About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I went out to grab some lunch a few minutes ago, and got a bit more than I bargained for. I went to one of those places that tries to do a little bit of everything — they’ve got muffins, and coffee, and sandwiches, and chips, and pre-made pasta dishes, and pizza, and drinks… probably, there’s some guy in the back making baklava or sushi or something, ‘just in case!’ Kind of schizophrenic, really, but I suppose having options is nice.
Anyway, that’s not the point. As usual, I’m slowly circling the point, like that last little turdlet spinning down the crapper at the end of a flush. Which is far too realistic a metaphor for my writing than I’m really comfortable with, frankly. I’m going to go back to rambling now, and try to pretend that I never thought of that.
And if I can’t do it alone, maybe I’ll recruit some delicious frothy, hoppy friends of mine to help me out later.
(Yeah, I’m talking about beer, if you didn’t catch on, there, skippy. Those are the only ‘frothy, hoppy friends’ that I have. It’s not like I’m hanging out with rabid bunny rabbits over here, okay? Don’t be a smartass. Nobody likes a smartass, and I should know, goddammit.)
Anyway, here’s the point, or at least something slightly closer to it: as I was standing at the counter, looking over the foodstuffs, one of the employees came over and asked if he could help me. Only, he didn’t ask if he could help me, ‘sir‘, or could he help me, ‘dude‘, or even could he help me out, ‘brutha‘. No, this particular gentleman asked if he could help me, ‘boss‘. I hear that every now and then — maybe it’s a New England thing; I don’t know. But I do know that I’m really not comfortable with it.
First of all, it’s not true. Not even remotely. I’m not this guy’s boss, I’m not some other guy’s boss, I’m not anybody’s boss. I don’t need that kind of pressure, dammit. Let’s be clear about this. I’m only just barely able to handle keeping myself alive, clothed, and out of jail — I’m not the sort of person you’d want to make responsible for the well-being of others. I make bad decisions, don’t clean up my own messes, and I’m not above lying, cheating, or — should it ever become necessary — having a judge whacked to cover my ass. I forget things, lose things, and occasionally find myself wearing my underwear backwards. If it weren’t for my wife handling the bills, giving me an allowance, and pre-tying my shoes for me, I’d probably be living in a Greyhound station somewhere in the Midwest right now. And I need a haircut. Badly.
All of which argues, most eloquently, that I am not to be put in a position of responsibility. Or to be called ‘boss‘ — or ‘supervisor‘, or ‘big cheese‘, or a ‘honcho‘ of any kind — by anyone, anywhere, at any time. That road leads to Shitstown, I’m afraid.
And besides, even while this guy was calling me boss — after every damned sentence, I might add — his real boss was right there! I mean, the dude had to know I wasn’t his boss, when the genuine article was standing by the register, rearranging the muffins and picking his nose. And not necessarily in that order, people. I’d avoid the breakfast breads in that place, if you know what I’m saying. You might get a little more fiber in that bran muffin than you bargained for.
In the end, I guess it worked out okay. I got my tortellini to go, and hightailed it out of there before I had to perform any ‘official’ duties, like beating the staff or hiking the prices or paying off the health inspector for all the boogery fingers in the joint. Still, I’m just not cool with being called ‘boss‘. If I wanted that kind of responsibility, I’d have a damned kid. Then I could tell somebody what to do all the time, and wouldn’t have to pay them anything. And I’d know who was doing all the nose-picking, without putting in security cameras. Why, if it weren’t for all the cash and effort and soul-sucking aggravation of having one of those little dingleberries around, that’d be the way to go.
But, it’s not gonna happen. So, don’t be throwing any ‘boss‘es in my direction, just to be safe. And now, I think I’d better call my wife. That left shoelace is looking mighty loose, so I’m gonna need her services soon. And she may have to talk me through another undies adjustment — I just wiggled around in my chair a little, and I’ve got a funny feeling that I felt the boxer flap back there where it’s not supposed to be. Man, am I glad I have my ‘boss‘ to look after me. This shit is hard!
Permalink | 5 CommentsWell, hey there, people. What’s shaking, playahs?
(That’s me being all ‘street’ and shit. Word, yo.
Except I don’t think you’re really ‘street’ if you put ‘street’ in quotes every time you use the word ‘street’. So basically, I’m not ‘street’ at all. I’m just a goober.
