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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I have to admit, I was a bit worried when my office moved to a new building recently. Sure, the new place is great — spacious, modern (built just for us, don’t you know), plenty of amenities, and ample parking. If it were a condo, I’d sell my house and move in posthaste. It’s even highly secure — you need a keycard to get in, and there’s a little man in a uniform to stand in the lobby and shake his head at you if you can’t get in.
Still, there was one concern: where the hell would we eat?
The old building was surrounded by restaurants. An Irish pub, a pizzeria, a Thai joint, even a microbrewery ‘n’ grill. Walk a little further, and there was Indian food, a burgeratorium, Chinese takeout, and more. A veritable cornucopia of artery-clogging goodness awaited us outside the walls of our corporate cubbyholes. On particularly desperate days, the onsite cafeteria provided a wide array of bland, rubbery foodlike substances. Culinary kings, we were.
Our new digs are, sadly, not so strategically situated. Sure, we’ve got an overpriced seafood restaurant across the street, for those times when we need to wine and dine visiting VIPs on the company dime.
(I will never be allowed to wine, nor dine, visiting VIPs on the company dime, by the way. Or on anyone else’s dime, for that matter. When important people visit, they lock me in a supply closet with a cheese sandwich and a pail to pee in. It’s something the business types around here call ‘risk management’.)
So if we’re not dropping thirty bucks on lobster thermidore brunches — and trust me, we’re not; I don’t even own the sort of pants it would take to meet that place’s dress code — what are we to do for food?
Enter ‘the trucks’.
“Who made it? When? And how? Are those peas? Was that a finger? Who knows?”
The trucks are our lunchtime loophole. These savory saviors show up right across the street at around ten in the morning, and serve our food intake needs well into the afternoon hours. People stream from blocks around to play ‘culinary roulette’ with the hot meals served from the back windows of these repurposed ice cream trucks. Do we know what we’re getting, exactly? No. Can we see the food being prepared? Hardly. Do the proprieters understand any English, outside of the names of their dishes and enough numbers to ask for exact change? It’s reasonably clear that they do not. In short, it’s a little slice of heaven right on our doorstep.
See, there’s something liberating about eating a ‘burrito’ handed to you by some stranger on the back of a dark shadowy truck. And if there’s more liberation in believing the warm foil-wrapped mass in your hand really is a burrito only because you pointed to a picture of a burrito-resembling object when you handed over your five bucks — well, I’ve been there, too. Three times a week, in fact. And the truth is, you feel as though if you can eat that and live through your afternoon status meeting, then you can survive anything. For chrissakes, you’re eating lunch off a truck! From some guy! Who made it? When? And how? Are those peas? Was that a finger? Who knows? You must be invincible!
The best part is, there’s not just one truck. Oh my, no. There are no less than four trucks in service, each with a different culinary specialty: the Asian truck, with curries and rice dishes; the Middle Eastern truck, serving falafel, gyros, and kebabs; the Mexican truck, offering the aforementioned burritos; and the Italian truck, with pizza and subs. Sure, they all start with the same mystery meat, and slather it with duck sauce, tabouli, tabasco, or marinara, respectively, before nuking and serving it up to us. But it feels like variety. And the illusion of lunch options is plenty good enough for me. The heartburn’s the same, regardless. Viva la vehicular cuisine!
Permalink | 5 CommentsI’ve got a new hero.
Alfonso Soriano has pulled off a trifecta that makes him worthy of stunned, gaping awe. And this time, it doesn’t even involve swinging at a pitch that’s three feet over his head, or thrown behind his ass. Here’s what old Alfie-boy accomplished:
First, two offseasons ago, Soriano was traded away from the Yankees in the ARod deal.
“Club officials may be heard to ask questions like, ‘Is that number even real?‘, ‘This is a joke, right?‘, and ‘What do you think, I shit Benjamins for breakfast?‘”
Yeah, I know it was a long time ago. But this is Red Sox country — leaving the Yankees buys you brownie points for a long time around here. Even if it wasn’t his choice, it’s all good. Short of thawing out Ted Williams’ popsicled head, there’s very little Soriano could do at this point to lower himself in the minds of Boston fans.
(But it seems he’s trying, nonetheless, to alienate baseball buffs everywhere. Keep reading.)
