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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Today, I bought a zester.
Oh, don’t give me that look. It doesn’t make me less of a man. I saw it on Iron Chef, and those guys aren’t girly. Especially the one who’s a chick. You know she eats pizza with hands. Chili, too, probably. Yowie.
Anyway, I honestly don’t have any idea what ‘zesting’ is. After a little bit of testing this evening, though, I can safely report that it has nothing to do with my wife’s ass. Or so she says. Or so I’m taking, ‘Get that thing away from me — and put your pants back on, you freakin’ moron!‘ to mean.
Happily, though, this little contraption also turns out to be a ‘grater’.
(And no — I didn’t test it on an ass first. I used parmesan, thank you very much. I’m not an idiot. Everybody knows you grate your cheese first, then the asses. That way, you don’t have to rinse the grater in between. Duh.)
So, I’ve got a new toy. And I’ve never had parmesan grated so finely, so delicately, so tasily. My wife called it ‘fluffy’. And that was after the ass grating incident — so you know this shit was good.
Now, I’m looking for other shit to grate. Or zest. Or shave. Unfortunately, we’re not fancy enough to keep fresh limes or cinnamon sticks around — so I’ve been improvising. I shredded a kielbasa with it. I don’t know why, exactly — nobody’s gonna eat grated indistinguishable beef parts. Not when it’s not called a ‘McBurger’ of some kind, anyway.
Then, I moved on to broccoli. That was sort of messy — it just ended up as a big greasy puddle of green goo. Frozen broccoli was a little better… but not so tasty. I wouldn’t recommend it on top of your spaghetti and indistinguishable beef part-balls. Just for instance.
So, I’m still on the lookout. I’m going back in the kitchen with a Snickers bar, a coconut, and a purple Nerf football. I’ll let you know what I find out. And I’ll be sure to rinse all the ass off the thing, before I get started. Bon appetit, people.
Permalink | 1 CommentHey, all. I’ve been a bit lazy around here lately. It’s just been that kind of summer. But don’t fret — I’m still around, and have a couple of topics on tap soon.
(Or do fret, if you’re tired of reading this nonsense. I can’t tell you how to feel about it.)
At any rate, this being the fifteenth of the month, I get a freebie — and I’m going to use it. So, at your leisure, hop on over to Zoiks! to check out the latest, hot-off-the-virtual-presses issue. It’s got all sorts of entertaining, fun little pieces — kicky, just for summer! Plus, I’ve got a piece over there. So go have a look.
Meanwhile, just in case you missed the last issue, I’ll dump my piece from it below. So even if you’re feeling lazy, too, you get something to read right here. It’s something for everyone, twice a month. Huzzah!
So, there you go. I’m going back to taking it easy — I’ll see you folks in a day or two. Happy Friday!
No Style Is Just My Style
I’m not the most stylish guy in the world. Or even the most stylish guy on my block. Honestly, there’s a good chance that I’m not the most stylish guy who’s ever worn these pants. I’m not proud to be a slob, per se — but at this stage, I’m not sure there’s much I can do about it. Not without a visit from the Queer Eye crew, anyway.
The good news is that it seems I’m not alone. A recent study has shown that most men identify themselves as either ‘metrosexuals’ — think hair products and silk ties — or the also-cleverly-coined ‘retrosexuals’, meant to invoke visions of wifebeater T-shirts and Chuck Taylor sneaks. Now, I consider myself somewhere in between — I’m about as likely to shoot a moose as I am to use mousse in my hair. But I’m definitely camped out on the ‘retro’ side of the spectrum.
(And by the way, are we finished with the cute names yet? What’s next — if you like to dress up like an animal doctor, are you a vet-rosexual? Along the same lines, should we call guys with big furry backs pet-rosexuals? And if they shave it off, are they then Gilette-rosexuals? These are questions that I’m sorry I ever asked. Moving on.)
Of course, my wife wishes that I were a bit more ‘presentable’. Apparently, she likes to go out in public, and mingle with other people, and eat meals that don’t come wrapped in foil. Which is all well and good, but she’s got this crazy idea that I should also be involved, somehow. I don’t recall that sort of nonsense coming up during the wedding vows, but I wasn’t really paying close attention at the time. I was too busy fighting with my mother-in-law-to-be over the cutoff jeans and tuxedo tee I was wearing. I tried to point out that the black Chuck Taylors counted as formalwear, but she wasn’t impressed. Women, eh?
I suppose I could try to clean up a bit, though. There must be a class I could take, or maybe a seminar of some kind. I imagine there’s someone out there offering a whole weekend series to guys like me, with titles like ‘Sweatpants Aren’t the Only Pants’, ‘One Manicure Doesn’t Make You a Sissy’, and ‘Ties — They’re Knot Just for Funerals Any More’. I could show up in shorts and flip-flops, and walk out in a pressed suit and new loafers. It might even be worth the money — and the ribbing I’d take over the manicure from my friends. They’re not enlightened, stylish clothes hounds like the ‘new me’, you know.
