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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So. eBay.
Until very recently, I’d resisted the shrill siren call of the world’s largest, grungiest, and often frighteninglest swap meet. Oh, sure — the wife sold a couple of our electronic trinkets that way a while back. And we got a nice deal on a dog crateback when our pooch was still a feisty little pup. But I’d never seriously given ‘the big E’ a good once-over.
Why not? I can’t say, really, but I suspect my reluctance involved a number of factors. First, there’s really very little merchandise that I’m interested in buying. I’m a simple man, with simple needs that can largely be met with an internet connection, a trip to the beer aisle of my local grocery store, and a small, shiny object to play with. Or a ball of string, perhaps. Even a good, strong rubber band will do. I’m not picky.
Then there are the pitfalls involved with online bartering. Shipping costs. Scam auctions. Identity theft. Not knowing where the thing you’re buying has been, what’s been done to it, or who might’ve been bent over it in the middle of some unspeakable act involving pencil shavings, bundt cake pans, and an industrial belt sander. These are considerations you must take into account, if you’re considering an eBay purchase. Or, for that matter, a table at your local Burger King. But I digress.
Mostly, though, I think it came down to two factors. First, I’m what you call an ‘instant gratification’ sort of guy. If I want something, I want it NOW, dammit, and I’ll pout my lip and stamp my little feet until I’ve got it. With eBay users selling — and shipping — from Europe and Japan and Australia and Arkansas and all sorts of other strange, faraway places, items could take a week or more to get here. That’s a hell of a lot of pouty-lipped foot stamping. I don’t know if I have the stamina for that at my age any more, frankly.
Secondly — and more importantly — I avoided eBay because their commercials are pretty stupid. Honestly, with the jingles? And the fat guy in the elevator singing, and women wearing ‘IT’ dresses, and the jumbled-up, technicolor logo… what are you, eBay? Virtual Old Navy? Get a damned grip on yourself. Tsk.
Finally, though, I decided to test the shark-infested, jingle-happy online auction waters. I need a cassette deck. A decent one, with the little RCA pluggy things in the back to hook to an amplifier. Otherwise, how will I ever hear my old tapes by the Waxing Poetics and the Rave-Ups and the Screaming Blue Messiahs and the Royal Court of China, and other bands you’ve never heard of in your life?
Whazzat? Buy ’em again on CD?
Honky, please. Most of these bands came and went before you could say, ‘one-hit wonder‘. Obscure, old, and short-lived — there’s no way I’d find these things on CD, even if they ever existed, which they probably didn’t. Honestly, most of these bands — not only have you never heard of ’em, you’ve never even heard of the people who have heard of ’em. Trust me; I asked around.
Besides, why buy a couple of dozen CDs or vinyl records at ‘rare and antique!‘ prices — through eBay, no doubt, since that’s the only chance I’d have to find the one guy left alive who knows who Not Shakespeare was — when I can pay thirty bucks for a cassette player, and rip ’em all to MP3 myself? If I’m going to put off ‘instant gratification’, the least I can do is save some dough, fer crissakes.
So, I’ve jumped into the fray. I’ve bid on three auctions so far — all for cassette players. Aaaaand lost each one. At the very last minute, by less than a dollar.
It seems I was unprepared for the competitive nature of full-time eBay-ers, who I now imagine sit at their computers nonstop, clad in grimy housecoats and bunny slippers, gnurled hands clutching the mouse and waiting for the ‘Ten seconds left in auction!‘ signal to swoop in and bid the farm on the latest tchotchke up for auction. Where in my case ‘tchotchke’ is a fricking cassette player that I can plug in to record my Beat Farmers tapes. And ‘the farm’ is twelve cents more than whatever my last bid happened to be. Fricking vultures. Cut me some slack, stingydrawers!