Sometimes, I wonder why I even try. Poopstain. To your mutha.)
Anyway, first off, I’d like to thank the nice folks who chimed in on my last post to say they’re glad I’m not dead. That’s cool — it really means a lot to know that there are people out there who feel just an eensy bit better about the world knowing that I’m not lying face-down in a ditch somewhere with a dent in my skull and my pockets turned out. Sort of the opposite feeling I get at family reunions, you know? Or work. Or waiting in line at the bank. Or on the phone ordering pizza. Or… well, ever, really. So, it’s special. So, thanks.
(And I’m kidding — I’m not quite that paranoid. Not yet, anyway. Sure, I peek over at the guy in the car next to me at a red light to see if he’s looking at me, and I check my soup at restaurants for any obvious globs of spit, but really, those are just precautions, right? Perfectly normal. I’m sure everyone does those things. Always. Ever.
Hmm. That didn’t even convince me. Bitches. Eh, screw it. I’ll just keep checking under the bed and in the closets before I go to bed at night, and pretend we never had this conversation. I can’t trust you people, anyway. I know you’re all out to get me. I’m watching ya.)
Anyway, it’s good to be writing again. Even if I’m just making shit up as I go along, and making myself seem even more certifiable than usual. That’s cool. Most of the job interviews I’ve ever had went pretty much the same way. And let’s not even talk about first dates. Dude. Thank god I’m married now — I used to come off like the damned Boston Strangler on first dates. Only creepier. Not cool.
(Though I guess it’s better than being known as the Boston Chicken-Choker. I’m not sure anyone’s ever held that title, but it’s certainly worse. Maybe we can get that started — give it out as an award, or something:
‘And now, it’s the Fourth Annual Boston Chicken-Choker Award ceremony, with your host, Peewee Herman. And special musical guest Michael Jackson. Take it away, ‘Wee!‘
Um, yeah. Maybe not. Anyway, just a thought. You see the ridiculous shit that builds up in my head when I don’t write for a few days? Eek.)
All right, where the hell was I, anyway?
Oh, right. Nowhere yet. Still getting started. Poop. Well, let’s see. How about this — last time I was stuck for something to talk about, I pulled out a boob story. Not a particularly good boob story, mind you. Actually, it was pretty creepy and icky and squeam-inducing.
(Come to think of it, is ‘squeam’ a word? I mean, certainly, we all know what it’s like to feel ‘squeamish’, but other than that, is there any love for ‘squeam’? You never hear of people ‘getting squeamed’, or ‘doing some squeaming’, or ‘making sweet, sweet squeam together’ in the back seat of a Honda. That seem odd to anyone else?
No? Okay, fine. It’s just me, then. Back to your program, already in progress. *sigh*)
At any rate, this story isn’t quite so bad. It’s still not a great boob story — mainly because it’s not an illustrated boob story. Any boobophile worth his or her salt will tell you that the real key ingredient in any good boob story is a well-placed illustration or two. Something that really captures the action, makes the reader think he’s right there. Like, right there. Possibly even saying, ‘Brrrrrrrritsky!‘ Riveting stuff, that.
So, sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t that kind of boob story. I apologize in advance. But, on the bright side, it does involve me, and my wife, and our bed. And that’s about as steamy as it’s going to get, I’m afraid, so let that combination seep into your dirty little minds for a few minutes before we get to the boring reality part.
Okay, you good? Done conjuring up that visual? Oh. I see. Eyes still rolled back in your head, eh? Yeah, you’ve got just a little bit of drool there… no, other side… yeah, that got it. I’ll, um… I’ll just wait another minute. Take your time. No rush.
Finished now? All right, then. So, here’s the story, and it’s bound to disappoint after all that, but hey — this is my life. What the hell’re you gonna do, eh?
So, I toddled off to bed pretty late the other night. I was up working, or watching TV, or — probably — working to get this damned computer working again. Anyway, it was maybe two, three in the morning — my wife had been in bed for at least a couple of hours, and was sound asleep. I tiptoed in, trying not to wake her, and slipped into bed beside her. She was rolled onto her side, facing me, so I decided to give her a quick hug before snuggling down for the night. ‘Cause I’m a romantic mother fucker that way, all right? Don’t be a hater.
