a cross-country relocation or a round of tough job interviews, there’s a rush of possibilities. When you’re huddled inside a Cessna at three thousand feet with a half-hour of training and a backpack full of nylon, the air crackles with excitement.
But when you’re stuck in gridlock three miles from the nearest filling station with six ounces of octane left in the tank, you just want to pull onto the sidewalk, climb into the trunk, and hope it all goes away. It’s high anxiety for no good reason, a risk without reward. It’s like prancing naked in front of the open bedroom window, then finding out the neighbors weren’t even home. What the hell’s the point, anyway?
How did I find myself in my fossil-fueled fussy foofaraw? It was simple, really — laziness. I wasn’t seeking thrills; I was shirking chores, specifically the one that reads:
Fill the tank with gas when the ’empty tank’ light comes on
In my defense, I was a tad busy when the ’empty tank’ light first lit yesterday evening. I was rushing out of the office to make it to a softball game when the familiar amber glow crept onto my dashboard. By the time I sped from the field to my billiards league match, the light was a fiery, accusing orange.
(Yes, my dance card currently includes the twin ‘fat old man sports’ of softball and pool. If only I could find a league in which to bowl, play bocce, or sit on my ass and complain about the local sports teams, I’d have the trifecta.
As a side note, I scraped my knee in the final inning of the softball game, and didn’t have time to clean up until I reached the billiards league site. So I can tell you from experience, if ever you find yourself washing your own blood off your leg in the bathroom of a shady pool hall on a random Tuesday night, you’ll know you’re doing something right. Say hello to the ‘High Life’, my friend.)
Of course, the pool league lets out way too late to be worrying about trifles like filling the gas tank. So did I fuel up on the way home for the night? Nope.
Did I make a mental note of the situation, and gas up first thing this morning, before heading to work? Nope.
Did I at least stop at the first gas station on the way to the office, a few blocks from my house? Uh-uh.
No, instead I decided that I had just enough juice to make it to one of the stations nearer the office, but several miles from my starting point. And by then, the empty tank indicator was looking less like a ‘light’, and more like a ‘beacon’. People in passing cars complained about the glare. Boats were using it to navigate to shore. And tonight my left leg has a painful sunburn with a distinctive gas pump outline evident betwixt the ouchies. Time was quickly running out.
So, of course, I pulled the thirsty old gal onto the four-lane throughway towards the office. That’s the throughway without a breakdown lane, I might add. If I sputtered out there, I’d still make it to work — but only because the oncoming traffic would smash the car all the way down the road. Not the ideal commuting option, to be sure.
Soon enough, I began to question the sanity of my decision, and considered ways to whisk my neck — and my Nissan — back out of mortal danger. And again, I made a series of regrettable choices. This is why I should never be trusted with important decisions at any time before noon. I’m incapable of rational logic before lunchtime; it’s amazing I make it through my morning toothbrushing without impaling myself.
I let the first exit whiz by, deciding it was too soon to switch courses. By the time I passed the second exit, I’d changed my mind, but didn’t want to slow down enough to slip behind the Honda next to me and into the exit lane. By exit three, I’d flip-flopped again, and decided I was close enough to the office — and assorted close-by gas stations — to make a run at it. It was only what — three, maybe four more exits to go?
That’s when I hit the gridlock.
I rounded the corner after the third exit, and found myself stuck behind several dozen cars at a complete standstill. A half-mile ahead, as-yet unseen, a cop had blocked the road and routed all traffic off to the next exit. Because of a wreck, or road maintenance, or an elaborate bar bet with his buddy in the DoT, I couldn’t tell. Slowly, our three-lanes-smooshed-into-one crawled towards the exit.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…
The first traffic light after that exit isn’t usually an issue. Today, it took three cycles to get through it, with all the extra cars around. I turned off the radio to conserve gas.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…
The second traffic light after the exit is always an issue. It’s far too short, cars turning left back up immediately, and the cross traffic often snarls up the area surrounding the intersection. I waited through six cycles, and killed the air conditioner in desperation, before finally scooting through a left turn and six car lengths further, before getting held up by the next light.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…
Finally, I made it through all of the stop lights, and onto the road with several gas stations close to my office. Another road without a shoulder. Three blocks in, I signaled a left turn into a gas station… and waited for a sea of oncoming cars to creeeeep past.
