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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, kids. Just a quick note to let you know that I’ll be AWOL for a couple of days, what with the Thanksgiving holiday and all. The missus and I are driving to New York City tomorrow evening, and will be spending most of the weekend there. There’s no telling what adventures and merriment she has planned, but if there’s any hilarity to be had, you’ll be the first to know.
(Or second. Third, really, since she and I will both be present. Still, ‘sloppy thirds’ is better than… well, than no thirds, at least.
Sorry. These didn’t turn out to be the ‘helpful’ sort of parentheses, so much, did they? Better luck next aside.)
All I know for certain is that we’re due to watch the Macy’s parade while we’re there. My wife has caught at least part of the festivities on TV every year since I’ve known her. Often, she’ll watch the bulk of it, sappy floats, marching bands, Katie Couric, and all. But she refuses to miss the appearance of Santa Claus near the end of the parade. I honestly believe that she could be showering at ten-till-parade-end-time, and she’d come streaking into the living room, naked and wet and shivering, and stand there until Santa did his thing. I’ve even tried coaxing her into the shower just before — only to test the theory, you understand — but to no avail. She’s too wily for that.
So, now we’ll see the parade live, and in person, with seventeen million of our closest friends. It’s not exactly my preferred way to spend a Thursday morning, but at least now I can cross ‘Attend Macy’s Parade’ off my list of ‘Things to Do Before I Die‘. And frankly, it was way the hell down that list — just below ‘Pee on Four States at Once at Four Corners National Monument’ and just above ‘Kick Six Flags Mascot Guy in the Balls for Being So Goddamned Creepy’. Yes, it’s a very long list. Why do you ask?
Anyway, I’ll be bloggera non grata for a few days, so feel free to entertain yourselves around here while I’m gone. Check out yesterday’s post, from a few hours ago, or go digging into the archives. Or keep the good times a-rolling in the comments; whatever shivers your timbers. I’ll see you on Saturday, when I get back, or Sunday, after I’ve had time to sleep off the images of giant Funky Winkerbean and Garfield floats burned onto my retinas. I’ll say ‘hi’ to Santa Claus for you. Cheers.
Permalink | 5 CommentsYou know, sometimes being a smartass can really get you into trouble.
I’m sure this comes as a shock to some of you. Clearly, you haven’t been paying close attention to my life so far. Thanks. Thanks so much.
Anyway, this particular time in question, I was called into duty to help the wife with a crossword puzzle she was working. I’ve had a bit more experience with the trickier grids, given that I spend a fair amount of time working crosswords — as opposed to frittering away leisure time on piddly things like ‘working’, or ‘housework’, or ‘getting my shit together’. So, she called out clues to me, asking for help. Unfortunately, ‘help’ wasn’t quite what she received. Observe:
Her: Hey, what’s another word for ‘ass’?
Me: Um, ‘shitcutter’?
Her: Ew, gross! No — just, no. I think they mean the animal.
Me: Oh. How many letters?
Her: Six. Second letter is ‘o’.
Me: ‘Pooper’?
Her: Let’s just move on. How about this — fourteen down: ‘Inflatable party accessory’?
Me: How about ‘boobs’?
Her: Boobs? What kind of answer is that?
Me: Hey, what party wouldn’t be better with boobs? Inflatable boobs?
Her: Well… okay, I guess. It does start with ‘b’. But it’s eight letters.
Me: ‘Boobages’? ‘Breastys’? ‘Booblies’?
Her: No. Stop it.
Me: ‘Bustbags’?
Her: You’re an idiot. ‘Bustbags’?
Me: I’m only trying to help.
Her: Right. Then how about ‘hippo relative’? Got a real guess for that one?
Me: ‘Tom Arnold’?
Her: I don’t think so. And it’s five letters, smartass.
Me: Oooh! ‘Oprah’. What do I win?
Her: Hey, that’s actually not a bad — oh. No. It doesn’t fit.
