About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’m locked in a battle of wills. With a real birdbrain. And I’m losing. I’ll explain.
Close by our house, the neighbors have a tree. It’s a nice tree — full of branches and shade and life-giving oxygen. I have no beef with this tree, in the matter that follows. Don’t go thinking I’m some sort of tree-bashing psycho nutjob. The tree and I are tight, yo.
(Except in the fall, when the jackass tree drops all its leaves on my damned grass, and I’ve got to rake them up. That’s uncalled for. Do I dump my coffee grinds on this tree’s roots? No. Do I fling my garbage onto its trunk? Certainly not. Do I drop trou and whiz all up in it’s boughs?
Well, okay, but just the once. And that was on a bet. I still say I would have hit that squirrel, too, if the cops hadn’t shown up. I demand a re-pee.)
“I don’t know whether they’re nesting, or courting, or maybe they’re running a bird sex line out of the tree, offering chats with ‘plumper pigeons’ and ’round robins’ for $3.99 per minute.”
Rather, it’s what’s in the tree that’s causing the problem. We’ve got birds. Chatty, chirping, chubby little birds, chittering away from dawn till dusk. They’re constantly there. I don’t know whether they’re nesting, or courting, or maybe they’re running a bird sex line out of the tree, offering chats with ‘plumper pigeons’ and ’round robins’ for $3.99 per minute. I can’t say. But if I ever manage to get that husky-voiced whippoorwill on the line, you can hold my other calls. Rrrrrawr!
All I know is, other than on positively frigid mornings, these songbirds commence their cawing at some fairly unholy early hours. Eight, seven thirty, even seven in the morning. Gosh!
(Probably earlier, I bet. But I’m a pretty heavy sleeper before seven o’clock or so. You could probably throw one of those birds down my pants at six AM, and I wouldn’t stop snoozing.
I’m not suggesting you actually test my theory, of course. I don’t want a bullfinch in my BVDs any more than the next guy. And quite probably, less.)
This was the schedule, for most of the past few weeks. I doze blissfully until around seven thirty, then *chirp chirp chirp* go the birds, up I wake, shake a fist at the window, and the day begins. They were like a fully-organic alarm clock, powered by earthworms and sunflower seeds, letting me sleep late-ish but not too late. Not bad.
That was, until last week.
Last week, we installed a set of wind chimes on the porch.
(When I say ‘installed’, I mean ‘hung precariously on a rusty nail’.)
(And when I say ‘we’, I mean ‘my wife’.)
(The other words in the sentence mean more or less what you’d expect them to mean. Just letting you know. I’ll shut up now.)
In a way, the wind chimes were our little measure of revenge on the birds. The chimes are clearly within earshot of the tree, and this is New England — it’s always breezy around here. So the chimes are constantly jangling and tinkling about. And, presumably, waking up the birds in the middle of the night.
(So we’re lousy neighbors, even to the avians in the area. What the hell did you expect?)
The birds’ counterpunch to this affront has been to sing at just about any time of the morning, afternoon, or — especially — the darkest dead of night. In other words, the time when we’re trying to get to sleep. Frantically trying, because we know those birds; even with their circadian clocks out of whack, they’ll cluck loudest, longest, and seemingly closest to the bedroom window just around seven in the morning. The fact that some of them are taking a graveyard shift to play ‘cuckoo karaoke’ at three AM isn’t important. That wakeup chirp’s a-coming.
So now we sleep by trying to drown the birds out — window fans work okay for this, but sometimes distort the bird calls into a haunting, eerily oscillating sort of noise. It sounds like the love child of Big Bird and Bjork yodeling underwater. Try sleeping with that nightmare in your ears, why don’t you?
My inclination is to fight back. I’m more highly evolved than these feather-flaunting fusspots; surely I can ‘persuade’ them to take their cranky crowing elsewhere. I’m thinking of strapping speakers to the tree, and blasting ‘Cat Scratch Fever‘ at them all night for a couple of weeks. That’d learn them to screw around with a guy with opposable thumbs and a stereo cassette deck.
I’m worried that wouldn’t be the end of it, though. These birds have already shown a stubborn resilience by staying close by the wind chimes. What if matters only escalated further? I’m a busy guy, folks — the very last thing I need is a cheesed-off sparrow with a bullhorn outside my window at four o’clock every morning, screaming:
‘TWEET, MOTHER FUCKER! TWEET! TWEET!!!‘
So I guess it’s back to wearing earplugs to bed, and adopting stray cats to patrol the tree at night. The birds have won, at least until I can think of a way to strap their beaks shut. I never thought it would come to this. These battles of wits are for the birds!
Permalink | No CommentsI really shouldn’t play softball, ever.
