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98

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#98. The worst movie I ever paid to see was ‘Nothing But Trouble’.

So, let me set it up the scenario. My wife — then girlfriend of about a year — and I went toodling off for a nice Saturday afternoon matinee. (Yes, I know that the term ‘toodling‘ and ‘matinee‘ in the same sentence makes you think that we’re out doing the nasty somewhere. But, no, we were just seeing a movie. I’m just trying to get your attention.)

Anyway, I remember that we had a movie picked out, but now I can’t recall what it was. Which is no surprise. Sometimes I can’t remember what my friggin’ name was twelve years ago. And anyway, the horror that ensued later that day has wiped out any memories I had for a month on either side. It was just that bad.

So, as usual, I was late getting us to the theater. Or read the listings in the paper wrong, and thought a ‘:15’ was a ‘:45’, or a seven was a one, or something. Or I dumped spaghetti on my head at dinner, and took too long cleaning it off. It’s always something with me. In any case, we missed the start of our movie by fifteen minutes or so. Bummer. So, we checked out the other movies playing — there were a couple that we’d heard of, but nothing really enticing. And then we saw the poster for ‘Nothing But Trouble‘. Hmmmmmm. (That was us; we said, ‘Hmmmmm.’ Just like that. ‘Hmmmmm.’ Groundbreaking, isn’t it?)

So, let’s see… who do we have in this movie? (This is still us, back then. Just imagine us, thinking and talking the next few lines, okay? I’m a little strapped for cash right now, so I don’t want to go through the extra expense of all the quotes and italics I’d normally use for this. Just work with me, here, all right? Good. Okay, I’ll start over. Remember, this is us, back then. We’re looking at the poster. Okay, good. Here we go.)

So, let’s see…who do we have in this movie? Hey, look, Dan Aykroyd. Blues Brothers, Ghostbusters… cool. Okay, who else? Ooh, John Candy. He’s always funny.

(Her: Really? What about The Great Outdoors?

Me: Oh. Oh, yeah, that sucked. Hey, wasn’t Aykroyd in that, too?

Her: Yeah, I think so. Oh, well.

Me: Yeah. Whatever.

Obviously, somebody should have briefed us on what to do when ominous foreshadowing like this happens. What ignorant children we were.)

Hey, let’s continue reading the poster now. (…we said. Subtle, no?) Hey, there’s Demi Moore. She’s done some good stuff — Seventh Sign, St. Elmo’s Fire…

(Me: Oh, and Blame It On Rio.

Her: Ooh, and Ghost.

Me: Pfftttt. You only liked Ghost because of Patrick Swayze’s ass.

Her: Yeah? Well, you only watched Blame It On Rio for the boob shots.

Me: And Michael Caine. Michael Caine was in it, too, you know.

Her: Yeah, right. Michael Caine. You’d watch a Senate hearing if you thought there were gonna be tits.

Me: No, I — um, okay, you’re probably right. Anyway, Demi didn’t show a lot in that movie. I guess she’ll never be famous for flopping her hooters around, with little bitty honkers like that.

Her: Yeah, whatever.

Okay, honestly, we didn’t have this conversation. I made it up. But if we had, that’s exactly how it would have gone. I’m certain of it.)

Hey, now we’re continuing to look at the poster. There seems to be one more person on it. (That’s what we said, all right. Boy, this stuff is gold.) Well, look at that! It’s Chevy Chase! Wow, he’s awesome! Look at all of these stars! This movie must be spectacular. Let’s go buy our matinee-priced adult fare movie passes right now!

Okay, that’s enough flashback crap. Apparently, we talked like a couple of idiots back then. Maybe we were having a bad day. Anyway, I shelled out fourteen bucks for two tickets, and we went in to see it.

I’m not gonna go into the details of the film, folks. For one thing, I don’t want to relive the horrifying details. I’ll simply tell you this about the characters. Chevy plays a straight man. (Comedically speaking, that is. Sexually, just about everybody in the movie appears to be straight. Oh, no, wait — Taylor Negron is in there for a while. It seems I spoke too soon.) Anyway, Demi plays the ‘straight man’, too. Candy plays a straight man in one role, and a mute woman in another. Yeah, that’s what I’d do — I’d take two experienced and talented comedic actors and a hot chick, and give them zero funny lines. Yeah, that seems like a good idea.