Me: Heh. Imagine that. Maybe she’ll eat some of the letters in her path to make room.
Her: All right, settle down. What about sixty-one down: ‘Buzzing insect’?
Me: Erm. That Verizon guy?
Her: No. ‘That Verizon guy’ is not the answer, genius. It’s four letters, starts with ‘w’.
Me: ‘Wife’?
Her: Oh, would you look at that; I made a mistake. Actually, it’s 25 letters, and ends with ‘-leeping on the couch tonight’. Care to guess what it is?
Me: Um… no. I’ll be good.
Her: All right, then. Fifty-six down: fill in the blank — ‘Resting on one’s _______’.
Me: Oooh, ‘shitcutter’! We already did this one.
Her: No.
Me: ‘Turdlurcher’?
Her: No. And it starts with ‘l’.
Me: ‘Logdropper’, then. Is it ‘logdropper’? I bet it is.
Her: Absolutely not. Dammit, you’re no help at all. Just forget it.
Me: No, look, I’m sorry. Give me another one.
Her: All right — but only one more, if you’re just gonna be a smartass.
Me: I’ll really try, I promise.
Her: Okay. Twenty-one across: ‘Guilty pleasure’.
Me: How about ‘orgasm’?
Her: ‘Orgasm’ is a ‘guilty pleasure’? What are you, Catholic? No.
Me: Okay, how about ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’?
Her: No, that’s not a ‘guilty pleasure’. Well, maybe for some people, but–
Me: ‘Peeing in the shower’? Does ‘peeing in the shower’ fit?
Her: No. Ew! Look, just forget I–
Me: Wait, I can get this one. Is it ‘popsicles down the underpants’?
Her: I don’t even know what that–
Me: ‘Poodle porn’? ‘Stripper licking’? ‘Your grandma’s Christmas cleavage’? What’s the right answer?!?
Her: I… I will never work a crossword puzzle again, as long as I live. Or look at my grandmother’s holiday sweater without shuddering. Congratulations. I’m goin’ to bed.
So, yeah, I wasn’t a lot of help. But on the bright side, now I’ve got almost a whole empty crossword puzzle to work on. It’s not poodle porn, but still — that’s pretty good, eh?
Permalink | 2 CommentsIf you’re like me, you spend an awful lot of time thinking about something besides sex. Which is not at all like simply not thinking about sex. That’s easy. You can ‘not think about sex’ in your sleep. And that’s about the only time, if you’re one of those sad, perverted souls afflicted with a penis. Like me.
(That’s ‘like me, afflicted’, not ‘like me, penis’. You may go back to sleep now, Peanut Gallery. Thank you.)
But ‘thinking about something besides sex’ is harder. Much harder. Because you only have to think about something other than sex in those situations where you shouldn’t be thinking of sex, but you really, really want to. So — harder.And sometimes tingly. Those are the really desperate times.
But fear not, my crass, nymphorrific friends. I’m here to help — or at least to share with you my findings on how to stem the swelling lusty tide inside you. So maybe you fellows will stand a chance to save your dignity, next time a leggy dental hygienist asks you to spit, or a buxom doc tells you to turn your head and cough. And maybe it’ll save you girls a spot of embarrassment, when the rugged trainer at the gym helps you with your yoga positions, or the boyish scamp in the mail room slides a package into your slot. That’s your mail slot; don’t look at me like that. Sheesh; just like a woman.
Anyway, none of the following ideas have worked for me, but what the hell — maybe you people have cleaner minds than I do. On the other hand, maybe you’re already lubed up and frothy over that last paragraph, and this will just be fuel for your kinky little fire. Either way, here are a few things to think about — and not to think about — when you’re trying to be a good little boy or girl:
NOT SEXY: Getting arrested for lewdness.
SEXY: Being handcuffed and patted down.
NOT SEXY: Sharing a holding cell with Frankie the Pole. Who’s not Polish, by the way.
NOT SEXY: Baseball.
SEXY: Girls playing baseball, a la Geena Davis in A League of Their Own.
