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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, dammit. The easiest entry every two weeks, and I spaced on it. You’d think I actually want to come up with new crap here every time. Sheesh.
Still, better to be lazy late than to be lazy never, so here goes:
Since it is — or rather, was — the fifteenth of the month, that means that a new issue of Zoiks! is out. Which also means that the previous issue of Zoiks! goes into the archives. Which also, also means… I get a free post. Yay, me.
So, please find below for your reading enjoyment my second-most-recent contribution to Zoiks!, which ran in the last online issue. And if that doesn’t satisfy your thirst for yuks, then head over to Zoiks!, and check out the current issue, chock full of giggles and grins.
And that’s it. I’m pasting the last piece in, and I’m off on a new adventure. Man, these Zoiks!-related posts are easy! How the hell could I almost forget?
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
As a writer and aspiring stand-up comedian, I’ve been blessed with recurring insomnia. Under ‘normal’ circumstances, the condition might seem like a curse, but in my lines of work, it’s actually very useful. I get more accomplished after three am than most people do after twelve-thirty. On the other hand, I often sleep past eleven in the morning, so there are tradeoffs. That’s how insomnia works.
And eventually, all good sleepless nights must come to an end. So I’ve tried out a few ways to bring on the snoozes, when counting sheep just won’t do. Feel free to use any or all of the techniques below — just make sure you’re really ready to hit the sack. This is powerful medicine, folks; proceed with caution.
Drink a glass of warm milk: Generally, this doesn’t work, of course. It seems to be some sort of old wives’ tale. What old wives have against the rest of us enjoying a night’s rest, I don’t know, but drinking a full glass of lukewarm moo juice will leave you bleary-eyed and milkstached, but not drowsy. Still, you’ve got to start somewhere. And you can always graduate to a nice, warm glass of milk and coconut rum — hold the milk. That’ll put you to sleep, but you’d better be sure to cancel those morning meetings the next day.
Try reading a book: This is great, if you happen to have ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ lying around, or you keep ‘Principles of Organic Chemistry’ on your nightstand. It’s somewhat less effective if the closest book handy is ‘Amityville Horror’, or an audiobook from the Steven King collection. Instead of sleeping, you might spend the night hiding under the covers, hoping that the creaking outside your window is just the wind. Of course, those of us who are truly proficient with insomnia don’t have to worry so much — we’re not going to bed until after dawn, anyway, so there’s no ‘dark’ for bogeymen to go ‘bump’ in. Still, it’s not such a good idea to seed your dreams with the most horrific images that today’s writers can dream up. There’s sleeping, and then there’s ‘unconscious night sweating’. Stick to the textbooks and tearjerkers, if you go this route.
Listen to soothing music: Again, this is a great idea in theory — but one person’s ‘soothing’ is another person’s… well, ‘Hootie and the Blowfish’, for instance. Sure, their music is soft and lilting, but ‘easy listening’, my ass. My ears would find steel wool Q-tips more ‘soothing’ than that audiodrivel. Luckily, any music can soothe the insomnial beast, so long as it’s played softly enough. Sometimes, Rage Against the Machine at six decibels — or Nine Inch Nails, at a level only dogs can hear — is just what the sleep doctor ordered.
Exercise: Honestly, I’ve only tried this method once. I get the idea — the physical activity, late at night, should sap whatever energy your body has remaining, and let you slip sweetly off to dreamland. Fine. But remember, your hand-eye coordination and reflexes aren’t going to be up to par, after staying awake for hours past your bedtime. And, as I found out, it can be rather embarrassing to explain to the ambulance crew how you backhanded yourself down a flight of stairs, trying to do jumping jacks at four in the morning. I wasn’t sure whether I really wanted them to believe me or not.
Watch LifeTime: No, really. Anything on LifeTime. The Oxygen network works, too. Or the Golf Channel. Or any shopping network — unless you’re one of those people with a shopping problem, of course. You’re not doing anyone any good, lying there on the couch for three hours ordering commemorative Jackson trial dinner plates. But short of that, this is clearly the way to go. There are hundreds of channels out there; surely, you can find one that’ll put you to sleep. You call them ‘DirecTV’, but I’m calling them ‘Sandman’. Don’t let the bed bugs bite!
