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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So, I’m still playing a lot of MVP Baseball on my PC at home.
(Yes, I know what you’re saying to yourself… all this, and he plays video games, too? At some point, even ‘Renaissance Man’ starts to fall short. Who is this guy?)
Anyway, I’ve been playing this game. Or rather, I’ve been puttering around the menus, nitpicking over lineups, trades, and all manner of other nonsense that doesn’t really fall into the category of ‘playing’ anything. Obsessive? Checkerooni.
Now, when you spend time fiddling with these more administrative areas, the game designers have taken steps to ensure that you’re still entertained. Specifically, the game plays music. Super-specifically, it plays the same half-dozen songs over and over. And over. And then again, just for good measure.
So, the songs are all pretty good. And, after a while, you learn them pretty much by heart. Lately, I’ve been tuning in more often than not to a specific ditty: ‘Finding Out True Love Is Blind‘, by Louis XIV. If you’re not familiar with the song, here’s the interesting thing about it: the singer spends a lot of his lyrics on food-related metaphors describing women. For instance, the song begins with:
‘Ah, chocolate girl…‘
We’re also treated to a couple of renditions of:
‘Hey, carrot juice…‘
See? ‘Carrot juice‘ is a metaphor, cleverly referring to a redhead. And ‘chocolate girl‘ means a black girl, probably. She’s even got a ‘vanilla friend, later in the verse’; maybe that one is white. Or blonde. Or albino — and what’s hotter than that? I ask you.
Either that, or this guy is picking up chicks in a cafeteria. How the hell should I know? I’m too old to be interpreting any of this crazy new music these days.
On the other hand, I do like to keep up with the hot new trends. And if this is how the kiddies are talking now, then I’m down with it. So, I bopped into work today to try out a phew phat phood-related greetings of my own. The phirst — I mean, first — person I ran into was the receptionist. Perfect.
Me: ‘Hey, Picklesocks!‘
Her: ‘Hi, Cha — what did you just call me?‘
Me: ‘Um… nothing. Never mind.‘
Okay — rough start. Hey, I’m new at all this jive talking. I’ll get the hang of it. Next, I ran into my officemate.
Me: ‘‘Sup, Yogurtnose?‘
Him: ‘Excuse me?‘
Me: ‘I said, uh… good morning. That’s all.‘
Him: ‘You’re a douche.‘
So — oh for two. Good thing the guys from the office down the hall walked by soon after. Practice makes perfect, right?
Me: ‘Yo, Cheddarballs! Tacobutt!‘
Them: <* shaking heads and walking away *>
Me: ‘What? Come on! I expect that out of you, Tacobutt. But Cheddarballs, I thought we was tight, brother. Dude.‘
Dammit. Apparently, practice makes preposterous. I’ve been grossly misinformed. But I had one last chance to get it right, when my boss stopped by to say hello.
Boss: ‘Hello, Charlie.‘
Me: ‘Yo, Fudgypants. What’s shaking?‘
Boss: ‘Did you just call me… ‘Fudgypants’?‘
Me: ‘Er… no. No, not if you’re going to take that attitude about it. How about ‘Cabbageface’?‘
Boss: ‘Cabbageface? You sure about that?‘
Me: Not any more, no. Pumpkinhead? Coffeebreath? Tunadrawers? Help me out here.‘
Boss: ‘Charlie, tell me — do you like working here?‘
Me: ‘Well, sure. Up until about thirty seconds ago, anyway.‘
Yeah, it was pretty much downhill from there. Old ‘Tunadrawers’ called me into his office and read me the riot act. So, I’m still employed, but the foody names are on permanent hiatus. I guess I’ll never be one of the cool kids. Fiddlenuts.
Permalink | 1 CommentOne of the things — one of the many things — that I think about when I lie in bed at night, considering the mysteries of the universe, is Jerry Maguire.
(That’s the movie, folks, not the actor. The night I lie awake in bed considering the mysteries of Tom Cruise is the night I hit rock fuckin’ bottom. That’s ‘seek professional help’ territory, there.)
Anyway, Jerry Maguire (that’s ‘J to da Mizzle’, if you’re tuning in from the hood) provided the movie-peeping public with two enduring quotes, one for each gender. For the men, there’s ‘Show me the money!‘
(Or, if you prefer, as I once did on a game show set, ‘Show me the boobies!‘ But I digress.)
And for the ladies, there’s ‘You had me at ‘hello’‘. Which is sweet, really. And as an agent for big-time sports stars, you’d imagine that Mr. Maguire said ‘hello‘ quite a lot. But what keeps me tossing and turning at night is: what if ol’ Jerry had a different profession? What might he have said to win over the young and emotionally unstable Ms. Zellweger? And, more to the point, how would she have responded?
For instance, what if Jerry Maguire had been about a butcher? Maybe she’d have said:
‘Shut up, shut up — just stop. You had me at ‘sausage casing’‘.
A fireman? ‘You had me at ‘long, high-pressure hose’‘.
A forest ranger, perhaps? How about, ‘You had me at ‘mauled by a big, furry beast’‘.
