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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
All righty, folks — time once again for Blogger Idol. So let’s get naked, throw down the Twister board, and spin that wheel, whaddaya say?
(Um, purely metaphorically speaking, of course. You know what I’m sayin’. Look, let’s just get on with this.)
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Week Six Topic: ‘Movies’
Hmmm, movies, eh?
Well, I’ve got to admit, I really don’t get out to see a lot of movies. On cable, sure. On the internet, all the time.
(Of course, those are just clips of movies. And I have to turn the sound way down, so nobody can hear. But really, those aren’t the kinds of movies that are really ‘about’ sound in the first place. Moving on.)
I’ll tell you what — I’ll prove my tragic uncoolness in the movie-going category by reminiscing about the movies that I have ventured out to see over the past few years. Have a seat for this one, folks — it just might shock you.
Movie Watched, Number Last: The Matrix: Revolutions (2003)
I saw this one in IMAX Surround-O-Vision, or whatever the hell it’s officially called. My office organized an event — first dinner, than the Matrix finale. That was, I don’t know, four or five months ago or something. I mean, I guess it was okay and everything, for a sequel. I liked it and all, but let’s face it — I haven’t watched another movie since. What does that tell you?
Movie Watched, Number Next-to-Last: The Matrix: Reloaded (2003)
Another Matrixy IMAX wowfest, or IMAXy Matrix blowout, or something. Basically, a big fat long car chase at twelve times life size. Still, pretty visually damned impressive. Particularly ‘plotty’? No. ‘Thinky’? Not like the original. But I did have an awfully interesting — and quick — ride home that night. Sweet!
Movie Watched, Number… Uh, Next on the List: Chicago (2002)
Okay, look. I got roped into watching this somehow. My wife was involved, and possibly other estrogen-laden individuals. The details are sketchy, frankly — I’ve tried my best to suppress them entirely, with limited success. On the other hand, there was an awful lot of cleavage running around in this flick, and any time half-naked jailbird chicks break into song, it can’t be a bad thing.
(Okay, so that probably only applies to female inmates in movies, I suspect. Still, let me have my dreams, dammit!)
Movie Watched, Number Whatever We’re Up To: The Matrix (1999)
All right — on the good side, I really dig this movie. The science fiction, the ‘brains in a vat’ angle, the special effects… it’s right up my alley. On the bad side, I honestly can’t remember actually watching it. I don’t remember where I was, who I was with, or what the hell I was doing there. So it’s quite possible that I was horribly, head-lollingly drunk. Was there an enormous cartoon pig in this movie, right in the middle? That would answer a lot of questions, I’m thinking.
Movie Watched, Next-to-Last That I Can Remember Clearly: The English Patient (1999, second run theater)
Oh, jeebus, don’t ask. My wife and I were out with another couple, and somebody — *cough* the girls *cough kaff* — got it in their head that this would make a good ‘date’ movie. Right. ‘Date’ flick. Hardly.
First of all, it was a damned depressing movie. There was crying, and dying, and war, and all sorts of unrequited, um, things-or-other. I wasn’t really paying attention for a lot of it. But most of the people around us looked pretty damned sad. And the shit went on forever — this movie was, like, three, three-and-a-half years long. We could have gotten it on, had a kid, and sold the damned thing on the black market in the time it took this movie to play out. I’m almost snoring just thinking about it. Ugh.
Movie Watched, Last That I Can Remember Clearly: The Mummy (1999, second-run theater)
I actually saw two or three movies in the theater where I watched The Mummy, but this is the only one I remember. Perhaps that’s because the other movies sucked; maybe it’s because it’s the only one where I wasn’t running to the bathroom every twenty minutes. But probably it’s because the theater had a bar upstairs, and Long Island iced tea specials on movie nights. (Hence the bathroom-going, as well as the memory loss. Oh, LITs, how do I love thee?)
Anyway, it was a damned silly movie, frankly. I remember my wife remarking later that she was surprised, a few days after watching it, to find out that it wasn’t meant to be a completely comedic send-up of the Indiana Jones genre. She’s got pretty high standards for movies, you see.
(And a pretty low tolerance for alcohol — after a couple of those cocktails, she’d have probably found The English Patient hilarious, too. Maybe I should have tried that. Double ugh.)
So there you have it, folks — six in-theater movies in six years. And in the meantime, I’ve probably seen Major League, The Princess Bride, and Cool Hand Luke nine dozen times apiece on cable. Jeez, I’ve really got to get out more.
Permalink | 2 CommentsAh, lemonade. It’s my very most favoritest of all the ades. It’s better than lime, better than orange, even better than Gator. Lemonade kicks ade ass!
I just made a big pitcher of lemonade. My wife hates it when I do that. Not that she’s got anything against lemonade, per se; it’s just that she doesn’t like it quite as strong as I make it. She’s a delicate flower, after all. Beautiful, but fragile. Tender. And not so much into the puckery stuff.
(Hey, this is lemonade we’re talking about here. Don’t get all personal and shit. Focus, dude.)
