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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
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.
Permalink | 2 CommentsNormally, I might apologize for posting a really short entry. But this is St. Patrick’s Day — on a Friday, too, for the love of redheads and potatoes and liquored-up coffee! And if I know my readers, most of them won’t be sobered up enough to read anything again until at least Monday. And I’ve got Guinness in the fridge awaiting my attention, so I’m mailing one in here. It happens.
So feel free to take the night off, too, and spend it celebrating the patron saint of leprechaun keggers everywhere.
(Which pretty much makes Saint Patrick the coolest saint of all, next to… well, Saint Pauli, naturally.
“Until the Catholics come up with a patron saint of bikini car washes, Pauli’s the man.”
I mean, Pauli’s got booze and girls. With pigtails! And lederhosen! That’s a tough combo to beat. Until the Catholics come up with a patron saint of bikini car washes, Pauli’s the man.)
You kids have fun tonight. I’ll see you on the other side. Cheers.
Permalink | No CommentsOh, cruel irony.
I wrote a few days ago — in jest, mind you — about needing an excuse to get out of work for the first weekend of March Madness this year. I don’t really want to shatter your image of my refreshingly sexy carefree and cavalier attitude, but I really was just joshing. Since college, I have exactly twice completely skipped out of work on the Thursday and/or Friday that kick off the NCAA basketball tourney. And when I did, I was up-front about it. I had fricking tickets to the Thursday games — once here in Boston, and once in Pittsburgh, so I would not be coming to work that day. And those Fridays… well, if the hoops hangovers didn’t do me in, then there’d be nineteen more hours or so of basketball to watch. So Friday was out, too. No cockamamie excuses for me, boyo.
So I was joking, really, when I brought it up earlier this week. I kid — I’m a kidder. It’s what I do.
But then, a funny thing happened. I actually did finagle a way out of work tomorrow (Friday). A perfectly reasonable, understandable, and justifiable reason to work from home. And it’s this — in our new office, I’ve been assigned to a cubicle. It’s one of ten or twelve cubes in a little ‘mini-cube farm’ on one side of our new building. No problem.
However, I also happen to be the first contact for certain types of people who are applying for jobs in our group. And I like to kick off the recruiting dance with a telephone screen. I find those sorts of conversations tell both parties about what they might be getting into, without the initial commitment and dressing-upness of a proper, in-person interview. It’s nice for both sides.
And it just so happens that I’ve got phone interviews scheduled for tomorrow. That’s just how it worked out. No, really — honest. Stop looking at me that way, dammit.
“The nirvana I joked about has fallen into my lap, and I’ve just found that it’s a mirage. A pipe dream, composed of solid teams and well-coached squads, and shooting guards who can actually hit an open three-pointer.”
Anyway, the upshot is, these sorts of conversations would be fairly uncomfortable, I’m thinking, to have in my open-ended, highly public cubicle. If I have the conversations at work, then everyone around me is going to hear the spiel of what we do, and here’s our sales pitch, and what do you bring to the table, and nobody wants that. Especially because I’m not always so terribly ‘smooth’ on the phone — I know, I know; ‘the hell, you say — get out!‘ — so who knows what I might end up saying, or claiming, or pretending our group can do?
‘What, time travel? Well, sure, we all work on the time travel machines over here. It’s old hat by now, really.‘
‘What’s that, cold fusion? Pffffft. Piece of cake. We even started doing fusion in the deep freezes in the cafeteria, just for the challenge. Nothing but a thing.‘
So clearly, it’s better if I have these conversations at home, with no one but the dog around to laugh at me.
(And the dog’s not even wearling pants, so how superior can she really think she is, right?
I mean, if I’m not wearing pants, it’s a conscious choice, If the dog is bottomless, it’s just because she’s got no opposable thumbs, and a brain the size of a chickpea. It’s completely different. No, really.)
Look, the point is — I’ve now got a perfectly good reason to stay at home tomorrow, and I’m taking it. Conducting private interviews, from the comfort of my own abode, is simply more advantageous for everyone involved.
But it did occur to me that I’d found an excuse to watch basketball, too — or at least sneak a few games in between interview calls. Without really meaning to, I’d devised an ingenious way to get to see most of the first round action happening on Friday. It just fell into my lap — really!
So you can imagine my dismay — nay, my profound heartbreak, disappointment, and heart-wrenching misery — when my favorite team, the one true team that I care about, the team I live and die with and fret over like a fragile nursing baby, LOST tonight, in their very first game.
