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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Folks, if there’s anything better than March Madness basketball, I don’t know what it is.
Well, that’s not exactly true, I suppose.
On the other hand, if there’s anything better than four channels of March Madness basketball, I don’t know what it is.
Except — silly me. What was I thinking?
Clearly, if there’s anything better than four channels of March Madness basketball in the comfort of your own living room, I don’t know what it is.
Wait a second — yes, I do.
But if there’s anything better than four channels of March Madness basketball in the comfort of your own living room on St. Patrick’s Day, I don’t know what it is.
Oops. Scratch that.
However — if there’s anything better than four channels of March Madness basketball in the comfort of your own living room on St. Patrick’s Day, with a cold six-pack of Guinness in your fridge, I don’t know what it is.
Hold on. I’m on a roll here.
If there’s anything better than four channels of March Madness basketball in the comfort of your own living room on St. Patrick’s Day, with a cold six-pack of Guinness in your fridge, and tasty leftover tacos for dinner, I don’t know what it is.
You know, by now you’d think I’d realize there’s more coming. But no. I’m a douchebag.
So… if there’s anything better than four channels of March Madness basketball in the comfort of your own living room on St. Patrick’s Day, with a cold six-pack of Guinness in your fridge, and tasty leftover tacos for dinner, snuggled up with a nice blanket and a warm puppy, I don’t know what it is.
Ahhhh… and that’s almost true. Still, there’s just one more bit of goodness going on here tonight.
Because you see, if there’s anything better than four channels of March Madness basketball in the comfort of your own living room on St. Patrick’s Day, with a cold six-pack of Guinness in your fridge, and tasty leftover tacos for dinner, snuggled up with a nice blanket and a warm puppy, and you manage to squeeze a ridiculously long blog post out of the situation when you had nothing at all to write about… well then, I just simply don’t know what it is.
Really, I don’t. Honestly this time.
I’m done. I’m going back to hoops and Guinness and tacos now. Bye, folks!
Seriously, people. That’s all you get. Go watch hoops and drink, would you? Shoo!
Permalink | 2 CommentsI had my picture taken tonight.
In fact, I had my picture taken over two hundred times tonight. And the camera didn’t break once — what do you think of that, folks?
You see, this evening I had an appointment with a photographer to have headshots taken.
(That’s a standup comedy thing, by the way. You need headshots — pictures of your head, for those of you thinking something lewder — to send to prospective clients, and agents, and sleazy network executives. Or, in my case, local bookers who might have the odd spot at a Moose Lodge to fill on a Saturday night. Color me glamorous.)
The guy was very good, too. He spent an hour or so snapping digital pics of my ugly mug, all the while directing me and coaxing me into position.
‘Okay, tilt your head. Gimme that raised-eyebrow look again… nice. And lean forward… good. All right! Let’s get those pants off.‘
(Okay, he didn’t say that last one. That’s just wrong. At no time was the removal of any article of clothing requested. And honestly — he’d have probably been more comfortable if I’d put more clothes on. Like, a bag over my head, maybe. Or at least my forehead — he mentioned that I’ve got a lot of forehead. Who knew?)
Anyway, soon he’ll send me a CD of… me. How cool is that? A whole picture CD, filled up with shot after shot of little old… yeah, this is gonna suck. It’s hard enough facing my puss in the mirror every morning — now I’ve got to sort through thirty-eight of my slap-happy expressions on the computer? And pick one to let out into public, with the intention of helping to score me work? Riiiiight. No pressure there.
Maybe I’ll get the missus to help. Of course, seeing those itty-bitty pictures on the computer monitor won’t be good enough — she’ll want to make an informed, studied decision. How about if I print out all the piccies, blown up a few thousand percent, and plaster them around the house one night? Maybe before I leave for a show or something, so she’ll just find them when she gets in. And I won’t leave a note or anything — surely, it’ll be obvious what I want, right? I mean, if you walked into your house late one night, to find your spouse gone, but larger-than-life mug shot-style photos of him or her wallpapered throughout your rooms… you’d know what was going on, right? How clear could it be?
