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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hi there.
I apologize if you happened to try accessing the site earlier today and were shut out — there were a few hours of what we in the infocomputerary business call ‘unscheduled downtime’.
(Basically, that means some bit of hardware or other choked on something it shouldn’t have, and spent a while spinning its gears in protest. Usually, it’s porn. But then again — on the internet, what isn’t porn, eh?)
Anyway, it’s simply more fodder for my latest paranoid conspiracy theory — I’ve decided the web hates me.
“Get maced by hott single girlz in your area!”
It would explain a lot, certainly. The mysterious outages, the browser glitches, why I can never — no matter how hard I try — shoot that stupid iPod monkey in the ad. I don’t even want the damned iPod, or whatever sort of snake oil pyramid scheme they’re shilling. I just want that punk-ass grinning simian dead. Honestly, what is he, some sort of fricking chimp ninja? Here’s a banana — NOW HOLD FREAKING STILL, DAMN YOU!
Even my spam has gotten worse lately. Not more frequent, or higher volume, just… snarkier. Seems even the spambots don’t want to sell me shit any more. Check out some of the message subjects I’ve received recently:
‘Refinance Now!! Bad Credit? BIG PROBLEM!‘
‘Meet hott single girlz in your area! Get maced by hott single girlz in your area! Call now!’
‘Need OEM? You’re an Overweight Eggsucking Moron. There’s your ‘OEM’, sucka.’
‘Online ph@rmacy! We sell m3ds cheap… but not to you.’
‘Widow of wealthy Nigerian bank official wants no assistance from you whatsoever.’
‘Want a bigger penis? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! Loser.’
Anyway, it’s good to be back online again. Please feel free to resume your normal drivel-perusing activities. I’ll be in the server room with a crowbar, exacting my revenge. This machine is wily, all right — but it’s no iPod monkey, and I know where it lives. It’s go time.
Permalink | 1 CommentGoing to work yesterday cost me five hundred dollars.
I suppose that’s technically not true. To be fair, you’d have to add back the salary I made at work yesterday, minus the cuts for federal taxes, state taxes, Social Security, my retirement account, life insurance, health insurance, parking, and the annual office Cinco de Mayo fund. Plus the new slipcovers on the boss’ couch I’m still paying for, from last year’s Cinco de Mayo fiesta.
So in reality, going to work only cost me approximately four hundred and ninety-three dollars and twelve cents.
Yay, job. Whoop-de-doo.
Here’s what happened: I was driving along, minding my own business and rocking out to Celine Dion The Wiggles Christopher Cross the latest manly death metal sensation. I forget the name of the band — Devilspawn? Dripping Evil? Deathtongue? It’s not important, really.
The significant bit happened as I was crooning belting out a chorus and *WHAM*, the passenger side of the car lurched and wobbled ominously. There was nothing obviously there, except the curb I wasn’t near. No cars or motorbikes or filthy street urchins were to be seen.
“You see, here in the progressive Commonwealth of Masshole-achusetts, we have a mechanic check our wiper fluid and left tail lights every year, to make sure that the least complicated and most trivial bits of the vehicle are functioning properly.”
But something was there, and whatever it was blew the hell out of my right front tire. In seconds, the car was limping and *kathump*-ing along in rhythm to the music. As ‘percussion’, it was sort of intriguing. As ‘roadworthy vehicle’, it was quickly fading out of the picture. I needed a garage, and fast.
So I found one. But slow. Painfully slowly, in fact, which is how I rolled and shimmied to the nearest garage I knew. I’d seen them with a busted tire before — two at once, in fact. They’re good people. Honest and hardworking, as far as I can tell. They probably call their mothers every weekend, too.
Anyway, I finally made it to the garage. They offered to sell me a new tire, and I graciously accepted. They noted — quite politely, mind you — that my inspection sticker was a few weeks overdue.
You see, here in the progressive Commonwealth of Masshole-achusetts, we have a mechanic check our wiper fluid and left tail lights every year, to make sure that the least complicated and most trivial bits of the vehicle are functioning properly. This is called an ‘inspection’, and we pay thirty bucks a pop for the privilege of the service.
We then pay several hundred more dollars to fix, reattach, patch, clean, buff, wax, or replace bits of the car that the mechanics say are faulty. Even though those parts aren’t actually part of the inspection, and couldn’t realistically be observed by anyone who’s not ‘examining’ your car with X-ray specs and a high-powered chainsaw.
