About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Boy, those Red Sox and Yankees just don’t like each other, do they?
For you baseball fans who know what happened in a classic of a game last night, I was right there, at Fenway Park, to watch it all. Jealous much?
For the rest of you, here’s what happened in a nutshell (because a nutshell version is probably all that you non-baseball fans will tolerate):
The game started fifty minutes late, due to rain earlier in the day. That’s nearly an extra hour of drinking, folks. Bottoms up.
In the third inning of a close game, Red Sox pitcher Bronson Arroyo hit Alex Rodriguez — yes, that ‘ARod’; you’ve heard of him — in the back with a fastball. ARod didn’t like that much. Here’s a partial transcript of what happened next, based on what I could lip-read from the highlights later:
Rodriguez (to Arroyo): [ garbled garbled unreadable ] mother fucker! Fuck you.
Arroyo (off-camera, to Rodriguez): [ something very likely to be ‘No. Fuck you!’ ]
Rodriguez (to Arroyo): Fuck you! Fuck you!
Arroyo (still off-camera, still fifty feet away from ARod, and still forty pounds skinnier than ARod): [ probably something rude, spouted while backing up a step ]
Rodriguez (to Sox catcher Jason Varitek, who’s now trying to restrain him, and who outweighs ARod by a few dozen cheeseburgers): Yeah? Well, come on! [ Glrppfffhhh! ]
That last bit was sort of hard to read, but I imagine that’s the sort of thing one says when one has a catcher’s fist up one’s nose. From there, the benches cleared, punches were thrown, blood was spilled (literally, but just a little, from Yankee starting pitcher’s Tanyon Sturtze’s ear), and many, many more F-bombs were dropped. It was everything you’d want in a brawl, short of roly-poly Don Zimmer cartwheeling across the field.
(But we did that last year already. So there was no need.)
But that wasn’t the real highlight of the game. A highlight, to be sure, but not the highlight. For the moment, the umps threw out Varitek and Rodriguez, among others, and play resumed.
A couple of innings later, the Yankees erupted, unleashing six runs on the Sox. At the time, it was 9-4 Yanks, and the mood at Fenway was grim.
But the Sox came back with four of their own in the bottom of the inning, to narrow the gap to 9-8. The Yankees added one more along the way, and by the time we rolled into a beer-soaked bottom of the ninth, it was 10-8, and the Sox were facing Mariano Rivera, one of the best closers in the game.
And that’s where the real highlights came. Nomar Garciaparra doubled, and Kevin Millar singled — his fourth hit of the game — to drive him home. In between, Trot Nixon ass-smacked a ball nearly to the wall in right field — it would’ve been game-tying shot, but it was caught on the warning track. That just made it all the sweeter when Bill Mueller stepped to the plate, with the Sox down a run and Millar still on first, and walloped a ball in exactly the same direction, but thirty feet further, and over the wall for the walk-off win.
Now obviously, the fans in Fenway went nuts. I’m not sure I’ve been in a crowd that large and that crazy-happy before. And that’s certainly the best baseball game I’ve ever seen in person. If they were all that exciting, then the rest of you would be baseball fans, too. If only you knew what you’re missing.
Of course, even after all the late-July fireworks, the Sox are still eight and a half games out of the division lead, behind those damned — but vanquished, at least for a night — New York Yankees. Still, if Boston can keep some momentum, grab the wild card spot, and win their first playoff series… then we might have another veeeery interesting October.
(Probably with the same damned result, with the Sox going home without a World Series trip, but still — it’s a chance for another chapter to the story. And a chance to piss Alex Rodriguez off again. Who wouldn’t jump at that?)
Permalink | 2 CommentsSo, I’ve been working on something the past few days. Under the radar, as it were. On the QT. In secret. Down my pants.
Okay, okay — not that last thing. I was just saying.
Anyway, I’ve had a new feature in the works for a while — nothing spectacular, but it makes me giggle.