What if he were a football equipment manager, instead of an agent? Try: ‘You had me at ‘inflatable rubber bladder’‘. Catchy, no?
So that’s what keeps me up at night — and the nonsense that results. Hey, you’re awake and presumably lucid — you got better than that? Lemme have ’em.
Meanwhile, speaking of movies, I’ve been writing a bit more recently. Not quite back up to my preferred daily rambling, but I’m getting there. And finally, after a few weeks of sparseness, the content on the page is again longer than the sidebars. At my screen width and resolution, anyway; your verbiage may vary. But I’m not looking at your screen, so that’s not so relevant right now.
Anyway, I have a question. Am I the only one in this situation — filling the page up again, after a dry spell — who’s reminded of that last scene in The Seventh Sign, when Jurgen ‘Jesus’ Prochnow declares that ‘The Hall of Souls is full again‘?
Oh, c’mon — you remember that scene. Demi Moore’s been pregnant and pitiful through the whole movie, and then she dies during childbirth — and Michael Biehn is the husband, and he’s supposed to be crying and scared, but instead he looks up at the camera with this weird expression, like his mother just caught him sitting on the john flipping his pancake, and Prochnow, in that oddly vague accent that sounds suspiciously like the Highlander — which makes you wonder about whether they edited all the swordplay out of the Bible, says:
‘Eht was you, Abby… just whan pahrson, weeth hope enough for the whole wahrld.‘
Remember that? Hall of Souls? Pregnant Demi? Any of it?
Damn. Guess it’s just me. There’s another thing that’ll keep me up at night. Bitches.
Permalink | 1 CommentAnd no, I don’t ‘say that to all the girls’. Nor do they say it to me… as far as you know.
Anyway, the ‘that’ in the title is referring to the weekend, if you must know. It was here, all too briefly, and now it’s gone — like how CHristmas whizzes by in December, or a quick nipple glimpse in a PG-13 movie. So, I didn’t have much chance to write, though I do have a couple of topics on tap for the next few days.
Meanwhile, just so’s you don’t think that I’m completely slacking off, I wanted to mention that there are now eighty or so more Simpsons quotes on the quote page (and rotating at the top of all the other pages — like this one. No, really — look! Up there! There’s one now!). That’s a total of over three hundred and fifty witty quotes, which should… well, should tell you that I watch way too much of the Simpsons. But I do it for you, people. Kisses all ’round.
Also, I’ve updated the comedy show list. To, um, you know… include a bunch of dates that have mostly already happened. And there are no new vidoes. So far. Look, I said the weekend was quick, all right? There are only so many hours in the day that I’m not glued to the TV or the pillow on my bed. Cut me some damned slack.
Or, barring that, check out the Cliche-O-Matic, if you haven’t already. It’s up to ten ridiculous, silly setups, and there are just about that many more to be added, when I have the time. So, if you saw it a couple of days ago, then there’s much, much more to explore. And, if you saw it late last week… well, then, there’s a little more to look at. And, if you just saw it a few minutes ago, then… then, um — look, nobody likes a smartass. Just pretend you saw it last week — or not at all, like everyone else — and get it over with. Don’t make me come over there, dammit.
In any case, that’s about all there is to the weekend, apparently, so I’m off to snooze until Monday morning. I might even sneak off to a show tomorrow night. And someday, there might even be video of it. Probably not, but maybe. Anything’s possible, people. You just keep believing that, all right? That’s what keeps this country in bikini waxes and scholarship funds. Or something. Man, this end-of-the-weekend stuff gets weird, doesn’t it?
Permalink | 2 CommentsSo, I’m old now. I turned thirty-five a couple of weeks ago, which means the ride’s pretty much over, right? A couple of years watching Matlock and listening to Lawrence Welk, and then it’s all over. That’s okay — it’s been pretty much downhill since… well, since… hrm. Come to think of it, I don’t remember any ‘uphill’, to speak of. I imagine the whole breastfeeding thing was probably pretty sweet, but I don’t recall any of that. And it’s a little creepy to think about at this point, so that’s probably okay.
Anyway, the most important thing for me in my ‘twilight years’ is that I don’t forget anything else. I never knew all that much shit to begin with; I can’t afford to lose any of the few facts I’ve managed to pound into my neurons. So, I’ve got to try to stay sharp, keep the old brain from mushing up.
To that end, I’ve recruited my wife to help. We’ve set up a system to help each other keep our minds fresh. Not that she has to worry about getting old, of course. She’ll be twenty-three for the next thirty years, apparently. Maybe her math skills are already deteriorating — I don’t dare to ask, honestly.
At any rate, we’ve decided to keep our thinkers in top shape with some random quizzing. When we run into each other — in the kitchen, on the couch, in the shower, whereever — we’ll toss out a question or two, to keep the gray matter wiggling. So, for instance, I might see her making the bed, and ask:
‘Quick! What’s the capital of Morocco?‘
And then she’ll think for a bit, and come up with an answer. Unfortunately, I don’t actually know what the capital of Morocco is, so I can’t tell her whether she’s right. Not exactly ideal. So, I try and ask easier ones, that I can get right myself. Like ‘what comes after Tuesday?’, or ‘what’s the dog’s name?’. Or, even better:
‘Hey — name a sexual position involving cheese!‘
(No? Don’t know that one? I’ll give you a minute.)