Damn. I see your point. Maybe I’ve been watching Law and Order: SVU too much lately. All those weird-ass perps are starting to rub off on me. How about if I just show her the shots on the computer when I get them, eh? And maybe I’ll save a couple of the scarier ones for you folks. Everybody needs a good laugh, right? I’ll work on that for you. That’s just the cool-ass kind of pimp I am, people. Straight up.
Permalink | 2 CommentsHey, folks. Welcome to the ‘Ides of March’. Beware the Ides! Be-waaaaare!
Yeah. Whatever. It’s just another day. There’s good and there’s bad, just like any other fricking day. Let’s take care of the ‘bad’ first. You know, to give us time to get the taste out of our mouths.
Here’s my ‘bad’: Woke up. Still sick. Showered. Still sick. Went to work, to meet obligation to talk at group meeting. Talked at meeting (sickly). Immediately left for the day. On the (sick) way home, the car’s ‘Service Engine’ light came on. Drove — again, while sick — to garage. Garage sez: ‘Not today. Come back Thursday.‘ Pfffft. Thursday. Makes me sick.
Okay, that’s plenty of ‘bad’ for one day. You people aren’t here for ‘bad’. Let’s try some ‘good’, for a change. And here’s the ‘good’:
Today — for the first of what I hope is many, many times — I can bring you two full posts. Count ’em, two! And with virtually no effort. How fucking cool is that?
And how can I manage this near-Christlike miracle of drivel distribution? Why, thanks to my good friends at Zoiks!, of course. You see, Zoiks! is published twice a month online, and includes — as of the first of this month — a little snippy snippet by yours truly. However, Zoiks! doesn’t archive these gems — nay, these national treasures of wit — and so, I’ve decided to do the archiving for them. Or rather, for me, for them, meaning: on the day the new issue comes out, I’ll post my ‘outgoing’ story here, just in case you didn’t make it over to the mag for a look.
(Though really, you should. Zoiks! has wrangled itself a full eight regular contributors — including my good friend Jenn — and has plenty of features and extras, to boot. If there’s anything even remotely tickling your happy humerus here, then you’ll have a good chuckle over there. Guaranteed.)
Anyway, before this ‘with virtually no effort’ thing turns into a big fat stinking lie, let’s do this thing. Below, you’ll find the piece I submitted for the March 1st issue of Zoiks! — that’s Volume 2, Issue 5, if you’re keeping track of such things.
(Although, if you are, you should really see someone about that OCD. I imagine you’re already a danger to yourself, and probably to others. Seek professional help immediately.)
For most of you, the drivel below will be new — unless you stopped by the old Zoiks! site in the past two weeks, of course. Ah ho! But even if you have, then you can always pop over there to have a gander at my latest piece, which I penned a few days ago, and has been freshly and lovingly published this morning. But first, the old crap:
Allow Myself to Introduce… Myself
Meeting new people is often awkward for me. I tend to be chatty when I’m anxious, and nothing gets the sweat a-dripping quite like an introduction. I’m always afraid that I’ll overdo it and say too much, so I end up saying next to nothing at all. I suppose that’s preferable — I’d rather seem dull and uninteresting, instead of sharing that I love my rubber ducky and ‘cake is fun to eat’. There are certain personal details that really shouldn’t be revealed in a first conversation, and I don’t seem to have that filter. So it’s better that I clam up completely, rather than blurting out where the bodies are buried. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
It doesn’t help that I’m terrible at remembering names. I’ve had long, lasting relationships with people known to me only as ‘dude’, ‘baby’, or ‘you’. I’m sure they gave me a name when we first met… and I’m sure I promptly forgot it. And at a certain point — after you’ve been sharing an apartment for a few months, say, or started a business or fan club or prostitution ring together — it seems somehow inappropriate to ask again. So the dance of ‘hey, buddy’ and ‘yo, chica’ goes on. Thank goodness my wife wears a nametag, or I’d really be in trouble.