Anyway, I leaned over and put my arm around her and gave a little squeeze. But something didn’t feel quite right. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t holding her side, and that she wasn’t completely turned facing me. She was actually lying more on her back, and I’d basically just reached over and copped a feel. Honked a hooter. Mangled a melon. Let my fingers do the nipplin’.
Well, first off, I was a little embarrassed, of course. I mean, really — we’re married and all, but how rude, eh? She’s lying there, sleeping peacefully, and here I come, charging in like a rhino with a stiffy, grabbing breasticles all willy-nilly, without even so much as a ‘How you doin’?‘ I should at least buy her dinner first, right?
Of course, never mind that I really didn’t mean to be groping in her pumpkin patch, like frigging Lunus on Halloween night — it’s the appearance of things that I was worried about. And I half-expected her to shake herself awake and say, oh, I dunno, ‘Can I help you with something?‘ Or maybe ‘Not tonight; I had a headache when I went to sleep three hours ago, so step the hell off.‘ Or even ‘What, are you trying to dial in Radio China? Unhand my tit and go to sleep!‘
(Which is just ridiculous, frankly. Honestly, who says, ‘Unhand my tit!‘ nowadays, anyway? I think that sort of thing went out of style with the whole ‘damsel in distress’ thing. I’m pretty sure you’re obligated to use words like ‘knave’ and ‘verily’ anytime you use ‘unhand my tit‘ in a sentence. I’ll have to look that one up.)
But none of that happened. As a matter of fact — and pay attention, because this is where the story gets good, at least if you’re me, which none of you are, so really, you can go back to only pretending to pay attention at this point — nothing happened at all. She didn’t smack me, or say anything, or even move. I’d like to think that she let out just a little ‘Mmmmmmm…‘ — you know, in a sultry kind of lippy-licking way — but… no. She didn’t. I’m completely making that up. Would’ve been cool, but no. I can’t back that up.
Still, the fact that nothing happened is pretty cool, if you think about it. Really, this tells me one of two things — either she’s a deep enough sleeper that a little bit of boob-batting isn’t going to wake her up, or she was awake the whole time, or woke up, and completely let me get away with it, maybe because it seemed accidental. Which it was. This time.
But either of those two explanations opens up some very interesting possibilities for experimentation on some otherwise boring night. I’m still mulling over how I’ll distinguish between the two hypotheses. If I can find some other way to determine she’s asleep one night — like whether she pees if I dip her hand in warm water, maybe — then I can reach in for a little diddle-diddle-diddle to see whether that wakes her up. Or, if I think I can get away with ‘accidents’, I could try bumping into her in unexpected and erotic ways all over the house. Who knows where the limit is on that front, eh? I’m gonna have to find some excuse to stop wearing pants, if I really want to put that theory to the test. And you can bet I’ll be working on that.
So, there you have it. Not a boob tale for the ages, but at least it was a true story. Parts of it, anyway. I do go to bed late sometimes, and my wife does have boobs. So it’s plausible, at least. And that’s the best I’ve got for you right now. It’s just good to be back, and good to be writing. And yes, thank you again, good to not be dead. You kids have a groovy Friday, will ya? I’m out.
Permalink | No CommentsHey, folks!
I’ve gotta be quick here — and no, I don’t ‘say that to all the girls’, thank you very little. Damned perverts.
Anyway, first, I apologize for being AWOL for the past few days. I have a lot of good excuses I could make up, but don’t have that kind of time right now. Give me time. Later, I’ll come up with some real doozies and wing ’em at you. Maybe I’ll throw hurricanes in there, or aliens or something. Some sort of international intrigue, if I can think of anything good. Or maybe I’ll forget, and you can just assume I’m a negligent asstastic bastard. That’s what most people end up doing, sooner or later.
Unfortunately, I can’t make up for much of my virtual absence right now — my ISP is having a ‘planned network outage’ starting… um, well, technically, about five minutes ago, and lasting until about three this morning. When I plan to be sleeping. Possibly drooling on the pillow. And dreaming of large women.
(No, not really. It’s a line from Princess Bride, all right? And somehow, I think actually admitting that I’m quoting Princess Bride is just about the only thing that could make me less cool than quoting it in the first place. I’m kind of a douchebag, when you get right down to it.)