Tick tick. tick! tick tick tick tick TICK!!!
At long last, I pulled my parched vehicle up to the pump, and proceeded to pump her full of liquid refreshments. I even broke my filling station rule (formulated exactly two weeks ago), and poured exactly fifty-three dollars and twenty-five cents’ worth of high-octane happiness into the tank. After she was such a trooper, how could I deny the old girl even a drop of delicious unleaded love? You look into those headlights, and try saying ‘no’ to that grill. It can’t be done.
So, the story has a happy ending. I pushed the envelope, and survived without a call to AAA, an unfortunate highway incident, or a mob of infuriated fellow motorists. It sure as hell wasn’t a picnic thinking for twenty minutes or more that each drop of gasoline could be the last, but it all worked out in the end. Just remind me to never, ever ignore that gas tank light for more than a couple of miles. I may be a ‘thrill seeker’, but I’m never going through that again.
Permalink | 2 Comments(For several weeks, I was unable to transfer pictures from my fancy new cameraphone to… well, anywhere, actually. So I did what any tech-savvy compunerd worth his salt would do — I waited, and hoped the problem would go away.
It did.
Now, I can email pics from the phone to my account, and link them up here when the mood strikes. This exciting technological breakthrough allows me to offer posts like the following.
I apologize in advance.)
A few weeks ago, our elderly neighbor next door passed away. Even though the house is vacant now, I’ve continued the habit of mowing his strip of front yard when I venture out to trim my own lawn. I was pushing the mower a few feet onto his property this weekend when I discovered this:
Puzzling Poo
What you see there is a prodigious poop pile, of origins unknown. That’s my shoe — my size twelve sneaker — next to (most of the) pile, for the sake of comparison.
(Monkey / Roofie: “Size twelve? Rawr!”
Oh, you girls!)
Now, I’m not so concerned about this particular bit of crapcake on the lawn. First of all, it’s not my lawn, technically, even though I’m keeping the grass manageable until someone new moves in. And it’s not like I’m ever going to step in the mess. This isn’t a poop pile you ‘step in’, so much as ‘bump into’. But I can see the thing from across the fricking street, so I’m pretty sure I can manage to avoid it.
No, what keeps me awake and shivering at night is not knowing what produced a turd tower such as this.
(Not into the ‘turd tower’?
Would you believe ‘manure minaret’? How about ‘poop-amid?’ ‘Offal obelisk’? ‘Scatscraper’?
I could do this all day. Let’s just move on.)
I don’t know for sure what deposited the poop pillar (one more!) on the lawn, but I’ve come up with four theories:
1. My dog did it.
Certainly, the mutt’s had opportunity. And talk about motive — you try eating horsemeat and rawhide for a few weeks, and see whether you feel like fertilizing some schmuck’s grass.
But means? I don’t think so. Our dog weighs forty pounds. I’m not dropping those turds on a scale to compare, but I can guarantee you that if that scat came out of our pooch, she wouldn’t be walking around today. The mutt could shit two lungs and a kidney, and it still wouldn’t be that big.
I suppose it’s possible the dog’s been dropping dung in exactly the same spot for a week or two, and building the pile up gradually. But that would require a level of premeditation, planning, and frankly accuracy that I’ve never observed in her. She sometimes misses the water dish when she’s drinking, and licks the wall instead. Somehow, I doubt she spontaneously worked up a Letterman-worthy number two trick.
Also, it’s unlikely that any other dog left the pile. Our house is perched atop a little hill, with three dozen steps leading up. People do come by and curb their dogs by our curb, but the pile of poo in question is thirty feet away and five yards higher than that. I’m not seeing it. I haven’t pissed the neighbors off that badly.