My team. OUT. Buh-bye. Have a nice summer; see you next season.
Which means, I don’t frankly give a polkaing Pekinese posterior what the hell happens to any other fricking team for the rest of this lousy, time-wasting, poopy tournament. Teams win, teams lose — what do I care? I’d rather watch baseball, ya dinks.
(Yes, I’m a sore loser. And no, I don’t learn from the heartbreak year to year. Such is the plight of die-hard sports fans — ever-optimistic, but doomed to wallow in the wading pool of unmet expectations.
It’s a hard life. We don’t suffer quite as much as the Catholics, but only because we don’t keep at it year-round. Schedule March Madness once a week, like church trips, and we might give ’em a run for their money. The ‘Seven Deadly Sins’ have got nothing on a first-round loss to a team that never should have been in the Big Dance in the first place. Color me soulstricken.)
Anyway, now I’m in a most unenviable situation. I’m absolved of going to the office on Friday, but I still have to perform the phone interviews (that being the point, of course), and now I’m not even interested in waching basketball at all. The nirvana I joked about has fallen into my lap, and I’ve just found that it’s a mirage. A pipe dream, composed of solid teams and well-coached squads, and shooting guards who can actually hit an open three-pointer.
So, I suppose I’ll be good tomorrow. If I can’t enjoy the tournament, then I should at least dig the conversations with potential new people, and whatever else gets thrown at me in the process. But basketball? Dead to me! At least until next year.
Hardly makes working from home seem worth it, does it? And I’ll be vaguely cheering for underdogs the rest of the way out, but mostly to be a pain in the ass. My heart’s not really in it, and half the time, I’ve never heard of the team I’m supporting. It’s just what we do, once our teams bite the big orange dimpled one.
Screw this, man! Can I go to work on Saturday and Sunday, too? This tournament is OVER!
Permalink | 1 CommentThe NCAA basketball tournament starts in earnest tomorrow.
(I don’t recognize the ‘play-in game’ as being part of the shindig, really. Sure, it’s great for the team from an itty-bitty school that gets to play one more game before hanging up the jock straps for the season — but mostly, it was invented to squeeze a little more cash out of the fans for the event. Who ever started an elimination tourney with sixty-five teams, anyway?
Nobody, that’s who.)
“That’s a mascot I don’t want to see, I don’t need to see, and I’ve paid upwards of twenty bucks at a peep show specifically to see.”
The days between the bracket seeding announcement and the actual tournament are the most fun. Partly, that’s because the anticipation is often better than than whatever the wait is for. Partly, it’s because arguing over how Cincy got screwed over, and who at the Air Force Academy slipped steak dinners and hookers to the selection committee to get their team in, is always entertaining. Mostly, though, it’s because these are the precious few days when we can laugh and point at the postage stamp-sized schools from piddly little conferences that made it to the Big Dance. By Friday, one of those ‘nobodies’ will have knocked off our favorite team, ruined our brackets, and cost us fifty bucks in the office pool. We sure as hell won’t be laughing and pointing at them then.
So, we might as well laugh and point at them now.
(Karma? What is this ‘karma’ you speak of? Never heard of it.
Is that one of those Conference USA schools?)
Actually, I don’t want to laugh and point so much, because I’ve got very little information to laugh and point about. There are a dozen or so schools in the tourney this year that I know precious little about. Including, for instance, their mascots. I can rattle off the mascots for many of the major college teams, and I can tell you that there are, in this year’s festivities, four ‘Wildcats’, three each of ‘Panthers’ and ‘Tigers’, several ‘Eagles’, some ‘Quakers’, ‘Great Danes’, ‘Bulldogs’, and ‘Salukis’, ‘Hoyas’, ‘Aztecs’, ‘Golden Flashes’, and even a first-round ‘Bruins’-‘Bruins’ matchup that promises to be… well, a real grizzly of a game — for the underbear, at least.
(Did I just do that? ‘Underbear’? ‘Grizzly of a game’?
Lord help me, the March Madness must’ve already set in. I’m so ashamed.)
And don’t even get me started on the Wichita State Shockers. That’s a mascot I don’t want to see, I don’t need to see, and I’ve paid upwards of twenty bucks at a peep show specifically to see. How those kids can play ball with that going on is beyond me.
(If you don’t get any of that last bit, just keep moving. Don’t look it up or think too hard about any of it. I don’t want to be accused of contributing to the delinquency of anyone who’s not already there. Move it along, folks.)