So, long story short, I don’t have a cassette player. Three times I’ve bid, and three times I’ve lost the five-knuckle mouse shuffle to some hairy-palmed git in Kalamazoo or somewhere, who’s probably piling their eBay shit next to the mounds of QVC swag and waiting for their turn to die. Now I know why it took so long for me to get involved in this nonsense — because I knew it’d turn into a game of cat-and-retard with these people, and I am not going to be the one left holding the drool cup and the safety helmet, dammit.
Game on, mother fuckers. Game. On.
Permalink | 7 CommentsI like a lot of things about my parents.
I like that they’re wishy-washy — or at least that they were, thirty-odd years ago, when they got divorced… and then remarried the next year. Apparently, they had ‘reconcilable differences’.
I like that there’s one of each gender, just to get both perspectives. Not that I have anything against same-sex couples, mind you. Feel free to bat for whichever team, from whichever side of the plate, and wearing whatever uniform you like, so far as I’m concerned. But it’s sort of nice to be able to make a tuna casserole and discuss the merits of the no-huddle offense, is all I’m saying.
I also like that they don’t live so close that they could unexpectedly drive past and see the stupid shit that I might be doing in front of the house, but also not so far away that I’d have to, for instance, rent the space shuttle to visit them. Delta Airlines and I have a route all worked out; the status quo is working out just swimmingly.
However, at this time of year, one of the things I like most about my parents is that they really, when it gets right down to it, have no idea what I want for Christmas.
Oh, they do fine, really. They know I have this penchant — really more of a fetish at this point, I fear — for striped rugby shirts. My wife is still railing against my fashion myopia — she’ll buy me sweaters, and pullovers, and turtlenecked contraptions, trying to drag my wardrobe into the new millennium — but my parents know its a lost cause. I like to think they sigh heavily as they browse through the American Eagle catalog, shrug their shoulders, and tell each other, ‘At least he’s not into the Goth clothes, dear.’
They also come up some appropriate doodads and trinkets — I dig hot sauces and hoppy beers, thanks for asking — that are much appreciated. But after that, they’re sometimes nonplussed, I think. We haven’t shared a house for nearly two decades, and my tastes change — except in shirtwear, apparently — as quickly as a fourteen-year-old girl’s with a Teen Beat subscription and a MySpace habit.
So most years, the presents from the ‘rents include a nifty gift card — to Amazon, or somewhere similar. Like this year, it was to Amazon. Which is almost exactly like Amazon, except that I put it in italics the second time. Amazon. See how that works?
What that means, of course, is that my Christmas season gets extended a few days. Plus, I get to open some goodies that I picked out myself. This year’s batch came in the mail today, and I couldn’t be gigglier if I had on boxers made of ostrich feathers and a snootful of nitrous. Huzzah!
On the other hand, it does lead to a bit of serious self-reflection, based on the merchandise I’ve selected. For instance, my father-in-law bought me a book this year. Nice book; I had it on my wish list. Serious, non-fiction book — eleven hundred pages long. No lie. I’m on page fourteen right now. Shaddup.
Meanwhile, one of the books I dug out of my Amazon — sorry, Amazon — package tonight was approximately thirty pages long. With pictures. Cartoon pictures. And in the very front, it had an otherwise blank page, on which was written in large, black letters:
THIS BOOK BELONGS TO:
___________________________________
Yes, hello there. I’m Charlie. I’m almost fwee years old. Mewwy Cwistmas.
Wanna see my wugby collection? You’ll wuv it!
Permalink | 5 CommentsI’m an excellent procrastinator. I often amaze myself with the outlandish, complicated nonsense I’ll do, just to put off doing whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing.
Take this weekend, for instance. I’ve known since leaving work on Friday that I need to put some slides together for a talk on Tuesday afternoon. Now, normally, I wouldn’t even dream of procrastinating over those until Monday night. After all, anything worth not doing until the last minute is worth not doing until the very last minute. I’d probably spend Monday evening organizing my sock drawer or something, and finally whip a few half-assed crayon drawings together on Tuesday morning, and be done with it. Wing and a prayer stuff, you understand.