2. My wife did it I did it.
Look, I know I didn’t do it. I enjoy the occasional Guinness, sure, but I’m certain I haven’t been far enough gone to use the front lawn as an impromptu latrine. Not since college, anyway.
And if I had been the culprit, I’d have taken pictures way before now. Hell, that’d probably be our Christmas card shot.
On the other hand, I can’t absolutely vouch for my wife. I don’t keep tabs on her every second of every day.
But on the other other hand, if I were to even hint that she could have made poops in the yard — or produced poop that big in the first place — she’d surely beat at least that much crap out of me. And not in a good way. So let’s move on.
3. The circus is in town.
“I can’t think of any animal indigenous to our neighborhood that could possibly leave that large a pile of poop and live.”
I can’t think of any animal indigenous to our neighborhood that could possibly leave that large a pile of poop and live. And there are no squirrel or chipmunk carcasses evident near by, so there’s only one rational natural explanation: A tiger, or a moose, or an elephant or something has escaped from a travelling circus and taken a dump on the lawn. That, or it’s one of the gyspy carny folk travelling with them.
Either way, this mystery manure is starting to smell an awful lot like Barnum and Bailey. I’ll check the papers for the summer circus schedule, so I know to where to ship the shit back.
Of course, there’s always the supernatural explanation…
4. The old neighbor did it.
Sure, the guy’s gone now — but he did live in the house for literally sixty years. And his plumbing was never all that good. Nor, for that matter, were the pipes in his house.
So would it be all that shocking if his ghost was wandering around the old stomping grounds, keeping an eye on things? And sometimes a ghost’s gotta go — everybody poops, right? I’m starting to wonder whether these are some sort of spectral droppings, shimmery turds from the great beyond. It’s not the most comforting explanation, but it certainly wraps the mystery up neatly.
I’ll keep an eye on things out there. Hopefully, this is a one-time occurrence, and some day we’ll look back and laugh about the ‘Mystery of the Gigantic Guano’. Until then, though, I’m keeping the doors locked, buying an extra shovel, and keeping a close eye on my wife the dog. You can never be too careful when there’s mysterious manure afoot.
A few weeks ago, I began my sad, sorry tale about my quest for a pretty, shiny fast laptop. A new toy. A friend. One CPU to rule them all.
That was mid-May. It’s now late July. I still don’t have a laptop.
I have, however, escaped from the crushing grip of ‘paralysis by analysis’ — where our motto is, ‘But they all look the same, and none of them are perfect!‘, also endorsed by used car buyers and picky Jewish mother-in-laws-to-be the world over.
“Personally, I wouldn’t even consider dating a girl, if she wouldn’t let me get elbow-deep in her .ini files. I guess I’m just old-fashioned that way.”
From there, I’ve moved on to the next circle of computer-buying hell, which involves seeing the machines in person. I’ve seen all the specs, I’ve compared and contrasted, and I’ve pored over spec sheets until my eyes are red and weepy. And in the end, they do all look the same, and not one of them is ideal for me. The next logical step is to spend some quality time running my fingers over their cases and dabbling in their configurations a bit.
(This is why the majority of arranged marriages and mail-order brides don’t work out so well. How can you possibly choose a compatible life partner without mucking with their drivers or fiddling with their trackball first? Personally, I wouldn’t even consider dating a girl, if she wouldn’t let me get elbow-deep in her .ini files. I guess I’m just old-fashioned that way.)
Of course, seeing the machines is not the problem. The rub here is that the computers are, for the most part, displayed in computer stores. Which means that they’re chaperoned, rather aggressively, by that most unpleasant of creatures, the computer salesperson. Now, I’m sure that genuinely friendly, well-groomed, polite, and knowledgeable computer salespeople exist, somewhere in the world. Somewhere out there, leprechauns and unicorns and happy little elves are getting wonderful service from these salespeople. They answer the most obscure and technical questions with ease, they never pressure customers into expensive warranty plans, and they all smell faintly of cinnamon and lilac and grandma’s famous peach crumble.