Anyway, the point is: I’m not dead. Just elsewhere, but I’ll be back for real tomorrow. But not at three in the morning tomorrow, so you’ll have to make do with this nonsense until some decent hour, when I can get my shit together and actually write on a topic for once this week. Assuming this thing posts to begin with, that is. I’d better wrap this up, to make sure everyone gets their jollies tonight, eh?
And yes, as a matter of fact, I do say that to all the girls. So far as you know, anyway. I’ll catch you tomorrow. Toodles!
Permalink | 3 CommentsThat’s right, suckas — after days and days of working (and weeks and weeks of putting it off in the first place), I finally managed to get my gimpy machine back on its feet and running. That means — or should mean, anyway; I can’t test it directly from behind my firewall — that the links to the standup clips and descriptions should be magically working again. And magically delicious, as always.
It took a helluva lot of doing, though, no doubt thanks to my ‘I know just enough about this shit to be able to dig myself a really deep fucking hole’ vibe I’ve got going on. And thanks to my pack-rattiness, I had six crappy hard disks to play with, rather than the original two that failed. And for the record, I re-installed Windoze on four of them. Two of them twice. And one of them three times. I’ve got that asinine over-protective 25-digit OEM code for the damn disk hard-wired into my brain now. It’s probably kicked some important phone number or password out of my memory. Fucking Microsoft.
Along those lines, I decided that I haven’t had quite enough of this software installation bullshit. In an effort to prevent ever having to go through this ridiculous process again, I’m also cobbling together some spare parts to build a Linux server, and I’ll move the web stuff over to that.
(Not only will that make it easier to rebuild the damn machine if I ever have another problem, but now I can feel free to pull the plug out of the Windoze box when I’m losing at Madden. Double bonus, eh?)
Anyway, suffice to say the past week or so has been one pain in the ass after another. I’ve seen more SCSI drivers and ribbon cables and full-disk scans than any non-full-on tech monkey should ever have to deal with. I gave up on three separate occasions — and three times, I eventually said, ‘Nuh-uh, bitch — we ain’t playin’ that way‘ and dove back in there to get a little bit further. I went heavy on the elbow grease and sweat and tears — and streams of rabid vulgar curses that would make Heidi Fleiss cross her legs.
I even bled, from a boo-boo I got sliding a drive past some particularly jagged piece of metal. It sliced a bit of skin off my right middle finger — my wife walked in to check up on me just after it happened, and found me spouting profanities at the open computer case, shaking my bloodied fuck-you finger at it with a wild look in my eye. Needless to say, she didn’t check up on me again after that. I think she may have locked herself in the basement for a while, actually. She seemed a little nervous.
But in the end, things worked out, more or less. There’s still a bunch of shit to install, and configure, and — if that Linux idea comes through — even transfer between machines. But at least I can see the files again, and I can listen to my MP3s while I’m working, and feel like I’m getting damned somewhere. And now I’ll never touch any teeny little piece of the configuration ever again, so I don’t have to walk this partiicular pissy plank in future. I’ve only got so many middle fingers, you know.
Okay. Enough bitching about technical nightmares. Let’s move on to greener pastures for a while. Ooh, I know — I can tell you about this thing that I saw recently. And it involves boobs. Pastures don’t get much greener than that, people.
Except that this thing was a little bit disturbing. Actually, it was a lot disturbing, but I’ll get to that in a second. It happened as I was watching TV a few days ago — I forget what was on, but I have this impression that it may have been the World Series of Poker that ESPN has been trotting out the past few weeks. Something to do with poker, or casinos, or Vegas, at least.
Anyway, whatever it was, the announcers, or narrators, or color commentators — whatever the hell they were — had some occasion to talk about betting, and the hard-core sorts out there who’ll take any bet, and know how to manipulate cards and situations and games to their financial advantage. It was a planned aside, apparently, because while these guys were talking, the cameras showed a few such people, shuffling cards and milking tourists for money, that kind of thing. Of course, it was Vegas, so that’s pretty standard stuff.
But then they showed a short interview with one of the grifter types, and it was mentioned that he once made money on a very unusual bet. Apparently, one of his gambling buddies wagered that this guy wouldn’t have the nerve to get breast implants. For himself. Not his wife, or his daughter, or his dog — himself. Just so we’re clear.
