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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”
Now, don’t get me wrong. I say this not because it was ‘cool‘. Which it was, of course. But I bring it up mainly because I’m amazed at the trouble I was willing to go to to have it done. And the fact that I wore it. A lot. It was my music that set me apart in those days, and sometimes I forget just how damned proud of myself that I was.
See, back in high school — this is the mid-’80’s we’re talking about here — I had different musical tastes than most of my friends. I’d graduated from the Huey Lewis and Survivor and Heart crap back in junior high, and had moved on to rock with more personality. Rock that was innovative, and unique. Rock that had a soul.
So, instead of worrying about fitting in, as I’d pretty much done up to that point in life, I said, ‘You know what? Fuck it. My shit is better than their shit, and I don’t care who knows it.‘ So, I talked about music. I played my favorite bands for people. And, somewhere along the way, I had the jacket done.
It must have been around 1986 or so that I had it made. I found lettering, just the way I wanted, from LP sleeves and cassette inserts, and carried them to the airbrush place at the mall. I remember my mom helping me out with it, and probably paying for it, as I’m sure it wasn’t all that cheap. The artist at the store was a little iffy on the idea — apparently, denim doesn’t take ink well, and the colors would tend to run and jumble. Luckily for me, he liked a challenge, and promised to give it a shot. So, I left him with my instructions, and the text I wanted, and several dozen dollars of mom’s money, and hoped that it would turn out okay.
And it did. Oh, there were a couple of piddly little places you could pick over, but nobody was going to notice those. Not when faced with the blazing coolness of the thing. Not that anybody but me ever gave a damn, of course. But still, I wore that jacket around like a suit of armor. It was my shield against all that was formulaic and stale in the world. And, I’m happy to say, while the bands I chose didn’t universally maintain their ‘coolness’, they did remain innovative and different and special through all the years. And which bands were they? Well, I’m glad you asked:
So, that was my jacket. I spent a lot of time talking about those bands, and others, and listening to their music (back when they were all cool), and telling people to stop calling me a frickin’ dork. But still, it was fun, and I sort of liked wearing my allegiences around on my back for a while. And if you can believe it, I still have the jacket. Well, the back of it, anyway. The thing was falling apart a few years ago in my parents’ storage space, so my mother cut the back out and had it mounted in a frame for me. Which is pretty cool, even if I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to hang it anywhere, being married to a woman and all.
Maybe one day, I’ll have a rec room or something, and I’ll put the thing up there. And I’ll stock the stereo with songs from Candy Apple Grey and Head on the Door and Reckoning and October. On MP3, of course. Hey, just ’cause I’m nostalgic doesn’t mean I don’t keep up with technology. I’m a big boy now.
Permalink | No CommentsAnger is a funny thing. Not ‘funny ha-ha’, so much as ‘funny hey, what are you doing with that baseball bat and why did you turn the music up so loud?’ Which is ‘ha-ha’ for one person involved, perhaps — but not both.
The tricky thing about anger is that it tends to make you forget things. Most of us have come up for air in the middle of a really good, lathered-up tirade, and realized that we’ve forgotten why we were angry in the first place. Or forgotten our manners, and screamed toehair-curling obscenities at full throat in a public place, like a library or wedding or job interview. Or even forgotten our survival instincts, and torn into the guy with the gun and handcuffs and pretty uniform. These things happen.
“Most of the names bandied about at this stage won’t even make sense — what is a ‘cockholegrubber’, anyway? Can ‘rimjob’ really be used a proper noun?”
The first thing that seems to slip our enraged minds, though, is the name of the person whose new asshole we’re busy ripping. This can be rather inconvenient. Not just because it’s rude to forget someone’s name — we’re well past ‘rude’ at this point, and charting waters like ‘apoplectic’ and ‘belligerent’; it’s more that you don’t want any confusion remaining as to who’s receiving the tongue-lashing. Working up a good froth is hard work; heaven forbid you should have to do it again, because the jackhole you’re berating ‘thought you were talking the other guy’.
As the beratee, however, this no-name-dropping can come in pretty handy. I know this from experience, of course, having been chewed out on a regular basis. Bosses, family members, coworkers, friends, strangers, nuns, infants, and pets — it doesn’t seem to matter. I just have a knack for making people uncontrollably, vein-poppingly angry. It’s a gift, really. I should have been a telemarketer. Or a politician.
