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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA



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HomeAboutArchiveBestShopEmail Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

Twelve Simple Rules for Sucking Less Than ‘Eight Simple Rules…’

Folks, I’m here tonight to make you a pledge. Actually, a set of pledges. I don’t really expect to make it big, ever — but let’s say I do. Let’s say the stars align, or I come up with some good dirt on somebody important, or grow some damned talent, and get involved with a sitcom someday. Let’s just say that happens.

Got that? It may take you a few seconds to suspend disbelief quite that far. That’s okay; take your time I’ll wait.

Okay, so now that we’re in fantasy-land, I’m prepared to make a few promises — to you, and to myself — about what will not happen on that mythical sitcom. Not as long as I’m involved, anyway.

1) There will not be a laugh track. If you want yuks in a can, buy a tin of cocktail weenies. They’re a real hoot.

2) There will not be an episode, ever, concerning a mixup of identical twins, and the shenanigans that ensue. As a matter of fact, forget twins altogether. Creepy things, anyway, what with all that ‘we know something you don’t know‘ crap.

3) The show will not be used as a vehicle to tug on anyone’s heart strings, or to teach people a damned lesson. If you want drama, then watch Masterpiece Theater. If you want to learn, watch Nova. Or turn the TV off altogether. How’s about that?

4) The show will not be set in the ’70s, or the ’80s, or any other time besides the present. We’ll not be making ‘That 1870s Show‘, ‘Battlestar Hilaria‘, or any other ‘period fluff’. If a guy walks onto the set wearing bellbottom pants, I will personally kick him in the balls. Seriously.

5) There will not be a crotchety-but-sympathetic ‘tough’ character on the show, whose gruff exterior belies a tender, fluffy heart of gold. Bullshit. In my experience, a gruff exterior is evidence of a gruff, snippy, shriveled interior. Maybe I just don’t look hard enough, but screw it — it’s my hypothetical show, dammit.

6) The name of the show will not be longer than three words. After that, it’s too damned hard to remember — or bother to watch. Observe: Seinfeld — fine. Friends — very popular. Life According to the Other Belushi, Who’s Really Let Himself Go But Inexplicably Has a Smoking Hot Wife in This Show? Sorry. Not happening.

7) The show will not include a random older character, like a grandparent or senile neighbor, just to pique the interest of the gradually-aging population. Screw ’em. If the old folks can’t relate to a ‘regular’ show, let ’em go back to Matlock and Golden Girls. I hear Murder, She Wrote is good this time of year, grandma. Move it along.

8) We’ll not be having a bubbly hot chick who can’t act on the show. If she’s got nice boobs and huge tracts of talent, then we’ll talk. Otherwise — against my better personal judgement — we’ll have to pass. Eye candy does not a fine comedy make. (I reserve the right to reverse this rule, if we happen to be on HBO, where the girl can actually get naked on camera. I’m only human, people.)

9) There will not be obvious stereotypes on the show. We may have a gay male character, but he won’t wear all pink all the time and listen exclusively to Streisand and show tunes. Possibly, there’ll be a girl from the South — but will she twang it up, drive a pickup, and line dance her way to NASCAR races? Maybe — but not on every show. And if we have smart kids, they’ll do more than wear Coke-bottle glasses and fail to get girls. I went through enough of that shit in high school; I’m not putting it into the damned show.

10) There will not be any product endorsements going on during the show. Have you ever watched a sitcom and seen a Sprite, or an iPod, or a box of Rice-a-Roni ‘accidentally’ left in the camera shot, label perfectly angled towards the camera? Shameless. Save the fucking commercials for between the plot lines. Otherwise, how will any of us know when to slip out to use the can?

11) The show is not going to feature any sort of ridiculous gimmick like dream sequences, flashbacks, or any other fantasy bizarro world bullshit. If you see wavy shimmer lines on my show, you can just frigging shoot me and get it over with. Save me the pain.

12) Finally, the show will not last longer than it has to. There are too many ideas out there, too many other things to work on, and too many crappy-assed shows already on the air. Forget about ‘jumping the shark’; when the shark is walking up to ring the doorbell, it’s all over. Time for the next adventure.

