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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
They say, ‘you can tell a lot about a person from the company they keep’.
I’m not sure I’d agree with that.
(And I’m pretty damned certain my friends wouldn’t. Or my family. Or my wife. Or the dog, for that matter.
Frankly, it’s probably in my best interest that they don’t think too carefully about it, so don’t fricking remind them, all right? I think I spend quite enough time alone as it is.)
As a matter of fact, the assertion is so ridiculous and out of date that I think we should replace it. Not simply expunge it, you understand — certainly, you need something to ‘tell you a lot about a person’. Without some sort of handy barometer to make snap judgements with, how would we ever feel anything about anyone? Who’s got time to form opinions of other people based on real personality and wit and character? Not I. ‘Forging relationships’? Honky, please. You’re exhausting me.
But what to replace ‘the company one keeps’ with, eh? It’s a tricky question, and one that I can’t answer definitively just at the moment. However, I can provide a few suggestions, and let you decide which you think is best. Or make your own list; maybe you can tell a lot about a person from whether they like to make lists or not. I don’t know. But again, I think I hope not, ’cause here’s mine:
‘You can tell a lot about a person from the contents of their pockets.‘
Probably true. Certainly, my own life is usually pretty well summed up by six dollars, a smudged ID, a fistful of lint, and a set of keys with a nifty attached bottle opener. It’s downright metaphorical, really.
But I already know a lot about me.
(Too much, some would say. What can I tell you — I’m all about any kind of ‘self-exploration’ that doesn’t involve petroleum jelly. And maybe a couple that do. But only on weekends. Moving on.)
And how often do you get to go through someone else’s pocket stuff? That’s the weakness of this one — by the time you get to what’s actually in your subject’s pockets, you already know all you need to know about them. I’ve tried it, and I’ve found that the people willing to participate are usually one of three types:
(And specifically, a dead drifter, because those are the only ones who let me rummage through their shit. And they always have pretty much what you’d expect a dead drifter to have in his pockets. Namely, six dollars, a smudged ID, a fistful of lint, and a set of keys with a nifty attached bottle opener.
You know, suddenly I’m liking this one less and less. Next!)
‘You can tell a lot about a person from the names of their pets.‘
This one’s a little trickier, of course, because lots of people have kids and spouses and imaginary friends, and sometimes those people are also involved in the naming of the domesticated critters.
(In which case, you can pretty well judge a person by the name of the person they’ve married, or what they’ve named their kids, or their pretend friend.
Honestly, it’s one thing to have a cat named ‘Snookums’ strutting around the house. Maybe one of your kids is responsible for that. But if the kid in question is named ‘Delbert’ or ‘Bunifa’, then you’ve got no one but yourself to blame. I don’t give a damn whose idea it was.)
Just for the record, our dog is named ‘Susie’. I’m not sure what that says about my wife or me, exactly, but it seems fairly innocuous. And if it helps my case at all, when we adopted the dog, her name was ‘Xena’, and we changed it.
(Of course, since then I’ve tried to get my wife to answer to ‘Xena’, with only marginal success. She won’t wear the costume, either. And the dog won’t fit into it, so it’s just a waste of good leather and spandex. Sad, really.)
Let’s try another one.
‘You can tell a lot about a person from how far they spread their legs to pee.‘
Okay, this one might only apply to the men out there, seeing as how we usually stand up to pee. If a woman tried to suddenly spread-eagle herself on the can, the stream would probably smack right into the stall door. With enough arch, it might even shoot over it, which is not something that anyone wants to have to explain. Liquid seeping out of an occupied bathroom stall is one frightening, willy-inducing thing. Any sort of squirting action is quite another, and not in a good way.
So let’s limit this discussion to the gents in the hizzouse. From casual observation — no, dude, really, it was just casual observation; I wasn’t ‘peeking’, okay? Get back to your ‘business at hand’, so to speak — I can tell you that there’s quite an impressive range of ‘urinal stances’ in use out there.
Some guys, they like to spread out — I guess the idea is to air things out down there, while they’re lightening up the old bladder. Other guys play it more conservatively, with feet together and furtive glances over their shoulder from time to time. I’m not sure what they think is happening behind them, exactly — but they seem to want to stay apprised of the situation back there, regardless. Maybe they’re prone to stalkers. Or maybe they’ve been involved in some sort of ‘unpleasantness‘ while standing at a urinal in the past. Like in prison, perhaps. I can understand how that might make one a bit skittish.