Anyway, through the tirades and browbeatings, I’ve found that there are distinct classes of names used to replace my own. They may forget my real name during a really good profanity-laced diatribe, but they’ve got to call me something, just to make sure I’m still paying attention. Which is good, because I’m usually not. That may be what scientists refer to as ‘part of the problem’.
Here’s a guide to the sorts of things you may be called when you’re in hot water, and how deeply screwed you may be at each stage. Maybe this will help you more than it’s helped me. Certainly, you couldn’t do any worse.
Stage 1: Mildly annoyed
Names you may be called: Skippy, Buddy, Sport, You, Kid, Lady
This is the least serious situation, barely worth the lecture or the middle finger you’re getting. You’ll hear these sorts of names for the most minor transgressions — cutting someone off in traffic, cutting in line at the ATM, copping a quick feel in the coffee shop, that sort of thing.
If, you know, you’re the kind of person who would do such despicable things. I wouldn’t, of course. These are just examples.
But I’ll go to Starbucks with you any time. Just say the word, hot stuff.
Stage 2: Really irked
Names you may be called: Jerk, Bastard, Prick, Retard, Sonuvabitch
This is where you get your common, garden-variety sorts of insults. Mild swearing, sanity-questioning, that sort of thing.
There may be some finger-pointing and palms upturned in the international ‘Why?!‘ gesture, but this is still a fairly slow, gentle burn. It’s the response to maybe eating someone else’s lunch, or raking your leaves into their yard. Most people won’t be willing to spend energy on really interesting, creative names.
Yet.
Stage 3: Boiling over
Names you may be called: Asshole, Shithead, Imbecile, Abomination, Bitch
This is where Scrabble players and those unafraid to spew filth really start to shine. At this stage of anger, most common epithets have been used, so there are two choices — whip out the thesaurus to get your point across, or start hooking curses together like they were conjunction-junctions. If you should ever find yourself being harangued by someone who’s both foul-mouthed and a logophile, sit back and enjoy the show. The earfuls don’t get any better than that.
Of special note here is ‘bitch’; you’ll get ‘sonuvabitch’ (if you’re a man) far earlier than you’ll hear ‘bitch’ (if you’re a woman). While part of the disparity may be due to a faint sliver of chivalry left in today’s society, I think it has more to do with the fact that women often have sharp claws, and they’ll pull your hair and kick you in places where fast-moving feet don’t belong. So things have to escalate pretty far to get ‘bitch’ on the table.
Stage 4: Thoroughly pissed
Names you may be called: Mothafucka, Dickbag, Assholemunch, Twat, Fuckbugger
Now you’re in trouble. You’ve just keyed your name into the boss’ car, or left a top-shelfer in the ladies’ room at a tea social. You’re a despicable, unbalanced, and probably dangerous individual, someone’s caught you in the act, and now you’re hearing about it. There’s probably a lot of finger-jabbing in the chest going on, maybe some pushing. Punches may have even been thrown — this is heady territory you’re in here.
Most of the names bandied about at this stage won’t even make sense — what is a ‘cockholegrubber’, anyway? Can ‘rimjob’ really be used a proper noun? The worst thing you can possibly do — short of whatever it is you just got finished doing, of course — is to ask these sorts of questions, in the heat of the moment. This is no time for grammatical hairsplitting. Don’t go there. Trust me.
Stage 5: Borderline homocidal
Names you may be called: ‘The C word’, Blllleeearrghh, Sir
Let me clear one thing up quickly. I’m not afraid to use the ‘C’ word, when it’s warranted. Or in the right company. But I have enough horny, angry, twitchy Googlers running around this place without having that indexed on the same page as, say, ‘rimjob’ and ‘toehair-curling’. These are not the hits you’re looking for, young Jedi.
I will say this, from past experience: the most dangerous name on this list — after the worst-insult-I-can-think-of, after the incoherent gurgling sounds — is ‘Sir’. Or ‘Madam’, if you’re a woman. That level of calm, polite formality, on the heels of a howling hissy fit, can mean only one thing:
This person has just figured out a way to get rid of you.
If you’re lucky, it means they’re about to hang up, walk away, or drive off, and be done with you. That works, if you’re not well acquainted with your accoster. But if it’s a friend, coworker, or family member, then it means they’ve finally thought of the perfect place to hide the body. Your body. Run. Run hard and fast, and don’t look back until you’re hundreds of miles away. It’s the only way.