Aykroyd got a better deal, of course. But he directed the damned thing, so why wouldn’t he? Oh, and his brother wrote the script. I suppose the Aykroyds believe in ‘If you can’t keep it in your pants, keep it in the family‘. ‘It’ being crap, that is. Nonsensical, hackneyed crap. Anyway, Danny boy got to dress up as a demented old guy, as well as this… um, actually, I don’t know what the fuck he was supposed to be. Some half-assed, diapered freak of nature spawned from god-knows-where… ooh, I get dizzy just thinking about it. Damn, this was a bad movie.

Anyway, we sat through it. I don’t know how, but we managed. And we walked out of the theater with deer-in-headlights, what-the-fuck-did-we-just-witness expressions on our faces, and we got in our car, and we said:

‘What the fuck did we just witness?‘

And we drove away, and have never spoken of it again. And now I wish I’d never brought it up. I feel all dirty. That’s it — this post is over. I’m gonna go take a shower. Yuck.

97

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#97. My parents have had as many homes since I left for college as I’ve had.

I’m not sure whether this is a sign of their increasing instability, or whether I’m just a better ‘nester’ than they. Or maybe just the luck of the draw. Anyway, for the record, here’s the comparison:

They started in the house where I grew up, then moved to a small city in southern Virginia. From there, they moved to an even smaller town in central Ohio, and then back to the city where we originally lived, into a different house. From there, they moved into an apartment a few blocks away, which is where they are today. (Well, okay, fine, today, they might be at the store, or on vacation, or something. Technically, I don’t know where the hell they are today. But their mail gets delivered to the apartment. And that’s good enough for me.)

So, in those same thirteen years or so, I’ve lived at college, then in my first apartment in Pittsburgh, then in another (nicer) apartment with my wife in Pittsburgh, then in our apartment here in Boston, and finally here, in our cool house just outside the city.

So that’s five to five. To be fair, the first two moves my parents made were because of my dad’s work. (Though why the hell they ended up back in my boyhood hometown is a mystery to me. They were out! They’d escaped. Why the hell would they throw themselves back on the fire?) And, I suppose if you’re going to nit-pick — and you know you are, you weasel — you could mention that I had three different dorm rooms while at college, and also lived for a month in a Boston condo because I moved here before my wife. You could say those things. But then I’d just tell you that they don’t count, and stop interrupting my damned blog post, chucklebutt. I’d probably call you a weasel again. So don’t, understand? Just don’t. You’ve done quite enough already. Harrumph.

96

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#96. I once had strep throat and mono at the same time.

And you know what? As bad as it sounds, I think I’d recommend it.

See, for your usual sicknesses — the flu, or a garden-variety cold — doctors won’t give you the good shit. Oh, they might throw you an antibiotic bone if you’re lucky, but nothing that’ll make you feel better. You’re gonna suffer through your illness, and probably for several days. It’s a ‘wait and see’ kind of approach.

But start screwing around with Streptococcus, boy, and their ears perk up. Throw in another goodie — like mononucleosis — and they’ll actually dig into the vault and pony up some medicine. Real, live, stinkin’ meds. No lie.

Now, I get sick every year. It’s usually just a cold, but every once in a while it’ll turn into bronchitis. It’s been happening since I was a kid, and I’ve learned to deal with the coughing and wheezing and shit like that. So I don’t run to the doctor every time I get a sniffle. But this one year back in school, I felt like hell. Death warmed over, then left out overnight, and thrown back in the fridge. I’d had a cold for a day or two already, but I woke up one morning and just felt… different. Fluids of varying colors and volumes were coming out of just about every hole you wouldn’t want them to come out of. (Okay, for the record, I think my ears stayed out of it. I can always trust my ears to stick by me.) I was exhausted, weak, and achy. And I wasn’t hungover, so I knew something was wrong.

I remember shuffling to the campus doctor’s office, and hearing that strep was going around. Great. I saw the nurse, and she took a cheek scraping and gave me some medicine. Some off-the-shelf crap. Robitussin, or something equally as puny. Apple juice disguised as cough syrup. Bitches. I needed something good, dammit, before all the fluid in my body was gone, and I was dried up like a big prune. Or Bea Arthur’s ass, I don’t know which would be worse. (Who am I kidding; of course I know which would be worse! I was just trying to be polite.)