Now with the Washington “Don’t Call Us Expos, Bitch” team, earlier this offseason Soriano lost his salary arbitration appeal.
(For those of you unfamiliar with the arbitration process in the major leagues, it essentially boils down to this:
1. A player decides on an astronomically large amount of money that he thinks he’s worth. Often, the player determines the exact dollar amount to ask for by asking his agent ‘What’s the biggest number you’ve ever heard of?‘ Other times, he’ll multiply his PIN code and his phone number (with area code, if he’s a real slugger), or simply look up and match the GNP of his favorite small Caribbean nation. It’s an inexact science, to be sure.
2. The player’s ballclub laughs, heartily, at the number suggested by the player. Club officials may be heard to ask questions like, ‘Is that number even real?‘, ‘This is a joke, right?‘, and ‘What do you think, I shit Benjamins for breakfast?‘
(The last one is reserved for Steinbrenner only. Because, as far as anyone can tell, he does.)
3. The club responds to the player with an outlandishly astronomical, but not quite as outrageous, dollar amount. Still, a hefty sum capable of feeding and clothing a reasonably frugal family of five for, say, the amount of time remaining until the sun burns itself into a cold, dead rock. The player, invariably, sees this ‘compromise’ as a ‘snub’, and immediately voices his displeasure at the club’s ‘disrespect’ to the media at large.
4a. Players with little service time in the league are told, politely but firmly, to ‘shut the fuck up and get on the field‘. These players, being ineligible for arbitration, typically do just that, saving their ‘man is holding me down’ speeches for family members and sympathetic entouragers.
4b. For more senior players, an independent arbitrator is brought in to assess just how much the player is truly worth. The player pleads his case, with his agent pointing out important statistical achievements like ‘runs created’, ‘game-winning hits’, and ‘cola commercials revenue earned’. The ballclub then spends a few hours trying to convince the arbitrator that the player is useless, worthless, rude, boorish, and of rather questionable family origin. Also, he can’t read and his feet smell like cabbage. The arbitrator then decides who ‘wins’ and ‘loses’, by setting a salary mark suggested by one side or the other.)
So, in losing — read that again: L-O-S-I-N-G — his arbitration hearing, Soriano ‘settled’ for the measly pittance of ten million dollars a year. That’s ‘million’. Ten of ’em.
(How on earth will the man ever feed himself? Or buy the eyeglasses he apparently desperately needs, to see that those pitches he’s flailing at hit the dirt three feet in front of the plate? Tragic.)
That’s worth a few points right there, in my book. When have you ever ‘lost’ something, and made out with eight figures’ worth of the cold hard stuff? I’d like to see a little ‘arbitration’ around the old office, dammit, if that’s how the game is played.
Finally, just today, Soriano refused to play left field in a preseason exhibition game. Since coming over to the Ersatz Expos in (another) trade this offseason, Soriano’s said he’d ‘prefer‘ to stick with his second base position. Apparently, he’s more comfortable there. Or maybe he’s still stinging from his arbitration ‘loss’, and is simply too melancholy to be gallavanting around the outfield. These athletes can be very weepy, you know.
So today, for the first time, the manager penciled our boy Alfie into left field. And Alfie said:
‘No. No, I don’t think I’ll let you play me there today, thanks just the same.‘
I guess ten million bucks doesn’t buy you much these days, eh? Must be the inflation.
And there wasn’t much the manager could do in that situation. The team’s already got a guy they like at second base, and Soriano’s stamped his little feet and said he won’t play anywhere else. So the skipper scribbled a new name onto the lineup card, switched around the outfield, and Alfie sat the game out.
So, ‘Fonzie Soriano is my new hero now. Why, you ask?
Is it because he’s selfishly standing up for his own interest, propriety and sportsmanship and contractual obligations be damned?
Um… no.
Is it because he’s petulantly seeking revenge on his ballclub and innocent teammates for the decision of an impartial panel of judges who he feels bilked him out of a few bucks he’d never have the time to spend?
Not exactly, no.
Because he’s stubborn? Because he’d suck in the outfield, anyway? Because he’s the only major leaguer who strikes out more than you do in softball?
No, no, and — hey, shut up! I can too hit a curveball. The pitcher should just have to tell you when it’s coming, is all. I SAID SHADDUP!
