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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Man, I have really got to start watching the weather. Or looking up the forecast online, or something. Jeez.
You see, I’m typically a ‘no coat’ kind of guy. I feel like I’ve explained this in detail around here somewhere before, but suffice to say that my aversion to jackets and jacket-like apparel boils down to two points:
Honestly, it’s really the second one that gets me worse. Sure, sure, the first one is relevant, too — I must be one of those fiery, hot-blooded muchachos you hear so much about.
(And really, ladies, wouldn’t that explain an awful lot?
Wha? No? Well, fine. Poop on you, then. I can pretend I’m a hot-blooded muchacho if I want to. Harrumph.)
But it’s the inconvenience of wearing a coat that really puts me out. Honestly, what else in your life would you put up with getting so little use out of, compared to the amount of time and effort you spend not using it? It’s like having to strap your belt around your neck all morning, before you’re allowed to use it to hold your pants up. Or walking around all day with a condom taped to your forehead, before you can use it for the twelve seconds you’re gonna need it. Or women walking around with bags crammed full of makeup, in case there’s a five-minute period during the day when they might want it. Or… oh. Right. Yeah, never mind that last one. I forget that people really do that. Wow.
(Oh, and never mind that ‘twelve seconds’ thing up there, either. Surely you must realize that doesn’t apply to a fiery muchacho like myself. No, no.
No, senoritas, I would be at least twenty seconds in the lovers’ game, before tuckering out and needing a siesta. At least. Carumba.)
(Okay, that’s just about enough of the muchacho thing, I think. I’m starting to creep myself out. Plus, I don’t know any other Spanish words except ‘gordita’, and I don’t even wanna think about how I’d try to work that one in there. Carumba, indeed.)
So, where the hell was I? Oh, right — coats. Sorry, got off track there.
So, coats. Not a fan, in general. Too little bang for the buckola, and I tend to not really feel chilly in the first place until the mercury dips below about forty or so. As long as we’re just talking about a trip to work and back, of course, and maybe out for a quick lunch. Certainly, with enough exposure, even that kind of temperature will get to me sooner or later. I’m not gonna strip down to my boxers and dance the watusi in the middle of my street in forty-degree weather, or anything like that.
(Not again, anyway. That did get a bit nipply, after a while. Plus, now there are the restraining orders to deal with. Meh.)
But under normal circumstances, I just don’t think a coat is terribly necessary. Under normal circumstances. Reasonable conditions, like say, on the good side of fourteen degrees.
Which it wasn’t today. Not even close.
Only I didn’t know, becuase I didn’t check the weather this morning. I simply figured it’d be about like it was yesterday — twenties, maybe thirties. Or the day before — same thing, with a little snow. Or the day before that — twenties, maybe thirties. Or the day before that — and guess what it was like then, eh?
I think you can see how I could have been lulled into a sense of complacency here. This is New England — it’s only rarely going to be above forty between — oh, I don’t know — August and April every year. But it’s also not often really, really cold, either — because when it’s truly frigid out, then it can’t snow. And there’s nothing the skies in New England love to do more than shit twelve pounds of snow per square inch of earth beneath them, to make life more ‘interesting’ for those of us here on the ground. So you can pretty well expect a certain ‘twenties, maybe thirties’ type of day around here, most of the time.
But, again, not today, apparently. Today, the temperature was six at one point, officially.
That’s right, six. Oh-six. Zero zero zero six. Point zero. That’s just damned unreasonable cold, people. There’s no way you should expect that kind of cold; I can’t even see how those meterologists coule predict it. Honestly, do you know how often you’d be wrong — dead fucking wrong — if you walked around, telling people that it would be six degrees tomorrow? Assuming you’re not actually living in the Arctic frigging Circle, that is. Pretty much always, is how often. Six is just stupid cold. There’s no point. It helps nobody. Stupid.
Of course, speaking of ‘stupid‘, then there’s the guy who didn’t check the weather, and left the house today with no coat. Like he does almost every day, but — dammit! — every day isn’t six fricking degrees when you walk out into it. Every day doesn’t freeze your eyelids shut and turn your fingers into icicles and *schhhhhhlurp* your testicles up near your lungs, looking for body heat. I’m a stubborn little bastard, but if you tell me it’s fricking six, then yeah, I’ll wear a coat. Maybe even mittens. That’s cold shit.