Me, I’m in between. I don’t click my heels together and wish for Kansas while I’m taking a ‘wiz’, but neither am I doing a fricking split in front of the pisser, either. Shoulder width, baby — shoulder width. Nice and easy, that’s my style. And I only shake it twice — just for the record.
Folks, this list could go on indefinitely — and keep getting progressively sillier, no doubt — but I’ve troubled you enough for one night. Hopefully, though, I’ve convinced you that ‘the company one keeps’ is not the only measure of a person’s character. All you’ve got to do to gather more information is dump out their pockets, spy on their pets, and watch them use the bathroom. And doesn’t that sound a lot easier than paying attention to who they hang out with? Honestly, I can’t understand why no one’s had these ideas before. This is basic shit, people.
Permalink | 2 CommentsMan, my desk is a mess.
I mean, it’s always a mess, at least to the untrained observer’s eye — but I’ve really outdone myself this time. It’s a fricking zoo. It’s loony. It’s in a state of advanced higgledy-piggledy, even. There are notes, and CDs, and pens, and coasters, and printer manuals, and notebooks, and loose papers, and all sorts of other shit, too.
(Well, not shit, of course. There’s no actual shit on my desk.
Although, if the dog were just a leeetle bit taller, there very well could be shit on it. Piss, at the very least. I swear, at one point or another, that dog has peed on every flat surface under four feet tall in the house. She’s a machine.
And if you think that sounds gross to you to hear about it, imagine how I feel. I used to eat off the kitchen counters. Now, not so much. Ew.)
It’s actually not just that stuff is piled all over my desk, really. That’s part of the system I have. See, I like to think I manage my desk the way nature designed humans — I put the fun, shiny, important stuff that I want to see and touch and play with often right up front, where I can get at it. And the stuff that I really don’t need to deal with, except in an emergency of some kind, I hide way back in the back.
And, naturally, there are a lot of things I like to touch and play with and rub against my naked body, so — wait, scratch that last one; you never heard that. Stop the music. Do over.
Ahem. As I was saying:
And, naturally, there are a lot of things I like to touch and play with and… stuff, so I have to pile some things on top of other things to make it all fit. I call that my ‘system’. Some people call it ‘piling’. I don’t like those people. They wouldn’t know a ‘system’ if it snuck up behind them and rubbed itself all over their naked bodies. Losers.
Anyway, piles are okay. But right now, I’ve got piles of piles. And some of the piles seem to have fallen over, resulting in… well, I don’t know what, exactly. Heaps, maybe? Mounds? An enormous clusterfuck? Something like that, I’m sure.
It really is impressive, seeing how much shit my desk has collected. I’d like to take a picture, even, so I could show you — but I can’t. The camera is on the desk, you see, so who the hell knows where it is. Buried under empty CD jewel cases and pay stubs from three years ago, no doubt. And probably sitting next to the wallet I misplaced when we moved. And Jimmy Hoffa. And a winning lottery ticket, now expired. ‘Cause isn’t that always the way?
Anyway, it’s getting late, so maybe I’d better try cleaning some of this shit off before bedtime. If these piles were to tip over during the night, the avalanche would break right through the floor, all the way to the basement. And not only would I have to patch the holes, I’d also have to lug all that crap back up here and find somewhere else to put it. In a pile, somewhere, of course. That’s what I do.
But for now, I’ll transplant a few of those piles to another spot. Like my wife’s desk. Just look at it, over there, pristine and clean. Not a proper desk at all, if you ask me. One pen and a paper clip — what the hell kind of desk clutter is that. Hell, you can’t even pile that shit together. Not really. So maybe I’ll throw some of this junk over there, and see what happens.
Sometimes, when I put my shit on her desk, it gets magically put away where it belongs, which is cool. Other times, I find it in the wastebasket, in with the shredded bills and orange peels, and then I have to drag it out and pile it somewhere else for a while. But it smells nice and citrusy then, so really, that’s okay, too. And either way, it makes my desk look better in comparison. And that’s what it’s all about, baby.