Basically, the ‘problems’ the ‘mechanics’ ‘find’ are all part of the process. We think of it as an extra tax, for having the audacity to own a car and gum up the environment in the first place. We’re in New England; we’re easily guilted like that.
So, long story marginally shorter, that’s exactly what happened. The missus had already scolded me for letting the inspection lapse anyway, so I let the mechanics open her up for a look.
(That’s the car, not my wife, mind you. I’m not letting any damned grease monkeys tinker under my wife’s hood.
Or anyone else, for that matter. I even installed a Lo-Jack. Don’t ask. And no touchy, leadfoot. I’m watching you.)
Five hours and five hundred dollars later, I had the car back, with not one, but three new tires, a remounted exhaust doohickey underneath, and a fancy new inspection sticker worth its weight in… hell, I don’t know. What costs five hundred bucks for a fraction of an ounce, anyway? Gold-plated platinum? Really, really good crank? Concentrated stripper sweat? I’m not sure.
The truly amazing thing is that the ordeal could have cost me more. After a point, this garage simply wouldn’t take my money. I told one guy that if they’re changing three tires anyway, and I suspect the fourth has a slow leak, why not give me a whole new set?
And he pooh-poohed me. Insofar as a large, greasy Italian mechanic can ‘pooh-pooh’ anything, really. More likely, he ‘pshaw’ed me, or ‘pfffffftttt’ed me. Later, I was even ‘fuggedabahtit’ed. The point is, they wouldn’t do it. They were content to make the other fixes, patch my last remaining original tire, and leave it at that. I guess mechanics in New England are easily guilted, too.
After they’ve collected my five hundred bucks, of course. Dese guys in da garage, dey’s sweethearts and all, but dey gotta eat, ya know what I’m sayin’? Youse ain’t gettin’ outta dere with a full wallet, but pays more than five hundred smackeroos? Fuggedabahtit!
Permalink | No CommentsSometimes I think the sole purpose of multilevel houses and apartments is to discourage snacking.
Mostly, I have that thought at times like this, as I sit in the second-floor office daydreaming about the food sitting in the first-floor kitchen. I know that if I were nearer to that food — just a room or two away, perhaps — I’d be eating it. Constantly.
It’s almost midnight, and I know I really shouldn’t eat at this hour — but no one seems to have explained that to my stomach’s satisfaction. And if tasty snacks were within easy reach right now, I know who’d win that argument. I also know who’d end up with Chee-to dust caked on his face and fingers, wondering how his ‘midnight snack’ turned into a four-course meal and a two AM tummyache.
“I could have a severed arm, and I wouldn’t walk that far for a Band-Aid; I’m certainly not schlepping all that way for Cheez Whiz and Triscuits.”
Luckily for me, the food is tucked away safely in the kitchen — way the hell down a flight of stairs, through a hallway, and around the corner. And I’m a lazy old fart. I could have a severed arm, and I wouldn’t walk that far for a Band-Aid; I’m certainly not schlepping all that way for Cheez Whiz and Triscuits.
Which leads me to wonder — are people who live in ranch houses or small apartments generally fatter than the rest of us? I remember my first studio apartment, a few years back. It was tiny. You couldn’t get more than ten feet away from the fridge if you tried. And I was too poor to go out much, so all I really remember is watching TV, sleeping, and eating. Lots and lots of eating.
(Ramen noodles, mostly, which don’t really count as food, made from cardboard and defective drywall as they are. But there was mac ‘n’ cheese, too, which is probably packed with calories.
Oh, and beer. Lots and lots of beer. It was the only carb I could afford, and after a few of those, I’d forget that I hadn’t eaten meat or vegetables or fresh fruit in several weeks. That was nice.)
Maybe it’s just me; perhaps other people in single-floor housing have greater willpower. Mine’s virtually nonexistent, though. Occasionally, I’ll test myself by bringing a ‘stash’ up to the office. A bag of Doritos, maybe, or a jar of peanuts. And I’ll tell myself:
‘Nice and easy, now. Pace yourself, and these goodies will last you a few weeks, without the hassle of running to the kitchen every time.‘
Ten minutes later and the food’s gone. The only evidence left are empty, licked-clean containers and Planters-flavored belches. The guys from CSI wouldn’t even find traces of food. Gone.