Only, nobody did tell me. And luckily, all I had to do was get to the car and back today. I can’t even imagine traipsing around for lunch, or getting out to pump gas, or walking the dog today. I think the dog would even understand:
‘Bitch, it’s six. You don’t wanna be out there, either. You can piss tomorrow. Now go lie down or something.‘
And maybe it’s getting better; I don’t know. I see on Yahoo — now that I’m checking the damned weather — that it got all the way up to sixteen today at one point. Woo fuckin’ hoo, people. That’s sad, when you’re just happy to be out of single damned digits. Charlie no likey.
But maybe that’ll lead to a warming trend, or a high pressure isobar, or whatever those meteorolo-weenies are always on about that heatas things up. Hell, I’d take thirty right now, even with a chilly New England wind. It still beats the freezy pants off of six, fer chrisakes.
And hell, if this keeps up, I might have to go find my coat. Damn. That’s just wrong.
Permalink | 7 CommentsWell, kids, here we are again — another Monday to deal with. Although, if you’re like me and staying home from work today (you go, Dr. King!), then it’s a much more palatable experience than usual. Tasty, even.
Still, it is Monday, and we’ve got a job to do around here, so let’s get cracking. Ready up your thinking cap and whatever you use to lube up your brain, and we’ll have ourselves another Punchline Fever. First, as always, the rules for our little endeavor:
1) I’ll sit around, day and night, thinking of a short but flexible setup for a joke.
B) I’ll post the best setup I can think of, but with a blank where the punchline should go.
iii) Then it’s up to you to come up with your best line, and leave it in the comments, for all to snicker over.
And now, this week’s setup:
Punchline Fever #28:
‘Nearsighted old Mr. Franklin got a little mixed up today — instead of going into the local fast food joint for lunch, he accidentally walked into the ‘sex shop’ next door. Well, imagine his surprise when the clerk actually tried to fill his order to ___________________________‘
That’s it, peeps. I’ve done my job — now you do yours, and we’ll all have a nice chuckle together. And even on an ‘off’ Monday, sitting here at noon in my pajamas, I think it’ll make the day just a little bit brighter.
And for that extra boost of brilliant brightness, be sure to browse the full Punchline Fever archives. Happy Monday, all!
Permalink | 9 CommentsYou know, I’m not sure I’m cut out for this whole ‘technology’ thing. Forget that I write here most days, using my computer and the internet and all that newfangled crap. And never mind that my whole frigging job is to write programs all day. Apparently, I still don’t have the hang of this stuff, after all. Because on Friday, I was outwitted by my videocamera.
Maybe ‘outwitted’ is the wrong word. Machines don’t have wits, of course. It’s ‘outwitted’ when my wife tricks me into doing the laundry. Or when that guy down the block makes me mow his lawn. Or the dog bamboozles me into chasing her tail for her.
(Which is bad enough, but one time I actually caught it. I was tasting ass fur for at least three days. Bleh.)
Anyway, here’s what happened — I had a show on Friday night, and I wanted to tape it. Now, of course, I try to tape all my sets — so I can gasp in horror at them later — but I’ve never had a Friday show before. So this was something special. I even wore clean underwear for it. It was sweet.
Now, to complicate matters, I discovered / remembered on Friday morning that my camera has a remote control. So, I did a little testing at the house, and figured out that I just needed one button to make the thing work. One button. Push it once, it records. Push it again, it stops. It’s not rocket science, right? I can do this. I’ve got opposable thumbs, and everything. How hard could it be?
So, I went to the show, and set up the camera. My wife got me this little tripod to set it on, which is sweet. Now I look like all the other cool kids who got wedgies back when they were in the A/V club.
(Yeah, I know it sounds bad. Still, it’s cooler than not having a tripod, and wishing I were as cool as the A/V kids. That’s just fucking sad.)
Anyway, I got everything all set up, and my turn on stage came up. So, during the intro, I took the remote out, pointed it at the camera, and hit the button. Because I didn’t want to do it on stage, of course — that’s just damned tacky:
‘Hey, folks, how you doin’? *poooooint* *cliiiiiiick* You having a good time?‘
So, I went on, and did my set, and got offstage and hit the button again. And I remember, even then, thinking to myself, ‘Gee… I was at kind of a weird angle when I tried to stop the tape; maybe it’s still running.‘ And I figured that was okay — I can always rewind it and deal with it later.
It never occurred to me that — duh — I was at the exact same angle when I tried to start the damned tape. So really, in a way, I outwitted myself. Mom would be so proud. Bitches!