Permalink | No CommentsLast night, I went to a Red Sox game. They say that if you pay close enough attention at a baseball game, you’ll see something you’ve never seen before. I’m pretty sure they meant on the diamond, really. But hell — it’s a long game, and beating the hell out the Reds. So, in the process of seeing something in the game I’d never seen live — a one-hitter — I also tried to find a new tidbit of knowledge off the field, too. And here’s my report:
The first thing I noticed, while waiting in line for a bag of peanuts, is how freaking little ‘personal space’ children seem to need. I don’t deal with the things on a day-to-day basis, you understand, so I’m not terribly familiar with their ways. And apparently, one of their ‘ways’ is to brush up against the legs of whatever larger mammal happens to be near them. Poking with the elbows seems to not be out of the question, either — but the tykes’ parents get a little miffed if you poke back, I found.
Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not entirely averse to the kiddies. They’re welcome to wander around whereever they like, dropping drool and snot and asking weird, surreal questions like, ‘Why do we pee?‘
(And I even know the answer to that one — we pee so we’ll always have a way to melt ourselves out, in case a snowbank ever falls on us. That’s easy. Ten thousand year ice age, plus evolution, equals urinary magic. I mean, duh.)
So, the kids are fine. And a ballpark is one of their havens, of course, so I’ve got no complaints, generally speaking. But honestly, now — if I really wanted something leaning on my thigh and schnuffling snot all over my pants leg, then I’d slather peanut butter back there and chase down the dog. No thanks, there, junior.
Anyway, it’s moot, really, because I’ve always known that kids have faulty ‘proximity to strangers’ alarms. So I didn’t really learn that last night. At least the little buggers gave me a bit of space at the urinal. Guess they didn’t want to see why I pee, eh?
So, next lesson. Remember that bag of peanuts I bought, five or six paragraphs ago? Well, about an hour and a half later, I was struck by the realization that a bagful of peanuts feels way heavier when they’re inside you than when you’re just walking around with the bag. In my hand? Maybe a pound or so. In my stomach, even without the shells? Approximately the weight of a Chrysler LeBaron. With mag wheels. And a sumo wrestler stuffed in the trunk.
(Oh, and by the way, I don’t like to see ‘sumo wrestler’ and ‘stuffed in the trunk’ in the same sentence, either. I’m just telling you how it felt, is all.
And while we’re at it, I know what you dirty pervs were thinking when I talked about the peanuts being ‘inside you’. That’s just nasty, people. Just a waste of good peanuts, if you ask me. And for chrissakes, if you must go there, at least shell the damned things first. You don’t know where those things have been.)
But, to be fair, I’ve stuffed my gob full of goobers before, so I knew what would happen. Bloating myself with peanuts and beer is nothing new for a Fenway trip, so that was nothing I hadn’t seen before.
No, it wasn’t until the sixth inning at the ballgame that I saw the off-field ‘thing I’ve never seen before’. At one point in that inning, the couple sitting in front of us in the bleachers stood up. And the woman… had the flattest ass I’ve ever seen on a female of the species. Ever. It was frightening.
And don’t get any ideas that I was checking her out, now. First of all, between watching the game, fighting through random children, and gobbling down peanuts, I had no time for that sort of nonsense. But when people three feet in front of your face stand up — and when you’re a lazy old guy, who’ll get up when the game’s damned over or when you need a beer, and not before — then you’re going to end up with an eyeful of ass. No way around it, really.
Except that, with this particular girl, there wasn’t even an eyeful there. She was a slender girl — not outrageously skinny, as far as I could tell, just thin. But she apparently was otherwise occupado when they were handing out the heinies. Maybe got a double-dose of brains, and she’s really smart. Maybe she can run really fast. Or maybe she had three boobs. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that she’s missing an ass from her inventory; I can only guess where it might have gotten off to.
Now, I’ve seen this ‘lack of ass’ phenomenon before — but never on a woman. Occasionally, you’ll see a guy that looks like he’s smuggling a black hole in his back pocket, and it’s sucking his rearcheeks into it. But women are curvier, or so I thought. This chick was just… sort of lumpy and flat back there. When she stood up, her pants looked like a napkin draped over a bed of gravel.
And that, folks — that was something I’d never seen before. Mission ac-freakin’-complished. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get rid of some of these damned peanuts. Wish me godspeed. Go Sox!
Permalink | 1 CommentYou know, sometimes you write a post… just to get something the hell out of your head. And this — this is one of those posts. Yesterday, I woke up with a tiny kernel of the idea below. I’m not sure whether I should be more embarrassed that I thought of it in the first place, or that I’ve now burdened you with it. Have a drink for me, won’t you?