Which is unfortunate, because I’m on three different softball teams this summer. That’s a record for me, and it’s likely no coincidence that it comes in the first summer after I turned thirty-five. I feel like I’m in Logan’s Run; once you’re too old and fat and out of shape enough to exercise any other way, they come chasing after you to fit you for a catcher’s mitt and a hernia brace. It’s a little scary.
(Oh, for you younger kids — Logan’s Run was one of those ‘moving picture’ shows we used to have before DVDs or pay per view came out. And before any of you smug young healthy bastards were born, either.
You might like it, though — Basil Exposition was in it, and so was Farrah Fawcett.
Again, for you younger kids — Farrah Fawcett was what passed for ‘eye candy’ back then, before whale tails and wardrobe malfunctions. And before internet porn. See why we old geezers are so goddamned bitter now?)
Anyway, it’s not the actual softball playing that’s a problem. I can hit the ball okay, and I can still make it to first base in a way that looks more like ‘running’ than ‘a clubfooted ostrich having a heart attack’. Marginally more.
“We’re in that gray(ing) area of the world of Mansport, between sports like soccer and football and basketball on one side, and shuffleboard, gin rummy, and solving the Sunday jumble on the other.”
I can even flash the glove a little, for a man my age and in my less-than-mint condition. If you hit the ball right at me, that is. Smack it precisely in my direction, and I’ll often make a play — but there’s no lateral motion left in these legs, apparently. If the games so far are any indication, I have the fielding range of a three-legged patio chair buried in quicksand. It’s not pretty out there, people.
But that’s okay. This is not the ‘Spring Chicken’ league, remember. Most of the guys out there — we won’t bring the girls into any conversation concerning advancing age — are as old as I am, give or take a couple of rings on the old trunk. We’re in that gray(ing) area of the world of Mansport, between sports like soccer and football and basketball on one side, and shuffleboard, gin rummy, and solving the Sunday jumble on the other. In our younger years, we played for the glory; these days, we play so we can hit the bar after the game and drink on a Tuesday night without feeling ‘weird‘ about it. So I guess there’s still some ‘glory’ in it, after all.
Still, I shouldn’t be playing softball. Or any team game, for that matter. I shouldn’t even be watching my teams play, and that’s because I’m no good at cheering. I’m a pep rally’s worst nightmare; a rooting train wreck just waiting to happen.
Don’t misunderstand — I want to cheer for my teammates. I try to advise and encourage and morally support them. It just never works out very well. There are basically three things working against me:
So in a situation like, say, when our best hitter’s up to bat, and the rest of my team is, quite reasonably, calling out things like:
‘Base hit now, base hit!‘
or
‘Wait for your pitch; nice and easy now!‘
or
‘Just a little line drive, brother!‘
How do I add my support? With this unplanned little gem:
‘KNOCK HER UP THE POOPER, MAN!‘
Which wasn’t at all what I’d intended to say, but it got quite a look from the other team’s pitcher. The other team’s female pitcher, who I surmised was quite against the idea of being knocked up the pooper. And who could blame her, really?
(Not me, certainly. I would never intentionally suggest that our slugger knock up the opposing pitcher’s pooper; it just slipped out that way.
I don’t even think he knows the girl, frankly. And pooper knocking’s hardly a proper topic of conversation for a first introduction. I read Miss Manners; I know these things.)
Sadly, that featherbrained faux pas fiasco is par for the course. My cheering starts out normal, like everyone else’s… and then something happens. I get lost in the moment, forget what I’m saying, and — just as everyone else conveniently shuts up, of course — I blurt out some ridiculous nonsense that’s neither ‘rooting’ nor ‘rallying’; it’s just retarded.
I don’t discriminate, either. I’ve shouted horribly embarrassing non sequiturs in every conceivable game situation. I’ve asked our pitcher to ‘send this batter back to Mrs. Butterworth‘, informed the infield, with men on base, that we should ‘toss a log at the lead beaver‘, and told our relay man, with the runner at first not tagging, that there were ‘no pants on the donkey‘. Then there was the time, coaching third on a close play, when I yelled at our runner to:
‘Slide! Slide! Like a pirate! Slide!‘
To this day, I have no idea what I was trying to say. Maybe (hopefully?) I was asking him to ‘hook slide’. Possibly, I was hoping he’d ‘swashbuckle’ into the bag — though I’m frankly not sure I’d know swashbuckling if I saw it, nor could I say whether our runner was carrying the necessary equipment at the time. Most likely, I just wanted to hear him growl, ‘Arrrrrr!‘ as he slid into third. At worst, that’d show some team spirit. And at best, the third baseman might think he was being boarded, and abandon ship befor the throw arrived.
That, or he’d think the guy was going to knock him up the pooper, which would probably get him the hell out of the way, too. Either way, somebody on our team was going to score that inning. Maybe my cheering suggestions aren’t so bad, after all.