Anyway, the tape never started, of course. So I got nothing. Which kind of sucks, because it was a pretty good show. There were a lot of giggly drunk people there, and that makes for a good show. Or a good wake, or a good orgy, or apparently a good Congressional session, for that matter. In any case, I was pretty bummed at the time. And I felt pretty foolish.
On the other hand, I found out that the club, as of a couple of weeks ago, has started taping all of its shows, and burning them to DVD. Apparently, they’re better with their opposable thumbs and sophisticated forebrains than I am. So I still feel pretty stupid, but it looks like I might be able to score a copy of my set, after all. And from a better camera and hooked-in mic, so it’s gonna be much higher quality, too.
(That’s ‘higher quality’ from a video standpoint, you understand. It’s still the same old dick jokes you’ve seen over and over again. No camera’s gonna fix that, people.)
Anyway, that’s the story. And, as an added bonus for you comedy clip fans, by sometime tomorrow I’ll post the sets from the other two shows I did this week. They didn’t have audiences to speak of, and the bars weren’t so nice, but it’s all about the practice, right? I mean, if it can’t be about the money, yet, or the fame, or that whole ‘snorting coke off a hooker’s back’ thing… then I guess it ought to be about the practice, right? The craft. The form, and the writing, and the experience of it all.
So, yeah, the drinking. It’s pretty much about the drinking. Woo fuckin’ hoo.
Anyway, you can look forward to all of that. Or fear it, or ignore it completely. I can’t tell you people how to live your lives.
In other news, I’m going to the Patriots game today. (Big woot!) And it’s going to be around thirty degrees out there, so I’m layering up on clothes to stay warm. I’ve got most of the layers on already — everything but the sweatshirt and coat and hat. When I’m all done, I’ll have, like nine square inches of skin protected with only one layer. But who needs lips and thighs, anyway? This ain’t no KFC, bitches.
Meanwhile, I just went to the bathroom with all of this stuff on, and it wasn’t damned easy. I just had to pee, and getting in there to my… um, pee-er was like breaking into Fort frigging Knox. It should never be so hard to get access to your own penis, dammit. Ever.
Come to think of it, it shouldn’t be so hard for other people to get access to your penis, either. Call me crazy, but I think the important part is making sure that people who shouldn’t be fiddling with your penis don’t get near your penis in the first place. But once you let somebody through those outer defenses, it shouldn’t be so fricking hard to get in there. You don’t want them to get frustrated and lose interest, right? Then nobody’s happy. I’m just saying.
Anyway, I’ll see you kids tomorrow. Go Pats!
Permalink | 1 CommentI was reminded today of one of life’s little truisms:
‘If you want a good haircut, then it’s usually best not to go to a barber who doesn’t speak your language.‘
Actually, come to think of it, you could probably substitute ‘haircut’ and ‘barber’ in that sentence with ‘dinner’ and ‘waiter’, or ‘facelift’ and ‘doctor’, or even ‘handjob’ and ‘hooker’.
(Though that last one is debatable. I’ve never had occasion to try asking a foreign national for a sex act via some elaborate game of charades, mind you, but it seems somehow easier than trying to get across ‘duck in a white wine sauce with asparagus’ or ‘pull back the cheeks and make my nose a shade thinner’ to those other folks. Just seems less complicated, is all I’m saying. Less choices on the menu, and all that jazz.)
Anyway, I had my follicles trimmed at the barber shop I always use. It’s close by, the cuts are quick, and they’re dead cheap — thirteen bucks for a trim. You don’t beat that kind of price, people. Not on this side of Ohama, anyway.
Of course, there’s a downside to all of this — there’s always an oily black lining to that silver cloud, people. There’s just this wee little problem with this place, which you’ve already guessed from the first bit above — they really don’t have the firmest grasp of English that you’d like to see in a person standing over you with a pair of sharp scissors, and asking you ‘How jou want eet?‘ I’ve had nightmares that start out that way, frankly. Many of them involve Antonio Banderas. Some nights I don’t sleep at all. Eep.
Anyway, I went there today for a cut, before my show tonight.
(What’s that? Show? Why, yes — at the Comedy Studio. Yes, that’s right — eight o’clock, thanks for asking.)
And I go there hoping, crossing my little fingers tight, that I’ll get the owner guy, John. ‘John the bilingual barber’, I call him. Not while I’m in there, of course, but later — out of earshot. But John really is bilingual — when John’s manning the shears, we often have a little chat, talk about the weather, and the neighborhood, that sort of thing. It’s nice to get John.
I didn’t get John today. That’s problem number uno.
No, today I got the woman who works there. Nice lady, very nice. There’s also a younger guy who works there — he’s nice, too, if a little shaver-happy from time to time.
