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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
You know, there are times when I think I could make it in Hollywood, if I ever decided to put my mind to it and give it the old college try.
Of course, there are also times when I think that a lobotomized orangutan with bad hair and a deviated septum could make it in Hollywood, if it could memorize a couple of lines and manage to keep from farting while on camera. Then again, this post isn’t really about Fran Drescher, so I’m not sure why I brought that up.
(Oh, I kid. I kid. I don’t think she’s an orangutan. Really. More of a gibbon. Spider monkey, maybe. Too small to be an orangutan, though. I was just joshing.)
Anyway, I’m not particularly interested in making it in Hollywood in front of the cameras, anyway. I don’t seem to be all that invested in ‘making it’ at all — which is sort of the point, I suppose. But if I ever did decide to concoct a dream and follow it, it would probably be doing comedy in seedy clubs, or writing comedy for wigged-out sitcoms, or fetching donuts for the Simpsons cast members during shoots. Something glamorous like that.
But back to the writing for a second — now, I honestly believe that there are some bright, talented writers working in the TV and film industries. I do. I’m not sure where the hell they’ve all gone, but I believe they’re out there. Somewhere. Probably working on the next Viagra commercial, or figuring out new and innovative ways to peddle Tampax. The truth is, mainstream entertainment is pretty much going down the crapper lately. Or always was in the crapper, and I’ve only recently noticed the crapperiness. Eight of one, half dozen the other. It doesn’t really matter.
Now, normally, I’d blame the ‘reality’ shows (and movies) that are all the rage with the kids these days. I can see the draw for the production execs — these shows not only ‘pretty much write themselves’; they actually do write themselves. No plot progression or premise-setup-joke structure to worry about — just throw a gaggle of boobs in a house, or onstage, or in a pit of rabid alligators, and let nature take its course. Hell, you don’t even have to pay them — they’re not real actors. Or real people. Many of them are just real stupid. Hyuk.
Of course, the most depressing thing about reality shows is that there’s nowhere left to turn — there’s no bastion of decent, well-planned and professionally-produced entertainment left for us to watch. It’s no surprise that the conglomo-networks have jumped the bandwagon, of course — Fear Factor, American Idol, Big Brother, Survivor… all of these and more are raking in the dough for the Big Four networks, and cost pennies to make.
And maybe that’s why other, usually more cerebral stations have hopped on board, too — PBS has got people living like it’s 1900 (except for the ever-present cameras), and another group of jokers stuck in a reconstructed colonial American village. A&E — long the purveyor of stark dramas and gritty documentaries — is in the act with Airline, following SouthWest Airlines employees around LAX and calling it entertainment. As if we want to relive the time our luggage landed six hundred miles away from the plane we were on during vacation. Thanks — thanks so much. Assbags. Hell, even ESPN is doing it — they recently hired a new news anchor based on a popular vote during an on-air popularity contest disguised as a job interview. Or was it a job interview disguised as a reality show? A cattle call disguised as entertainment? I dunno — maybe we’d see more on the slo-mo replay. Cue the clip, Bob.
Anyway, none of that is really the point. As usual. Just at the moment, it’s not the reality shows that I’m railing against. As far as I’m concerned, they’re a lost cause — the fad will eventually pass (can you say ‘Real World XII‘? How about ‘Average Joe 6‘? I didn’t think so, and neither can I — there is a light at the end of this tunnel, dammit), and Hollywood will have to again hire real actors, and write actual scripts, with bona fide, meaningful plots. And that’s where I get worried, people.
See, the problem is that there are less and less people out there doing this sort of work now. Basically, most of the writers scattered to the winds, and the only people left are doing cop shows and animated programs. That’s it. You’ve got the FOX cartoons — Simpsons, King of the Hill, etc., and then the CSI franchise and the seventy-three versions of Law & Order, and the rest of primetime TV is a wasteland of elimination rounds and 60 Minutes ripoffs.
Not that I’m complaining about the cartoon and cop shows — they’re some of my favorites. I can’t wait for even more spinoffs, like CSI:Motown and Law & Order: Litterbug Patrol and Apu Loves Chachi. But I worry that there’s just nobody else anywhere keeping in practice for when we’ll need ’em again to write good material. Soon, we’ll lag behind Bollywood in the area of quality writing; Europe will be snickering into their sleeves over our flicks, too. Already, the cracks are beginning to show. I’ll give you an example.