Here’s the thing — you know how otherwise uncool people put quotes on their blogs, to show how cool that cool people think their sites are? Yeah, well, I’m not doin’ that. Not exactly. Not with real people, anyway.
See, I’m not gonna pay, or lick, or otherwise cajole people to say nice things about this site. On the other hand, I do like to pretend that others are actually reading — and commenting about — my little baby here. So, I’m going to do what any red-blooded American guy would do — I’m gonna cheat. Cheat, cheat, cheat, then lie, then cheat some more. And then deny it all, and run for office. It’s the American way, don’t you know.
But first things first — and first is the cheating, so that’s what I’m gonna get down to right now. If I can’t get people to really say things about my site, then I’m gonna pretend that people are talking about me. And specifically, not just people — but the people. That’s right — the Simpsons.
So, from now on, whenever you come to the site, or even reload the page, you’ll see a new quote, straight from the Simpsons, that’s ostensibly about this site, or about me. Not actually about me, of course, and certainly not about my site, but ‘ostensibly’. And that’s what’s important. When you’re cheating, at least. Like me.
Anyway, look out for those quotes — I’ve been watching Simpsons episodes veeeeeery closely for the past couple of weeks, and I’ve culled a couple of quotes out of each. They’re not about me, naturally… but they could be. And who better to comment on this particular brand of boobery than a bunch of fictional animated screwballs, eh?
So, check it out. Maybe you’ll find your favorite quote up there, atop the recent posts. They’re all here, from ‘Hey! You’re not John Ritter!‘ to ‘You can cram it with walnuts, ugly!‘ And if you don’t see one you recognize, then just wait a couple of weeks. I’m watching the damned shows as fast as I can, you know. Be patient — or get busy cramming those walnuts yourself, there, Sparky. I’m a-gettin’ to it. Keep your pants on.
Permalink | 1 CommentHave you ever been involved in one of those ‘personal touch’ customer service gimmicks that backfires horribly? I run up against the same one over and over again, once a week or more. And you know — even after months of this nonsense, I still haven’t set these people straight. And yet, I keep coming back. The dance of the dingleberries goes on.
This particular slice of eye-rolliness comes courtesy of one of our (many) local fast-food Chinese restaurants. For their food, they can’t be beat in the same price range. As delivery time goes, they’re phenomenal. Dominos Pizza got nothing on these folks. But the problem — the annoying, brow-furrowing issue with this establishment — is the phone call.
Now, first of all, let me clear something up — I’m not going to complain about not being able to understand the person on the other end of the line. For one thing, that’s rude. They’re just doing their job; who am I to poke fun at them? For another, it’s not very PC. Tsk.
Mostly, though, it’s just not relevant. Can I understand the guy answering the phone? Not particularly. But I catch at least as much of the conversation as I do when I call other Asian joints, or try ordering at the drive-through at one of the local burger shacks. I’ll take an unfamiliar accent to the crazed ramblings of a pimply sixteen-year-old IM phreak any day. And super-size on Sundays.
So, it’s not that. Instead, it’s their customer database. They’ve got one of those fancy dealies that links phone numbers up to addresses. And names, too — that’s where the problem comes in. See, they’re trying to make ordering more convenient — pick the phone number off the caller ID, link it up to the address, and then all they have to ask is ‘Whaddaya you want?‘ Great. On paper.
The problem is, they have to set the number up. And, like most places, they want to stand apart, to provide service with a ‘personal touch’. So, the first time we called, they asked for my address — which they got right — and my name… which they didn’t. So now, when I’ve got a hankering for some fried rice or wonton soup, I don’t have to tell anyone the delivery address. But I do have to put up with this:
‘Hello… oh, hello, Jeremy! How are you tonight, Jeremy? What would you like, Jeremy? Want to start with the eggrolls… Jeremy?‘
*sigh*
So now, I’m Jeremy. I could probably clear the whole thing up, but that would take a half an hour and several thousand brain cells that I simply can’t spare. And so, as I said, the conga of the cluetards marches on. You can call me Jeremy. I’ll be your partner for this dance. Let’s tango.