But for this talk, I’ve got partners. Other people counting on me, see. Where ‘counting on me’ seems to mean ‘stand in front of the whole group and bullshit for an hour like a Bavarian burghermeister on election day’. They’re nice people, but they’re a tad shy when it comes to public speaking. So whenever that metaphorical bus comes sqealing into the station, I’m the one who gets pushed under it. Occupational hazard of having standup comedy as a hobby, I suppose.
Anyway, the upshot is that the slides need to be ready tomorrow, so that everyone can complain about them beforehand. It’s not a proper shared presentation until one person’s put the pieces together exactly the way he or she likes them, and then everyone else has had a turn shredding those plans and ridiculing everything about the work so far. This time, it’s my turn. And I’m so looking forward to helpful, friendly advice like:
‘You can’t possibly talk about that first. Move those slides to the middle.‘
‘The titles have to be all caps. No one’s going to listen if the titles aren’t all caps.‘
‘Dude. Blue backgrounds? Please. You’ll have to redo all these slides.‘
‘Hey, why am I listed third on the acknowledgements? I’m the one who told you about all caps, dammit.‘
So, that’ll be fun. Not quite as enjoyable as flaming bamboo shoots poked under my eyelids, but close. Yay.
Meanwhile, I’m putting off doing anything at all. And making quite a good show of it, too. I’ve kept myself very busy not doing any actual work. On Friday night, I spent my time acting — rather convincingly, I might add — as though there were nothing to be done at all. I ate. I watched TV. I slept. “Presentation next week?” I might be heard to innocently ask. “What’s a presentationnextweek?” Brilliant.
Most of yesterday was spent at the stadium, watching the Patriots game. Or just outside the stadium, freezing my testiculars off during four hours of tailgating. But even before that, I got in some really good procrastinating: I sorted mail. I ripped a few CDs. I worked a crossword puzzle. Those slides weren’t needed for another two days — what kind of boobjob would be spending time on them then?
That brings us to today. And honestly, I feel — I don’t mean to brag here, but Ireally, really feel — that I’ve outdone myself here. Oh, no one distraction was a masterpiece, to be sure. Watching football, doing laundry, blogging, reading, volunteering — that’s right, volunteering — to take out the trash… but taken together, that’s a solid twelve hours of not-doing-what-I’m-supposed-to-be-doing. That’s some hard not-work there, people. I feel as though I’ve deserved a nap, or maybe a bowl of ice cream. Possibly a nice sock drawer rearranging; that should kill another hoer or two.
In truth, though, the inevitable is looming. It’s a quarter after eleven, and I know where my slides are. Which is nowhere, which means that I’ve a long night ahead of drawing the wrong-sized boxes and the wrong color backgrounds and getting the fonts just the way that no one besides me can stand. Ah, the joys of the corporate world.
I’ll be having my bamboo shoot treatment now, pleaes. Table for one, in the inflamed eyelid section. Thankssomuch.
Permalink | 2 CommentsIt’s been a while since I copped out on writing anything original and posted about the Google (and Yahoo) searches that bring people to this page. But that’s what weekends are for, right?
Right?
Well, it is now, dammit. Don’t be a smartass. Let’s just do this thing:
From Tustin, CA. we get: list of wedgie techniques.
Well, fine. Here you go:
1) “Grip it and rip it.”
The. End. Silly left-coasters.
Next, it’s a music fan in West Bloomfield, MI searching for puffy nipples movies.
I’m with you, man. I dig that phat Puffy Nipples. I wanna see him in Hollywood, too. Dude can lay down a beat, yo.
Although, to be honest, I’m a bigger fan of DJ Areola. That’s just me. Word.
Then there’s the intrepid soul from Worcester, PA looking for info on Rachel Ray nipples.
Sorry, pal. I haven’t seen her show in a while, so I’m not sure how she cooks nipples. Though if I had to guess, I’d probably braise them. Just be sure to slather them in ‘EVOO’ first. Rachel would have wanted it that way.