I got up this morning and turned on the tube, hoping for a quick fix before work. Eventually, I flicked past USA, which has never really been known as the voice of quality entertainment. Still, I never thought they’d stoop as low as what I saw on the screen. Hell, I never imagined anyone would sink so far. Here’s the description of the movie that was on, pulled right off the TiVo guide:
Octopus – A giant octopus, mutated from years of radiation exposure, attacks a Navy submarine transporting a terrorist captured by a CIA agent.
Now, I ask you, people — what kind of ludicrous, half-baked bullshit is that? Who would make a movie like that? How do you go through weeks or months of filming, and all the time, and the expense, to make a film where even the description is lousy? I’m all for suspending belief, but holy Christ on a Triscuit — where the hell would an octopus get mutated? And who transports captured terrorists on a submarine? And why is the Navy helping the CIA? And what… what? Why? Who the hell? Huh?
See, this is what I’m talking about. This movie came out in 1999, just as the ‘reality craze’ was hitting full stride. Obviously, the writers were already out of practice. Or they were crazed, lobotomized orangutans themselves; I honestly don’t know. But it seems that someone was desperate to make a movie that had nothing to do with reality shows, and this was the claptrap they came up with. The future does not bode well, folks. Not with shit like ‘Octopus‘ hanging over our heads.
But that’s not the worst of it. Uh-uh. Sadly, no.
It was bad enough that this train wreck of a movie ever saw the light of day. And frankly, I might be willing to give the people involved a pass on this one — maybe they were ‘pushing the envelope’ somehow, and just shoved in the wrong direction. Or maybe they made the movie on a bet, or to get back at the octopus that killed their father, something ridiculous like that. Fine. Bad movies happen; you live and learn.
But — and this is an enormous, Al Roker-sized but — you do not, repeat, do NOT, take an asinine clunky stinker of a movie, and make a damned sequel for it. Do. Not.
And yet, they did. And USA picked it up, and aired it just after the original, presumably as part of a plot to make the entire viewing audience faint at the sheer crapulence of it all. I didn’t stay for the festivities myself, but I did take a ‘sneak peek’ at the description of the sequel that just had to be made — because we can never have too many movies about killer invertebrate sea creatures, of course:
Octupus 2: River of Fear – After a giant octopus kills his partner, a scuba diver searches for the monster, as it terrorizes New York.
Frankly, I don’t know whether that’s better or worse. I know it’s not good, but at that level of outlandish boobery, it’s hard to make gradations fine enough to separate the frothingly stupid from the merely droolingly stupid. Weep, dear readers — weep for our brains. This, it seems, is the future of entertainment. And it makes Ernest Goes to Camp look like frigging Kubrick. Keep weeping.
Maybe there’s hope — I dunno. Maybe this reality thing will blow over, and the writers will come back, and we’ll have some real shows and movies again soon. But I’m not holding my breath. I’m afraid it’s gonna get more Octopus-y before it gets better. Let’s bring on Law & Order: Mail Fraud Squad and ride this thing out. Mutated octopus, indeed.
Permalink | 2 CommentsIn two weeks, my wife starts law school.
Four years after that, she’ll finish up — and we might actually see each other for dinner again.
She’ll be in class three nights a week, getting her home around ten o’clock at night. By day, she’ll continue to work at the law firm she’s been at for the past couple of years… and which keeps her until nine or ten o’clock a couple of days a week already. That’s crazy.
I told her, ‘You’re crazy.‘
She said, ‘Yeah. But I can manage it.‘
I said, ‘But it’s nuts. Why go through that?‘
She said, ‘Well, it’ll help my career.‘
I said, ‘Career, schmareer. When’re you gonna sleep?‘
She said, ‘I’ll get sleep. It’ll be okay.‘
I said, ‘Well, I think it’s a bad idea. I might just have to put my foot down.‘
She said, ‘Yeah, right. That’s ever worked. By the way, did I mention that I can pretty much double my salary when I get out?‘
I said, ‘Hmmm. Double, eh? Wanna borrow my lucky Trapper Keeper to keep your homework in?‘
Okay, so it didn’t really go down like that, exactly. But it’s fair to say that there is a silver lining involved. Maybe when she gets out, I’ll be able to retire early — I’ve always thought I’d like to be a ‘kept man’. Nothing wrong with having a ‘sugar mommy’ around, eh?