Permalink | 4 CommentsSo, you remember yesterday, when I was talking about baseball? Well, I almost didn’t. In the end, I decided to go with my original plan, but I almost told you about how I was being held hostage, that very morning, in my own house. By two women. I barely had time to find pants.
Yeah, maybe I should tell you about that now. Just sos you don’t get the wrong idea. I’ve dug a bit of a hole already.
So, yesterday morning started like any other summer morning in Chez Charlie. I woke up around eight o’clock, sweaty and drooly and droopy-eyed. The wife had been gone for more than an hour by then; as usual, I had a vague recollection of her coming back to the bedroom to say goodbye and give me a kiss on her way out.
(I think she likes to watch me sleeping before she wakes me up — lately, I’ve had way too many mornings where I wake up with her smirking at me from a couple of feet away. She’s a beautiful girl and all, but waking up to a nose — anyone’s nose — taking up three-quarters of your field of vision is no damned picnic.
I think I’m gonna have to put the kibosh on this little game. Maybe I’ll pretend to be asleep some morning, and give her the old, ‘Yeehaaahhaarrrgghhaah!!!‘ when she stops by to snicker at me. Of course, I’d better be sure what she’s planning. Otherwise, she might never kiss me again on the way out the door. Or ever.)
Anyway, I got up around eight. Now, our bedroom is on the upper floor of the house. For a few months, my routine was to ooooze my way into the office, just across from the bedroom, to check a few box scores, maybe whip up an entry, that sort of thing. I like waking up with a bit of mental gymnastics — you know, before I get all naked and ridiculous-looking in the shower.
The problem is, the computer in the office is on the fritz. It looks like a need a new hard drive.
(Which, coincidentally, is exactly the same thing I often think while I’m in the shower. But that’s probably not important right now.)
So, I decided to venture downstairs, to use the laptop in the living room. That was the plan, anyway — quick trip downstairs to check some scores, then upstairs for a quick shower and off to work like a good little boy. Yes, that was the plan. Definitely.
A half an hour later, I was still sitting on the living room couch, wearing my boxers and a T-shirt, surfing the web, halfway through watching a TiVoed episode of Home Movies while munching on a granola bar. The plan be damned, I was careening down the path towards ‘in for the long haul’.
(Look, it was a Monday morning. I was sleepy. Don’t judge me, dammit, until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes!
Or, um, slept a mile in my boxers. Or eaten a mile of my granola. Or something. Something that sounds less vaguely filthy, preferably. I think we’d all appreciate that. For once.)
In any case, you can imagine my shock and surprise when I heard two women’s voices outside the living room window, and footsteps on the steps leading up to the porch. We don’t get many visitors around here, really, and certainly not many unannounced visitors before nine in the morning. None that want to live, anyway. I’m a big softy of a drunk, folks, but I am one grouchy son of a bitch right out of bed. I should probably hang a warning sign on the door.
Unfortunately, just as I was frenzying myself into ‘fight or flight’ mode — or in this case, ‘scream at the top of my lungs or hide like a little baby’ — I remembered something. My wife decided to hire a cleaner to come in once a month, because she’s going to by busy with work and night school soon, and… well, because I’m helpless around certain household devices, and generally wreak more havoc than I undo. I’m okay with a vacuum cleaner, and I can wield a toilet brush without too much collateral damage, but the most useful thing I can do with a feather duster is traumatize the dog in fun and creative ways. And sponges? Um, don’t ask. Let’s just say that you’d be surprised what sorts of liquids those things absorb. I sure was. Eep.
All right. Where was I? Oh, the cleaners. Okay, then.