Well, there you go. It’ll never happen — and if it ever does, I have no idea what it might be… but I can say for damned sure what it won’t be. That ought to put it ahead of ninety-nine percent of the crap out there now, eh?

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Where Is Everyone? Is It July Already?

Hey, folks. If my ghost town of an office today — not to mention the server logs for this site — are any indication, then most of you (in the U.S., at least) have taken advantage of the upcoming long holiday weekend to get the hell out of the house, away from the computer, and hopefully into something more interesting. To you, I say, ‘kudos’. Knock yourselves out.

As for me, I’m stuck at work. And might be back tomorrow, or even on Monday, when all good and upstanding Americans are supposed to be out getting sunburns, lighting fires under various gunpowder-containing objects, and consuming barbecued meat products.

(Man, that got sort of a Coneheads feel at the end, there, didn’t it? Weird.)

Anyway, in the spirit of weekend laziness, I’m not planning on working too hard here today — either at the office, or the weblog. And luckily for me, it’s the first of the month, so I’m off the hook. It’s time for the next Zoiks! issue, and we both know the drill by now, right?

No? Fine. But I’m only explaining this one more time, dammit. Write it down or something, would you?

So, here’s the scoop: every 1st and 15th on the calendar, a new issue of the Zoiks! e-zine arrives. Well, virtually arrives. On the web. You understand. It doesn’t come in a nice little plastic newspaper bag or anything, but it’s legit, just the same.

Now, in these issues of Zoiks!, you’ll find a half-dozen or so funny little ditties — including one from yours truly. And, since Zoiks! doesn’t keep online archives, I’ve decided to do it for them. Well, for them, for me, I guess, since I’m only archiving my stuff. It’s not like I’m being completely altruistic and shit, see?

So, here we go, then. Below, you’ll find my piece from the last issue of Zoiks! And if you want to read the current one — well, just head over to Zoiks! to check it out. And if, for some oddly disturbing reason, you’d like to see earlier pieces, then feel free to rummage through the archives. You might want to focus on the 1st and 15th posts — but I don’t have to tell you that, right? You’re a smart little cookie.

All right, then — let’s get this weekend kicked off, puppies. It’s par-tay time. Sayonara.


They Don’t Make the Old Days Like They Used To

I yearn for a simpler time. Life in this modern age can be frustrating and scary, with the global warming and bad cholesterol and high-definition reruns of ‘The Nanny’. I long for a more peaceful existence, free of the complications of the twenty-first century lifestyle. I’m ready to re-adopt a few of our long-forgotten traditions, to recapture the halcyon days of yore. Yesteryore, even. I’m not fooling around here.

First, I’d like to go back to using surnames to describe peoples’ professions. So, if I meet a Shoemaker, I’ll know he can help me patch the hole in my sneaker. If I run into a Baker, I can ask for a ‘doughnut hole’, without worrying how exactly he’ll interpret the request. And if a Parker happens to be around — well, maybe he can finally get my car into my garage spot. Plus, he might be turn out to be Spider-Man. That would be sweet.

While we’re at it, how about if we go back to riding horses to get around? Gas prices are high, pollution is terrible, and I for one have had it up to here with that big-eared ‘zoom zoom’ brat. Much better that we should saunter around the natural way, atop large domesticated hairy animals. We can ride twelve wide down the highway, trotting and cantering our way to the office. Sure, we’ll all need stables — and salt licks, and hay bales, and the amount of poop in the streets would escalate, just a touch — but it’s a small price to pay to be rid of our mobile metal monsters. And just think of all the glue and Big Macs we’ll be able to make with the ‘leftovers’.

It doesn’t end there, though. I think we should settle all of our differences the old-fashioned way, with a nice pistol duel. If it was good enough for the founding fathers’ generation, then why not us? Put away the fancy Glocks and rifles — those things won’t help you much, anyway, once we convert back to horseback travel. Have you ever heard of a ‘gallop-by shooting’? Me, neither. We’ll nip an awful lot of violence in the bud, if the would-be perps were forced to use ancient flint-lock piece to do their dirty deeds. Those things are more likely to blow off your fingers than to take out your opponent. I’d think twice before stepping off ten paces against the guy who dissed my baby’s mama, that’s for sure.