The problem with cleaning myself up, of course, is that I’d just end up going out to nice places. You can’t show off a new set of expensive threads by sitting at a ball game or standing in line for McDonalds slop, after all. If I were to ever get myself together, the wife would be dragging me out to expensive restaurants, or fancy parties, or — depending on the quality of that manicure — heaven forbid, the opera. I’d never have a few minutes to myself to sit in my boxers and drink beer again. Forget that. I’ll stay my own slobby self, thank you very much. I may not look ‘fabulous’, but I’m feeling pretty damned good.
Permalink | 1 CommentScene: A local marginally fancy Italian restaurant. I’m sitting alone at the bar, drinking a glass of red wine and waiting for my wife. A woman in her thirties is standing near the door, alone. Three sips into my shiraz, she walks over to me.
All of that really happened. The rest, below — only in my head. Welcome to my delusions.
Woman: Um… hi. Are you Charlie?
Me: Uh, yeah. I’m Charlie.
Woman: Oh, hi! I’m Denise! It’s good to finally meet you!
Me: Well… um, yeah. Hi there.
Woman: So — wow, this is awkward, huh?
Me: Er, yeah. Actually, it is, sort of. I think you might be —
Woman: You know, I didn’t expect you to be so tall. That’s nice. I like tall men.
Me: Yes, but — really? Tall guys, eh? Well… thanks. But I don’t think —
Woman: You know, you’ve still got a lot of hair for a forty-eight year old. Not in great shape, though. And really, you wore that shirt? Please.
Me: Now, look — first of all, I’m not forty-eight. And — wait, what’s wrong with this shirt? I like this shirt.
Woman: Well, there’s no accounting for taste. It’s okay, it’s okay — I don’t mind taking on a ‘project guy’. You’d better be packing heat in those jeans, though. Now lemme taste that wine.
Me: What the — ‘project guy’? Hold on, there — I am a catch, dammit. Honey, you are lucky to be here with me, And if you want to see what’s in these pants, then you’d better —
Woman: Wait. What is that on your finger? A wedding ring? Oh, you bastard. The dating service is supposed to screen you people out. And all those emails we sent? The cybersex — the cybersex?! You were typing with that hand the whole time? Or… or worse! Ew! Dammit! I am out of here. Asshole!
Me: Wait, you don’t understand — I’m not Charlie. I mean, I am Charlie, but not that Charlie, whoever he is. It’s all a mistake — come back. We’ve never even had cybersex, and… oh. Hi, honey. Boy, you got here quick. Light traffic tonight, eh? Heh. Super.
Wife: Yeah, hi. You’re an idiot. Now buy me dinner.
Me: Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Say, by the way — what do you think of this shirt?
So, yeah — that never happened. Actually, the girl came over and asked if I was ‘Frank’. But I wonder what would’ve happened if her blind date had been with a ‘Charlie’. Or if I’d been thinking quickly enough to pretend I was ‘Frank’. I think I’d be a lot happier if I could just let shit like this go. Super.
Permalink | 2 CommentsMan, is it time to write something again already?
Shit. I thought when I moved my blogging schedule from ‘every freaking damned day, mostly’ to ‘every other night, give or take’, it would feel like a vacation. Wrong was I. It’s not exactly Weekend at Gitmo’s, or anything horrific like that — but I’m still amazed at how quickly the calendar turns.
Which simply means that I’m damned fucking old. That’s fine. I can live with that — which is good, I suppose, since the only alternative is… well, not living with it. Not living at all, really, when you get right down to it. So I’ll take the creeping gray hairs and phantom aches, thanks. Beats the hell out of keeling over at my desk and flopping onto the floor.
(‘Specially given my late-night choice of wardrobe. Nobody wants to be found in plaid boxers and a ‘Pimp Daddy’ T-shirt. Apparently, my fashion sense has already kicked the proverbial bucket.)
Anyway, it’s not just that. Much as I’d like to blame all of my shortcomings — and outgrowings — on the inexorable passage of time, there’s more to it than that. I’m having motivational issues, pretty much across the board lately. Even more so than usual, and that’s saying something, amigo. I mean, just look around this joint — with all the time I’ve spent slinging shit around here, it must be pretty clear that I’m not exactly Captain Ambition, for crissakes.
(Although, there’s always hope. I’d never set the bar quite that high — ‘captain’ is a lofty rank, after all — but maybe there’s something else that would fit my particular ‘talents’. Lance Corporal Half-Assing-It, perhaps. Or Sergeant Settle-For-Less. Maybe if I really stopped applying myself, one day I could become the Minister of Mailing-It-In. Sweet. That’s almost worth a shred of enthusiasm. Almost.)
Whatever it is that’s stuck in my craw — and I’m only assuming that’s where it’s stuck; I don’t even know where my craw is, frankly. Hell, do I even have a craw? It sounds like something you’d find on the ass-end of a lobster. Honestly, I’m just writing down shit that I’ve heard — I don’t know what it means, really. Hell, probably no one does. ‘Craw’. What the hell is wrong with people, anyway?