Anyway, let’s just say that we have ‘creative differences’ over how our favorite lemony beverage should be prepared. Around our house, we ‘make da ade’ using that synthetic lemony-scented powdered crap that a lot of people use. My wife uses two scoops of the stuff per pitcher. Or, as she told me tonight, ‘really, one and a half‘. Isn’t that just adorable?
Me, I ain’t goin’ down like that. Scoops, schmoops. When I want lemonade, I don’t play around with that little plastic thingy in the can. I get out the bathroom scale, and dump that shit in by the pound. I don’t make ‘lemonade’, really — instead, I stir up a lemon sludge, muddy and murky and full of tart puckery goodness. If it’s not gritty and pasty, then it’s just not good ade. I want my lips puckered up so far that I can taste my own uvula, dammit.
(What? Oh, like you’ve never tasted your uvula before. Don’t give me that look, dammit.)
Anyway, I’m a happy man right now. This is some damned good ade I’ve got going on. I won’t be able to yodel for a week. (Nor for several dozen years after that, if we’re at all lucky.) My wife’s decided to enjoy some, too. I’m having mine in a tall glass, ‘neat’; she’s going to dilute hers just a bit before she digs in. It looks like she’s got an eyedropper full of lemonade, and she’s heading for the bathtub upstairs with some ice cubes and a straw. Well, more power to her. And lemonade all ’round! Drink up, people — this is good shit!
Permalink | 6 CommentsI had some time to kill tonight (technically last night now, but who’s clock-watching at this hour, anyway?), so I decided to read a bit.
Unfortunately, the book closest to me at the time was the one that one of my (several) bosses at work gave me a couple of weeks ago. It has something to do with business, I think, and possibly management philosophy, or team-building, or some other such thing. Some part of my brain told me that if I was going to read tonight, I should really conquer a few pages in this book, so I could get it back to her soon.
That same part of my brain tucked the book under my arm, and walked me upstairs, intent on tucking me into bed with said book to peruse a few chapters before sleepytime. This was at around eleven thirty, soon after I’d finished my last post.
This was also the point at which the rest of my brain finally broke through the barricade and overpowered the part of my brain that had been doing all this ‘responsible thinking’ crap. Just at the last moment, my newly-empowered neurons detoured me to the office, where instead of reading, I read blogs, and made a few comments, and uploaded two standup clips.
Unfortunately, that rogue ‘responsible’ part of my brain was still kicking and screaming, fighting for control. Several times, I even looked at the book on my desk, wondering whether I shouldn’t take it to bed — or at least the bathroom — and try out a few pages. Each time, the rest of my brain intervened, and I went back, grinning and drooling, to my online entertainment.
Eventually, my in-charge brain told me, the ‘other’ half would be subdued, beaten into submission through inertia and the inexorable passage of time. It would return eventually, of course, but there was nothing that said I had to succumb to its sober realities and soul-rending obligations tonight. If we just stick together, my half-brain told me, we can beat this thing. Sooner or later, the will to start that book tonight will fade, if we just distract ourselves into exhaustion.
Well, I’m happy to say that three hours later, I’ve finally lost that urge. It may be two-thirty in the morning, and I may have to get up way before I’m ready to in the morning, but dammit, I hung tight with my half a brain, and I beat this thing. No book, no reading, and now I’m off to bed. Victory is mine! Well, half mine, anyway. And pretty soon, my boss is gonna ask about that damned book, too. Shit.
Man, my other half a brain is gonna kill me tomorrow when it wakes up!
Permalink | 3 CommentsAll right, I’ve had it. I need somebody out there to help me, dammit.
I need one of you to find the person, or people, who are coming up with words to rhyme with gellin’ for those damned Dr. Scholl’s commercials.
I want you to find them, and beat them — mercilessly, mind you, with a big club, or fireplace poker, or something — and then drop them from a very great height into a big quicksand trap, or a tar pit, or a blockful of hardening cement, maybe. Something deep, and sticky, and exceptionally unpleasant. Some alligators might be nice, too. Or crocodiles. Whichever’s easier.
Seriously, though, this shit has got to stop, people. The first commercial was cute, for about the first thirty damned times I saw it. Then it was just annoying, and then maddening, and finally just stupid. Sure, I’ll give ’em props for the ‘Magellan‘ line. It took a little while before ‘Want a melon‘ made my eyelids twitch with rage.
But it’s over now, dammit. I’m calling it right now — time of death, about six seconds after I saw the new freaking commercial today, with three ‘gellin’ morons in a stock trading pit, bantering that nonsense back and forth.
‘Are you gellin’?‘
‘Oh, I’m gellin’! And I’m sellin’!‘
‘That guy’s not gellin’. He’s repellin’!‘
Look, I’ve got news for you douchebags — you can all go straight to hellin‘. Just stop this goddamned nonsense!
Seriously, for the love of kicky Doc Martens, just stop it. Stop making the commercials, and stop devoting websites to this ridiculous marketing nightmare. I’m begging you here. And the rest of you, stop encouraging these asspackets by playing their little game on your own sites, and on TV, and — most especially, please — anywhere near me, anywhere in the world that I happen to be. It’s not cute, it’s not cool, and you’re not a ‘felon’. But keep this shit up, and I will be, when I pull off your ‘gellin’ shoes and beat you to a bloody broken pulp with them!
