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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’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.
Permalink | 1 CommentYou know what sucks? Red chalk. Allow me to explain.
Tonight, I worked late at the office. I had an opportunity, though, to take a little ‘breather’. A buddy and I met at a pool hall/bar near my office, for a couple of beers and a friendly match of eight-ball. A nice break, amid the midnight oil I was burning.
Now, those of you familiar with the barroom style of billiards will know that there are, at most, two types of chalk available. In the poolier places — yes, I just made up that word, let it frigging go, would you? — you’ll see a block of ‘hand chalk’. This chalk is white, usually comes in a sort of gutted pineapple shape, and is meant to keep the cue stick from dragging along your thumb or finger skin. It’s generally pretty unobtrusive, though it can be a bit embarrassing if you happen to absent-mindedly wipe your nose while ‘wearing’ the chalk. At best, you’ll end up with that milkstachy look; at worse, you’ll seem crack-fiendish. Neither of which is going to help you when you’re trying to impress a potential mate with your ‘two-rail three-ball no-look billy baroo‘ combo shot. Just for future reference, there, Romeo.
The other kind of chalk, of course, is ‘cue chalk’. This comes in little paper-wrapped cubes on the table, and goes on the end of your cue stick. It’s important stuff, because it keeps the cue tip soft and true, improving your accuracy. You wouldn’t want to try the old ‘billy baroo‘ without a soft, true tip, now would you? Oh, billy billy billy billy billy.
It’s also important to note that cue chalk, while you’re busily engaged in your table snookering, has the tendency to end up eeeeeeverywhere. On your hands, on the floor, on your shirt, on your chair, all over your pants… on the ceiling, if you’re not careful. You might even want to wear a hairnet when you play, because chances are, the chalk will end up there, too. Also? A diaphragm, just to be safe. I’m just saying: eeeeverywhere.
Now, traditionally speaking, this ‘cue chalk’ is blue. Which is frankly not a poor choice for cue chalk color. Imagine you’re out at ye olde poole halle — taking a break from work on a Monday evening, maybe — and you play a few games of billiards. In the process, you end up covered in blue chalk. You look like Pigpen in a blueberry patch; you’re positively filthy with the stuff.
You know what? Fine. First of all, if you’re anything like me, you’re wearing jeans, anyway. They’re already blue — they can’t get much bluer. If you get chalk on your hands, for instance, then maybe hit the head, and get blueness smeared around your zipper area, it’s probably not even noticable. And if it is — so what? Unless you’re the type of guy known to solicit oral sex from smurfs, what’s the big deal? Clearly, it’s just chalk.
Ah. But now, imagine the chalk is red. And just suppose, theoretically, that you’ve just arrived home to your sweetie after a long day of work and a couple of games of pool. With a red crotch. Maybe even some red around the collar, or the neck, if you happened to reach up there. Suddenly, those smurf hummers are the least of your worries. You look like you’ve either spent the evening crotch-slapping Tammy Faye Bakker, or just finished up a sixty-nine session with a Ronald McDonald impersonator.
(‘Impersonator’, because we know the real Ronald would never engage in such shenanigans.
Clearly, it’s Grimace and the Hamburgler who are bumping purple uglies. Ron and his big fat clown shoes just look the other way. McPansy.)
At any rate — red chalk bad, is what I’m trying to say. Why the chalk can’t stay blue — or be green, or yellow, or McMuffin golden brown — is beyond me. Red just seems the most unfortunately, easily misconstrued choice of hue possible. If it doesn’t look like ‘lipstick’, it’s ‘blood’. If not ‘blood’, then it’s ‘ketchup’. And if not ‘ketchup’, then ‘chili powder’. And if there are four things you should not be wearing on your crotch when you come home and greet your wife, then those four are them.
(Okay, fine. I suppose you could come up with four worse things to be wearing on your crotch. Like, oh, say, ‘Vaseline’, ‘a tiara’, ‘Cool Whip’, and ‘a Hilton sister’, for instance.
But this is about chalk, dammit. Don’t be quibbling over crotch fouls with me.)
Actually, the easiest way to get around the red chalk problem is to do what I do — just rub it all over your whole body. As long as you’ve got chalk everywhere — on your back, on your legs, on your elbows, hands, and nose — then nobody’s really going to notice whether you’ve accidentally wiped some on a ‘danger zone’ like your crotch. From a distance, you may look like a raging axe murderer, sure — but if you’re anything like me, then is that really so much of a change? And just think how much faster the attendant will get your car out of the garage for you when you’re ready to go home.
Hey. Maybe this ‘red chalk’ thing isn’t so bad, after all.