So, I realized that these women were here to pick up the place. But that it probably didn’t also involve getting me showered up and brushing my widdle toofers. In the meantime, I was outerpantsless, and I wasn’t about to let them walk in with Mr. Pookie Bear poking out the peekyhole of my boxers. My solution was to leap off the couch, crack the front door a hair, and call out, ‘Just a minute, please! Just one second!‘
Suave, it was not. But it worked, more or less. I scampered upstairs, grabbed a pair of shorts, and yanked ’em on. And if I had to act that fast, that early in the morning, I was lucky I didn’t trip down the stairs and pants myself with the bannister. All in all, I’d say it was a success.
Problem was, then I was stuck. Half-dressed, stinky, and unwashed, and with two strange women running in and out of the bathroom, and every other room in the house.
There was a time, of course, when such a thing would get my whistle all wet and woolly — it’s a very ‘Penthouse Letters’ moment, if you think about it. Now, a dozen or so years later, I was just worried that they’d catch me scratching my ass on the couch or something. The times, they are a-changin’. So, I hid on the porch.
Seriously, that’s where I went. For an hour and a half, I sat on the porch, outside, with the laptop. I posted, I surfed — I even got a little bit of real work done. I finally came back inside, decided (properly, as it turns out) that they were done with the bedroom, and I barricaded myself up in there, again with the only working computer. Soon enough, they wrapped up and left. And I could get on with my day, after having funked up the couch, the porch, and the bed.
(Actually, it was probably technically re-funking the bed, since that’s where my funky self had originally come from. Still — I’m sure I didn’t help any.)
Anyway, that’s the story. I’m not sure what you should make of all that, really. If nothing else, maybe you can treat these as ‘extenuating circumstances’, if you didn’t like yesterday’s post. I mean, I was being held hostage at the time I wrote it. Sort of. By two women. In my own house. That’s gotta be worth something, dunnit?
Permalink | 4 CommentsYou know, they say that it takes two weeks to break a bad habit. If you can ‘correct’ your behavior for a mere fourteen days or so, the pattern is broken, and you’ll be free from whatever it is that ails you.
Perhaps it’s only coincidence, but I’m reminded at this point that I went on vacation for a week, then wrote about that vacation for another full week. So here I am, fourteen days later, and I’ve apparently forgotten how to write about anything else. Which means that I’ve either got to go on vacation again to drum up some material (that was ‘Option A’ in my book, by the way, but the wife and boss have put the kibosh on that one), or I’ve got to get my ass pulled together and find something else to write about.
As it turns out, ‘they’ also say — loudmouth sons of bitches, aren’t ‘they’? — that you should write what you know. What you love. What you’re passionate about. Well, that’s fine. I love lots of things, so that shouldn’t be too hard. Lots of things. Well, okay — really, just two things. And one of them involves a hand mixer, a tub of Crisco, and my favorite Barry White CD.
So. Let’s shoot for the other one, then — let’s talk about baseball. I love baseball — I think I always have. As far back as I can remember, I loved watching games, going to games, playing games… I could spit and scratch my crotch before I could walk or speak.
(Of course, now that I think about it, that’s probably true of just about everyone. But you know what I mean.)
I’m happy right now, too, that we’re finally ‘over the hump’ in the current season. Meaning, of course, that the All-Star break has come and gone, and we can get back to the real games, confident that not a day will go by without baseball until mid-October or so. That’s a beautiful thing, people. Weep with me, won’t you?
It doesn’t help any that the All-Star game is a sham — a complete mockery of the sport and all that the game once represented. It used to be the one time when the AL gang would meet the NL hoods — the best against the best, Sharks and Jets — for league bragging rights. Sure, the World Series was infinitely more significant, even then, but that’s really a team accomplishment, above all else. Back in the good old days, the All-Star game was a win for an entire league at once.
Now? Not so much.