Of course, I’ve tried that mnemonic of repeating a new name during the introduction, to burn it into memory. But apparently, my brain is flame-retardant; by the time I’ve got a handle on the name, I’ve spouted out a Rain Man monologue, and the owner of the name is long gone:
‘Hi, Tina Goldman! It’s nice to meet you, Tina Goldman. Why, I’m doing fine, Tina Goldman — how are you, Tina Goldman? Oh, I’m sorry, Tina Goldman — I’m just trying to remember your name, Tina Goldman. Don’t mind me, Tina Goldman. Wait, wait — where are you going, Tina Goldman? Tina Goldman, I thought we were hitting it off. Tina Goldman? Ok, then — bye, Tina Goldman! *sigh* Bitch.’
Honestly, it just seems easier for me to not meet new people at all. For a while, I even considered moving into a hermit cave — but I think you’re required to grow a long, crazy beard and stop bathing, and that sounds way too itchy. Plus, I’m afraid of bears. And where would I keep my rubber ducky, if I don’t have a bathtub? These are important considerations.
And so, I struggle along. I meet people from time to time, and just try to survive the experience without driving them away or sounding like an idiot. Or rambling endlessly on some tangent when I’m supposed to be introducing myself. Like right now, for instance. See, I told you — I always say too much. I should have clammed up when I had the chance.
Anyway, I’m Charlie. I’m the new guy around here, and it’s good to make your acquaintance, whatever your name might be. No, no, don’t tell me — I’ll just call you ‘Scooter’, and we’ll leave it at that. Much easier. It’s nice to meet you, Scooter, and I hope to see you again soon… Scooter. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together, you and me. Me and Scooter. Yeah, this’ll be downright peachy. You’ll see, Scooter.
Oh, and for the record — cake really is fun to eat. I’m just saying. Scooter.
So there you have it — two posts in one, not counting the long-winded setup I spewed above to tell you about it. Hell, that’s nearly three posts in one day. What’re you, the Princess of Wales? Who gets that kind of special treatment, anyway? You, that’s who. So enjoy, my pretty, pretty Princess, and adieu until the morrow. Who knows what I’ll cook up for you then, eh? All the world’s a blog, apparently! Pip pip!
Permalink | 1 CommentAll right — let’s get this over with, so I can get back to my post-nasal drip. I’ve got a double-shot of NyQuil and twelve hours of sleep waiting for me.
So, obviously I can’t tell you anything that actually happened in Vegas. I mean, come on — it was a bachelor party. Hello-ooo. There’s a wedding at stake, plus some of our fingerprints aren’t in the system yet. So I can’t divulge any of those sorts of details.
(Not right now, anyway. Maybe later, when I feel like drinking again. Just pour me a brew and ask nicely — that’ll get you something. A twenty under the table wouldn’t hurt, either.)
Meanwhile, I can tell you a few things that I learned on the way to and from Las Vegas. So let’s give that a whirl, shall we?
1. Vegas 911: So, we all know about the lovable, irrepressible public safety officers of Reno 911.
(Okay, okay, so probably most of us don’t. It’s not a spectacular show, I’ll admit. But the cast includes a few of the folks from the old show The State, so I check in from time to time. If you don’t, just nod and smile a little while longer; the rest of this item doesn’t really depend on the show at all.
Jeez, what a train wreck that was. Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother with segues.)
Judging by the oversized posters in the Vegas airport, however, that’s the Nevada city where being a cop is where it’s at. Or maybe where it’s not at — in any case, there were at least three posters devoted to convincing visitors what a good idea becoming a Vegas policeman or policewoman would be.
(I say at least three, because many of the other posters were for boobie bars. I may have been just a tit bit… er, I mean, just a tad bit distracted. If you see what I mean.)
2. Cirque du Sin City: The other thing I noticed about the airport signs — besides cops and hooters — was the amazing volume and variety of Cirque du Soleil shows apparently ongoing in Vegas these days.
Now, look, folks. I enjoy Cirque du Soleil just as much as the next heterosexual American male — well, okay, given that I’d actually consider going to a show, I suppose I enjoy it much more than the next heterosexual American male. And the one after that, too. And probably the one after that. The guy after that is in the closet — I mean, did you see that ‘salmon’ shirt and all the ‘product’ in his hair? — but that’s not the point.