It’s because he’s not playing for the Yankees any more, isn’t it?
Okay, a little. I’m only human. But mostly it’s this:
Alfonso Soriano must have the biggest cojones ever bestowed upon a human being in the history of mankind.
And any guy crazy enough to bitch publicly about his new boss’ requests, demand a raise, get handed ten million dollars, and then refuse to work altogether is not someone I want to see on the other side of the battlefield. Ever.
So yeah, as far as he knows, he’s my new hero. I think he’s being a hefty-sized douchebag, just like everybody else — but dammit, I’m scared. You’re either ‘for him’ or ‘agin him’ with guys like that, and I’m not gonna cross him. That hombre is loco, man!
Permalink | 1 CommentThis has been a very lazy, brain-dead couple of days for me. It was the sort of weekend where I did little, thought less, and spent most of my time concentrating on looking scruffy and unkempt. That’s two straight days of practice — I’m getting pretty damned good at this. By now, even the dog turns up her nose and runs away from me.
“Hidey-ho, children!”
Tomorrow, of course, I’ll clean up and presentablize myself. Until then, I’ve got a nice comfortable ‘wallow’ going, and I don’t see any reason to ease up until morning. Unfortunately, that doesn’t lend itself to getting much writing done — you’ve got to slouch way too much to type, if you’re being properly slovenly.
But in honor of lazy, hazy weekends everywhere, I’ll stay mostly upright long enough to relay this:
Five Really Unfortunate Ways to Discover You’ve Got Your Boxer Shorts on Backwards
1, Standing at your toilet fumbling around with your crotch, trying desperately to find the ‘peephole’ to release that Big Gulp you had with dinner last night.
2. Walking past a window and catching a draft. In your colon, because your peephole’s ’round back this morning.
3. Standing on your porch and bending over, away from a passing school bus, to fetch the morning paper. ‘Hidey-ho, children!‘
4. Absent-mindedly scratching your ass first thing in the morning. Through the peephole. Gah.
5. Sitting on a counter — a cruelly cold granite counter — while sipping your morning coffee. That there’s no hole in the front of your underwear for your now-spilled coffee to leak through will be of vanishingly small comfort.
I’m not saying any of these things happened to me this weekend, necessarily. I’m just saying these would be really, really bad ways to find out you’ve been sporting your undies ass-backwards.
On the other hand, I am planning on teaching the dog to fetch the newspaper, boarding over all the windows in our house, and upholstering the kitchen counters with down blankets. Nice, warm down blankets.
Still, I’m not confirming or denying anything. You’d think, after thirty-plus years of mostly reliable underwear wearing, that maneuvering into a pair would be second nature by now. And I’ll let you continue to think that, by not offering any more details on the matter.
Coincidentally, I’m sure the fact that the school buses don’t come down our street any more is completely unrelated.
And no, I don’t have any idea why they started throwing ‘Moon Pies’ at the house. I SAID IT’S UNRELATED, DAMMIT!
Can’t a guy sit on his down-covered countertop and drink a bedtime Big Gulp in peace? Sheesh.
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When I woke up this morning, I was uncharacteristically hungry. Typically, it takes an hour or two of finding my bearings and coming to terms with consciousness before I can put a really good hunger together. Multitasking is not something I can manage before noon; it’s one thing at a time for me, until all the neurons start firing. And that takes a while. Frankly, if I make it through a morning without impaling myself on the shower head or setting the dog on fire, I label that a ‘success’.
Usually, my ‘one thing’ in the morning is simple and instinctive. Like ‘Am I late for work already?‘ or ‘Wow, I really have to pee,‘ for instance. The tougher questions come later, like ‘How many sick months have I used already?‘ or ‘Did I remember to lift the seat?‘ or ‘Where did this mariachi band come from, and where the hell are my pants?‘
(A word to the wise regarding that last one — never bet a guy who works at a Burrito Barn that you can drink more tequila than he can. I’m pretty sure that under Mexican law, I’m married to the castanet player now.
Which is nowhere nearly as intriguing as it sounds, chivato.)