A reader from Nashville, TN came searching for stripper convention.
Well, I can tell you a few stripper conventions, actually.
1. Never date the customers.
2. Bra comes off first, then G-string.
3. No granny perfume.
4. ‘No touching’ means NO TOUCHING.
5. Never buy your own drinks.
Hope this helps — happy clubbing, Nashville!
A guy (I’m assuming) in Southfield, MI asks Yahoo (and then me): who’s got the biggest boobs?
I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. Before the advent of implants, it may have been Dolly Parton. Or my aunt Frances. That woman could slap you on the head from across the room without lifting a finger. True story.
Now, who knows? They just keep getting bigger as the ‘guns race’ escalates. But I’ll tell you this — if the Guinness Book decides to find out, and needs a judge, I’ll do it. You know, in honor of Aunt Frances. God rest her cans.
Then there’s the rather verbose individual from Dayton, OH who asks Yahoo: where would i find t-shirts with sayings written on them?
I don’t think you’ve quite got the hang of this ‘search engine’ dealie yet, there, Dayton. You’re not ordering at the clown’s mouth at McDonalds here, and Alex Trebek isn’t making you answer in the form of a question.
Take it to Jeeves, numbnuts.
Speaking of questions, here’s one from a user in Vienna, VA posed to Ask.com: how many syllables are in squirrel?
Um…
But… I mean, how many could you possibly…
Like, ‘SKA-woo-RU-ill‘? I don’t think I get it.
What the hell are they putting in the water down there in Virginia, anyway?
Finally, we’ve got a queryer from Birmingham in the UK, delievered here via Google when searching for pimped panda.
Sorry. This really isn’t that kind of site. There are very few animals around here, and almost none of them are available for sexy parties. The dog cleans up nice, but she won’t put out. Poochtease.
Anyway, pandas are awfully hard to get your hands on, I would think. Maybe you should shoot for a nice squa-oo-ri-el, instead. I think I know a guy down in Virginia who can set you up.
Permalink | 5 CommentsIf you hear a crash, that would be one of the pictures I hung this evening. My level of DIY proficiency around the house begins and ends with hammering small nails into the wall, and apparently I’m not even good at that. But I tried — one night in my life, I actually tried. Three times, even. Here’s how it went:
Picture #1 went up in the bedroom. It’s a painting that I picked out — all on my own, too! It’s mostly of a tree. Plus some sky, and a bit of water, with a sailboat. I’m pretty sure I’m not doing it justice here. Which is not all that surprising, frankly.
See, I don’t normally get involved in any decisions that involve things that the wife and I are going to have to look at on a daily basis. Not that she doesn’t offer to let me help. She’s all for expanding my aesthetic horizons when the opportunity arises. It’s just that I have this knack — a ‘flair’, even — for making horrible, indefensible, ugly suggestions when it comes to matters of domestic decorations. A typical conversation might go like this:
Her: So, I think we should paint the living room.
Me: Okay, that sounds good.
Her: What color would you think would work?
Me: Gee, I dunno. Magenta?
Her: Um… well, I think magenta might, ah, clash. With, sort of, everything.
Me: Oh. Okay. How about black, then?
Her: Black? On the walls? All the walls?
Me: Well, black doesn’t clash, right?
Her: True. But I was thinking of something more… cheerful.
Me: Ah. How about canary yellow, then? That’s cheery.
Her: But. The furniture is brown and green.
Me: I know.
Her: That doesn’t seem like a problem to you?
Me: Not even the tiniest little bit.
Her: I see. Maybe you should go play a video game for a while, and I’ll look at color swatches.
Me: Okay. I’ll go play a game, while you look at swatches.
Her: That would be best. Run along now.
Me: Yes, dear.
So trust me when I say that picking out an entire painting without spousal supervision is huge news. Like, ‘Look, I’m not really a man!‘ or ‘By the way, I’ve got three other wives — surprise!‘ huge. I’m not sure which would go over worse, come to think of it.