Permalink | 1 CommentFour hours and three years ago, I sat in this very same chair, at this same desk, using this same computer, at this same crappy keyboard with the same sticky ‘Shift’ key and the same scary brown stain on the ‘Page Down’ button.
(In all this time, I’ve never touched that button. How did it get stained? What the hell’s on it? Chocolate? Dirt? Rabbit poop? I have no idea.
But I digress. It’s what I do. Sorry.)
The point is, exactly three years ago today, at nine thirty or so in the morning when I should have been at work already, I sat right here and started a weblog. It was called the Sitdown Standup Experience. For about twenty minutes. There were, shall we say, ‘technical difficulties‘.
By the time the first post was finished — nineteen sets of parentheses later — the site had become the ‘Where the Hell Was I?‘ that you know and generously tolerate today.
(And yes, I counted the parentheses. Three years later, I’m marginally better able to stay on topic, but I’m no less obsessive. One personality flaw at a time.)
“Whether you’re a casual reader, a regular, a budding stalker, or a wide-eyed and frightened first-timer, you have my heartfelt thanks.”
Actually, that site was a bit different. It was on BlogSpot, for one thing, using one of the original stock layout templates. It was a few months before the first site makeover, a while longer before wherethehellwasi.com was birthed, and only recently that the current look and feel settled in. And given my gross inadequacy in matters of style and fashion — there are homeless diapered monkeys with snazzier wardrobes, for instance — I suspect this will be the face of the blog for quite some time.
It’s now been 1095 days, assuming my shaky math skills haven’t failed me, since the site was launched. This post is, according to the software, the 991th post in the main area. Add in the 101 Things Posts About Me, the various Standup Journal posts, features like the Cliche-O-Matic, Big List of Lists, and 33 Faces of Me, and you’ve got… well, I don’t know how many, exactly. I’ve got my shoes off and my pants unzipped, and I still can’t count that high. But I’m pretty sure it’s better than a post-per-day average of fully original, occasionally entertaining content over those three years, and I’m not too shy to say I’m rather proud of that.
I’d also like to thank anyone who’s stopped by to read over the past thirty-six months of tomfoolery. Whether you’re a casual reader, a regular, a budding stalker, or a wide-eyed and frightened first-timer, you have my heartfelt thanks. I hope there’s something in these goofy pages that can brighten your day or lift you with a little giggle now and then.
Or ideally, make you upsnort Sanka out your nose and all over your monitor. I don’t get that so often around here, but those are the best.
(For me, anyway. For you, it’s probably a tad painful. And messy. You might wind up with mysterious greasy brown stains on your ‘Page Down’ key, if you’re not careful. Heeeeey….)
Anyway, many thanks to those of you who read. And comment, and link, and email — I have a lot of fun writing this drivel, but your feedback is still my favorite part of all.
Before I wrap up this self-serving anniversarial lovefest, I’d like to especially thank two other people, who’ve gone above and beyond the realm of ‘feedback’ and into a new stratosphere of… what? ‘Support’? ‘Encouragement’? ‘Ass-kissing’? I’ll let you be the judge, as I relay the tale of ‘A Man Called Chris‘:
Once, there was a man called Chris. Chris had a Problem. A tricky little Problem, indeed.
It seems Chris was a coffee drinker. A java man. A bean hound. A cuppa joe kinda guy. But he had a Problem of delivery.
You see, Chris had a coffee maker. A simple pot, perhaps, or a fancy grinder, or an espresso esqueezer extraordinaire — the details aren’t important, really. Suffice to say that Chris could produce coffee… but then he had his Problem.
Sadly — tragically — Chris had no way to get his piping hot, delicious coffee into his mouth. Nothing he tried would work. He drank straight from the pot — and ended up wearing half the coffee on his shirt. He scooped it with his hands — but hot coffee is a cruel mistress, and burned his tender fingers before he could get a drop to his lips. He thought of sucking the coffee through a straw — but who the hell drinks coffee with a straw? What’s next, upturned pinkies at a kegger? Chris knew a straw would never do, but still he had the Problem.
Until one day, to make a long story marginally shorter, Chris bought himself something called a ‘coffee mug’. Just the right size, insulated to keep in heat, and with a sturdy handle for safe carrying. No straws, no stains, and no ouchy fingers. Problem solved!
But here’s the thing — Chris didn’t buy just any coffee mug. He purchased his kicky caffeine cup from the Official (and Woefully Underdeveloped) Where the Hell Was I? CafePress Shop. The site’s name is on the mug, and a little slogan, too. It’s got the same color scheme. And Chris bought one, anyway! Wow!
Honestly, I never expected anyone to actually buy a mug. Or the other umpteen things that I planned — and, to date, have utterly and completely neglected — to offer in the store. It was just a plaything, really; a toy parked in a dim-lit corner of the site, and forgotten for weeks. Nobody buys mugs from the store, not as-is. Hell, it’s my store, and I haven’t even bought a mug! That should tell you where we stand here, e-commerce-wise.