At any rate, what I was trying to say there is that whatever’s got me apatheticized, it’s doing a number on me. You know that noise you used to make, when Mom would wake you up, like on a Tuesday morning, and tell you it was time to go to school? And you didn’t want to get up, and you were tired, so you rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but she kept coming in and poking you? ‘Get up.‘ ‘You’re gonna be late.‘ ‘I’m counting to three, and you’d better be up!‘ Remember that?
Now, remember the noise you made, after the third time or so? The sound that comes from wanting no part of the outside world, but knowing that you’re not going to be left alone in frigging peace, no matter what you want? That annoyed, exhausted, grunty sort of noise? ‘Unnnnggghh!‘ That one?
Yeah, that’s my favorite noise these days. That’s what I’m talking about. When it’s time to get up — ‘Unnnnggghh!‘. Time for work? ‘Unnnnggghh!‘ Time to drive home? ‘Unnnnggghh!‘ Now it’s the weekend — go out for beer? All the way out of the house? ‘Unnnnnnnnggggggghhhhh!‘
(And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Those last three paragraphs were a pretty fricking long way to go for where that ended up. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should delete that bit, and replace it with something wittier. But you know what? ‘Unnnnggghh!‘
So there.)
Anyway, I don’t know what’s to blame for this condition. For whatever reason, I’m feeling listless. Apathetic. Checked out.
(I almost wrote ‘disenfranchised’, too, but that’s too fricking long to… aw, dammit. I just wrote it, anyway. Shit. Now I’m winded. That’s just peachy.)
Who knows — maybe I’m anemic or something. Or maybe I’ve got a parasite. Or maybe perky little bands of gnomes visit me in the night and steal my enthusiasm with their VerveSucker 3000 device. Could happen.
(Hey, I said I was apathetic, people — I can still come up with ridiculous paranoid fantasies, dammit. Trust me — when you’re me, that sort of thing really doesn’t take much effort at all.)
So, enough dithering here. I’ve got a big bunch of nothing to get back to, and then it’s off to bed. A good night’s sleep should help, eh? So long as the verve gnomes don’t come a-calling. I should really set up a trap or camera or something for those little bastards, just in case they’re real.
On the other hand, that sounds like frigging work. Screw it. Come and get me, ya mythical mother fuckers. I’ll be the one in the bed, sleeping till noon tomorrow, drooling on my ‘Pimp Daddy’ T-shirt. You wanna piece of me? ‘Unnnnggghh!‘
Permalink | 4 CommentsThe office I work at has a back door. Out the back door, there’s a set of four concrete steps leading to the street. And on those stairs… is a trail of splotchy black and white and yellow gunk of some kind. It intrigues me.
Well, mainly, it sickens me — at least when I’m walking on it. But also — it intrigues me.
See, it’s almost certainly bird poop. Which is not so intriguing, generally speaking. I find my interest piqued by all sorts of ridiculous nonsense, but pigeon droppings are not usually on the list. But this — this is poop of a different feather, so to speak.
The thing is, this poop is slathered — nay, nay, caked on three of the steps behind the office. The stairs are thick with the stuff — filthy with fine feathered feces, if you will.
(No? You won’t? How about ‘dipped in dollops of dodo doodoo’? Ooh, or ‘crazy with crusty cuckoo kaka’? Right. I thought not. Moving on, then.)
So, three steps just lousy with the stuff. The other step, and the landing, and the sidewalk beyond? Nothing. That’s what intrigues me — I can’t quite figure out what’s going on out there. I’ve never seen anyone sitting out there, feeding the birds. And quite frankly, it’s not really that sort of neighborhood. Come to think of it, it’s not that kind of office, either. I can see people hanging out back strangling birds, maybe, or playing a nice game of ‘pigeon soccer’, but that’s about it. And maybe that sort of thing would knock the shit out the birds — but I wouldn’t expect it to be so centralized. You’d think there’d be bird doo and feathers and beaks and other assorted parts scattered all around. But it’s not.
There’s nothing above the crap-encrusted spot that looks like a nest, either. Or a perch, or even a high-traffic flying lane, as far as I can tell. I don’t spend a lot of time swooping over alleyways, admittedly, so I’m not particularly an expert. But if there’s some draw there for the birdies, I’m not seeing it.
That leaves the possibility that the local flying fauna are targeting those steps somehow. Which is impressive, in its own way — have you ever tried shitting on a bullseye, while flapping around at fifteen miles an hour over it? Well, I have.
(Yeah, don’t ask. I was in college. we had one of those tire swings, we were drunk, somebody bet me… it wasn’t pleasant. I still get a little upset tummy when I see a steel-belted radial. Bleh.)
Anyway, the point is — it’s hard, dammit. And if the birds aren’t standing on those three steps and shitting, then they’re fricking bombarding them from above. And I’d like to know why. And more importantly for me — since I walk on those steps at least once or twice a day — I’d sure as hell like to know when. It’s bad enough walking on those slimy stairs; I’m not interested in being caught in a poopstorm on the way to my desk. I have plenty enough of those of the virtual variety as it is, thank you very much.
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