Permalink | 2 CommentsYou know, I just realized something: dating back to Monday afternoon, my last five meals have been spicy gumbo, chili, Indian food, chili, and chili. Damn. I’m a breakfast burrito and a couple of Buffalo wings away from spontaneous human combustion over here. What’s for dinner tonight? Thai? Curry? Diesel-drenched Ding Dongs for dessert? Only time will tell.
(And for the record, that last one is just wrong. If you’re out there drenching ‘ding dongs’ in diesel, that’s not a ‘dessert’. That’s an ‘ouchie’. Big ouchie. Somebody pass the Bactine.)
But enough about my culinary misadventures, folks. I’ve got plenty of other misadventures to blather on about, without painting you a picture of what’s going on just north of my colon. Because that’s not helping anyone sleep through the night, let’s face it. I’m creeped out, and it’s my colon — just imagine how you people feel. Yeeks.
Anyway, as many of you know, the Super Bowl is this weekend. Now, I’ve already pledged my allegiances for the game — and been backhanded by a few ‘Iggles’ fans already, I might add. Thanks. Thanks so much. I can really feel the love, you know?
(At least, I hope that’s love, because it’s warm, and it’s wet, and I think some of it just dripped down the back of my shirt. Yes, let’s not think too hard about that, either.)
So — the Super Bowl. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d like to see a Super Bowl someday, live and in body-painted person. Sadly, I don’t presently have the wherewithal — read: obscene gobs of cash — to make it happen. I could probably swing the airfare, and maybe even a hotel room — if I’d had the foresight to book one seventeen months ago, of course. Honestly, just try finding a room now in Jacksonville for the weekend. They’d charge you an arm, a leg, and a blowjob just to sleep on a park bench. And who could sleep after all of that?
Anyway, it’s moot, because there’s no way I could afford a ticket. Much less two, which I would abso-lutely need — if I went to a Super Bowl and didn’t take my wife, I’m not sure what would happen, exactly. But I’m certain that it wouldn’t involve speaking, touching, or sleeping in the same bed for a very, very long time.
(And for you smartasses who think you could work out a way to still have sex under those conditions, I’ll be clear on that — there’d be none of that, either. Trust me on this, and stop thinking so damned hard. Perv.)
See, the only tickets you could get now would be through a scalper. And if they’re holding tickets, then they’re also holding all the cards. They’re more than willing to charge anything the market will bear… plus fifty percent for their trouble, another twenty percent markup, a thirty dollar handling fee, twelve-fifty for parking, and eight bucks to buy a ‘I Went to the Super Bowl and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt and Forty-Seven Thousand Dollars‘ T-shirt. Bastards.
Speaking of scalpers, I’ve always been fascinated by the whole routine they use to stay out of trouble. I’m not sure it really works, frankly, but it’s fascinating. Like a perpetual motion machine, or a French tickler. You know what I’m saying.
So, first of all, in my experience, scalpers never say that they have tickets. They always ask — of no one in particular, usually — whether you’ve got tickets. And usually, the answer is ‘yes‘. Which really means:
‘Yes, I’m walking into the stadium, and I have a ticket. I’m not a player, or a hot dog vendor, and I don’t enjoy being dumped on my ass by beefy security guards. So I’m travelling with a ticket, yes; and thanks so much for asking, you greedy, lawbreaking bastard.‘
See, that’s called the ‘high road’, folks. Many people who attend sporting events are able to take that approach, because in their ‘real lives’, they don’t have to deal with this sort of smarmy underhanded bullshit.
(Of course, these are the same people who have clicked on every attachment in every lousy email they’ve ever received, because they’re not equipped to handle smarmy underhanded bullshit. They’re completely unprepared for any sort of grinning, evil shenanigans that the world might unleash upon them. See what the ‘high road’ gets you, there, smartass?)
Me, on the other hand — well, sometimes I have a ticket. And sometimes, I don’t. If I always thought far enough in advance to buy actual tickets for events I was supposed to attend, well then I’d have a hell of a time getting anything else done, wouldn’t I? You wouldn’t see me posting much around here, that’s for sure. That’s a full-time job, dammit.