And, it would seem, this wasn’t the sort of fellow who liked to lose a bet. So, he went and found a doc to job his boobs.
(You know, it seems so cheap and tawdry when I put it that way. ‘Getting his boobs jobbed‘. Yeah. Cheap. Tawdry. And really, really creepy. Moving on.)
Anyway, that’s not the worst thing. For me, anyway. Maybe for the guy with the silicone-encrusted pecs, that’s the worst. For me, no. For me, the worst part was when the guy lifted his shirt to show everybody his new best friends. Just flopped ’em out there, like they were real, live… desirable boobs. Ewwwww!
And the even weirder — um, okay, weirdest, at this point — thing was this: the network, whoever it was, put that little black bar over the guy’s nipples. Again, like they were real, live, mouthwatering mammaries. That almost made it worse, you know? To know that someone out there in the censor’s office draws the line there — that if you insert floppy bags of water into a chest, and then bare that chest, it’s filth. Guys’ nipples while they’re running around on Cops, or competing in the Olympics — those are fine. But slip a couple of water balloons under those nips, and you’ve crossed the line — you get the little black bar. And honestly, I don’t know whether knowing that — that someone out there has given this so much thought and consideration — is better or worse than if I’d actually seen those freaks of booby nature. At this point, I just want the whole damned thing to go away. I’m used to feeling dirty when I think of boobs. And, at my age, even creepy sometimes. But now I’m just… queasy? Confused? Morbidly curious?
(I mean, really — can there be such a thing as a bad set of boobs? Are the things even shaped right? Are they hairy? Ew ew ew ew ewwwww!)
So, anyway, welcome to my nightmare. I couldn’t really provide you the full experience for that computer mess, so I’m glad to find something that should disturb you just as much from afar as it gave me the willies from… um, anear. If such a word exists. You know what I mean.
And now it’s time to get back to that machine from hell, and finish setting the damned thing back up. It’s almost finished, but that fucker’s not done until I’m sitting there playing Madden, cursing the game for making my receiver drop a pass in the end zone, and shaking my bloody middle finger at the monitor. Oh, yeah, baby. Then I’ll be back, for real. I’ll see you kids in a day or so. Peace.
Permalink | 1 CommentSo, in case you’re just tuning in, I’ll come right out and tell you: I’m old.
Specifically — and oh so tragically — I’m 34 years old. And while that’s not ancient, by any means — hell, Wilford Brimley’s got me by at least three times that age, and he’s still shuffling around out there somewhere — it is damned close to being irrelevant.
You see, just about every product, marketing pitch, and entertainment package in the country is aimed squarely between the eyes of the all-important target demographic — 18-34 year olds, and usually males. That’s the group of people who — traditionally, anyway — make the decisions, earn the cash, and buy the shit off the shelves. They’re the marketing monkeys’ wet dream, and as annoying as the endless flood of asinine advertising and bullshit pitches is, it’s at least nice to be relevant. Just think how aggravating that crap is gonna be when I’m not even the target, but I still have to see it. Gah.
And that’s where I’m heading, just a few short months from now. Honestly, once I hit 35, what’s left out there for me to buy? Depends? Metamucil? Long-lasting, extra-throbby Viagra? Great. Just get me my damned shawl now, and let me dessicate in quiet dignity instead, would you? The function or dysfunction of my erectile unit is not going to be a topic of conversation. Not likely.
In the meantime, I’ve been trying to enjoy my fleeting time in the sun. I watched more of the X Games this year than usual — next time it comes around, I’ll be gumming applesauce and yelling at the kids on TV to ‘get real jobs, you whippersnappers!‘ And I’m planning on wearing shorts through February or so. Because next fall, I’ll have to avoid them altogether; once you’re 35, I think you’re obligated to strap on the stupid-looking dark socks and pull them up to your kneecaps. I’d rather smoke a dirty diaper. I’m not goin’ there.
Eh, maybe it won’t be so bad. I suppose there’s still Matlock to watch, and I can thumb through the stewed prune ads in the AARP monthly. In this jacked-up, in-your-face, overmarketed digital world we live in, there’s plenty of advertising to go around for everyone — on TV, computers, electronic billboards, PDAs, you name it. It’s almost a pity that I won’t be able to figure any of that shit out soon. It ain’t easy getting old.
Permalink | 4 Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