I suppose the Internet is out, too — if there’s anything that screams ‘modern technology’, it’s the internet. So we’ll have to get our porn somewhere else, obviously. But also our communications — email goes out the window. Maybe we can Pony Express parchments to each other, or learn to send ‘leetspeak’ instant messages via smoke signal. Of course, if the spammers get their grubby paws on that technology, they’ll fill the skies with soot, selling their snake oil and combination butter churns/penis enlargers. And you thought pop-up ads were bad; at least nobody ever got black lung from one of those.

Finally, let’s start talking like the old-timers — sorry, I mean, ‘olde-timers’. All the fancy new lingo and technical jargon around today — let’s throw it all away, and replace it with words like ‘forsooth’ and ”verily’. Sure, nobody knows what the hell those things mean any more, but is that really any different than technoweenie talk like ‘phishing’ or ’emoticon’? If we’re going to be unintelligible, at least we can sound Shakespearean. That’s my attitude.

Would any of these measures make our lives easier? Perhaps. Maybe we should ask the Amish, before we go to all the trouble. They certainly seem happy, raising barns and riding in buggies and not smoking or drinking or dancing or… wow. If we’re really serious about going ‘retro’, I suppose we have to fall in line with all of that uber-observant religious mumbo-jumbo, too. I never thought about that. And there’s no way I’m getting up before noon on Sundays. So, never mind. Maybe the modern life isn’t quite so bad, after all. Verily.

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Hey, Columbus Had His Problems, Too, You Know

Downtown Boston, you win again.

Folks, I don’t have to tell any of you who’ve been here before — or managed to read this far, even — that I’m kind of a nimrod sometimes. And nowhere is my nimroddiness more evident than when I’m behind the wheel of my car, driving in downtown Boston. It’s just a recipe for disaster. And nimroditude, apparently.

Now, I’m not a bad driver, generally speaking. I don’t have accidents — or even cause accidents, as far as I know. I stay in my lane, don’t duck the wrong way down one-way streets, and generally keep my navigitory nose clean when it comes to following the rules of the road. I’m even in ‘good hands’. Are you?

Anyway, my biggest problem behind the wheel — besides that said wheel isn’t attached to a Ferrari of some kind — is my innate, instinctive sense of direction. Or rather, complete and glaring lack of one. I believe that we all have our strengths and weaknesses, and that a deficiency in one area is usually compensated for by a special talent in another. I’m not sure what, exactly, I was blessed with in return for my sense of direction — maybe it’s my startling good looks. Or my superior, finely-honed intellect. No? My uproarious sense of humor? No? Hrm… well, I can juggle. And roll my tongue; maybe that’s it. Whatever it is, it had better be damned good, because I couldn’t plot a route from my bedroom to the can without a map, a sextant, and a plucky Sherpa guide.

(Which really gets inconvenient when I have to pee in the middle of the night. Because who wants to fiddle with a sextant at three o’clock in the morning? And those Sherpas get cranky when you wake them up, too. Even the plucky ones. Yikes.)

Needless to say, for anyone who’s visited our fair city, navigating in Boston is particularly challenging. If it’s not the one-way streets — sometimes three or four in a row, all in the same direction — then it’s the rotaries. And if it’s not the rotaries, it’s the construction detours. And if it’s not that, then it’s the lobotomized orangutans at MapQuest sending you three miles north to catch a road south, then telling you to take an exit that hasn’t existed since the Eisenhower administration. I’m crippled enough here in my navigatory hell without that kind of help, thank you very little.

Anyway, the point is, I got bitten again tonight. I was going somewhere that I know how to get to — I even know where it is, which is a ‘half the battle’ that I don’t often win — but I wasn’t on the side of the city where I could use a route that I already knew. Plus, I was already late meeting my wife downtown for dinner. So, I ‘winged’ it. Nice. Good idea, there, genius. I might as well have hired a crack-addled turtle to strap me onto his shell and crawl me in the general direction.