(Senor, I’m a person, not a sheep! No mas, por favor! Ay, chihuahua!‘)
These two, they don’t speak the English so well. And me, I don’t hablo the Espanol so much, either. And so, there’s a bit of a communication gap occuring in the old barber shop when I get one of them. And today, as I said, I got the woman. Oh, boy.
So, first she asked how I wanted it cut. I told her — not thinking to keep things clear and unambiguous, of course — that I wanted it sort of short, but not really short. She interpreted this as ‘not short’, apparently, and was careful to take only a few millimeters off each hair as she worked. It was impressive, really. The concentration. The dedication. In one sense, it was truly a work of art.
In every other sense, it wasn’t at all what I wanted.
Now, normally I’ll just take my lumps and let it go. These guys try hard, and they’re really cheap, and I don’t really care if my hair looks perfect, anyway.
(Frankly, I think that would be bad, even, if it did. Then it would be the one shining example of how a body part should look, sitting on top of this mish-mash of remnant and irregular and more-than-slightly used parts called ‘the rest of my body’. And I don’t think I like the comparisons that would encourage. So an ‘enh‘ haircut is just peachy fine with me, thanks so much. Takes the attention away from the hunchback and the peglegs, don’t you know.)
This time, though, I felt I had to speak up. Honestly, I didn’t really look significantly different than when I’d walked in. And yes, I know they don’t work miracles in these places, dammit — I wasn’t hoping to walk out all ‘rawk star’ and shit — but given how long I go between haircuts, my fricking hat should fit different right after a trim, okay? And we weren’t there yet.
So, I tried to negotiate with her, but again — put my Spanish and her English together, and you’ve got six full words, a bunch of leftover consonants, and a whole helluva lot of hand-waving. So our ‘conversation’ went something like this:
Me: Um, you see how my hair’s kind of wavy there on top?
Her: You want it shorter in the back?
Me: No, no… well, actually, come to think of it, yes, but that’s not what I meant. My hair gets all wavy when it’s long, and —
Her: I cut the hair for you. In the back?
Me: Er, no. Uh, here, on the top.
Her: On the top? Cut the top?
Me: Yes, please.
Her: Okay, I use these scissors here.
At this point, she brought out this odd, scary-looking pair of scissors, where one side looks sort of like a metal comb, and the other side looked normal. They’re some weird kind of shears, and I think someone once explained to me that they help make hair less thick, which — again, based on my understanding of barberage, which is only slightly less impressive than my understanding of Spanish — could make hair less wavy. Which is what I wanted.
So, I thought that just maybe she’d gotten the idea, after all, and understood. So I had another go at talking with her, trying to get info to use for the next time.
Me: So, um, what are those called? Do they have a special name or something?
Her: Yes, these are very nice.
Me: No — I mean, yes, they’re nice. But what do you call them?
Her: It’s two thirty, about.
Me: Oh, um, thanks. But I meant the shears you’re using.
Her: Yes, they’re very nice.
Me: Yes. Nice. Okay, then.
So, she took off another couple of millimeters with those things. And my hair looked marginally less wavy — as opposed to entirely less wavy, which is what I really look for in a haircut. But that’s okay, I thought to myself. I’ll just come back a week earlier or so next time, and get it shorter then. It looks more or less okay now, and I can deal with it for a while — just so long as I can get what I want later… so long as this isn’t the haircut I’ll always get here… so long as I don’t actually fricking have the part of the conversation that we had next:
Her: Is good, now? You like?
Me: Um, sure. It’s good. Not bad.
Her: That’s right — you don’t like it short. I remember. You don’t like that.
Me: Well, I mean, it could be shorter, a bit, really. I just —
Her: That’s right — you don’t like it short. Don’t worry, I know what you like.
Me: Yes, but it’s just —
Her: It’s okay. No short for you. I take care of you.
Damn. I didn’t know what to say. Well, actually, I knew exactly what to say; I just didn’t frigging know how to say it, in Spanish. So, I got up and paid her, and thanked her, and walked back outside with four pounds of hair still on my head. And all because I coasted through Spanish class in high school, and I’m too lazy to find another barber. Somehow, when you put it that way, it almost sounds like my fault. Bah.
Anyway, it looks better than it did. Better-ish, at least. Maybe I’ll go back in a couple of weeks and have more of it sheared off. Only this time, I’ll buy a Spanish-English dictionary to take with me, so there’s no confusion. Unless my pronunciation sucks, in which case I might walk out with a mohawk, a black eye, and a can of shaving cream down my pants. But really, isn’t that what haircuts are all about?
