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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, hey there, chicks and chickers. I hope you folks are having a fun and fuzzy weekend, just like me.
(Or maybe I should have said, ‘just like mine‘ — I wouldn’t want you folks to get the idea that I, myself, am ‘fun and fuzzy‘. By no means.
For one thing, I shave, on a fairly regular basis. And for another… um, yeeeeeah. Let’s just leave it at the one thing, shall we? I’m thinking that might already be one too many. Let’s move on.)
Anyhoo, I’m in a far better mood than I have any right to be right now. I can’t say why, really. Frankly, for a long weekend, this one’s shaping up to be a bit of an ass-sucker. Just a bit. Of the ass sucking. A tad.
First of all, I finally figured out that there’s nothing I can do for my damned downed computer. I’ve tested, I’ve fiddled, I’ve begged — I even French-kissed the hard drives and promised them more, but I’m getting nowhere. I think they’re dead. Or just ignoring me — that shit never works on the bus driver when I’m trying to ride for free, either. Maybe I’m not using my tongue right. I dunno.
On what should have been the ‘good side’, the missus and I took a trip to Fenway Park today to watch a Sox game. And that was cool, I guess. The boys in the crimson hose fell behind early, and fell behind lots, and stayed behind until the end. And then, when all the innings were used up, the umpires said they lost. Damn.
(And you know — just as an aside to you baseball fans in the hizzouse — it really should have never been as close as it ended up being. The final was 8-6, but most of those Sox runs came in the seventh, and had no business scoring.
First of all, Jeff Nelson (ex-Yankee; big booooooos when he came in the game) walked three guys in a row — the number eight, nine, and one hitters. That’s just crazy — you can’t expect major-league pitchers to bail you out like that.
And then — then! — Mark Bellhorn comes up. And a new pitcher comes in — Ron Mahay, I think it was. Now, think about the situation. Right then, Boston’s down 8-1. The bases are loaded full of guys who Nelson just walked before slinking off to the showers. Mahay comes in and goes to a 2-0 count on Bellhorn. Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz — huge, hulking, Dr. Jeckyl-sized sluggers — are coming up next. So what would any sane hitter — or manager — do in that situation? Number two hitter up, with a 2-0 count, down seven runs where a grounder on the infield could end the rally? What do you do there?
I’ll tell you what you do — you take. Take a pitch. Make the new guy throw a strike. Just one. Just take a pitch. You’re sitting 2-0; once you get a strike, you can go flailing away like a holy roller on freaky ‘shrooms. But you simply don’t swing the bat in that situation. You just don’t.
Well, he did. And, of course… smacked a grand slam. I suppose that’s the beauty of baseball — three ass-headed walks and one ill-advised swing, and four runs pile up. And if I weren’t a Red Sox fan — with Bellhorn on my fantasy team, I might add — I’d probably shake my head in disgust at the whole thing.
Instead, I’ll shake it sadly, because even with those ‘freebie’ runs, the Sox still couldn’t pull out the win. And thus ends my time at Fenway this year, assuming no comp tickets find their way into my grubby little hands in the next month.)
Okay, where the hell was I, anyway?
Something or other about the weekend, wasn’t it? I think there was some sort of vague bitching involved.
Anyway, it looks like my three-day Labor Day extravaganza is getting a big fat speed bump in the middle of it — I’ll probably spend a few hours in the office tomorrow, killing a large part of Sunday getting through all the shit that I meant to finish on Friday. So this week, my Sunday will be like a Friday, though the holiday on Monday will still be like a Sunday. Which means Tuesday will be like a Monday, and Friday was really kind of a Thursday, and that makes today… um, well, I dunno. I suppose it’s mainly a Saturday, with a touch of Sunday, and just a pinch of Thursday or Friday in there. These three-day weekends really throw my calendar off.
I miss my fried computer, though.
(Hah! I’m back on track! Suck that, assbadgers who think I can’t stay on topic. Yeah, baby!)
It’s not so much the standup clips I pine for — those are still on the digicam tapes, somewhere, and it wouldn’t be that hard to copy them again, assuming I had a working drive at all. What’s more upsetting is the enormous volume of MP3s (almost all legal, even) and the video games (nearly all illegal, except the ones I actually play, ironically enough) that I’m missing.