Not knowing the mascots for many of these teams, I did what any curious, resourceful, possibly unstable sports fan would do: I made up new mascots for them. Sometimes more than one, when I couldn’t decide. Here’s my list of who I think is going to be playing this weekend — so now my bracket is way more interesting than yours. Jealous much?
Belmont Stakes
Bradley Fighting Vehicles
OR
Bradley DammitJanets! (Yes, it’s a Rocky Horror reference. Deal.)
Bucknell Buckaroos
Davidson Goliaths
OR
Davidson Lettermen (See, because they letter in basketball, and there’s David Letterman, and… yeah. It’s not that good. Moving on!)
George Washington Cherry Trees
OR
George Washington Bridges
OR
George Washington Carvers
Hampton Weekends
Iona BigHouses
OR
Iona FastCars
OR
Iona BaseballBattaNowIBreakaYouFaceas
OR
Iona Rosannadannas (No, it doesn’t quite fit — but who wouldn’t want a Gilda Radner mascot?)
Monmouth Cottonmouths
OR
Monmouth Monoliths
Oral Roberts I’mNotTouchingThisOneEvenIHaveMyLimits
Pacific Oceans
OR
Pacific Atlantics
OR
Pacific Gravities (Yes, it’s a lisping science nerd joke. I need professional help, really.)
Southern Comforts
OR
Southern Crosses
OR
Southern ManDon’tNeedHimAroundAnyhows
Permalink | 1 CommentI’m having a spat. A big one, with lots of screaming and profanity and stamping of little feet. All by me, of course, which is the norm in these little disagreements.
This particular spat is with my cell phone.
I say that the pictures I took with the phone camera last night (as evidence, to accompany a post about a narrowly-averted bit of idiocy in which I nearly engaged) are mine, and I should be able to email them to myself whenever the hell I please.
“Opposable thumbs, years of cell phone experience, and a brain the size of a C-cup boob, and what does it all get me? Nothing.”
The phone, however, has other ideas. The phone seems to think that it owns the pictures now, and has complete control over what happens to them. It firmly believes in its lunkheaded digibrain that it’s meeting me halfway, by letting me see the pictures, and save the pictures, and — in an unfortunate slip of the thumb — even delete one of the pictures, but not, under any circumstance, email the pictures to a device where I might actually do something useful with the pictures.
Further, the phone has taken up a policy whereby it will send itself a chirpy and thoroughly uncooperative text message each time I attempt to email said photos to myself:
‘Pictures Access Denied!‘
(My quotes, but the caps and exclamation point come from the phone. Cheeky little cuss.)
What I’ve ever done to the phone to deserve this sort of shunning is beyond me. I treat my phone right. It’s got the Liberty Bell March ringtone, and a custom screen image. I barely ever drop it, and I always wipe it clean after making 900-number calls. And I never — never, never, never — do that trick where you sit in the back row at a movie with the phone on vibrate tucked into your underwear, where you call yourself over and over on another cell phone’s speed dial. Never.
(And not because the phone was on speaker once when I got a real call, and a theater full of people heard my crotch shouting, ‘Hello? HELLO? ARE YOU THERE?!?‘
Well, not just because of that, anyway. But I’m not welcome at the Cineplex any more, I’m afraid.)
Still, this crappy little device with a brain the size of a nipple ring seems to have the upper hand for the moment. The pictures are somewhere within its bowels, and it’s not letting go without a fight. Of course, being the one in the fight with opposable thumbs, I didn’t go down quietly. I even pasted the text of the error message into Google, and found a few hits. There was even advice, with a very specific solution to my very problem. All I need to do is reset a piddling little security setting. How simple! Gosh!
Flushed, I thumbed through the menus on the phone, my victory clear and imminent. I made it to the security settings and found…
MY POOPY PHONE DOESN’T SMEGGING HAVE THAT STUPID PIDDLY LITTLE SECURITY FREAKING SETTING!
So, I’m back to square one. Opposable thumbs, years of cell phone experience, and a brain the size of a C-cup boob, and what does it all get me? Nothing. I’m still no closer to the pictures, or to the now-totally-not-worth-the-effort idiocy-averting post the pics were meant to illustrate. Instead, you get a dozen paragraphs telling you exactly how and why I’m not as smart as a three-inch piece of Mickey Mouse Sanyo electronicrap. Bitches!
Fuck it. If I don’t figure it out soon, I’ll take the damned phone apart to get at those pictures. That may not count as ‘winning’, but it’s sure as hell gonna feel good to let the hacksaw and vice grips loose on that thing. Toy with me, will ya?!
Permalink | 3 Comments
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