Permalink | 7 CommentsSo, I’m not really one of those ‘current events’ type of bloggers. It’s all I can do to hold down a job, throw some words down here once in a while, and make sure I’m wearing pants most of the time. There’s no way I could actually keep up with what’s going in in the world, and then form opinions about it, and write all that shit down, too. Where would I get that kind of time?
(And, more to the point, if I had that kind of time, why the hell would I spend it that way, when I could… I don’t know, travel the world, or write a book, or learn the fandango?
Not that I’m a closet fandango fan, you understand. Those are just examples. Move along, now.)
However, every once in a great while, a story catches my attention that I simply can’t ignore, and can’t resist commenting on. And here is one of those stories, which I found late last night buried in the latest NFL goings-on:
Garcia’s Playmate girlfriend acquitted of assault
Now, normally this wouldn’t have caught my eye, except that it was in the NFL section. So I had a look, and entered a whole new world of ridiculousness that I never knew existed. Here’s the story in a nutshell:
Jeff Garcia, quarterback for the Browns last year, used to date this woman, Kristin Hine. (This story has a more or less unflattering photo of Ms. Hine, in case you’re interested.)
Only Jeff dropped her after a few dates for another woman — in this case, Playboy Playmate of the Year Carmella DeCesare (link only barely safe for work). So, you might say, good for Jeff. And Carmella, I suppose, but bad for Kristin.
Ah, but wait — apparently, Jeff snuck off and slept with Kristin again. And Carmella found out, and one night in August, when the three happened to be at the same club, things got ugly. Drinks were thrown. Karate kicks were landed. And Playmate Carmella ended up in court, though she’s now been acquitted.
Now, this story is interesting — at least to me — for several reasons. First of all, I thought Jeff Garcia was gay. He always seemed a little ‘happy-footed in the pocket’, if you catch my drift. Hell, he even publicly un-outed himself. Or de-outed himself, or something. That is so gay.
(Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you. If Jeff’s gay, that’s cool. I always figured that was pretty much his own business.
But with this story… well, damn. Either he’s really, really not gay, or he found the granddaddy of all beards. Playmate of the year? Yipes.)
And apparently, Jeff’s not only not gay, he’s horny like a gorilla, too. Honestly, who hooks up with a playmate of the year, and then cheats on her? Or to turn it around — I don’t want to leave the ladies out of the discussion — if you were dating a Chippendales dancer, would you really sneak off to bump uglies with the cable guy? How is that possible?
Now, I can understand if Camella is perhaps not the sparkling conversationalist that Jeff is looking for. Maybe she can’t hang with him playing Scrabble, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the opposite — maybe she schools him at Trivial Pursuit, and he’s tired of it.
(Although… she was also apparently involved in some sort of pro wrestling diva search thingy, so I’m guessing the light bulb up there isn’t fully watted all the time. I’m just saying.)
Anyway, if Jeffy were to slip off for a nice cup of coffee with an old flame, I could understand. If he got caught buying gifts for other women, or spending vacations with them, or that sort of thing, I think I’d get it… but apparently, he just slipped out for a quick boink. Just slipped out. On the reigning — that’s reigning, you understand; not, like, from 1993 or anything — playmate of the year. To get busy with another woman. Jeff, I’m not following. Walk me through this one, would you?
(Hey, at least it wasn’t another man. And if you’re dating a playmate and still getting some on the side, well — I guess that whole ‘gay’ thing is pretty well dead for sure, eh? So there’s a silver lining in this for Jeff, at least.)
Plus, the girl apparently knows some sort of karate-judo-hi-yaaah kind of thing. Jeff’s a big guy and all — if a little effeminate — but I’m thinking a well-driven high heel to the forehead is gonna stop pretty much anyone dead in their tracks. He’s got to think about these things before he lets his peniscope lead him around.
Anyway, the whole thing struck me as odd. Even the place where it happened fits in — the Tramp nightclub. Well, of course it was.
I dunno. Maybe the whole thing was staged. The wrestling connection makes me a bit suspicious. Maybe it’s an elaborate plot by Garcia to put those gay rumors to rest once and for all. Or to just divert attention away from the fact that he’s not really a terribly good quarterback. And any press for a QB that doesn’t involve the words ‘interception’ or ‘salary cap casualty’ is good press, you know.
I’m just bewildered by it all. I had no idea such things went on in the world. Maybe I should start keeping up on the news, after all.
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