NOT SEXY: Rosie O’Donnell, in the same movie. Hell, I’d have rather seen Tom Hanks in that skirt. Erk.
NOT SEXY: “It rubs the lotion on its feet, or it gets the bunions.”
SEXY: “It rubs the lotion on its chest, or it gets the spanking.”
NOT SEXY: “It rubs the lotion on its skin, or it gets the hose.”
NOT SEXY: Bob Atcher
SEXY: Teri Hatcher
NOT SEXY: “Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day! Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!”
NOT SEXY: Muumuus.
SEXY: Crotchless underwear.
NOT SEXY: Crotchless muumuus. You’d never get lei’d again.
NOT SEXY: Watching a war movie with your sweetie; e.g., Saving Private Ryan.
SEXY: Watching a porn movie with your sweetie; e.g., Shaving Ryan’s Privates.
NOT SEXY: Watching a high school sex ed movie with your sweetie; e.g., Why Can’t We Save Ryan’s Privates?: Gonorrhea Is Hell, Soldier.
NOT SEXY: Charlize Theron, circa 2003.
SEXY: Charlize Theron, circa 2001.
NOT SEXY: Charlize Theron, circa 2005 — oh, who am I kidding? I think she just fluxed my aeon. Owie.
NOT SEXY: A striptease act by a person you don’t find attractive.
SEXY: A striptease act by a person you do find attractive.
NOT SEXY: A stripte– um, Grandma? What are you doing with that feather boa and the firemans’ pole, and DEAR GOD, MY EYES! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAKE IT STOP!
Well, that’s all I’ve got for now, folks. Color me spent.
And dammit — if you make something out of that, then there’s no hope for you. Perv.
Permalink | 2 CommentsCindy, you were right.
For those who don’t know what I’m talking about — which would be everyone but Cindy at this point — Cindy is a kind reader from the Philly-ish area with whom I reccently traded emails about Guinness Believer events.
Now, I’ve written — in positively glowing terms — about these events. And this being the time of year for Believer shindigs, I’ve seen quite a few people coming by here, checking out my impromptu ‘two livers up!’ review. In a world with no free lunches, these things are a complimentary dinner, date, and open-bar party.
Or rather, they were. Cindy’s last email alerted me to a horrific new development — the Guinness guys were skimping on the brewskis. Skimping! She said they still have the three phases of the event, but at hers things were a little different. Here’s what I’ve experienced, during three Boston Believer soirees:
The Warmup: Forty-five minutes of fresh-poured drafts, food, and general merriment
The Pep Talk: A half-hour of listening to Guinness info, but with a huge bucket of bottles and cans for the table. So, more drinking.
The Wrapup: Another half-hour pr more of free drafts, more apps, and some swag like T-shirts or bottle openers as parting gifts.
Here’s what Cindy described, much to my open-mouthed horror:
Warmup: Half an hour. One ticket. One beer.
Pep Talk: Half an hour. One bottle per person; shot glass of extra stout.
Wrapup: Hi. Thanks for coming. Have a poster. What, beer? No, there’s no more beer here. Keep that line moving. And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
Hah, I said to myself. Hah, those silly Phillydenlphians. Getting cheap with the beer, when the Believer poohbahs in Boston know how to put on a party. Poor Cindy. Come to Boston some day, I told her. You’ll see what these things are supposed to be like.
So. On Friday, I went to the latest Guinness Believer event. That’s a Boston Believer event. Here. In Boston.
And I’ll be damned if we didn’t get two beers, a poster, and shown the door seventy minutes after the doors opened. Son. Of. A. Bitch. Free lunch and an open bar turned into a half a soda and a TicTac. Very disappointing. Guinness — you used to be cool, man.