In the meantime, I guess we’re just gonna work our damned tails off. I honestly don’t know how she’s gonna do it. She works harder than me already — sure, I get home late, and work on weekends sometimes, and well into the wee hours during crunch times… but I also go in around ten or eleven in the morning. I put in my time, and a fair amount of the next guy’s, but my alarm clock is collecting dust in a closet somewhere. I’ll take that trade, thank you very much.
The wife, though — she’s just loopy. Five in the morning, she gets up. Five! I didn’t even know they made a five o’clock in the morning. I pretty much thought the world shuttered up around two or three, soon after I go to bed, and then picked up at seven or eight the next morning, or whenever the schools open up for business. Gotta have those schools. Stay in school, kids. Suckers.
Anyway, she’s a machine. And more power to her. I don’t mind coming up with dinners for the next couple of years to help her out. Sure, that’s a helluva lot of pepperoni pizzas… but we’re worth it.
Of course, on the other hand, once she gets out of law school, I’ll never have any damned chance of winning an argument around the house again. Not that we have any arguments, really… or that I’ve ever won any of the few misunderstandings we’ve ever had. But now — now I’m guaranteed to lose. Harrumph.
Maybe I’ll have to rethink this whole ‘wholehearted support’ thing. I wonder whether it’s too late to get my Trapper Keeper back. I’d better try and talk her out of using it now, while I still have a chance. If she gets that thing into law school, it’ll take a debate team, a court order, and a fifth of tequila to get it back. I don’t like my odds.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI ran out of deodorant in the medicine cabinet today.
So, I trotted off to the ‘supply closet’ to find a fresh stick. And — thank you for your concern — I found one. Two, in fact.
Problem is, they’re a different brand than what I’ve been using. Now, that’s no big deal, really — I don’t care much what I apply under my pits in the morning. Sure, Right Guard, Speed Stick, Crisco — it’s all good.
But it seems that Mennen — my new brand, apparently — is doing some ‘creative marketing’ these days. Both the sticks I found in the closet are from the ‘Power of Nature’ series. I could choose from ‘Cyclone’ or ‘Avalanche’. Mmm. Tasty.
Is it just me, though, or does it seem like a bad idea to name your antiperspirant flavors after the sorts of things that would make you shit your pants in terror? Christ, if I’m caught in an avalanche, I’m gonna be sweating — and there’s no ‘personal care’ product that’s gonna do anything about it. I’m not even worrying about the state of my perspiratories in that situation; if I get out of an avalanche with clean undies, I’ll count it as a success. So why plaster ‘Avalanche’ on your deodorant?
Seriously, what kind of shit are these people smoking? Even the ‘Power of Nature’ thing is a crappy idea. Think about it. Once you get past the flower section, there is really nothing in nature that smells good at all. If you lumped all the odors in nature together into one combined smell — you know, like when you drew in one spot with all your Crayolas, and got that weird shitty brown-gray mess — I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t be pleasant. The only ‘powerful’ thing about all of nature together would be the funk. And not in the good way, either.
I’m trying to figure out what else is in this series, too. Cyclone and avalanche — where the hell do you go from there? Monsoon? Tidal wave? None of these things smell good — and again, they’re all pants-crap-inducing, to some degree or other. What’s next for these assmunchers? ‘Lightning Strike to the Crotch’? ‘Plague of Toads’? ‘Mob Hit’? Bah.
Anyway, long story ever-so-slightly-less-long, I picked ‘Avalanche’. It smells like Old Spice diluted with Pledge. Screw this. I’m goin’ back to wiping my wife’s ‘freesia and cinnamon’ hand lotion crap under my arms in the morning. That’s some nasty-smelling goop, too — and it makes my shirts all slickery — but at least it doesn’t make me fear for my life in some freakish ‘act of god’ weather-related disaster. That’s just the sort of shit I don’t need to think about at nine o’clock in the morning. Word.