And now, without further excuses…
Announcer: And now, welcome to the studio your host — he’s the powder on your doughnut, the blow in your bowl, the chef with the all the best shit; it’s Termel Johnson, with another round of ‘Coke Cuisine’!
(Whooping and general mayhem surge through the studio audience. A pair of wobbly gentlemen attempt to rush the stage, but fall — literally — a few feet short. In the back, a boob is flashed.)
Termel: Hey, yeah. All right. What’s up, y’all? I’m Termel, and I’m gonna gourmet the shit outta this joint. I got some pots over here, and they’s veggies in the fridge, and I just scored a half a key of the finest Nicaraguan blow you ever laid your nostrils on. So let’s get fun-kay with some… Coke Cuisine!
Now, today we’re gonna talk about the sweet stuff. And I’m not just talkin’ ’bout that sweet piece of hootchie that hangs by the dumpster behind the studio, either. Bonita! I’ll be by for you later, girl! I hook you up, baby.
All right. So today, we gonna make us a three-course gourmet dessert. First, we’ll need a box of brownie mix. Like this one, right here. Okay, let’s get this shit into the bowl. Sweet. Looks like a big pile of chocolate blow, dunnit? Yeah, but don’t be fooled — I did a couple of lines of that shit once; I couldn’t taste food for a week. You think the crank is bad? Stay away from the sugar, baby. That’s bad medicine.
Anyway, brownie mix. Now, we gotta have a couple of eggs. Don’t worry about the shells, now — by the time you eat these babies, you won’t know the difference. Now, throw in some milk. It don’t matter how much. Hell, use water, if you want. OJ works, too. It’s all good. And just mush all that shit together with your hands now. Watch those open sores, now.
Okay, now for the good part. Just before you pop the brownies in, add a half an ounce of your coke. This is important, now — just a half. Any less than that, and you’ll actually be able to taste the damned nasty things. Any more, and you’ll notice a metallic, bitter aftertaste. Oh, and also — you’ll go blind. So be cool. You might want to write that step down.
So now, mix all that shit together, throw the pan in the oven, and… hell, I don’t know. Leave it for ten minutes — twenty, maybe. Whatever. Just do a couple of lines with the leftover goods, and the shit’ll be done. Done enough, anyway. But don’t get too far gone, man, and forget to use a potholder. Them ovens are dangerous bitches. Hey, just like Bonita! Aw, yeah. Almost forgot about her. Y’all can have this batch, now — I’m gonna go let her lick my fingers. This’s been Coke Cuisine. Blow appetit, peeps.
(Termel exits stage left. Stage hands are overrun, as the crowd surges forward to get their hands on the brownies. The camera zooms out and the credits roll, as a small, grandmotherly woman wields a rolling pin, snatches a brownie, and escapes backstage. Another successful show.)
Christ. Thank goodness that’s out of my head now. Sorry you people had to see that. Much more of that bullshit, and I’ll be afraid to wake up at all. Sheesh.
Permalink | 4 Comments(Yeah, I’m back-posting this for yesterday. I was going to post it, and got busy. But it still counts, dammit. Plus, the post is about yesterday, so there you go.
Okay, okay — so really, the post is about me being a frigging cluebag. But only as it applies to yesterday — or rather, not yesterday. Look, maybe you should just read the thing. All this explanation shit is only going to confuse you.)
Never trust a mother-in-law, folks.
Like you need me to tell you that, right? For most people, ‘in-laws’ are right up there with ‘lawyers’, ‘telemarketers’, and ‘Charles Manson’ on the list of people you wouldn’t take candy from. But I’m not that way — no, really. I’m an easygoing sort. Amiable. Trusting.
Yeah. ‘Gullible‘. Screw you, too. I’m tellin’ a story, here.
Anyway, here’s the thing — my mother-in-law was planning on coming to town this past weekend. Only, a couple of weeks ago, she left us a message saying that she can’t make it until next weekend, instead. So far, so boring, right? Stick with me — we’re getting there.
So, in her message, she said the following:
‘Getting a ticket for the 10th was just crazy — Father’s Day traffic must be screwing it up — so I’ll be up on the 16th, instead.‘
Fine. Different weekend. No problem. But heeeeey… that’s right. Fathers Day is coming up. Nice catch. I’ll remember that.