Over a period of months, or maybe years, I’ve ripped just about all of our two or three hundred CDs, and they’re all sitting on that damned dead disk. Not to mention the custom-drafted football and baseball teams that I spent hours upon hours working on, poring over stats, making trades, working out the team strengths and weaknesses… it’s all just gone now, and I’ve got nothing to show for all that work I did on a bunch of pointless, private, irrelevant projects. Hell, nobody but me ever cared who I used as my backup middle infielder in High Heat 2003 (though, for the record and the sake of synchronicity, it just happened to be the aforementioned… Mark Bellhorn), and now — well, now it’s just a bunch of randomized electrons bumping into each other on a useless bit of metal that’s more paperweight than database. Bitches.
You know, if I weren’t jonesing so bad for a game right now, this disk failure might put trivial matters like video games and fantasy sports into perspective. As it is, I just want to download the new updated September rosters, and waste another few dozen hours getting back to the title game. It’s just the way I’m wired, I guess. I obsess. It’s what I do. And no amount of banging my head on the desk is gonna change that. Apparently. Ow.
So, I’m gonna look into taking my computer to a pro.
(No, no — not a hooker. A repair shop. I can’t see any reason to take my CPU to a lady of the night. Frankly, if there’s gonna be some sleazy chick ‘wiring up a hard drive’ or ‘downloading from a floppy’, or even ‘jacking into a printer port’, then we are not going to be talking about computers. We gonna be in full euphemism mode, you know what I’m saying?_
But back to my crippled computer. It needs help, and I’m gonna take one last, desperate stab to cure it. I’m finally — after futzing and diddling and tinkering in there myself — finally ready to admit defeat, and pay someone to tell me that I need a new computer, on the off chance that they’ll be able to save something from the original drives, and save me some amount of work getting back to where I was. I don’t hold out much hope, but short of some sort of shamanic ritual, or sacrificing a goat to the gods of the the ergonomic keyboard, I don’t know what the hell else to do. So I’ll put my money where my technical ineptitude is, and see if there’s someone out there who’ll take my money and return my video clips and digital songs and, yes, my finely-tuned rosters.
I’ll keep you posted — assuming I can’t find something more exciting to write about, like office paperwork, or peeling paint, or maybe navel lint. In the meantime, if tomorrow’s gonna be another workday, then I’m getting the hell outta here, so I can enjoy the rest of the night. This might be the only weekend I get, dammit. I’m gonna milk the mother for all it’s worth. Happy days, people. Happy days.
Permalink | 2 CommentsWell, I’m not at all sure how to feel right now.
On Monday night, I performed my latest standup set at a little bar called the Cantab Lounge, not far from my office. I’d been there before, and I thought I got through my stuff pretty reasonably, especially given the 3-1 comic to audience member ratio in the crowd. I went on first, and then sat down with a beer to watch the rest of the show.
Next up was a girl I went through standup class with — the only other one in the dozen or so students who’s stuck with it. And she gets to way more shows than I do. I need to catch up, frankly. I’m falling behind.
Anyway, next up was a special treat — Rich, who taught that class a year ago, was in da house, hanging around and catching up with some of the comics. He’s been on ‘the scene’ for many years, so he knows — or knows of — just about everyone who’s been doing standup in Boston for any significant length of time. And usually, if he stops by the Cantab, or one of the other open mic rooms, the host will have him get up and tell a few jokes. Monday was no different, in that regard.
However, it was a little different in this way — when Rich got to the stage, he didn’t launch into crowd work, or jump right into a joke. The first thing he did was look over at me, pause, and say — now, keep in mind, this is the person who’s probably seen more of my material than anyone else:
‘You know… I think if Garrison Keillor told dick jokes, that would be Charlie.‘
And… now I’m not sure how to feel. I mean, I think he meant it in a good way. He even said it again later, as we were talking after the show:
‘Yes. You’re the Garrison Keillor of dick jokes. Oh, yeah.‘
It’s a little strange, though. Not exactly how I expected to be known, but I think I can roll with it. And I finally have something real — tangible and genuine — to put on the dust cover of my book, assuming I ever get around to writing one. Which is good — before this, I was thinking I’d have to rely on those Simpsons quotes for feedback, and someone would see them, and I’d get sued… it was gonna be a huge fricking mess.