So I know better than to stock myself a mini-fridge up here, or to ever move back into single-level housing. Me in a two-story house — old, lazy, and well-fed, but not morbidly obese. Me in a ranch home, or back in that studio? I’d have the fire department on speed dial, because they’d be winching my wedged-in carcass out of the bathtub every morning. Not a pretty visual.
In my current digs, though, there’s little chance of that sort of ballooning. My inertia is simply too great for a rumbly tummy to overcome. Tonight, for instance, I’m wrapping this up and going to bed, hunger pangs be damned. Those Chee-tos will just have to wait until we’re in the same neighborhood. I can lick that bag clean tomorrow.
Permalink | 1 CommentI think my fantasy baseball obsession may have finally gotten out of hand.
This year, I drafted five fantasy teams. Five. I’ve never had that many teams at once. And for a guy who can’t balance his checkbook — or count to twelve with his shoes on, for that matter — it’s a bit much.
“You wouldn’t go to a mechanic that had never rebuilt a tranny, right? Or a stripper who’d never wrapped herself around a pole.”
It started out innocently enough. I’ve always been a big baseball fan, and when fantasy leagues made the jump from pencil and paper drudgery to internet automation a few years back, I hopped on the bandwagon. For the first couple of seasons, I managed one team at a time, and I was content with that. Not very good at it, mind you. Who starts Bret Saberhagen on the road after the All-Star break in an even-numbered year? Me, that’s who. I’m an idiot, clearly.
After a while, the ‘drafters remorse’ started to get to me. I’d come out of a fantasy draft, when I should’ve been thrilled with my new team — looking their stats up online, memorizing their lifetime on-base percentages and wives’ and kids’ names — but I wasn’t, really. I had these nagging doubts, like: ‘Was Mo Vaughn really the right pick in round six?‘ Or: ‘What made me think this was the year Bill Pulsipher would put it all together?‘ Or even: ‘Rafael Belliard?!? How many fricking beers did I drink?‘
So, I started playing two teams. The first was a ‘practice’ team of sorts — I’d play out the season, sure, but that squad was littered with idiot picks. I simply couldn’t be trusted to make good decisions without the benefit of a little experience. You wouldn’t go to a mechanic that had never rebuilt a tranny, right? Or a stripper who’d never wrapped herself around a pole. How about a gynecologist who’d never smeared a Pap? I think not.
Of course, my strategy was predicated on actually learning from my mistakes, which is clearly not my strong suit.
(I’m still writing here, after all. ‘Exhibit A’, ladies and gentlemen.)
So, I’d end up with two lousy teams, bursting at the seams with scrubs and has-beens and part-time platoon pinch-hitters. Often they’d be different no-talent jackasses, but they were no-talent jackasses, just the same.
It was about that time that ESPN started offering three teams at a discount. Those shifty, conniving, weaselly marketing bastard geniuses. Three’s a charm, right? Why the hell not — what else have I got to do all summer?
From there, it’s snowballed further. A couple of friends want to play on another site, so I start a team there. Other people I know wanted to set up a ‘keeper’ league — ooh, so now I can hold on to light-hitting utility man Khalil Greene for five whole years? Gee. Where do I sign up?
It’s funny how these things sneak up on you. Not ‘funny ha-ha’, mind you. More ‘funny hey, why don’t I spend two and a half hours every morning checking box scores and batting averages, wouldn’t that be a hoot?’.
The whole game experience has changed now, too. With five fantasy teams, I’ve pretty much got everybody in the major leagues, on one team or another. I looked the other day, and I think I’ve got a clubhouse attendant from the Mariners and the Dodgers third-base ball girl on one roster. In terms of ‘coverage’, I’m in good shape.
On the other hand, it’s rare that I have a particular player on more than two or three of my teams. So I find myself watching highlights, saying things like:
‘Yeah, a double off the wall! But shit, that’s my pitcher, too. Bitches!‘
‘Damn, I can’t afford another hit to ERA, or batting average. Call the game off! Rain, damn you!!‘
‘A home run! Forty percent hooray!‘
I think the situation would be completely intolerable, if I didn’t follow one simple fantasy baseball rule: ‘Never draft anyone you can’t stand to cheer for.’
Finally, fantasy mirrors real life. No matter which team I need to pick it up, or which player I’m rooting for, the Yankees can all go to hell. There’s one thing we can all agree on, fantasy or no. Play ball.
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