(Still scratching your noggin? I was looking for ‘The Flying Dutchman’. That’s right — Dutchman. I would have also accepted ‘Gouda Vibrations’, ‘Madam, I’m Edam’, or ‘Camembert-ly Legal’. Or maybe others, if you can think of one I missed. I can’t wait to see those.)
Of course, the questions I get back are a little different. First of all, my wife is exceptionally intelligent. So, at first, she was asking me to take the square root of some big number or other, or translate some gibberish from French or Japanese or Sanskrit, or to spell some ridiculous word with nineteen letters and a silent ‘v’. Eventually, when those questions left me stunned and drooling, she dumbed them down for me. So that works out. Sometimes.
The other problem is that I’m a guy. Thirty-something. Sports fan. Lazy. Not so terribly bright. So, often her quizzing strategy changes a bit. She’ll see me lying on the couch, watching TV, and ask:
‘Are you going to waste the whole day like that?‘
(Easy one. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.‘ Duh.)
Or maybe: ‘When are you going to make something of yourself?‘
(Uhhhhhh. Damn. That’s a toughie. Pass.)
How about: ‘What happened to the man I married?‘
(Jeez, another head-scratcher. Lessee… How about, ‘he discovered the joy of Chee-tos and beer‘. Is it ‘discovered Chee-tos and beer‘? Honey? Hello? What’s the right answer?)
Meh. Maybe it’s better my mind should go soft. At least then I won’t remember missing all those questions. Sweet dementia, here I come!
Permalink | 1 CommentJeez, I almost forgot — yesterday was the fifteenth. Another issue of Zoiks! is out. Which means I get a freebie post, and I almost let it get away. That would’ve sucked.
But oh, happy day — I got my head out of my ass and remembered. And so, below you’ll find my submission for the last issue of Zoiks!. And, if you pop over to the Zoiks! website, like a good little reader, you’ll see my piece in the current issue. Plus all the other pieces. And a picture of a kitten. What’s not to like, already?
And if that’s not enough chucklebuggery for you, hop on over to the brandy-new Cliche-O-Matic for a new motto or three. I’ll be hooking up a few more setups tonight, so there’s more hilarity to be had than ever. Rock on, amigos.
What Time Is ‘Golden Girls’ On?
By the time you read this, I will be gone.
Not ‘gone’ as in ‘dead’, of course. Rather, ‘gone’ as in ‘rendered permanently irrelevant’. As opposed to the ‘temporarily irrelevant’ that I currently suffer from.
I’m writing this on the eve of my thirty-fifth birthday. And we all know what happens when one turns thirty-five: it’s game over. Nighty-night. Sayonara. Because thirty-five takes you out of that all-important eigtheen-to-thirty-four age bracket that makes the world go ’round. All of the entertainment, the advertising, the culture, everything — it’s all meant for the ‘old enough to vote but too young to be elected dictator’ crowd. And it’s just about to pass me by.
You see, right now I’m thirty-four. I’m relevant. Appreciated. I’m hot, happening, and the chicks all dig me. Where ‘dig’ is a relative term, of course. The point is, in another thirty-six hours or so, there’ll be nothing left to dig. I’ll be a gray-haired old pile of bones, whiling my few remaining days away in a rocking chair.
For the moment, things are great. The media wants me to listen to the latest music, and see cool new movies like ‘Batman Begins’, and watch hot shows like ‘The OC’, because “the girls on that show are fiii-ine”. Once I’m thirty-five, though, it all changes. They’ll have me listening to Lawrence Welk, and going to the theater for ‘Cocoon 4: The Shriveling’, and watching ‘Murder, She Wrote’, because “that Angela Lansbury was a handsome woman”. Not quite the same, now, is it?
I suppose there are perks to becoming irrelevant, though. I can finally stop paying attention to commercials — most of them won’t be meant for me any more, anyway. And I won’t have to feel so bad about not seeing the latest flicks, or buying the most recent… what is it they put music on these days? LPs? CDs? ABCs? Eh, who can keep up with such things? Not a man of my age, certainly.
For a while, I thought I might receive less spam in my old age, too. After all, the over-thirty-five crowd can’t be expected to navigate our way around those newfangled electrical computer boxes, right? At best, I’ll soon be signing up for AOL and using my mouse for a foot pedal. And half the spam I get now is for the younger set — get rich, grow a monster penis, and get laid every night. We old folks don’t have time for any of that nonsense. The money buys canned prunes, an enlarged prostate is the only big organ I’ll need, and handsome old Mrs. Lansbury isn’t putting out any more.
Of course, then I remembered that the other half of the spam I get is for Viagra. So maybe there’s advertising after thirty-five, after all. And life after irrelevancy, too. Now where can I get my hands on a bottle of those pills?
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