Permalink | 2 CommentsOn Thursday night, I got home around twelve thirty. So yes, technically I didn’t get home on Thursday night at all; I got home on Friday morning. Yes, you’re very clever. Now stop interrupting, Poindexter — I’m telling a story here.
When I arrived at home, I was pleasantly surprised to find my wife on the couch, still awake. Normally, she’s out cold by eleven thirty, on the couch, futon, or bed. By twelve, she’s usually drooling. And by twelve thirty, she’s often dreaming, and talking some sort of nonsense in her sleep. She hates that, because I get to tell her about it later. It’s the one time of day when she makes as little sense as I do. I dig that.
So, she was up, and watching Law and Order: CI. We watch a lot of Law and Order around the house — and honestly, who doesn’t? Not because it’s good, particularly. It’s just that there are fifteen different flavors now, and it’s on nineteen hours every day on thirty-six different stations. How the hell can you avoid it? What are we going to do — watch Friends reruns? I don’t think so.
I have this theory, though. I think my wife has a Pavlovian response to Law and Order. She makes it through the ‘law’ part okay, but ‘order’ is like a vatful of sleeping pills. As soon as the D.A.s step in, she zonks. I’ve always wondered whether she has horrible nightmares, because as far as she knows, none of the felons and murderers on those shows ever get brought to justice. That’s gotta suck.
(And yeah, her induced narcolepsy isn’t in response to food, so it’s not technically a Pavlovian response, strictly speaking. But it still involves drooling, so it counts. That’s my story, anyway.)
So, I was quite surprised to find her still conscious well after midnight. Just then, I looked at the screen and saw Vincent D’Onofrio and Chris Noth onscreen at once. So I asked:
“Oh, is this that two-hour special where they have both CI teams on the case?”
My wife gave me a pained, desperate look, barely able to lift her tuckered head off the couch cushion.
“Is THAT why it’s taking so long?”
Poor girl. She never realized it was a double episode, and had been lying there for an hour and a half, waiting for ‘law’ to give way to ‘order’, so she could get some sleep. A couple of minutes later, one of the D.A.s showed up, so she was off to dreamland, only an hour and change later than normal. Man, it must be a burden to be a slave to a trigger like that.
On a completely unrelated note, now that I’ve finished my post for the night, I’m tired and sleepy-eyed. Ring the bell, doc; I’m off to bed. G’night.
Permalink | 3 CommentsSo, I’ve got a stupid haircut.
I’ve mentioned my barber before — my allegedly bilingual barber, for which English is apparently some sort of ‘hobby’. I’d link to one of those earlier posts, but — well, I’ve got a stupid haircut right now. So I can’t be bothered.
To quickly recap, though, the proprieter of the clip joint isn’t the problem. He’s a nice older man, and speaks fairly fluent English and Spanish. And probably Spanglish, too, though I’ve never asked him, ‘Que es shaking, mi homey‘. Because that’s just not how I roll, mamacita.
Anyway, the real difficulty comes when the main guy’s not available — which is all the time, because everyone else who goes to the barber shop knows to run to him. Me, I’m not that smart, apparently. I don’t think about such things beforehand, and only feel stupid and sad and ashamed afterward. Sort of like sitting through a chick flick, or having sex with a transvestite hooker. Or in Hugh Grant’s case, both, I suppose.
So, I end up getting stuck with the woman, whose English seems to be limited to:
Clearly, she’s not the sort of ‘barber’ that you can discuss the Patriots secondary with, or count on to banter about the sorry state of the Red Sox bullpen. And dammit, that’s standard barber shop fodder. You talk sports, then mention the weather, and maybe — maybe — you ask about the family. That’s it. If the haircut’s not over after that, then you’re not at a barber shop. You’ve gone and sat in a stylist’s chair, and I’ve lost all respect for you. Also, you’re going to pay more than feefteen dollars, that’s for damned sure. Pansy.
Now, she seems to be a nice woman, as far as I can tell from this side of the language barrier. But she’s not much of a barber — by my standards, at least. She’s got this habit of buzzing the back-of-the-head hair away with the electric clippers, then *snip-snip-snip*-ing ever so slightly in the front. Maybe that’s the style; I’m too old and married and dorky to know such things. But it doesn’t really suit me. For three weeks after a haircut, I look in the mirror and think Brian Setzer is stalking me in the bathroom.
I suppose it’s not the absolute last thing I need when I’ve just woken up, but it’s pretty goddamned far down the list. Somewhere just below having Jimmie ‘J.J.’ Walker jump out of my closet, and just above Dame Edna lurking under the bed. Not exactly ‘DYN-O-MITE!‘
At any rate, I know I could try to reason with the barberette. And I do try, I really do. But the conversation usually goes something like this:
Her: You like eet, yes?