But now — now! — I know I’ve got at least one solid, real, honest quote, even if it does call into question exactly what talent I might or might not have. And I can use this in my everyday dealings with people, too — even if I don’t exactly understand the implications.
See, when people find out I do standup, the first question they always ask is, ‘What kind of comedy do you do?‘ And dammit, I hate that question — though I do appreciate their interest — because I don’t really have a name for the crap I do onstage. Some of it’s self-deprecating, parts of it are making fun of other people, a little bit’s observational, I guess — most of it is just silly. And yes, I suppose peniseses get mentioned, every now and again. But that’s a whole lot of explaining to have to do, and I can tell by the blank looks I get that people still don’t really understand. Many of them probably doubt that I do comedy at all. I’m not much of a ‘believable character’ in general; let’s face it.
But thanks to Rich, all of that is behind me now. Now, I’ve got a short, quick, simple — if not necessarily straightforward — answer:
‘What kind of comedy do I do? Well… I’ve been called the ‘Garrison Keillor of dick jokes’. I think that pretty much speaks for itself.‘
Never mind that I don’t actually know what it means. It’s all about pulling it off with attitude. I’ve just got to convince people who ask that they wish — that everyone wishes — they could be the ‘Garrison Keillor of dick jokes’. And if anyone does call me on it, and asks, ‘What the hell does that mean?‘, I’ll just answer with more subterfuge:
‘Well, it’s a little like being the ‘Redd Foxx of iambic pentameter’. Or the ‘Maya Angelou of dirty limericks’. Obviously.‘
Yeah, I don’t know what those mean, either. But if I can get someone to call me those, too, then I can finally write that book! Who wouldn’t read a book by a guy with those kinds of credits, eh? Yeah, baby.
Unfortunately, just at the moment, none of you are able to bask in the pseudo-Keilloryness around here, as I’ve failed miserably to get the computer with my standup clips on it back online. But if you’re interested in a first-hand look — and you’re in the Boston area this Labor Day — stop by the Comedy Connection in Fanueil Hall on Labor Day night, the 6th. I’ve got a spot in the ‘Monday newbie showcase’, and it’d be cool if the room were more than a quarter full. Honestly, people. You wouldn’t expect Garrison to play to an empty room, would you? I need a crowd in the room for the ‘Lake Weewee-Gone Days’ stuff to work. So come on down!
Permalink | 3 CommentsHaving TiVo is weird sometimes.
I was watching TV this morning, while reading email on the couch. It’s kind of a routine for me — basically, I’m practicing for my next unemployed stint. I figure that’s where I’ll spend ninety percent of my time, so I’d better get used to it now. I’m even working on building up my collection of burrito-stained wifebeaters to wear. It’s gonna rawk. Really.
Anyway, that’s not the point. Here’s the point — I was watching TV earlier. Then, I went upstairs to take a shower. When I went up, I left the TV on ESPN. SportsCenter was on, and would be for the next four hours.
(If you’re not familiar with the phenomenon, SportsCenter comes on at, like, six or seven in the morning, some ridiculous shit like that. It’s an hour-long show, but there really aren’t any sporting tidbits to speak of that happen before one or two in the afternoon, so they just loop the show over and over, all the way through lunch.
For us sports fans, it’s an oddly comforting — if repetitive — way to start the day. Plus, you can tell time by how many times you’ve seen the same highlight. It’s cool.)
So, when I left to wash up, it was Linda Cohn and Stuart Scott trading highlights and witticisms. Business as usual.
Well, you can imagine my surprise when I came walking down the stairs after my shower, and heard a guy barking:
‘That’s it! Lift that leg, right over your head! And two! And three! Sweat it out! Feel that buuuuuuurn!‘
Um… Stu? Is that you, dog?
It took me a while to figure out that the TiVo had pulled a little switcheroo while I was lathering up, and flipped over to some aerobics show that my wife wants taped.
(Well, she programmed the things in there, anyway. Of course, I don’t mind having them taped. Nothing like a little soft-core porn on the ‘Now Showing’ list, eh, gents?)
Anyway, it took me a few seconds to figure out what had happened. And it’s going to take a while — longer than a few minutes, apparently — to get the image of Linda Cohn in her sportscasting suit, gyrating and flailing on the floor of the SportsCenter set. I don’t even know whether I’m turned on or disturbed — I just can’t shake the picture.