No, the point is this: just exactly how many limber French Canadians does one city fricking need? One show full of ’em, I can see. Maybe two. But there are, like, nineteen Cirques running in that damned town. Don’t get me wrong — I enjoy watching a woman who can rest her head on her own ass as much as the next heterosexual American male… and suddenly, that is the point. Yeah, never mind that other stuff; I’ve got a mental image working now. Niiiice.
3. Never Do NASCAR in Vegas: First of all, I really don’t think I need to add the ‘in Vegas’, for most of us. Honestly, watching a few dozen good old boys spend three hours turning left has never come up on my ‘Things to Do Before I Die’ list. But a couple of the guys I was with are into it, and so we went to a Saturday race.
And it counts as ‘not in Vegas’, because the Speedway there is waaaaay outside the city. As in, close to an hour drive, and — if you take the city bus — just on the other side of a big scary military base.
(It was actually sort of fun going through there — just before entering the base, the driver said, ‘Now, if anything happens to the bus, do not get out, unless we get clearance.‘ Sound advice, apparently. And reinforced when we stopped at the guard station, and a portly, white-haired Army gentleman came onto the bus and said:
‘Now, your driver has briefed you. What happens if the bus stops?‘
And, like good cowed little civvies, we answered: ‘We don’t leave the bus, sir.‘
Interesting stuff. We knew we wouldn’t be in Kansas any more when we decided to watch a NASCAR race… but we were thinking ‘gun racks and cheap beer’, not ‘Army jeeps and service revolvers’. Yow.)
Anyway, the race itself wasn’t bad. Loud, but pretty interesting — for the first hour or so, anyway. After that, I’d have given my exhaust pipe to see one right turn — just fricking one — but no worries. Now I can say I’ve been, should anyone ever ask for some bizarre reason.
The problem, though, was getting back to the city. They lined several thousands of people up into five lines, and threw a bus in front of each line. Then, the arithmetic kicked in — each bus held about fifty people, and there were maybe twenty or twenty-five buses in total. And, if you were paying attention above, the round-trip for a bus would be in the two-hour neighborhood. So, three hours after the race, we finally hopped a bus back into Vegas. The wait was literally longer than the race. It would’ve taken less time to walk back to the damned city, except for those pesky soldiers with the guns and tanks and things.
So if you’re ever in Vegas and decide you might want to see a race, take my advice — catch it on TV instead. If you watch it at a betting shop and lay a couple of bucks down, they might even bring you free drinks. And it won’t take you nearly four hours to get back to your one-eyed bandits. Just a thought.
4. The Wrong Way to Come Home: Just for the record, this is not the conversation you want to have with your wife when she picks you up at the airport after a bachelor party in Las Vegas:
Her: Hi, honey! So, how was your —
Me: Hey, hey, babe — what happened in Vegas stays in Vegas, remember?
Her: Um, well, sure, okay. But did you guys do —
Me: Baby? Happened in Vegas? Stays in Vegas. We talked about this.
Her: Look, I’m just being nice. How about the race, or —
Me: Haaaaaaappened… stays.
Her: Fine. How was your flight, then, if that’s not —
Me: Hap-hap-happened. St-st-staaaaaays.
Her: You’re a douchebag, you know that, right?
Me: Yeah. I know.
So that’s it, folks. I’m off to get a few hours of heavily-medicated phlegmy sleep. And don’t ask anything else about Vegas, now, okay? You’ve already seen what that’s gonna get you. Nighty-night!
Permalink | 3 CommentsHey, folks.
I’m back. And not dead, quite.
I am sick, though — no, really, not hung over; I mean it. I started feeling icky on the plane ride over, and spent most of the weekend fevered and shivery. And not in the way I was planning to, either. I did ‘hang with the guys’ for all but one event — a dinner I might not have kept down, anyway — so there’ll still be tales to tell. Don’t get your thongs in a froth.
So, more info soon, but for now it’s off to bed. Me and my buddy NyQuil have some catching up to do. Getting sick on vacation blows monkeys. Or in this case, maybe trained tigers. Look for more just as soon as the meds wear off. G’night, folks.
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