Anyway, I was a bit worried about unveiling the painting to her after I’d bought it, but I do really like the thing. And she very expertly walked the line between ‘obviously hating it’ and ‘gushing insincerely over how magnificent it looks’. My wife is quite the budding diplomat, it seems.
She even picked the perfect spot for the painting — in our bedroom. This tells me two things: on the one hand, she doesn’t like it nearly enough to display it prominently in a place that visitors are likely to see. But on the other hand, she doesn’t loathe it so completely that she won’t be able to stand seeing it when she wakes up every morning. Of course, it is on my side of the bed, so maybe she’s just planning on not looking that way very often. In any case, it makes me happy, so I owe her one. Maybe I’ll surprise her and paint the dining room a nice shocking pink. You know, to match the brown drapes. That’ll be nice.
But I digress. Back to the picture hanging adventure.
So, job one involved the painting — my painting! — to be hung in the bedroom. Here’s how it went down:
I held the picture up to the wall and asked my wife if it looked straight.
She told me to use the level in the toolbox to be sure.
I used the level in the toolbox to be sure.
I hung the painting.
The painting wasn’t straight. Apparently, I’m not only color-blind and style-stupid, but bubble-challenged, too. And possibly drunk.
Luckily, I was able to make a creative adjustment — which involved mangling one of the hanging hooks and rotating it upside-downly — to even things out. So right now, my very first solo art purchase is hanging right by my side of the bed, more or less parallel to the floor below. I never thought the day would come, frankly. I may have a nice weep over it later.
Meanwhile, I moved on to picture #2. This is a large panoramic print of the Boston skyline, originally meant as a Christmas present for my parents. But we didn’t get a chance to ship it before the holidays, and when we got back… well, let’s just say that somewhere along the way, ‘we’ decided that it was probably too big for my parents’ place.
(I say ‘we’ because I don’t remember the thought occurring to me, which means that my wife probably figured it out first. But hey, they’re my parents, so maybe I thought it through by myself.
But probably not.)
Anyway, we had a smallish panorama of Fenway Park hanging on one wall of our office, where the new present-to-ourselves-that-wasn’t-meant-that-way would fit nicely. Only to get it up, I needed to nail in more hooks. Which meant using the level again, and at distances far longer than one level’s width. So I was pretty much guaranteed to screw that one up.
And I did.
Actually, the worst part of hanging the skyline picture was that there’s nothing to hang it on. No hooks, no handy string across the back, no thingamajig sticking to it with a label reading, ‘Hang Here, Stupid!‘ So, I hung it with nothing. More accurately, I bent a couple of wall hooks straight, and gently, gingerly balanced the upper lip of the picture frame on them.
And promptly stopped breathing, lest a puff of air knock the thing off its perch. Three hours later, and the picture’s still up there — but the first time one of us stomps up the stairs, or the dog farts in the same room, I’m pretty sure it’s going to come crashing down. I’m thinking of taping the mutt’s ass closed, just as a precaution. Hell, any excuse will do. I’ve been thinking about that for years.
Finally, I hung picture #3, the Fenway print that got displaced by the new picture. And I hung it without incident, even. Unless you count the fact that I mounted it on the far wall of the office, behind the very tall and very bright lamp. Which means that unless you actually walk to the picture, and stand with your nose to the glass, you can’t actually see anything in the pic, because of the glare from the light.
But dammit, if you do walk over there, you’ll see that the picture is fricking straight. And it’s solidly hung, too. It’s not going anywhere, that’s for sure.
So, there you go. Three pictures up in one night. One can’t actually be seen, another’s going to fall the next time the phone rings, and the third is rigged with bubble gum and masking tape to hold it straight. I may not know art, folks, but I know what I like. And ‘hanging pictures’ is not on the list. Why can’t we go back to sticking posters to the wall with art gum, like we did in college?
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