Yeah, right. And I get Bluetooth reception with my ass.
Meanwhile, here in the real world, the goal is to get rid of these sweat-stained mongoloid trolls as quickly as possible, in order to get a look at the machines on display. It’s their job, of course, to glom onto customers like leisure-suited leeches, sucking and slurping their way over to the most overwrought, ill-conceived, and uber-expensive models available.
‘What’s that, granny? You need a laptop to send emails? Well, you’ll be wanting our TechMaster 9000, then! It’s seven times faster than anything on the market, with nine video cards, a thirty-three inch LCD screen, an internal phone/fax/printer/espresso machine, and dongles for technology we don’t wven know about yet! Yep, that’s the only machine in the whole store that’ll handle this ‘e-mail’ you speak of.‘
Chumps. In the past, I’d simply growl at the staff who’d come bouncing over to ‘help’ me in the computer aisles. That would scare most of them off, but there were unfortunate side effects to the strategy. A few of them would stick around, and snark back. If I growled too menacingly, I might be escorted from the store before I’d seen what I needed to see. One older salesman was apparently turned on by the growling. And I’d often frighten small children in the adjoining video games section. So that’s three ‘bad’ side effects, and one ‘good’ one. Not a great trade-off.
More recently, I’ve decided to have a bit of fun. They’re there to answer questions, right? And they’re slinking over, presumably to offer assistance and technical know-how. So why not put them to the test? Nowadays, I cheerfully greet the lonely, empty souls coming over to sell me hardware I don’t need, and immediately lay into them with technical questions and jargon. I’ve been reading up on this stuff for just a few weeks; you’d presume they’d know more about their own merchandise than me, right? Wrong. More than your average adult orangutan? No. More than a breadbox? Sorry. More than an amoeba? *bzzzzzzt!!*
Of course, asking tough questions will get rid of the first salesmonkey. But soon enough, he’ll be back, chittering away and flinging poo with another, more senior store simian. Stump that one, and they’ll pass you right up the chain, until finally, if the manager can’t comprehend the laptop lingo you’re laying down, they’ll leave you in peace to evaluate your options. They’ll hide behind hard drive boxes and stare at you while you browse, cowering and scampering away if you move in their direction. One intelligent question about 64-bit architecture or FireWire compatibility, and you become their god.
(That’s not a particularly useful group to be deified by, but they do have their uses. The brighter ones can fetch you coffee, or act as a handy doorstop. You can dump the rest in a sack with some packing peanuts, next time you need a beanbag chair.)
I used my strategy on a recent trip to a local computer ‘superstore’, with predictable results:
Sales Weenie #1: Hi there! You look like you’re shopping for a notebook!
Me: Well… sure. Why not?
Sales Weenie #1: Great! You need our TechMaster 9000! It’s got all the latest technology, with lots of-
Me: Say, I’ve got a question.
Sales Weenie #1: Great! How can I help you choose our TechMaster 9000?
Me: Does it come configured with a Core Duo T2500?
Sales Weenie #1: Well, sure it does!
Me: It does, what?
Sales Weenie #1: Come… um, configured.
Me: With a what?
Sales Weenie #1: An, ah, the thing you said. That one.
Me: And what was it I said?
Sales Weenie #1: < blank stare >
Me: Hmmmm?
Sales Weenie #1: < blink blink >
Me: I can wait all night, you know.
Sales Weenie #1: I’d better get my supervisor. Wait right here.
Sales Weenie #2: Hello, sir. I apologize for Lance; he’s training with us. Just started last week. Now how may I help you today?
Me: I was asking whether your TechMaster comes with a T2500.
Sales Weenie #2: I see. A tee…?
Me: Tee. Twenty-five hundred.
Sales Weenie #2: Tee. Twen…? Is that, like, a mousepad?