Okay, sorry, I got a little carried away there. It’s not your fault, really, out there in the real world. Fads come along, and it’s sometimes hard to tell which ones are cool, and which are asinine, and which ones start out vaguely acceptable and then spiral into a pit of moronic craptacular nonsense.
(Yeah, um… no need to apply those same sorts of judgement to this blog, all right? Nobody likes a big ironic poopyhead, all right?)
Anyway, whaddaya say we just band together on this one, and form some sort of riotous, unruly mob and go kick the crap out of whoever’s responsible for those commercials? You with me? You in? Or are you mentally unwellin’?
(Oh fer chrissakes… they got me, too. Let’s roll some Scholl’s heads, people!)
Permalink | 6 CommentsI went onstage last night at the Comedy Vault in downtown Boston. It was a packed house, full of college kids mostly — a fun crowd, and it was great to play to a full house.
I actually thought I wouldn’t be allowed to go on — Sundays at ‘da Vault’ are ‘bringer shows’, where you have to show up with two paying guests to get stage time. This week, my friends were pretty busy, and weren’t able to stop by to watch.
(Or are sick of being badgered and cajoled to come see the same jokes they’ve been hearing for four months now. Tomato, tomahto… whatever.)
Anyway, I headed down there with my wife, and hoped for the best. I had a couple of ‘maybe’s, but I held no delusions that anyone was actually going to be able to make it. A few minutes before showtime, I checked in with the organizer, and let her know that it was just me and the missus, so I supposed I’d just pay for the two of us and spectate for the evening. The organizer let me know that if anyone else came in for me, she’d let me know. I thought that was it, and settled down with a beer to watch the other comics.
Little did I realize that by paying the cover for myself, I became my second person. She left me on the list, and — about halfway through the show — I heard the emcee for the night asking around among the comics, ‘Charlie? Who’s Charlie? Is Charlie here?‘ Luckily, I was sitting near the comics area (hey, it never hurts to be close to the action), heard him, and stepped back to sort it all out.
‘I thought I was off the list,’ I told him.
‘You’re on the list,’ he told me.
‘I only brought one person tonight; I thought she marked me off.‘
‘Okay, I’ll check with her.‘
So he checked, she told him I’d paid for two, and — just like that, with only a minute or so of realizing I’d go onstage — there I was, mic in hand, blathering to a crowd of fifty or more. Fantabulous.
I thought it went pretty well — you’ll be able to see for yourself soon, when I post the clip. (And I’ll finally post the horrible, embarrassing, ‘shit, I forgot my material‘ clip from last Sunday at the All Asia, too; at least now it won’t be the last active link on the list. Pee-fricking-yew.)
But none of that’s really the point, exactly. The point is what happened after the show, as my wife and I were waiting to pay at the parking garage. We were standing in line, when two vaguely familiar-looking women walked past. And one of them, wondrous benevolent siren that she was, looked right at me and said,
‘Hey, there’s that comedian guy!‘
Wow. Nobody’s ever said that to me before.
I smiled, mainly to buy a little time to find the appropriate witty response. I’m a ‘comedian guy’, after all, right? Eventually, I came up with, wittily enough:
‘Wow. Nobody’s ever said that to me before.‘
Fricking genius, I am. George Carlin, eat your heart out. I am the king of witty repartee.
Not wanting to leave it at just that, I decided to add:
‘Well, except maybe my mom, when I was trying to get away with shit.‘
No, that’s not particularly witty, either. I do think I deserve a few points for the image of a mother, tsking and scolding a young boy with, ‘What are you, some kind of comedian?‘
But I also lose a few dozen points for the confused look that put on the woman’s face. She was still smiling, sort of, but I’m not sure what I said made any particular bit of sense. Nor am I completely certain that the woman — who looked to be a couple, but not many, years older than I — wasn’t thinking that I’d just suggested she could be my mother. Or something. I don’t know. I’m no good at actually talking to people; why the hell would I write this crap and do standup if I knew how to act in real social situations, anyway?
So, I’ll say now what I should have said then:
‘Wow, thanks! That’s pretty cool, actually being called a comedian!‘
And no, that’s not witty, either, but goddammit, it doesn’t have to be. Even if the lady was just saying it to be nice — and that’s almost certainly the case — it was pretty damned cool. We comics congratulate each other all the time, but none of us really mean it. And my wife tells me, ‘Good job!‘ after each show, but really, it’s in the contract — she has to. For a perfect stranger to take the time to say something, anything nice like that — well, it’s times like those that I wish I didn’t put my foot in my damned mouth every time I open my yapper.
But I do, and I did, more or less, and so here we are. I doubt that the woman who walked past me last night will ever read this, but if she does, I just wanted her to know that she made my night. And my day so far, and probably most of the rest of the week, as well. Maybe someday now I’ll earn that compliment, and actually become the kind of comedian who gets recognized after a show once in a while.
And maybe by that point, I’ll have figured out what the hell to say when it happens. Meh.
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