Now, I have to admit — if I hadn’t been to the good Guinness events, then this one would’ve seemed a lot cooler. In a total vacuum, without the lofty expectations, it wouldn’t have been a bad evening. And it still was free beer; we felt a little silly, sitting at the table saying things like:
“Man, this sucks. *glug* Remember last *siiiip* year, when it was actually *sluuuuurp* good? Boy, those *gulp gulp* were the days. Hey, hand me one of those chicken puffs. And a couple of spring rolls. Jeez, what a *chomp* *smacK* *munch* waste of time.”
Still, it’s not the same. The good old days are gone. Hell, we even went out Friday night, after the Believer event. Christ, in the old days, we were happy if we could walk afterward.
So, I guess the bottom line is: yeah, I still ‘believe’. A little, anyway. Not as much as I used to. Some of my believing bits died Friday night, and I’m not sure they’ll ever grow back. Meanwhile, it’s Saturday night, and I’m thirsty. I think I’ll go have a Guinness. Now, if only it were free. And there were several of its delicious friends right behind it. Ooh, and a couple of those chicken puff things would be nice, too. Maybe I should get back on that Believer wagon, after all.
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve been spending some time lately playing NBA Live on my PC. Enough time, in fact, that the songs playing during the game menus are now in heavy rotation in my head. They’re not songs that I would typically listen to — rappish fare, mostly, as opposed to my usual ‘obscure eighties crap no one’s ever heard of’ — but the songs are generally okay. Only one or two of them make me want to clean my ears with an electric hand mixer to make it go away. And that’s more than I can say for Skinny Puppy or Alphaville, so maybe there is something more than ’80s obscure pop, after all.
At any rate, one song in particular stands out from the others. Perhaps because it’s catchier (which it isn’t, really). Maybe it’s more memorable, because it’s more repetitive (nope, they’re all repetitive). Probably, it’s because it repeats the name of the game, over and over and over and over. Yes, that’s definitely it. Suddenly, it seems so obvious.
Now, keep in mind that I’m playing last year’s game, dubbed NBA Live: 2005. Because apparently, video game producers are as egomanically conceited as car manufacturers, and name their products for the year after their release date. Why do they do this? I don’t know. Teeny tiny little penises are involved somewhere, I’m sure.
But back to the song. The perpetrators of this particular ditty take
‘Yo, NBA Live!
It ain’t no jive!
It’s NBA Live —
Two thousand five!
To the hoop we drive!
In two thousand five!
You’d bettah dive;
It’s NBA Live!
Honey in tha hive!
Two thousand five!
Yo, sakes alive!
It’s NBA Liiiiiive!‘
Just imagine that, ad infinitum, and you’ve pretty much got it. Except that ‘ad infinitum’ actally only lasts four minutes or so.
(And also, no rapper worth his beatbox is going to throw ‘sakes alive’ at his groove. Me, I can’t help it. I’m white like Katie Couric’s bionic teeth. In high school, I was voted ‘Least Likely to Raise the Roof’. And I think ‘booty call’ has something to do with a pirate on the telephone.
Still, you get the idea. I never said I listened to the lyrics, dammit.)
It got me thinking, though. As rich a rhyming landscape as last year’s version was — we didn’t even get to ‘arrive’, ‘revive’, ‘deprive’, or the ever-rappable ‘Clive’ — what are the poor lads signed up for the soundtrack for this year’s game going to do? Because ‘NBA 06’ doesn’t have nearly the potential. I’ve never ‘dropped a beat’ in my life, and even I can tell you that. What’s it going to sound like?:
‘Hey, yo, NBA oh six!
We all in da mix!
You can be the Knicks,
In NBA oh six!
They’re not all pricks —
In NBA oh six!
It’s NBA oh six!
Yes, the games are fixed!
In NBA oh six!
At least they ain’t chicks!
Yes, they’ve all got dicks!
It’s NBA oh siiiiiiix!‘
Yeah. I think I’ll stick to last year’s model. Sometimes, it’s okay to be behind the curve a little. At least this way, I won’t have to hear them rhyme ‘Dixie Chicks’ with ‘dat phat Hans Blix’. Frankly, I’m not sure my joystick could handle that.
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