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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Ah, Memorial Day weekend. For those of us here in the States, it’s a magical three-day extravaganza — a day of hope, and love, and juicy grilled meats. Mostly the meats. And the love is for the meats, generally. And the hope — well, personally, I’m usually hoping that the grill isn’t going to explode, after a winter of sitting in the back yard. So yeah — it’s a meat thing.
(I know, I know — ‘just like a man‘. It’s always about the meat for us, one way or another. Color me Neanderthal.)
In keeping with tradition, we took the opportunity today to soak dead animal parts in various juices and park them over charcoal for eating. Cow parts, chicken parts, other ground-up pattied cow parts — you name it. Turkeys were spared, as far as I know. And we resisted the urge to throw the dog onto the grill, no matter how tasty her drumsticks looked. Or how many times she tried to lick the steaks. We let her lick a grilled asparagus, just to teach her a lesson. That got rid of her.
And the meal turned out okay, which is always a relief when I’m wearing the apron. Me grilling is a lot like me having sex: there’s an awful lot of smoke, it’s all over before it probably should be, and by the end, you just hope that nothing’s bloody and no one gets sick.
(Really, I’m not quite that bad — either at the grill, or in the sack. And I almost never wear the apron to bed, unless there are some tasty barbeque sauce stains on it that I want to finish off overnight. Disturbed yet?)
So, we had a nice little picnic, with no salmonella to be seen. As far as I know, anyway — I guess that takes a few hours to really kick in. But I didn’t taste any salmonella, so it’s probably fine. Unless salmonella tastes like chicken — and everything else fricking does, so maybe we’re still screwed. Who knows? I don’t know from food poisoning.
Meanwhile, I’m sliding into a mostly cow-induced food coma, so I’m signing off to enjoy the rest of this Sunday evening. Let’s chat again tomorrow, shall we? Oh, yes — let’s, indeed. Cheerio, folks.
Permalink | 1 CommentSometimes, the cure is more trouble than the sickness, people.
I mentioned a few days ago that I’ve been having some leg pain, and the trouble turned out to be a minor back ouchie. The doc prescribed pain killers and exercises; that’s not the problem. The exercises seem to help, and the pills — well, the pills are yummy. Ibuprofen always is, of course.
But the problem is this little guide that he gave me, which describe the exercises. It’s also got some tips on other ways to help the back, like the right way to stand, and the correct way to sit, and — here comes the problem, folks — the right way to walk.
Here are the tips it offers:
Now, that’s all well and good. It’s a helluva lot to remember, but nobody ever said a pain-free existence was going to be easy. Just ask the Buddhists.
So, I tried it. And I’ve been walking around, just the way my little pamphlet suggested. Which is when I noticed… if you walk like that — toes forward, back arched, hips down, on your heels — you’re basically driving yourself around by your crotch. And for the most part, I’m finding that people don’t particularly appreciate being greeted by your package before the rest of your body. If you can find an exception, then bully for you — crotch-walk your way right up to that person and give him or her a hearty waggle hello. But you’d better be damned sure they’re into it, or you might have a restraining order on your hands. Or your pants, for that matter.
Meanwhile, I’m making it a point not to actually walk towards anyone. They don’t seem quite so alarmed if I’m weenie-sailing to their left or right; it’s only when the ship is coming right at them that poses a problem. And understandably so — if some schmuck came moseying up to me leading with his… well, with his schmuck, so to speak, then I wouldn’t be too happy to see him, either.
Still, it’s better than not being able to walk at all, so I’m gonna keep doing it. I’ll just have to be careful, now that it’s barbeque season. You can’t walk too close to the grill when you’re navigating penis-first, you know. You could have one roasted weenie too many on your hands. Eep.
Permalink | 2 CommentsFolks, I think it’s time to step back for a moment, and take a good look at what we’re doing here.
(No, really, it’s okay — I’ll get back to the dick jokes and nonsense in a minute. I’m just feeling nostalgic tonight, is all. I’m not considering a sex-change operation, or moving to Guam to live as a coconut fetcher on the beach, or anything.
Do they even have coconuts in Guam? I don’t know. I can’t even tell you where the hell Guam is, other than ‘in the middle of the damned ocean somewhere’. Just work with me for one second here, would you?)
Anyway, I’m not particularly into tooting my own horn — at least not if there’s someone else around willing to do some tooting for me — but a couple of milestones have come and gone around here recently, and dammit, I’m just the sort of old-fashioned, traditional, meat-and-potatoes, missionary-man-on-top kind of guy to notice that sort of thing.
(Note, by the way, that ‘missionary, man on top’ is so not really what I prefer. It’s just a figure of speech, really. Honestly, if things are getting kink-kay, then why not go all Kama Sutra on each others’ asses, I say. Or each others’ nostrils, or chakras, or whereever it is that book tells you to stick things.
On the other hand, if it’s more subdued and shit — why would I want the top, where you have to do all the work? I mean, I’m not just gonna ‘lie there and sweat’, by any means, but jeez — at least on the bottom, you get a little rest, right?