Permalink | 4 CommentsWell, here’s something that might keep us all amused on a Monday evening.
Or maybe it’ll be the last straw that finally pushes one of you over the edge to call the men in the little white coats on me. Whatever. Either way, this Monday needs a boost. So let’s dance.
It’s a little game I’ve been thinking about — more of an exercise, really. You know the old cliche where some macho pimpster type says:
‘I like my wine like I like my women‘
And then he follows it up with some witty gem like:
‘French, sweet, and after dinner‘
or
‘Cool, wet, and on the dining room table‘
or even
‘Cheap, vinegary, and straight from the box‘
(Okay, that last one’s a little disturbing. I’ll admit that. It happens. You take an old joke, stretch it out too far, and it turns into something scary and ugly. It’s sort of like nipples that way. I apologize.)
(And… um, I apologize for that ‘nipple’ thing, too. That might be worse than the first thing. I think I’ll move on now.)
So, anyway, I got to thinking — why should these assbags have all the fun? There are plenty of other things in the world besides wine and women, right?
(Okay, okay — nothing better, maybe. Depending on your point of view, and priorities, and, I dunno, whether you’re descended from Henry VIII, perhaps. But still — there are other things. Follow me, here.)
Anyway, I figure, there’s a whole world of things out there to compare to other things, when we’re looking for a colorful analogy. But we’re really only used to this wine-women juxtaposition thingy, so maybe we need a little practice. And that’s where the exercise comes in.
Here’s the idea — I thought I’d come up with a topic, something random and crazy, just the first thing off the top of my head, and then see what I could compare to it. You know, as practice. So, I tried to think of something appropriate. Something clever, and witty, and flexible enough to get a ton of mileage from. Something classier than the original, and deeper. Something thinkier.
But then, of course, I gave all that up. You gotta do what you’re best at, after all. So, I settled on my wife farting.
(Now, I’m not saying that my wife actually does pass gas. I’m not saying that in public, anyway. I am way too comfortable with my testicles where they’re currently located — as opposed to, say, shoved up my nostrils — to come out and say that.
But give me a call one day, and I’ll fill you in. Yow. Just be sure to call me at work — I can talk there.)
Anyway, wife farts. Spouse sputters. Pookie bear pooties. Whatever you want to call them, that’s the challenge — what out there, in this big world of ours, is a lot like my wife floating air biscuits? Well… let’s see:
‘Getting hit by lightning is a lot like my wife farting — you never even know it’s happened until you’re lying on the floor, gasping for air and wondering whether you still have eyebrows.‘
Hmmm. Let’s try again. How about:
‘Bow hunting is a lot like my wife farting — it’s quiet, but with good enough aim, you can bring down a moose at a hundred paces.‘
Okay, I’m not sure how well this is going. What’s next?:
‘Seeing London was a lot like my wife’s farts — sort of foggy and moist, and with a faint smell of kippers.‘
All right, that’s probably enough. I swear to god, it sounded like a good idea an hour ago. But a lightning strike, a hunting trip, and a vacation overseas later, and I’m not so sure any more. I think I’ll just go to bed now — my work is done here, anyway. Now I’ve got all of you thinking, ‘Hey, I wonder what my farts could be like?‘ And that’s a beautiful thing.
Yeah, yeah, I know. Just have the guys in the white coats wait until morning to pick me up, okay? I’ll be more in the mood for the loony bin after a good night’s rest. Later, all.
Permalink | 7 CommentsSo, I was just flipping channels over to ESPN, waiting for Baseball Tonight to start, and I accidentally caught quite the spectacle, just before my show came on. And I have to admit, I also got a bit of a surprise.
Apparently, there’s a professional fishing organization out there somewhere. I’m not sure where they’re headquartered, exactly, but if I had to venture a guess, I’d say it’s somewhere in the southeastern US. That seems to be where a lot of the ‘standing around on a rickety boat getting drunk’ takes place. I mean, ‘fishing. Where the fishing takes place. Anyway, that’s not the surprise.
(After all, plenty of other ‘fat old guy sports’ have pro leagues, too — bowling, golf, even eating. Look for the North American Professional Farters League, coming soon to a nostril near you.)