For one thing, the marketing monsters at MLB decided a few years ago to institute ‘interleague play’ — so now, all of the teams in each league end up playing each other every three or four years. Why would anyone care about Barry Bonds of the NL Giants matching up against Hudson or Zito or Mulder (oh my!) of the AL’s A’s in an exhibition game when we could see the same shit in June, when the game really counted? Or the two Chicago teams playing each other, or Braves hitters mashing in Fenway Park? It’s all been done now — the novelty is gone. And the All-Star game is reduced to ugly stepsister status.
Even besides that, there’s much more player movement now than there used to be. Guys switch teams more often than they go through protective cups. So even if a couple of teams miraculously don’t play each other for a couple of years, there’s still a pretty good bet that players will get traded between the two, or to other teams in the same league, and you’ll still end up seeing a particular batter-pitcher matchup forty-three times before either of them ever makes it to the All-Star game. So it’s even worse. I don’t know what that qualifies as — ugly stepmother status, maybe?
And then, there’s everything else — some people just don’t like baseball. Others complain that the All-Star game sucks, just because everyone on the field has a personal, full-time crotch scratcher who makes more money than you or I will ever see. But personally, I don’t watch the All-Star game because it’s clear the players just don’t care.
And frankly, they shouldn’t. It’s an exhibition, for the love of Don Zimmer’s jockstrap! The baseball powers-that-bitch are trying to bring some significance back to the game artificially, after stripping it all away with this interleague, interchangable player nonsense. They’ve offered home-field advantage in the World Series to whichever league wins the All-Star game. Which is a damned crock — for one thing, the players obviously aren’t buying it. They’re not gonna ‘take one for the team’ or break an arm just for that. Plus, by the time the All-Star break rolls around, only six or eight of the people on the field are even affected — you think the player representing the Tigers or the Expos gives two shits and a plug of tobacco where the World Series gets played? Those guys are thirty games out of contention by now; they’re more worried about how they’re gonna afford a backup crotch scratcher than who’s playing in October.
Okay. That’s an awful lot of bitching about the All-Star game. But don’t get me wrong, folks — I complain because I care. And now that we’ve passed the halfway point, there’s nothing but sweet, sweet uninterrupted baseball for months. And I can go back to working on my goal of becoming the ‘Ultimate Fan’.
You see, I have a dream. I want to be ‘that guy’ that everyone knows in the stands. The lifer. The fanatic. The crazy dude with the box seats. And I’ve got a plan to get there, too.
First, I’ve got to get big. Huge. I wanna buy two season ticket seats, and sit in ’em both myself. Maybe I’ll cut away the armrest in between, and plop an asscheek in each — or maybe I’ll just stand the whole time. That’s better for all the screaming I plan on doing, anyway.
Oh, yes, there will be screaming. At the umps, at the manager, at the other team… I’ll lay off our players for the most part, of course. I’ll give all of our guys nicknames, based on what I was eating when I first saw them. So you’ll hear things like:
‘Hey, hustle up, there, Cracker Jack! This ain’t your granny’s game!‘
‘Yo, Nachos — nice catch! Can I get that ball from ya?‘
‘What up, there, Cotton Candy? How’s that groin injury coming along?‘
Of course, I’ll turn on them at the drop of a hat in high-pressure situations, like any rabid fan would:
‘Okay, here we go, Nomar — little base knock. Bring these guys home and we win the game, no problem. Two strikes, no problem. You just gotta — wha?! Grounder to second? Game over? Aw…. jeez.
TRADE NOMAH!! TRADE HIM!!! TRAAAAADE HIIIIIM!!!‘
Oh, yeah. I can’t wait, people. I’d better go practice — for this plan to work, I need to be able to make lewd gestures at two umpires at once, without dropping my hot dog or spilling my beer. And I’ll have to be able to belch ‘You suck!‘ loudly enough so the opposing dugout can hear. Damn. There’s a lot of work to do. This is gonna be sweet!
Permalink | 5 Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