Me: Um, no. It’s a CPU model.
Sales Weenie #2: Cee…?
Me: Cee. Pee. You. The processor?
Sales Weenie #2: < empty gape >
Me: In the computer. The central processor?
Sales Weenie #2: < brow furrowing >
Me: The little metal thing that makes magic electric box go vroom?
Sales Weenie #2: Uh-huh. Maybe you should talk to the manager. I’ll be right back.
Sales Weenie #3: Hi, I’m the manager on duty. What can I do for you, sir?
Me: Well, I just wanted to know whether this machine comes with a T2500.
Sales Weenie #3: Well, yes sir. I do believe I read once that it does. Now I’m sure Marty here can answer all of your other–
Me: What’s the L2 cache like on that processor?
Sales Weenie #3: Uh-wha?
Me: The L2 cache. I heard it might be larger on the 2500 model. What’s the size, again?
Sales Weenie #3: Well… um, it couldn’t be any bigger than, I don’t know, a thumbnail, I guess. The machine’s not that big, really.
Me: Riiiiiiight. Except that the cache is usually measured in megabytes.
Sales Weenie #3: Mega-who, now?
Me: Mega. Bytes.
Sales Weenie #3: Um…
Me: The size in megabytes. Of the L2 cache, please.
Sales Weenie #3: Errrk…
Me: For the T2500 Core Duo processor.
Sales Weenie #3: Nggghhhh…
Me: With the 667MHz bus speed and 2.0 GHz core speed, and-
Sales Weenie #3: GAAAAAHHH!!! He’s a witch! A witch!! Run away! Everybody run awayyyy!!
That’s all it takes. I spent the next twenty minutes fiddling in peace with the other computers, until I had the info I wanted. And for the record, the TechMaster 9000 does not come with a T2500. Or any other processor, as far as I can tell. It’s just a cardboard box with a keyboard painted on the bottom and aluminum foil for a screen. Don’t get sucked in by those bastards. They’re out to take your grandma’s money, and she’ll never get that email sent. But at least her ‘laptop’ will run nice and cool. And quiet, too. Just don’t forget that twelve-year extended warranty. Can’t do without that, eh?
Permalink | 2 CommentsIf you’re anything like me, you take every possible opportunity to eliminate those pesky domestic chores. And one of my least favorites, without a doubt, is making the schlep to the grocery store for provisions. I first professed my distaste for supermarket shopping more than three years ago in these pages, so you know I’m serious about it.
(I can change my mind on anything in three years; apparently, ‘food shopping’ is one of my more deep-seated rabid phobias. If only ‘Boston baked beans’ and ‘reality TV’ had been so well ingrained, I’d have been spared a lot of grief. And I’d probably still have my favorite pair of jeans.)
For a while, I convinced my wife to try online supermarkets. We’ve had several e-grocers available locally, Peapod and now-defunct Home Runs among them. For a few months, buying groceries online was the only method we used to get delicious goodies into the house.
It was, looking back, one of our more spectacularly-failing domestic experiments ever. Right up there with ‘Let’s Paint the Dining Room!’ (her idea), ‘Pants-Optional Sundays’ (mine), and ‘The Unfortunate Oatmeal Incident of 2002’.
“It was, looking back, one of our more spectacularly-failing domestic experiments ever. Right up there with ‘Let’s Paint the Dining Room!’ (her idea), ‘Pants-Optional Sundays’ (mine), and ‘The Unfortunate Oatmeal Incident of 2002’.”