Hey, at least now they know something to try during the fall sweeps, eh? Feel the burn! Booyah!
Permalink | 1 CommentYou know, sometimes I worry about people’s sense of priorities. I’ll give you an example.
I installed an air conditioner in our bedroom over the weekend. As I was flipping through the instruction manual, laughing and snorting at the way you’re ‘supposed‘ to do it — yeah, ‘screwdriver‘… riiiiiiiight — when I came across the following warning about the power cord:
‘Improper use may result in death, fire, or electric shock.‘
Really? Death. Fire. And electric shock. In that order? Because that really steals the thunder away from a horrible, painful electocution, don’t you think?
I mean, sure, normally the prospect of having six million volts of hot blue love shooting up my fingers and out my ass would be… well, unsettling, at least. Frightening, even. I can envision some pants-wetting happening there, just at the thought of it.
But really, now — after you’ve hit me with ‘death‘ and ‘fire‘? Dude. Bring that ‘shock‘ bullshit on. I don’t care — me and my smoldering, charred corpse could give a shit about ‘electric shock‘. Clearly, if you want me to worry about ‘electric shock‘, you should be putting that shit at the beginning of the list, not at the end, after the lethal stuff. That’s just foolish.
See, I think it ought to be ‘electric shock‘ first, then ‘fire‘, and finally ‘death‘. Right? Build that shit up — everybody knows a good electical hazard warning has to have some suspense. You wanna be sitting there, thinking:
‘Damn… ‘electric shock’? Shit, that would hurt — ain’t no way I need my undies melted to my ass. Still, if that’s the worst that —
Whoa. ‘Fire’?! Like, the whole house could go up in flames, just because I want the bedroom a little cooler? Holy shit. Yeah, but I got insurance. And I’d probably make it out in time. I could just —
Whaaaaa? ‘Death’?!? Goddamn, these people are serious! Why the hell would they sell me an air conditioner with some sort of death-dealing homocidal cord attached to it? I’m just trying to stay cool and keep my ass sweat-free — I’m not signing a goddamned suicide pact. Screw this — I’ll buy a fan. Shit.‘
Okay. Maybe that’s a little much. But you get the idea. Priorities. Suspense. Build it. Honestly, you don’t go out on a date and tell a woman:
‘Hi there! I’ve got one enormous penis! And I’m loaded! Oh, and hey, your hair looks nice, too.‘
See? It just doesn’t look right. You save the big guns till the last. And then, if you don’t need ’em, you save ’em for a rainy day. It’s simple. First, the ‘nice hair’. Then, if you need it, the gobs of money. And then — and only then — do you bring in the huge honking trouser Howitzer. And if you’re already ‘in’, then you save that for a rainy day. Or a moonlit night. Or a drive-in movie. You get the idea.
Anyway, where the hell was I?
Eh. Screw it. In other news, Scrubs is on. I’ve tried to watch Scrubs before — I feel like I should like it, after all — but you know, I just can’t get into it. It’s too silly, or snarky, or something. We just don’t click.
But damn. I mean, DAMN. Christa Miller and Heather Graham? Holy Christ, people. Are the producers sleeping under my damned bed, jotting down the names I moan in my sleep, or what? Shit.
(Just kidding, honey. I only have the dreamy-time eyes for you. Kisses, now!)
Anyway, we should find out in a couple of weeks whether those fuckers really are spying on me and putting hotties on the show just to get me to watch. ‘Cause if they are, we’ll all be treated to a guest spot from Allyson Hannigan wearing a bubble wrap bikini and toying around with the defibrillation paddles. Ooh. Baby.
I’ll tune in if you will. Just don’t tell my wife. Shhhhh.
Permalink | 2 CommentsYou know, sometimes it’s the quality, not the quantity, that matters.
Today at lunch, I was feeling pretty quiet. I ate with some friends at work, but mostly just listened to the conversations they were having. In fact, I only chimed in with three comments the entire time. And these were they:
‘It looks like some sort of modified Cabbage Patch.‘
‘Well, by all means, whatever that is, yes, please get up and do it on the table.‘
‘I think anything with ‘shuttlecock’ in it qualifies as poetry, right?‘
Yes, folks, that’s why I make the big bucks, and why the chicks all dig me.
I’m never getting asked back to lunch again, am I? Damn.
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