Seriously. How did you think I made it to Boston?
Permalink | 4 CommentsCharlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”
I used to act in community theater, back in my high school days. (As opposed to ‘act up’, which I’ve apparently been doing all my life.) Anyway, during my senior year of college, I decided to give acting another try. I ended up getting a bit part. (Non-drama department seniors with no chance to be molded and shaped are generally frowned upon as featured actors in college plays. Or maybe I sucked. Who’s to say, really?) I may have gotten a larger part — I was asked to audition for three or four parts — but they ended up bringing in a ‘local boy makes good’ minor star to play the lead role, smooshing all the rest of the talent into lesser parts.
But I stuck with it, and acted out my little part onstage with the big fish in our shallow wading pool of a school play. That man was Kevin Hardesty. He spoke one line (I believe it was, ‘That is the weirdest fuckin’ question I’ve ever heard!‘ or something similar…) in the movie Heathers, which featured Christian Slater. Who went on to star with the aforementioned Kevin Bacon in the 1995 flick Murder in the First. Believe it! Hey, if you’re nice to me, I’ll see if I can get you Kev’s autograph. We are so tight now.
Permalink | No CommentsCharlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”
I mention the fin thing only because I’m a little dubious on the status of fish as pets. I’ve had a few fish — tetras and the like — but they’ve always been pretty useless as pets. They only knew two tricks — the Scatter Like Hell When the Glass Gets Tapped On routine, and the Sputter at the Top of the Tank When the Lid is Opened bit. Both of which got old after, oh, I don’t know, maybe seven minutes. Now, to be fair, a few of them tried to be more entertaining. A couple even mastered the Backflip Out of the Tank and Onto the Floor maneuver, which carries an impressive degree of difficulty. On the other hand, it’s not so much a ‘trick’, per se, as it is a ‘suicude with a flourish’. Rather a one-time trick, I’m afraid, so it wasn’t all that entertaining, either.
Anyway, as for the non-finned pets, the first was another dog. Sandy was a cocker spaniel that I had for a few years growing up. She was ultra-submissive, which meant that she had the charming — and appetizing! — habit of pissing all over the floor when she got nervous, or met a new person. Or got kicked in the ass. (I kid, I kid… we never kicked her. If for no other reason, who wants dog pee all over their shoes?) Sandy died while I was in high school, and I didn’t have another pet until I was twenty-two years old.
That was a three foot long Burmese python that I bought for eighty dollars that fall. Or as I liked to call him, ‘Nate the Snake’. (Yes, he was named after a character in a really bad joke. You expected Shakespeare?) I fed him extra mice from the biology lab where I worked, and we got along swimmingly for a while. Unfortunately, he had some health issues, and didn’t survive our first winter together. I wrapped him in a bandana and buried him in the greenhouse attached to my lab building. It was a soothing, pleasant place, and I think he would have liked to slither among the plants and flowers there. Of course, with all the comings and goings there, someone’s probably dug him up by now and moved him somewhere rather less appealing. Still, I like to think of him there, flitting among the plants and snaking his way up some gardener’s leg as a prank when he gets bored. Rock on, Nate. Rock on.
Permalink | No CommentsCharlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”
Okay, technically, she’s an American Staffordshire Terrier. At least, that’s what the sign over her kennel at the pound said when my wife and I adopted her. (Personally, I think they just weren’t allowed to say ‘Vicious Man-Eating Pit Bull’, so they improvised.) Anyway, she looks like a pit bull, with a square head and big jaws — she’s just shrunken a little, down to collie-size or so.
Oh, and the ‘vicious’ and ‘man-eating’ thing? No. Decidedly not. She’s ‘fly-eating’, and ‘kibble-eating’, and she used to be ‘poop-eating’, until we shamed it out of her, but ‘man-eating’? Not unless the man is made of Snausages, with Pupperonis for hair and Purina brand sneakers. She loves people, and apparently not just because we taste like chicken. Our Susie is many things to many people, but one thing that she is not is ‘vicious’. Another thing she is not, coincidentally enough, is a ‘guard dog’. I think if a burglar set her up with a nice rawhide chew, she’d hold the bag open for him and point out our valuables. Assuming we ever accumulate any that she can’t chew all to hell, that is. Damned two-timing dog…
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