Have I gone too far down this path, by the way? I’m sensing a lot of open-mouthed gapes out there. Pick those chins up, people. All this silly sex chatter is on the outs right about… now.)
So — milestones. Let’s talk about that, before things get really uncomfortable around here. And what sorts of yummy milestones have we recently hit together, you and I, dear reader? Well, I’ll tell you:
First of all, this marks my 751st post here on the main ‘Where the Hell Was I? campus. Which doesn’t count a couple of non-transferred posts on the original site, plus the 101 ‘Things About Me’ posts, or the several dozen posts devoted to joke setups, info pages, or comedy shows. Together, I’m sure we’re at some insignificant, anonymous number short of one thousand. But as for ‘main area’ posts alone, we just hit 750, so that’s what I’m counting, bitches. Today, anyway. If the whole gamut ever adds up to quadruple digits, then maybe you’ll hear about that. But not today.
Now, you may be asking yourself, ‘Well, now that you mention it — just how long does it take for you to manage 750 posts?‘ More likely, you’re asking yourself, ‘What the hell did I ever say to you to make you think that I gave a gliding gopher’s ass about any of this?‘
(And if that’s the case — for shame, people. I don’t have a helluva lot of glory to bask in, for chrissakes. And plopping a few million words on this site hardly qualifies, really, but it’s all I’ve fricking got right now. So pipe down, and let me have my moment in the gloom, would you? I don’t ask for much, folks.)
Anyway, I’ll tell you how long — that’s just the kind of guy I am, you see. For me, apparently, it takes exactly one hundred and one weeks to concoct 750 posts here. So that’s another milestone — one hundred weeks gone by, and another hundred off to a furious start, wouldn’t you say? If not furious, then at least ‘raging‘, right?
Would you believe ‘snarky‘? How about ‘petulant‘? ‘Gassy‘, perhaps? Whatever.
Look, the point is, we’ve got a hundred weeks of rambling drivel under our belts, you and I. Or somewhat less, if you haven’t been here since the beginning, but hey — there’s always time to go back to the beginning, and start from scratch. That whole ‘mental stability’ thing is highly overrated, after all.
Meanwhile, there’s the least auspicious of the milestones to deal with. Through a combination of a busy comedy schedule, a miraculously working camcorder, and general crap-assed laziness, I am — for the first time ever — now five shows behind in posting clips to the site. Does anyone care? No. Is anyone clamoring to see the new material here, within these pages? Decidedly not.
(And if they were, then they’d likely stop the clamor after watching. Nobody ever said standup would be pretty, people. Especially my variety. Thank god my parents don’t have a time machine; I think I found their best arguments for birth control, in three handy digital video formats for easy download.)
Anyway, what I’m really trying to say is: ‘Thank you‘. I’d like to say that I couldn’t have done it without you… but shit, people — it’s a weblog. Of course I could have written 750 posts without you. Hell, nobody’s read 740 of them as it is, so clearly that’s not true.
But I can honestly say that it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun thus far without your input, and your comments, and your suggestions — with the possible exception of, ‘Hey, don’t quit your day job, bucko‘. Realistic? Probably. ‘Fun‘? Not so much.
Still, most of the feedback I’ve gotten hasn’t been in the form of death threats or restraining orders, so I’ve chosen to count it as ‘positive reinforcement’. And so I thank you, and look forward — starting with the entry that your beady little eyeballs are soaking in right now — to bringing you the next seven hundred and fifty posts. And so, week one-oh-one rolls onward. Who knows what the next day, or idea, or massive head trauma, will bring, eh?
Anyway, that’s all I really wanted to say tonight — thanks! Whether you’re here for a daily fix, dropping in for the first time, or simply looking for nasty celebrity cartoon porn that I don’t actually have, I thank you. You’re a special little hit on the old counter, and you put the ‘bee-ay-yoo-tee-ful‘ in B-L-O-G. I hope to see you again soon. Cheerio!
Permalink | 6 CommentsYou know, some people are just never damned happy.
I’ve got a meeting with my boss, every Monday morning. Three weeks ago, he said he had ‘concerns’. Apparently, they really want me to show up at the office for eight hours, every weekday. I thought that was just a suggestion — nobody really does that, right? Well, nobody’s told him, and he was miffed. Probably pissed that he’s the only one there at nine am, and five in the evening. Lonely guy, I suppose.
So, I started showing up early. Sure, I had to fricking sleep in the office to get there by nine, but every day, when the boss got in, there I was. Drooling on my keyboard, usually. The ‘L’ key still doesn’t work right — but I was there, dammit. And I stay for eight hours, too. Nap till ten, coffee break at eleven, then lunch, a snack, an afternoon siesta, a walk down to the water cooler — it almost makes it bearable. Who knew eight hours in the office could be so much fun?
Then, two weeks ago, he told me he was ‘troubled’. Apparently, it’s not enough for me to be in the office for half my waking life. Now, he tells me I’m supposed to be at my desk for most of that time. Why not just dress me in stripes and chain me to the radiator? But rules are rules, and the guy does sign my paycheck, right?