But Chris bought a mug. Even crazier, he bought two mugs. And so, in deep gratitude and bewildered astonishment, I’ve made Chris — that’s Chris of Red Hog Diary fame — a charter member of a new, permanent section on the sidebar dedicated to ‘Really Cool People Who Are Clearly Encouraging Me Far Too Much‘.
Chris says the second mug is for another heroic pal, Lori of Hahn at Home. So Lori, welcome also to the RCPWACEMFTM Hall of Fame. And thanks to you both for the support — may your mugs be always filled to the rim with your favorite tasty roast, and never leave nasty stains on your coffee table. Let me know how they’re working out; maybe I’ll buy one myself some day. Then I can finally get rid of all these stupid straws.
Okay, that wraps up the lovefest. Thanks for indulging me on a blog birthday; back to the usual zany nonsense tomorrow. Happy Saturday, kids..
Permalink | 5 CommentsI was talking with some coworkers recently about commutes. It’s always fascinated me the lengths to which people will go to drag their ass into an office. Or for that matter, the distance they’re willing to schlep back home when they’re finally unshackled from their desks at the end of the day.
Boston’s an interesting city for commutes, because it’s possible — not recommended, mind you, but possible — to work in the city and live in any one of at least five states. I’ve known people who commute from Massachusetts (obviously), New Hampshire, and Maine. And I’ve heard the legends of hardy nomads from Connecticut and Rhode Island who make the round trip for their jobs, too. I wouldn’t be shocked if some wild-eyed dreamer was trucking in from Vermont, or maybe even New York. And Los Angeles thinks they have rush hours. Pffft.
I once decided that I’d never commute more than thirty minutes each way — and promptly spent eight months doing just that. I’ve worked with people — several people; there must be something in the water — who spend well over an hour getting to and from the office. That’s close to three hours a day driving, busing, or riding a train. Three hours! There’s nothing in the world I’d want to do for three hours a day, five days a week. Not one thing.
(Well, to be fair, there is one thing, of course.
But I have weak arches. And that much tapioca pudding would get expensive — and where would I find an inflatable Peppermint Patty doll, anyway?
Eh, never mind.)
“Of course, saying your commute ‘isn’t so bad’ is a lot like saying your proctologist ‘has soft hands’.”
Back in the day — and in Pittsburgh — I used to walk to work. Then again, so did everyone else I knew there. We were all poor, starving students, so we didn’t have a hell of a lot of choice. Most of us couldn’t afford a car. The ones that had cars couldn’t afford gas — and the few that could afford gas didn’t have the cash left over for a parking spot. And if by some miracle — like an inheritance from a rich uncle, maybe — one of us did manage all that, we’d be too busy schlepping our mooching carless friends all over town to actually drive to work. Better just to walk, and avoid the hassles.
Of course, that’s not an option in Boston. Just ask those suckers motoring in from New Hampshire and Montana and whereever else they’re coming from. Even here, close by the city, I’m six miles or so from my office. And while I probably could walk six miles — like, for a Guinness-sponsored stripper convention, maybe — I’m sure as hell not doing it for a mid-morning staff meeting. Those are never sponsored by Guinness. But they ought to be.
As it is, those six miles take twenty minutes or so to drive, which isn’t so bad. Of course, saying your commute ‘isn’t so bad’ is a lot like saying your proctologist ‘has soft hands’. It’s small comfort, and suggests that you’ve previously experienced something far worse than you’d care to mention.
In my case, that would be the hour-long trip I used to make to and from an office building just steps away from my current place of business. I actually lived closer to the area then, but had no office parking. Or rather, still on the heels of poo, starving studentdom, no cash with which to pay for office parking. There was only enough money for beer or a garage spot, but not both. I made the only logical choice. A long day of working makes a man thirsty, you know. Very, very thirsty.
So, I had to walk down our street to the subway stop, wait for a train, take it downtown, switch to another train, and ride it out to the office. All while muched and mangled in with the other umpteen thousand commuters doing roughly the same thing every morning, and every night going home. The only advantage to the trip was that I wasn’t actually driving the trains, so I could get some work done along the way. Where ‘work’ means sleeping, reading a novel, weeping softly in a corner, or panhandling for loose change. If a brother’s gonna ride the train, the least people can do is chip in to buy him a coffee and doughnut, right? That’s my theory.
I’m much happier now that I can get where I’m going in half the time, though. I don’t have all the perks — I can still read or catnap on the straightaways, of course, but if I find loose change in the car, it was mine already. Still, there’s something to be said for speedy convenience. Now if I could just find a way to ‘work’ without actually going anywhere at all — that would be sweet. And sponsored by Guinness. Oh my word, yes.
Permalink | No Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