(Plus, I’d probably be dragged to way more operas and ballets and shit. So this silver lining pretty much has another silver lining, right inside. How cool is that? It’s like finding a Snickers bar in your bottle of beer. Double your pleasure!)
Anyway, I’ve been known to chat with scalpers before. And I’ve found that they’ll never make the first move. They ask if you’ve got tickets. So then, you have to say, ‘No — but do you have any tickets?‘ That’s the only way the conversation can progress. I guess there’s some crazy, complicated rule about ‘entrapment’ or something that says they’re in the clear, so long as they don’t offer the merchandise first. It’s all a game of some kind, where they’ve got to seem surprised to be holding a stack of field-level box seats:
‘Oh, do I have tickets? Why, no, I was just asking for — hey… wait a minute. Well, would you look at that? I do have tickets. Lots of tickets, too! Well, huh. What do you need, buddy? Only seven grand and your left nut for a pair. Best deal in town!‘
Of course, then there’s the ace in the hole — their ‘stay out of jail free’ card, apparently. Just in case they’ve screwed up the entrapment thing, or said something incriminating, scalpers always say the same thing, just before the money changes hands:
‘Hey… you’re not a cop, are you? Because you have to tell me if you are.‘
Now… honestly, folks, think about this for a minute. ‘You have to tell me’? Does that really work? Come on.
Just imagine an undercover vice cop, or whoever it is that would cover such an event — the Football Bureau of Investigation, maybe, or the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Football — working his way into a scalper’s confidence. He’s making all the right moves, saying all the right things; the poor scalper really believes he’s just a regular guy, trying to get into a game. And just when the cop is about to drop the hammer and throw the cuffs on, he’s pimp-slapped with:
‘Are you a cop? ‘Cause you have to tell me.‘
Oooooh. Rejected.
‘Yeah… you got me. I’m a cop. Curses!‘
Yeah, I just don’t see it. Call me cynical, but I’m thinking the cop says, ‘no‘, hands over the money, billy-clubs the bastard in the babymakers, and carts him off to jail. How the hell else would it work? Nobody would ever go undercover, for any reason, if they knew that anywhere, at any time, a perp could put a gun to their head and just ask if they’re a cop. And that they’d be compelled to say, ‘Aw, shucks. Yeah, I am. No hard feelings, eh?‘ Ridiculous.
On the other hand… what if it did work that way? And what if you could use that technique in other walks of life? Like dating, for instance:
‘So, it’s nice to meet you, Nancy. Before we go to the restaurant, I just want to ask — are you an uptight freaky bitch? Because, you know — you have to tell me.‘
Man, would that have saved a lot of time back in college. Whew.
Or how about in a job interview:
‘Well, this looks like a fine resume, Charlie. But I wonder — are you just going to come in here, coast by, take three-hour martini lunches, and blame your coworkers for all of your failures? And remember — you have to tell me.‘
See? Now that would have saved a boatload of time, in the years after college. For the people who hired me. Oh.
Yeah, come to think of it, maybe that’s not such a good system, after all. I can see where I’d be on the wrong end of that particular stick, most of the time. Wow. I’ve never felt so close to scalpers before. I think I need a shower now; I just feel dirty all over, only without the scads of cash. Bah.
Permalink | 7 CommentsTwo things before I get all greased up and frothy today:
First, I would be remiss — and have been, for a few days now — if I didn’t mention (and thank!) The Bed and Breakfast Man for including me in his virtual dinner party. Thanks! And anytime I’m out your way — way, way out your way, from here — maybe I’ll take you up on that. I’ll even let you get a word in edgewise, I promise.
I also thought of participating in the meme that led to this honor, which goes something like this:
“The goal of this exercise is to identify nine other bloggers that you would like to meet for dinner/drinks. The only caveat is that these bloggers must be strangers — you haven’t met them before. State the blogger’s name, a link to the blog, and why you would like him/her to be in attendance”.
… but I’ve decided against it. Not because I think I couldn’t find nine fellow bloggers that I’d enjoy having dinner with, you understand. Rather, I’d likely think of ninety, and feel horrible at leaving so many intriguing people off the list. ‘Cause I don’t cook for ninety, dammit. I don’t even cook for one, if there’s a pizza joint nearby. I’m just saying.