So, I started hitting the mall before work every day. First, I showed up with a PlayStation. And sat at my desk with it, all day. Just like he asked. When I got bored with that, it was a dartboard. Then, a karaoke machine. And lawn darts. And Twister. And finally, a mini-fridge. Sure, the liquor store wasn’t open when I brought the thing in, but I managed to stock it with beer later in the day. Hey, I still get a lunch break; I know my rights. And things were going just swimmingly at that point.
And then, last week, he said he had ‘serious reservations’. Whether about my sanity, or my continued employment, he didn’t say. Maybe it was because I’d started doing tequila body shots off the cleaning lady — I don’t know. But he did mention that I was apparently supposed to be working, while I was there. At the office. Sitting at my desk. For eight hours. Sheesh. Can you say, ‘control freak’? But what’re you gonna do?
So, I buckled down. I ditched the lawn darts, sold the PlayStation, and gave the beer to the cleaning lady. And frankly, she earned it — tequila with just a hint of Pine-Sol is the only way to drink it, folks. Anyway, I did away with all of that, cleaned off my desk, and buckled down. I coded like a madman. I programmed morning, noon, and night. I built server software and search engines, registration gadgets and login widgets, file-access doodads and high-speed switchers. And finally, when I was finished… well, we had the best damned porn site on the whole freaking internet. I even loaded it up with some of my secret stash — naughty nannies, erotic emus, and perky, perverted Powerpuff Girls, you name it. I was so proud — and strangely excited, too. Of course, the boss wasn’t so happy, given that I work for a hospital. Hey, patients need porn, too, right? Apparently not.
So now today, he told me he’s ‘disappointed’. Now, he wants me to work on shit that I’m supposed to be working on. Like, actual projects — nonsense like that. And I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do now. Honestly, I think I’ve met him more than halfway here. I’ll say it again — some people are just never damned happy. Sheesh. This is bullshit, man. I need a vacation.
Permalink | 8 CommentsI’m not sure how it happened, exactly, but I’ve become addicted to… Food Network.
(Yeah, you didn’t see that coming, did you? Not if you’ve read much of my stuff, anyway. Addicted to speed, you might’ve bought. Hooked on the wacky weed, maybe. Hell, if you’ve read enough, you’d probably believe I’m hooked on shooting Windex into my eyelids. But no; it’s not that. I’m not addicted to that stuff. Like, the Windex thing? I can stop any time I want to. Honestly.)
Anyway, I don’t know what it is. I’m certainly no gourmand, by any stretch. I eat when it’s time to eat, and in between I don’t think much about food. I’m not a chocoholic, nor a cheesehead, and I don’t really appreciate ‘vertical’ food.
(Really, that last one? Come on. Build it upward, so no one will notice that there’s really not much on the plate? A couple of little breadsticks jutting out of my food do not an enjoyable meal make. Maybe that’s just me.)
But somehow, some way, the shows on Food Network are… mesmerizing. And I don’t really understand why. I don’t write down recipes, or anything like that. And even if I did, they wouldn’t do me any damned good. I can cook like a hippo can fly. No good can possibly come from me in the kitchen with a ‘Kiss the Chef’ apron. Salmonella, perhaps, but no good. Unless you happen to be salmonella, I guess. But I tend not to think of things that way.
Still, I can’t stop watching these shows about food. The history of food, food travel shows, food competitions, you name it. I’ll watch ’em all.
(Except, oddly enough — not Emeril. Arguably the face of the network, the most famous chef around the airwaves these days, he of the emphatic ‘bam!‘ — not so interested. Maybe it’s because I don’t cook, so I can’t really learn from his tips. Or maybe because it’s a studio gig, and reminds me too much of a talk show. Or maybe because it’s just a cooking show, and the host isn’t some hot little chickie licking hot fudge off a spoon. Whatever it is, Emeril’s the one guy that I typically don’t watch on the network.
Which is unfortunate for me, of course, since he’s on the damned thing roughly nine hours a day. Still, that leaves plenty of time for me to tune in. And maybe one day, the guy will grow on me. But not today.)
Anyway, there you go. I’m no foodie, but apparently I’m a Food Network-ie. Or something. All I know is that it’s Sunday night, and I’m TiVoing the Simpsons, while I actually watch some barbeque competition that probably happened three years ago, for all I know. And I’m riveted. Rachel Ray’s not even involved in this one. I’m pretty sure this qualifies as some sort of mental illness, people. With a side order of goofball.
Eh, screw it. It is what it is; why try to change myself, when this is easily one of my more harmless obsessions? I’ve got plenty of other issues I should work out, before I deal with this one. I’m wrapping this thing up, to go see which group of ‘grillbillies’ takes the prize. Call me crazy, but I’m hooked. Why fight it? It’s not like I’m watching LifeTime, for chrissakes.
Permalink | 4 Comments
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