(Do turtles do crack? I don’t know. Work with me on this one, people.)

So, an hour and a half later — after two circles around the Boston Common, giving up and parking in a garage I’d never heard of, and walking fourteen blocks to get to the restaurant, I finally made it. But I did make it, dammit. It was touch and go for a while — wandering around the streets of Boston, I more than once imagined that they’d find my dehydrated body on a curb some day, clawing at the pavement and muttering, ‘If I could just get to Beacon Street… I know the way from Beacon…

I’m not sure whether it’s more embarrassing that I had to ask directions — from three different people, wildly varying in the amount of useful information they had to offer — while walking from the car to the restaurant, or that we had to look up the garage on the web to negotiate our way back afterwards. I just know that this is one more case where a quick look at a map before getting in the car would’ve saved a lot of grief. And I know that I’m still a nimrod, when left to my own devices. And that Boston, once again, has reared its beany head and bitten me in the ass. Where the hell was that damned Sherpa when I really needed him?

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I Think I Like This ‘Lucky Pu-Pu’ Place

And now, my side of the conversation I just had when I called the new Chinese restaurant that opened a few blocks away:

Me: Hi! I’d like to get an order for delivery, please.

Me: Okay, my address is <my address — let’s call it ‘123 Fake Street’>.

Me: No, no — not Cake Street. Fake, with an ‘F’. It’s okay; no problem.

Me: Oh, right — my phone number is <let’s say, 555-867-5309 here, but I gave him the real one>.

Me: Okay, so I’d like to have — what? Oh. Um, the cross street is Cypress Street. Right, Cypress.

Me: Um, I don’t know — about six foot three or so. I don’t know what that has to do with — uh. well, I’m thirty-four. Does that matter?

Me: Okay, great. So, I’d like to order the — wait, what? Oh, about five and a half inches, I guess, but — just hold on, now! That’s over the line, man. I’m just trying to order dinner here; what the hell does the amount of rainfall we’ve had on the lawn have to do with anything?

(And what did you think I was talking about, there, bub? That’s naaaasty. Perv.)

Me: All right, fine. So, I’d like a large wonton soup, and a — no, no, I said ‘wonton’, not… wait, do you even have ‘bonbon soup’? Really? Wow. Is it any good? No. No, I wouldn’t think so. Let’s just go with a large egg drop soup, instead, to avoid any confusion.

Me: Okay, then I need a house fried rice, a small steamed rice, and the happy family.

Me: Um, nooooo. Not the ‘happy ending’, just the happy family, thanks. Hold on — do you even have a happy end– no, never mind. My wife will be home soon. That would take way too much explaining.

Me: Okay, great. See you in twenty minutes. Can I get a total?

Me: What?! Ninety-three fifty? What the hell? No — no, I said no ‘happy ending’. Yes, I’m sure. Really. No, I’m sure your sister is very attractive — a Lucy Liu attitude with Tia Carrera curves, you say? Ah, but a Jackie Chan face — I see. Yeah, I think I’ll pass; what’s the total without that? Okay, seventeen bucks. Fine. See you in a few. *click*

So, that was an adventure. I hate calling new restaurants. Or any restaurants. Basically, I just hate talking to people. I should probably just get it over with and move in under a bridge somewhere.

On the plus side, though, the food got here a little while ago, and it’s pretty damned tasty. The soup was a bit of a surprise, though — often, places will offer a ‘small’ that’s about the equivalent of a cup o’ soup, and a ‘large’ that’s approximately bowl-sized. Well, I don’t know what these guys do for a ‘small’, but the ‘large’ I ordered is not bowl-sized. It’s closer to Lake Ontario-sized. I’ll be sucking down soup for a month. I just hope the guy on the phone didn’t get pissed off, and leave me his own ‘happy ending’ of sorts in the tub. As far as I can tell, eggs were the only thing dropped into it… but who knows, really? Maybe I should’ve gone with the hot ‘n’ sour. Yow.