First of all, online groceries are more expensive than their store-confined cousins. Which is perfectly reasonable — you’re paying for the convenience of the service. Unfortunately, we also seemed to be paying for the gas in the delivery truck, the mileage driven, the hosting costs for the website where we ordered, the online merchant fees, and the delivery driver’s kid’s college fund. At least with some of the places, tipping the drivers was ‘discouraged’. Not that it mattered; after a few sacks of groceries, we had nothing left to tip with. ‘Thanks, bud — here’s a hearty handshake and a baby carrot. Good job.‘
Then, there were the groceries themselves. My wife always suspected that it was the ‘low-end’ product being shipped out the back door of the store and into the trucks. She eyed every shipment for scuffed boxes, bruised fruit, and smooshed buns. I never saw much of that personally, but I don’t usually notice such things. If it’s edible, it’s fine for me. My food doesn’t have to look pretty; it just has to taste good and stay down. The missus is just a tad more discerning.
The bigger problem with the goods was that they often weren’t our goods. All the orders for one truck get lumped together in the back — and clearly separated, I’m certain. Then the driver chugs over a few miles of choice grade-A Boston potholes, and who the hell knows what’s what? There’re bags tipped over, pasta on the floor, mustard shot onto the ceiling — who can blame these guys for grabbing the right number of bags and hoping things work out?
Only, things don’t work out, most of the time. The crap we ordered goes somewhere else, and we end up with fourteen bags of somebody else’s slop we don’t want. Getting our shipments was like playing Iron Chef America: The Home Version:
‘And now, the secret ingredients! All of your meals for the next three weeks will be made from… a five-pound bag of all-purpose flour… three tubes of Crest toothpaste… and a jumbo-sized tub of stewed prunes! How luxurious!‘
So, we stopped ordering. I miss the service, though. When they did get it right — and we managed to order without taking out a home improvement loan to cover it — it was a pretty sweet deal. No crowded supermarket parking lots to deal with, or rusty-wheeled carts, or watching somebody’s grandma squeeze her peaches and thump her canteloupes.
(It’s like a train wreck! I don’t want to see it, but I can’t look away! Ack!)
Maybe someday we’ll try Peapod or one of the other services again. It takes a while to build up the courage, though. Maybe when you’ve spent a summer eating prune ‘n’ fluoride pancakes, you’ll understand.
Permalink | 1 Comment(In my mind, this qualifies as a sort of ‘clip show’ post, since the only thing the following snippets have in common is that I once worked them into standup bits. Well, that, and they’re all a little naughty in one way or another.
“It’s good to get a few of those out of my system.”
But nobody’s actually seen the standup clips in which these bits are included, so it also qualifies as a ‘free’ Friday post. Woo hoo!)
Heaven on Earth
When I was very young, my Uncle Joe died. I had trouble understanding what death meant, so I talked it over with my dad:
Me: Hey Dad, where did Uncle Joe go when he died?
Dad: Well, son, he went up to Heaven.
Me: Oh. Hey, Dad?
Dad: Yes, son?
Me: Didn’t you once tell me that all our relatives who’ve died are watching over us?
Dad: That’s right.
Me: And didn’t you say that if I touch myself, they could all see it?
Dad: Well… yes. I said that.
Me: So is that what Heaven is like?
Dad: You know, son — for your Uncle Joe, it probably is.
Well. That cleared things up. And to this day, I wear pants in the shower.
Time to Spare
I’m a big fan of the eight-minute dating idea. It seems like a great way to maximize your chances of a perfect match.
Eight minutes seems like an awfully long time, though. I mean, after three minutes of sex and two minutes of apologizing, what’s left to fill the empty time? I wonder whether people are allowed to bring a book, or a crossword puzzle, or something.
Always Bet on Krispy Kreme
I joined one of those NFL football ‘suicide pools’ this season.
(Ed.: I told you it was a ‘clip show’!)
Apparently, we’re supposed to pick a different team every week, and if they lose, we’re out. I thought it was a different kind of ‘suicide pool’, though. For week 1, I picked:
John Madden, on the crapper, with a jelly doughnut
I still like my chances.
I think that’s plenty enough for now. It’s good to get a few of those out of my system. And if it’s any consolation, you were spared a couple of items that I nearly forgot I’d already posted. You should count your lucky stars. Maybe there’s a guardian angel ‘watching over you’. Heh.
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