Me: Um… well, could you take a little more off in the front?
Her: Que?
Me: Can you take it off? Here, in the front.
Her: Que?
Me: Take. It. Off.
Her: Meester, ees not that kind of haircut.
Me: No, no — I didn’t mean that. Here, on my head. Can you cut more?
Her: Cut? More?
Me: Right, in the front. Cut more in the front?
Her: But… ees another customer in the chair in the front. No can cut there.
Me: No. The front of my head. Can you cut more hair, on the front of my head?
Her: Que? Jou’re dead? I don’t get eet.
Me: Just… can you… *sigh* Look, here. On the… um, fronto. Of my, uh, cerveza.
Her: Cerveza?
Me: Si, si! Cerveza! Get it?
Her: Meester, you can buy me a beer… but I’m steel not going to take off my clothes. You loco, hermano.
So, I figure a stupid haircut is better than being arrested for sexually harassing a Venezuelan lady barber. Or worse, finally convincing her to ‘take eet off’, and having to pay for that. ‘Cause that’s not going to be fifteen bucks. I can tell you that.
Still, that doesn’t make it right. Should I have to suffer with an unfabulous ‘do, just because I slept through high school Spanish class? Must my follicles endure this embarrasment, simply because I don’t carry a Bostonese-to-Latino translation dictionary in my back pocket? Well, apparently so. That’s just the way it goes, I guess. But if it happens again, dammit — cervezas are gonna roll!
Permalink | 2 CommentsI think I just lost a fight with my wife. Or won. Or something; I’m not quite sure.
There’s a light in the downstairs hallway that’s been burnt out for about a week and a half. Every day, I would come home, remember — when I bumped my toe on the dog in the dark — that the light was out, and make a mental note to replace the bulb. Then, I’d spend the next six hours forgetting that I’d made the mental note, or that I knew the light was out, or that I’d even heard of such things as ‘light bulbs’. Sounds like something you’d use to grow low-fat tulips; what did you say they were for, again?
Today was the first day that I thought about the bulb issue before coming home. For some reason, the plight of the light hit me at the office today. And I remembered something, a lesson I learned about my wife many years ago:
When I don’t do something, it’s because I’m lazy. But when she doesn’t do something, it’s usually because she’s waiting to see how long it’ll finally take me to do it.
As I mentioned, I realized this a good week and a half after the bulb blew. And I immediately remembered the corollary to the above rule:
The longer I don’t take care of the thing, the angrier and angrier she’s secretly going to get.
Yow. Ten days is an awfully long time to simmer, whether over a light bulb that needs replacing, dirty clothes not in the laundry basket, or a bikini ‘borrowed’ from her undies drawer for a Halloween costume.
(For the record, I haven’t done all those things. Don’t be silly; those are just examples. Because I always put my dirty laundry in the basket.
Also? Guys dressed in ‘Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High‘ costumes get lots of candy. And possibly a restraining order. Just for future reference.)
So tonight, I walked in the door and made a beeline for the light bulbs. Only, I didn’t know where the hell we keep light bulbs, so it wasn’t much of a ‘beeline’, really. Maybe an ADD-beeline. Or a bee-on-speedline. I’m not much of a beeologist, really.
At any rate, I found the light bulbs and installed a new one, so as not to get into deeper trouble. If I ever was in trouble, in the first place. It crossed my mind, of course, that the wife has just been too busy to change the light bulb herself, and that she hasn’t really thought about it. But I ouldn’t take that chance, now, could I? She could’ve snapped at any moment.
(Through careful and controlled past experimentation, I’ve determined that her boiling point for ‘shit he ought to have done, but is too lazy to remember‘ is just under two weeks. Which is about thirteen days longer than my other married friends get from their wives, so I feel fortunate in that regard. She’s a ‘keeper’, for sure.)
But what just happened? Did I ‘win’, because I’m not in trouble? Did I ‘lose‘, because I gave in and changed the bulb? Was there a game going on at all? I can’t say. Honestly, I just don’t know. Looking back on it, only one thing is crystal clear: I am, beyond a doubt, ‘well trained’ as a husband.
Insofar as taking ten days to replace a light bulb constitutes ‘well trained’, anyway. But I’m pretty sure the fact that I considered the consequences of not changing that light — even a week and a half later — means that she’s already ‘won’ every game we’re going to play, from here on out.
Now I know how the dog feels. I’m gonna go have my kibble for dinner, and curl up on a rug somewhere. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna poop in the back yard. I’m not that trained, dammit. Bah.
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