Anyway, this league thingy is called ‘BassMasters’ — again, I’m no expert, but I’d wager that they’re probably out there fishing for bass, in between the Bud-guzzling and crotch-scratching. And that choice of species isn’t terribly shocking, I suppose. I don’t know much about fishing, certainly, but one of the first fishy types that comes to my mind — which usually only happens when I’m looking at a menu — is bass. I might raise an eyebrow if there was a professional carp fishing league, or pros out there angling for angelfish, or mermaids, or sea monkeys, or some shit like that, but not bass, particularly. So that’s not the surprise, either.
After watching for a couple of minutes, it was clear that I’d stumbled into some sort of ceremony being performed by this strange tribe. Apparently, this weekend marked the annual ‘BassMasters Classic’ event, where many of their bravest, um… ‘warriors‘ battle with fish to decide who among them gets to…uh, sit in this boat that they have onstage. I guess this was their ‘Super Bowl of Slimy Bass’, if you will. The ‘Grand Slam of Gills’, perhaps. Would you believe the ‘Tour de Fish’? It was all a bit surreal, actually. But not terribly unexpected. What’s the point of having a pro tour if you don’t have a championship, right? So that wasn’t the surprise.
As I sat, transfixed by the oddly redneck pomp, I saw more of the spectacle. The contestants pulled out their stinky bags of fish, flopped those scaly monsters into clear plastic boxes, and weighed them out. Meanwhile, a silver-tongued rascal of an emcee rallied the fishermen, and the crowd, and the fans at home to cheer and hoot and scream. At one point, I think he tried to get the fish to do ‘the wave’. Clearly, he’s an excitable fellow. Again, not surprising. Many fishermen are loud, unstable, belchy sorts — if my uncles and grandfather are any indication, anyway. Let’s move on.
So, finally, they reached the end — the fishies were measured, the scores were updated, and the totals were tallied. A few shoes had to be removed, of course, so there would be enough toes available to finish the ciphering. But in the end, I think they got it right, and crowned their new king. And that’s the surprising thing, finally.
You see, I was not expecting the winner to pull it off and take the title. Why? Was it because the ‘bass handicappers’ — if such beasties exist — told us he was an underdog? No. Was it because he didn’t have the ‘look’ of a champion? No — all of the people involved in this shindig were in long shorts, logo shirts, trucker hats, and six layers of bass spoo. This guy was as ‘championy’ as any of the others, given the circumstances. No, it wasn’t any of that. It was his name.
Now, tell me this, before I give away the ending — what would you expect the first name of a ‘bass fishing champion’ to be? Me, I’d have guessed ‘Bubba’. Or maybe ‘Lunkhead’. Or ‘Skeeter’, or ‘Jeb’, or even ‘Bertha Sue’. But today’s champion has none of those names. Not even close. No, sir — today, after three full days of fish-fiddling foolishness, the 2004 BassMaster Classic champion was crowned, and his friends call him: Takahiro.
And that, I didn’t expect.
But I have to say, I like it. Takahiro Omori, that soon-to-be-famous (if he isn’t already) Japanese angler, fish-slapped all those good ole boys down south, and took home the grand poobah of the putt-putt boat world. That’s gotta sting some people like a hook in the gullet. And tough noogies to them.
Welcome again, folks, to the level global playing field. Let’s all repeat the mantra: ‘Anybody, from anywhere, can do anything, anytime.‘ We invented baseball in the US, and now Japan often kicks our ass in Little League matchups. The Scots come up with golf, and an American — with African and Asian roots — wiped his spikes with the rest of the field for a few years. Now, a guy from Fiji has taken over. Kenyans regularly win the races that take their name from a legendary town in Greece, an American has won the biggest bicycle race in France every time this millennium, and a skinny little kid from Japan regularly schools Americans in the one sport where you’d think we’d own the world — eating.
And now, there’s a Takahiro at the top of the bass heap. Kudos to you, Tak. Enjoy your time in the sun. And maybe next year, they’ll crown a ‘Miguel’, or a ‘Dat’, or a ‘Tariq’. Or hell, even a ‘Zeke’, as usual. Anybody’s good. Just so long as everyone remembers — it could be anybody. Anybody at all.
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