Today, my solitary waking thought was:
‘Boy, would I like some jam on toast.‘
Why? Who knows. I haven’t had jam on toast in ages; I rarely eat breakfast at all. Maybe I smelled the guy next door burning toast before I woke up. Or my wife sprayed ‘Eau de orange marmalade‘ in the bedroom. Or possibly, I had that dream about the stripper whose name reminds me of jam.
(Because with a name like ‘Smuckers’, she has to be good, right?)
Whatever the reason, I’m not one to fight my waking impulses. It takes way too much effort, and I’m likely to sprain something trying. So I hit the kitchen, in search of toast and jam.
“Call us back in a few hundred generations, when you’ve done something about those brow ridges, maybe.”
Bread, check. Toaster oven, check. The contraption and I have tussled before, so I know it’s incapable of producing a proper slice of toast, but it would have to do. It was either that or get out the acetylene torch again, and I just set the dog on fire yesterday morning, while ironing my shirt. I needed a ‘successful’ morning today.
WIth the bread simmering in the toaster, I dug through the fridge, in search of jam. Or jam-like substances, which is what I found, in two varieties:
The first was a half-full off-brand jar of ‘Grape Jelly’. It seemed innocent — and potentially delicious — enough, until I found the date on the jar. Apparently, the manufacturers suggest the product is: ‘Best If Used By 02/01/03‘.
Now, I’m no expert on the wide range of date formats out there in the world, and I know the Europeans in particular like to switch bits of the date around on us Yanks — but I couldn’t find any combination of numbers on that label that suggested the contents weren’t harboring an ecosystem of reasonably evolved organisms by now. I worried that if I opened the jar, something inside might send up a flare and the inhabitants would emerge to annex the vegetable crisper. I chucked the jar, unopened, into the trash. Better safe than sorry.
The second jar — found, disturbingly enough, behind the grape jam jar — was labelled ‘Strawberry Preserves, and was nearly full. It was in a nice name-brand glass bottle, with leaves and flowers on the label. Too fancy for us; probably a present from someone. Or stolen from a local Denny’s, perhaps.
I stood in the cold light of the open fridge for a full five minutes, twisting and turning the jar, looking for an expiration date. Finally, I had to admit that there was no date to be found. There were no markings whatsoever to indicate the age or probable toxicity of the spreadable fruity goodness within. So, I came to the only reasonable conclusion:
If there is no date on the jar, then the strawberry preserves can never go bad!
It makes perfect sense, of course. Despite the superficial similarities to the aged and undoubtedly spoiled grape ‘jam’, these were strawberry ‘preserves‘. So they’d be preserved, presumably, forever — immune to the ravages of germs, dust, molds, fungi, and any other unsavory critter that might happen by. A veritable marvel of modern strawberry processing, these preserves would survive a nuclear winter and still be around for the cockroaches to enjoy in the aftermath. Only the roaches wouldn’t get in, either, because the preserves are impervious to contamination.
Only humans — with our overdeveloped forebrains, opposable thumbs, and penchant for spreadable treats — are able to unlock the wonders of the unspoilable fancy strawberry preserves. Chimps, maybe, could sneak a taste. Or orangutans, but that’s it. Gibbons on down, and you’re out of luck. Call us back in a few hundred generations, when you’ve done something about those brow ridges, maybe.
So, when the toast was done, I dipped a knife into the magic jar, and heaped generous dollops of berrylicious preserves onto the bread. I spread it. And I ate it. Who knows when the stuff was jarred? Turn of the century? The Carter administration? During the Crimean War? Don’t know, don’t care. It was tangy, it was delicious, and it was ‘preserves‘, so what’s to worry about? One breakfast craving, successfully fulfilled. End of story.
Except… now, three hours later, I’m starting to hear voices that sound like Barry White on helium, and I’m having some really interesting hallucinatons involving Mrs. Buttersworth and the bag of baby carrots in the veggie crisper. The mariachi band is in on it, too — and my old stripper friend, Smuckers. Only now, she’s a six-foot tall pink Clydesdale, in a G-string and pasties. Also, I’m pretty sure my colon just exploded. That’s probably not good.
Hrm. Well, it must be a stomach virus, or something I ate last night. Because I know it couldn’t be the preserves. That’s just crazy talk. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to have a nice lie-down in the fridge for a few hours. Mrs. B., hold my calls, please.
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