Plus, while I’d have no problem inviting ‘fellow bloggers’, I’d be tempted to omit a lot of bloggers who are actually ‘fellows’. I mean, look at it — if you were me, and could have dinner with the likes of Lucky, Shelley, Anna, Natalie, the ‘poo, Monkey, Sundry, TJ, and Julia, among many others (like Amy, #Debi, Grins, Liz, Jenn, Deni, Rae, Chasmyn, and Suki, just for instance), wouldn’t you really want to be the funniest, most intelligent guy in the room?
Because with guys like Brian, Bryan, R80o, Greg, Scott-san, GeekMan, Stu, Jer, and ScaryDuck around, that’s clearly not gonna be the case. Not to mention B&B Man, Steve, Dinky, Jeff, Nef, Mark, TJ, CW, and the late (as in, ‘not blogging’, as opposed to ‘not living’), great Buzz, just for starters. And… aw, poop.
I guess I did the damned meme, after all. Times four. And I still left lots of cool people out. Shit. See why I didn’t want to get involved? I’d better get cooking, I suppose…
Secondly, this entry is the six hundred and sixty-sixth recorded at the site.
There are one or two ‘placeholder posts’ at the old Blogspot site, and a few that I started and deleted before they ever saw the light of day, of course. So this isn’t post number 666, even — that was the Zen Master bit, if you’re really interested.
But let’s not split hairs. When I post this, and go to the blog menu, I’ll see ‘Posts: 666‘ staring back at me. I don’t know what that means, exactly, but I thought it was worth mentioning. Oh, and it’s my father’s birthday today, which I’m sure is completely coincidental. But you never know. So watch out.
Okay, now on to… eh, crap. Now I don’t have time for a real entry. Poopstain!
Well, I’ll come back later and try again. Sorry to bore you with administrivia, but hey — it probably still beat whatever the hell else you were doing, eh? Unless you were having sex, maybe, or finding out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop. Or, perish the thought, both at once. You bastard. You lousy, horny, sticky, lucky bastard.
Anyway, until we lock horns again, happy Hump Day. Let’s get this ‘mark of the beast’ post over with now, before one of our heads starts rotating around. I don’t need that shit again. Peace.
Permalink | 2 CommentsSo, the Super Bowl is coming up, eh? Sunday, Sunday, Suuuuundayyyy!
Man, the people here in New England have their tummies in a tizzy over this game. They’re chomping at the bit to see the action — the thrilling hits, the rambling runs, the throws… the titillating wardrobe malfunctions. People are even deprogramming their TiVos, so they don’t miss the commercials. Crazy.
Me, I’m excited, too. I’m a transplant here — like a swollen, angry liver swapped into the body of a small, innocent child. Except Boston’s not all that ‘innocent’, really. And I’m not that swollen. It’s not much of an analogy, really, except for the ‘liver’ part. But you get the idea.
Anyway, the point is, I didn’t grow up cheering for the Patriots. But I’ve been here for five and a half years, so whatever’s in the water has started to sink in, and now I find myself cheering along with everyone else. Besides, they won’t give me beer if I don’t — so what choice do I have, really?
Now, you might call me a ‘fair-weather fan’ because of this — not true, I say. For one thing, if you’ve ever been to New England during football season, then you know how ridiculous that sounds — ‘fair‘ weather? We get three feet of snow a day — if we had ‘fair-weather fans’, we wouldn’t fill up the mens’ room, much less the damned stadium. On the other hand, it sure would shorten those beer lines. So I’m all for it.
More to the ‘fair-weather’ point, though — now that I’ve made up my mind to root, root, root for the home team, I’m going all the way. I know the players’ jersey numbers, I watch all the games — I do everything short of ogling their high-definition fat asses on TV.
(That’s the wife’s department. I give her one job. And still, she won’t leer at the linemen. I suppose that is a lot to ask, really. Joe Andruzzi is two tons o’ fun, all by his lonesome. Chunkay!)
So, I’m on board this weekend. I’ll find a Super Bowl party to go to, I’ll scream like an idiot for the Pats, and that’ll get me beer. And maybe some nachos. And a cookie. And that’s a good game right there. Woot.
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