And I did. I tucked that little tidbit away from two weeks, and on Thursday — at the last possible moment, really — I ordered a gift to be sent to my dad. Go, me — not forgetting Fathers Day. For a guy like me, that’s a personal frigging accomplishment. I put it on my resume, even.
Only — and this is the part all of you already know, of course — Fathers Day wasn’t this week. It’s next week. Something else entirely must’ve been screwing the air traffic pooch this weekend, and I was foiled — again, albeit accidentally — by the mother-in-law. I even gave ol’ Dad a call Sunday afternoon, just to say… ‘What the fuck? It’s not Fathers Day? Oh. Talk to you next week, then. And don’t open any packages until next weekend. Damn.‘
So, I got a bit of ‘gentle ribbing’. Not gentle enough, though — see how he likes it next year, when I poop in a box, and send him that. Oh, it’ll show up the right week, though. Then we’ll see how funny it is that I can’t read a calendar. Try wearing that around your neck, pops.
Permalink | 1 CommentSo, maybe I’m just dense.
(Yes, that’s right, peanut gallery. Let it all out now. I can wait. Bring it on, bitches.
Done yet? Let it go, now. Shake it twice and zip it up, there, bucko. We’ve got a post to get to.)
So, anyway, maybe I’m not the slipperiest stripper on the pole, metaphorically speaking. That’s fine — I can deal with that. After all, we can’t all be the fuzziest handcuffs on the headboard, right? Again, metaphorically. Keep it in your pants, Elmo.
But I can usually decipher the news items that I encounter online. I may not get all the details, or understand the fancy big words, but I manage. Usually. But there was a story yesterday that stopped me in my boxers.
(What? It’s a figure of speech — ‘stopped me in my boxers’. Plus, I read it right after I got up, so it’s even true, too.
No, no — don’t try to picture it, dammit. Nobody needs to see that. Just move on, for chrissakes. Smartass.)
At any rate, the story was about the aging of the human population. Apparently, a study was done — in New York and Austria — examining the time at which we hit middle age. Apparently, it’s taking us longer and longer all the time. I knew we were a lazy bunch of bastards, but to procrastinate on getting old? Damn, that’s just pitiful, people. Get the hell on with it already.
(Oh, and regarding the title of the post, just in case you think I’m singling the Euros out on this one… I already know I’d never want to ask for change in New York. At best, that gets you a slap, or a ‘Fuggedaboutit‘. At worst, they might find you in a dumpster in Brooklyn. The part of you they don’t find stuffed under a bush in Central Park, anyway. Ouchie.)
Anyway, there was one bit in the story that I did understand. It went like this:
‘In 2000, the average German was 39.9 years old and could expect to live for another 39.2 years, according to the journal Nature.‘
Fine. You live for thirty-nine; you’ve got thirty-nine left. That’s ‘middle age’. That’s math I can handle, right there.
So, here are the next two paragraphs — the ones that made my head wiggle and my sphincter twitch:
‘But by 2050 the average German would be 51.9 years old, yet could still expect to live for another 37.1 years.
That would effectively mean that middle age would not arrive in Germany until a person reached the age of 52, rather than 40 as it was in 2000.‘
Now… wait. Thirty-nine and thirty-nine makes sense to me. Fifty-one and thirty-seven?! So ‘middle age’ is fifty-two? Wha? Does somebody out there have the secret decoder ring that makes that math work out? Even if — for some wigged-out reason — the ‘magic number’ of years left after ‘middle age’ is thirty-nine… then in 2050, it would be at age fifty, not fifty-two. Are they smoking something in Austria — or the Upper East Side — that I’m not aware of?
I mean, I’m no Leonhard Euler over here — hell, let’s face it, people; I’m barely even Leo Fibonacci — but I just can’t make the numbers work. I’m not saying they don’t work, necessarily, with a few creative equations and some algebraic hand-waving… but it damned well doesn’t follow from the data presented. Not as obviously as they make it seem, anyway. I’m a moron, folks, but I’m not that big a moron. Some-fuckin’-body needs to show their damned work.
Maybe it wouldn’t mean so much to me… but I’m leveled out at cruising altitude, hurtling headlong toward middle age myself — whenever the hell it starts. So, I’d like to know when it’s coming. You’ve got to prepare for that kind of thing, you know. Nobody wants to hit middle age unexpectedly — or sober, for that matter. Just tell me fricking when. I’ll meet you there.
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