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Dude, Are the Roosters Even Up at That Hour?

Is there anything worse than being at work when you don’t especially need to be?

Don’t get me wrong — I like my job. The people are nice, the work is interesting, I’ve got flexible hours, and — short of a pink ruffled tutu — I can wear whatever the hell I want.

(Yes, it’s true — I’ll never be a pretty, pretty ballerina. Not at the office, at least. But I’m coping. Thanks for your concern, there, sparky.)

Still, if I don’t need to be at work — particularly early in the morning, when I often feel I don’t really need to be alive — then I’d rather not. There’s plenty to do, of course — and I’m fairly confident that it can be done most appropriately between eleven in the morning and seven at night. If I’m the one doing the ‘doing’, that is.

But I’m a standup guy, too. I’ve got certain ‘ponsibilites at work, and you might say I take them ‘in stride’.

(You might say that, at least, if you’ve forgotten that the phrase ‘like a big fat whiny baby’ exists. Frankly, I prefer the former, but I can’t tell you people what to think.)

Anyway, last week I was asked to be at work at nine this morning — that’s nine, people. In the a.m. Nine. N. Ine. Somebody had to be around to meet the new hire, and he is going to be working with me, so that apparently dealt me the short straw. And I’ve got somewhere the rest of the office can shove that short straw, and a few thousand of its closest friends… but did I say that? No.

No, I kept my trap shut, hit the sack early last night, set the alarm, and tried to go to sleep before midnight, for once. Which is crazy! It was still fricking daylight outside, I think. Who does that?

One fitful night later, I awoke to the lilting, lyrical ‘ENH! ENH! ENH! ENH! ENH!‘ of the alarm. It was a quarter till eight. I’ll sometimes wake up around that time, on a regular day. And on those mornings, I’ll roll over, look at the clock… and laugh, laugh, laugh myself back to sleep. Quarter till eight. Whatever.

But today, I dumped my draggy ass over the side of the bed, fell into the shower, and eventually made it to work. I think I dressed in between, somewhere. Tutus were not involved. Thanks so much.

Anyway, long story ever-so-slightly-less-long, I made it to work, right at nine, expecting a phone call that the new guy was there. No call. So I waited. And waited, and waited. Finally, at nine thirty, I went to the lobby to check on him… and found that he was scheduled for training all morning. Until noon. Nine thirty till noon. See how ‘nine a.m.’ doesn’t come into that sentence anywhere? And how I could’ve spent another hour or more in my bed, drooling and twitching? Maybe even sleeping. Bitches.

Eh, that’s all right. I hit the wall around five, and slipped out a few minutes afterward. And I can always mosey in around three in the afternoon tomorrow, to make up for the ‘early morning that wasn’t’. Plus, there’s sort of a silver lining — by actually leaving the office before dark today, I didn’t have to go through the drama of getting my car out of the new garage.

See, we moved our office a few weeks ago, and also switched garages. The old one was nice — six levels above ground, attached to a movie theater and serving an office block. They had car washes and a daycare next door — there were always people coming and going and having a good time.

The new garage… well, not so much. The new garage is a couple of blocks away; a single underground level beneath a building that — as far as anyone can tell — the contractors have given up on actually building. There’s a bunch of chain-link fencing at street level, and some nasty-looking first-level steel supports, but that’s it. And the garage below isn’t creepy, exactly — it’s well-lit, and clean and all — but it’s eerily deserted most of the time. Few cars and fewer people, and your footsteps echo around the whole place. It’s the sort of garage you usually see somebody getting whacked in at the beginning of a Law and Order episode. Which tells me that I either need a new place to park, or I need to stop watching so damned much Law and Order. Probably both.

Anyway, that was my Monday. Not the most exciting day in the world, but we got a few paragraphs out of it, no? And you got to picture me in a pink tutu, drooling and twitching, and getting whacked in a parking garage.

Well, not all at the same time, of course. Not until just now, anyway. You can thank me for the mental image later. And now your Monday feels just as icky as mine was. Welcome to the party, folks.

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