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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, kids, I think this officially qualifies as a funk.
Not ‘da funk‘, which would be sweet. Particularly if I could find some of ‘da noise‘ lying around to go with it. Nor does it seem to be the ‘soul brother’ sort of funk. And it’s definitely not ‘fun-kay‘, which is also pretty tasty, as I understand it. But I’m not really sure that I do; I was never too good with the hip kiddie lingo. In high school, I was voted ‘Least Likely to Raise the Roof’. Meh.
Be that as it may, I’m pretty sure that I can positively identify what I’m in as a funk. It’s not a particularly bad funk — there aren’t any violent mood swings, or temper tantrums, or all-black, weepy Goth posing. Nothing like that. I don’t even have trouble getting out of bed in the morning; hell, I’m usually up earlier than I really want to be — and if that’s not a good reason for a funk, then I’d like to see one, dammit. Eight am was made for schoolkids and roosters; count me down and out and drooling on my pillow until ten, if I have anything to say about it.
No, the problem has come after the getting out of bed part. Because after that… well, I mainly just don’t want to do anything. Haven’t for a week or so now, actually. And some days, I haven’t done anything. Which would be spec-fucking-tacular, really, except for the whole ‘funk’ thing. Sort of takes the fun out of playing hooky from life, you know?
(And hey, if you’re the sort of loony who gets all tenty reading this stuff, then you should be extra-glad I’m here now. As much as I dig writing crazy nonsense, last time I checked, ‘blogging’ counts as ‘anything’, so it hasn’t been on my list of giggly shit to do for a while. But here I am, anyway. Some would say that makes me a ‘trooper’, folks.
And others would counter that I still need a place to bitch, and to try out words like ‘tenty’. I hope those people catch whatever funk I’m in. Damned smartasses.)
So mostly — as much as I’ve been able to get away with, anyway — I’ve just shuffled around, watching TV or playing video games, watching life roll past out o the corner of my eye. I’m not sure how I ended up in this funky place, really. Not this time, at least. I’ve been funky before, you know. And, I’m certain I’ll be funky again, somewhere down the line. Into each life, a bit of funk must fall. I think it was Keats who said that. Or Beck. Or maybe Tupac. I really don’t feel like looking it up right now, but you get the gist.
Anyway, I hope to snap out of this mini-malaise soon. Hell, summer is finally creeping into New England and it’s actually possible to venture outdoors in a pair of shorts without getting your knees and nads frostbitten. And not necessarily in that order.
I imagine I’m just tired; I had a couple of whirlwind weeks, and probably just need a couple of days to recharge. That’s the thing about being an only child — being around other people is mostly lots of fun, but it really takes it out of you. Or maybe that’s just me — some sort of social malnourishment I suffered as a child. Or maybe I was dropped on my personality. That would explain a lot, actually.
At any rate, I think this has gone on quite long enough tonight. As entertaining as I’ve tried to make this — c’mon, you’re still grinning over ‘tenty’; just admit it — it’s still a bit darker than this silly, goofy, gigglitatious page ought to be. So if you’re looking for something absurd, then have a dig through the archives — there’s 101 weeks of drivel there to keep you busy and frightened. Hop right in.
(Hey, maybe that should be the name of the memoirs I’m never going to write: ‘101 Weeks of Drivel‘. That’s kind of catchy. I’m not sure it beats my old title, though: ‘The Douchebag Diaries‘. Damn. They’re both pretty good. And since I’m never writing either, why don’t I never write them both, eh? And hell, there’s probably another title floating around somewhere I could use — I smell a trilogy. On paper, anyway — which, in this case, means not on paper. Ooch, I think I just gave myself a headache with that one. Owie.)
Okay, that about wraps things up. Happy ‘Mem Day’, everyone. I’m out.
Permalink | 3 CommentsAh, 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 Comments
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