Anyway, I went home for a while and tried to sleep. The nurse could see that I had no business in class, at least, so I was off the hook there. But still miserable. Luckily, the lab tested my samples the same day, and found the strep. And mono, to boot. With my last ounces of strength, I pulled my shit together and walked back to the infirmary to pick up my new medicine prescribed by the doctor.

I expected something a little better. Extra-strength Nyquil, maybe. Something with a touch of booze in it, to take the edge off. I was pleasantly surprised when I got my little bottle of syrup, however. I forget what brand it was, though I remember that you could buy their watered-down shit off the shelf, too. But this was no pansy-ass honey sauce. This shit had codeine, and fifteen percent alcohol. You could get a buzz off the shit, if you took a couple of doses back to back. I was too tired to think about that, really. All I wanted to do was sleep, which is what I did about ten minutes after I sucked down the first spoonful.

And I slept, and slept, and slept. Oh, I woke up enough to shuffle from the bed down to the living room to watch TV with the guys. Lying down, of course, and about twelve percent conscious. And I must have eaten in there somewhere, though where I got the food from and what I ate is still a mystery to me. I was a walking, talking zombie. (Well, actually, a shuffling, slurring zombie, if memory serves. But isn’t that how all zombies should be?) I went through that little bottle in three days, right on schedule, and I think I slept for all but about an hour of it. It was wonderful.

At the end of the ordeal, I had a little cough, but damn, was I refreshed! Twenty-two hours of sleep, or sleep-like drug-induced trance, will do that for you. Or to you. You really don’t have much say in the matter at the time. Still, there’s something about codeine that’s truly magical. At least, I assume it was the codeine. But for three days, I had this overly-medicated feeling that said to me, ‘Hey, dude. Look, if this is the shape we have to be in to get better, we must be really sick. So let’s just relax, and rest, and worry about nothing at all for a while. We’re not doin’ shit until this wears off.‘

And I didn’t. It was like a spa of some kind. Okay, so maybe it’s like a spa in a crack house, or a mental institution. But still — spa is as spa does, boys and girls. Any time you can honestly tell yourself, ‘I’m not liftin’ a finger, and I deserve it‘, and actually believe it, you’ve scored. And I spent three magical days in that heavenly bliss. All it took was a half-day of miserable, painful hellish illness to convince the powers that be to fork over the codeine, and I was in. Really, you should try it sometime. Go lick somebody who’s got mono, and swab strep onto your nostrils or something. It’ll suck for a while, but it’s worth it in the long run. Cross my heart.

95

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#95. I do all of my agonizing before decisions, not after.

Which is not to say that there’s no agonizing involved. Quite the contrary, in fact. I can debate what to have for lunch until dinnertime. Picking out a birthday card or anniversary present can lock me up for weeks. Deciding to buy this house almost sent me into a coma.

Okay, so it’s really not quite that bad. But I do hate to make a decision before I have all the facts, and weigh all the options, and consider all the alternatives. And I do mean ‘all‘. I make charts and lists and comparison graphs, and generally annoy the piss out of anyone else who has the great misfortune to be involved. (Which is usually my wife. I don’t know how she puts up with it.)

But the upside is — after going through all of that, I never second-guess myself afterwards. Oh, sometimes my decisions are wrong. Oh, yes. Horribly, shockingly, often expensively wrong. But I’m always comfortable that I made the best choice I could at the time, given the information available. (And my limited capacity for logical reasoning.) So there’s never anything to beat my head against the wall about. Which is good, because it’s usually still bloodied and bruised from the pre-decision beatings. I don’t think I could go through it again so soon.

94

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#94. I wear boxers, but I do have an emergency pair of briefs.

Okay, so maybe this is a little more than you need to know about me. Or maybe it gives you a window into my very soul, allowing you to infer things about me and my life that I don’t even know yet. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s another lame excuse for me to talk about underpants. I’ll never tell.

So, my ‘tight pinch tighty-whities’, if you will, are left over from my earlier days. You see, I was always a brief man. Close and snug, that’s where I wanted my boys down there. Where I could keep an eye on ’em, lest there erupt any funny business. I feared that boxers would give them too much leeway, and they’d flip and flop around all willy-nilly, and I’d never get anything accomplished. Willy-nilly flip-flopping can be very distracting, you see.

I suppose we all start out as brief men, don’t we, fellas? I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen a young child with boxers before. Well, not around his waist, anyway. I suppose I’ve seen a few with undies on their heads, careening around like a spooked flightless bird, giggling and squawking. But that doesn’t count. First of all, I’m pretty sure the boxers didn’t belong to them. And secondly, they weren’t making proper use of them. So no points there.

Now, I made the switch relatively late. After college sometime, as a matter of fact. Actually, most of the guys in the freshman dorms were briefers, come to think of it. I — thankfully — saw less and less men in their underpants after getting out of that cattle car of creepiness, but I don’t remember seeing too many boxers after that, either. Maybe I just didn’t do a good job of noticing what my fellow guys were wearing under their pants. Bad luck for you, I suppose.

Anyway, somewhere along the way, I obtained a couple of pairs of novelty boxers. I remember one pair with a cow print, and another made of silk. (Mmmmmmm… silk… nnngggghhhh…) I didn’t wear them often. (But I wore them well. Ooh, snap, yo.) But eventually, I started getting more comfortable with them. I’d wear them to bed, to let little Johnny and the cowpokes get some air. You know, relax after a hard day. Lie back in a nice breeze, that sort of thing.

Well, after a while, I started working the boxers into the undie rotation. Slowly, at first — for a while, I was a tighty-whitey guy with an emergency pair (or two) of boxers. They’d be the last ones I’d wear before laundry day. But gradually, I started wearing them more often. My wife bought me another pair or two along the way; I could almost wear boxers for a whole week straight! And so I did. Yes, I did.

Finally, I took the plunge. I went to a department store and bought a six-pack. Now I could feed my boxer habit for a good ten days or so, which would usually get me to laundry day. Over the years, I’ve added to the collection — and lost a couple of the little guys — and now I go boxers, or not at all.

(Well, okay, I go boxers; I’d rather go dirty than go commando. Not that I mind having my business rubbing all up against my shorts, or my jeans. Actually, I think that would be a perfect excuse to give people even weirder looks than I do now. Sort of a ‘guess what Santa’s got for you‘ kind of thing. Or a ‘hey, why don’t you pull my finger now and see what happens‘ look. Really, I think that part would be pretty damned entertaining.

No, for me, it’s the ‘beans and franks’ issue. That’s the thing about that scene from There’s Something About Mary where the kid gets his jewels all jumbled. That should never happen, unless you’re going commando. Never. Doesn’t matter what kind of undies you’ve got on, folks. All men know the three-step procedure to put the snake back in the cage. You shake, you tuck, and you zip. It’s second nature; even easier to remember than ‘Stop, Drop and Roll’.

The tuck is the important step for our purposes here. You tuck Mr. Willikers back into the undies precisely to avoid the sort of unpleasantness portrayed so graphically in the movie. Sure, you might get nicked, if you’re still dangling out the barn door. It’s possible you might even break the skin. But with all that fabric in the way, protecting you, there’s no way you can get the beans above the franks and zip ’em all up together. *shudder* And thank heaven for that, too. Nobody should have to go through that.)

Okay, where the hell was I again? Ah, boxers. Gotcha.

So, anyway, I never actually wear my emergency pair. But I did keep the one pair of briefs when I threw the others away, just in case. (Maybe I did listen to anything my mother ever said, after all.) I’m not sure exactly what ‘case’ would cause them to come in handy, but there they are — jammed in the back of the underwear drawer with the dress socks and the handkerchiefs my parents once decided I needed. (It’s… um… nah, just don’t ask.)

So, should that time ever come when briefs are needed, I’ll be ready. I just hope the emergency isn’t a two-day event, ’cause I’ve only got one pair. And with all that closeness and rubbing going on when you wear the tighties, it’s a little harder to reuse them without washing. Not, um, that I ever did that, of course. As far as you know, anyway.

See? There are still some things left that I won’t tell you. Thank your lucky stars, too. You don’t know what kind of horrifying shit you’re missing over here.)