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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Hey, all.
Yes, I’m late with today’s post. I know. And I apologize.
And yes, it’s not really 11:15, it’s already fifteen minutes into tomorrow. Again, I’m sorry.
And no, I’m not actually typing very well right now, nor am I going to make a hell of a lot of sense, or attempt to whip up a ‘real’ post tonight. Mea culpa.
And yes, dammit, yes, I’m behind on posting links to my shows — I owe you a (rather pitiful, frankly, and far more impromptu than it should have been) tape of the performance at the All Asia from Sunday night.
(In my defense, I’ve put off posting it because I blanked about thirty seconds into my set. And while I recovered, somewhat, it’s still very spotty, and extremely embarrassing. But I’m still new to this shit. I get a couple of ‘do-overs’, godammit.)
Oh, and speaking of blanking during sets, I did it again tonight at the Emerald Isle… and while I actually thought I picked up the pieces much better this time, neither you nor I nor anyone else will ever see that performance, because I didn’t even have time to come home before rushing straight from work to my show tonight. Which means I didn’t have the camera with me. Or dinner. Or much of anything, including my wits, apparently.
So you see, I’ve not posted today, but it’s not because I don’t love you. I do, with tongues and everything.
(Unless, you know, that would make one of us cringe to think about. Then I just love you, but tonguelessly. Still love, no doubt. Just less tonguing, is all. You understand.)
Anyway, I haven’t managed to put fingers to keys today because I’ve been uber-busy at work lately — damn that comparatively lucrative day job of mine!
(Of course, collecting aluminum cans, or selling my body for sex, would be ‘comparatively‘ more lucrative than this, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.
Well, collecting cans would be, anyway. You know what the hell I mean. Meh.)
And Wednesdays are the worst — two-hour meeting at nine am, and a one-hour meeting at one. And today, a forty-five minute interview splunged right in the middle, at eleven-thirty. My ‘real’ workday — when I’m supposed to actually accomplish all those fables and legends that I’ve told people I know how to do — started at around three pm today. And, not surprisingly, lasted until the very ass-end of the seven o’clock hour, at which time I was too late to make it home before the eight-thirty Emerald Isle extravaganza.
(Which is too bad — we actually had an audience tonight, and they were pretty cool. Sure, they didn’t number in the double digits in terms of warm bodies or anything, but they were an ‘audience’, nonetheless, and that’s a good thing.
Not quite a ‘crowd’, perhaps — maybe closer to a ‘small gaggle’ — but still, I could feel the love. Especially when I talked about crotches and asses. They dug those parts. Not a ‘high-brow’ group, apparently, which is just the way I likes ’em. Result!)
What can I say, though? I’ve let you folks down, I know. Here I am, already closing in on a half-hour late, and I’m just going to lie to you — right to your monitors — and set the date on this for three-quarters till twelve, yesterday night. Again, I say I’m sorry. It’s a Wednesday thing — there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to remain gainfully employed, suffer through three hours of stifling, mind-wrenching, ‘I wonder if this pen will fit all the way up my nose‘ meetings, do a comedy show, and, on top of all that, give you fine feathery folks the attention you so richly deserve.
(That’s ‘tongued’ or ‘un-tongued’ attention, either way. Wednesdays are just hard for me, you see?)
So, this is about all I can offer you, I’m afraid. I’ve got to hit the sack soon, or I won’t have anything left to entertain you with on Thursday, either. Not that I’m promising that I will be witty and clever if I get my beauty sleep — or ‘sexy snoozies‘, as I like to call ’em — but I can pretty well guarantee that I won’t have anything worth posting if I don’t get the hell to bed soon. Yes, it’s kind of a crapshoot, folks, but that’s the only kind of ‘shoot’ I can offer at this time. I hope you’ll forgive me.
Anyway, there is a bit of news around here, in case you haven’t noticed yet — thanks to the good folks at HaloScan, I’ve now got ‘Trackback’ capabilities. So, if you see a post here you like, feel free to link ‘er up! I’m still working out how these newfangled doohickeys operate myself, but it’s very exciting news, let me assure you. Pretty soon, I’ll have no reason to move away from Blog*Spot, and that’s just one more thing I can cross off my list of ‘Dreams I’ve Finally Given Up On‘.
(You know, like ‘Winning the Indy 500‘, or ‘Owning my own brewery‘. Or ‘Rubbing canola oil onto Tawny Kitaen’s naked body‘.
Ironic, isn’t it, about that last one? For ten years or more, it was unattainable because there’s no way in hell she’d have let me. Now, she’d probably like nothing better than a good slickering up… but holy hell, what the hell happened to her? Did you see that mugshot of hers from a while back? Somebody thwacked that girl with the ugly lamppost or something. How’d you like that writhing and rubbing on the hood of your car? Eep.)
Okay, I’m just getting silly now. I think it’s my bedtime. (Hey, it’s almost eleven thirty! *snicker*) But seriously, I’m off to bed before this goes too far down the tubes. I promise I’ll be better — and earlier — tomorrow. In the meantime, you have a good night, and don’t be afraid to play with those trackbacks, all right? It’s okay — there’s no need to be shy; nobody’s watching but me. We can explore together. And we only have to use tongues if you want to, okay?
All righty, it’s a deal, then. I’ll see you tomorrow. Nighty night!
Permalink | 2 CommentsMan, even the Simpsons is weird tonight. I just watched two episodes, and they both involved a nearly-naked Groundskeeper Willie slathered in grease. Coincidence?
Jesus Leafy Christ on a green riding lawnmower, I hope so.
Hmmm. Maybe I’ll try watching another one while I write, and see what happens.
Ooh, cool, this one’s about when Homer becomes a boxer. Sweet!
Now there’s a profession I’ve never considered taking up — boxing. Toad wrangler, sure. Braille cartoonist, yep. Professional Gummi Bear licker — well, yeah. Who hasn’t thought about such glamorous and fulfilling careers?
But boxing? Well, it’s just not my style, really. All that punching and bobbing and weaving and such, not to mention all the ‘husky’ guys wearing nothing but shiny boxers and lace-up boots. That’s not a fricking sport, people — that’s a gay bar during Mardi Gras.
(Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. The Mardi Gras thing, that is. There’s something seriously wrong with boxing. I think it has something to do with the spitbuckets.
Seriously, you can have guys running around in their underwear flailing at each other, or you can have open containers of saliva lying around. But fer chrissakes, you can’t have both. It’s just not natural!)
Anyway, back to boxing, and my non-participation therein. I’ve just never really seen the point of professional pugilism, I suppose. Not that sports that I do enjoy need to have a purpose, mind you. I’m perfectly happy watching a gaggle of grown men throwing and thwacking a little white ball around, and running in circles around the bases for no good reason. Hell, it’s our national pasttime — what’s not to like?
(And see? See? There’s a whole lot of spitting, but everybody keeps their damned clothes on. It’s one or the other, people. This is not fricking rocket science.)
So it doesn’t really bother me that there’s no real point to boxing, other than staying on your feet for two minutes at a time. I just think that promoters could do so much more with that same format — throw gin in those buckets instead of spit, for instance, and make the combatants drink a tubful between rounds. Then we’ll see who can stay on their feet, and we won’t need them to smack each other in the face to make it interesting, either. While they’re at it, maybe they can put on a damned shirt, and some sensible shoes.
(Who are they kidding with those boots, anyway? You’re not allowed to kick people in the ring. Could those really be more comfortable than a nice, worn-in pair of Reeboks? I don’t think so. And when you’ve got some welterweight walrus pummeling the shit out of you off and on for the better part of an hour, shouldn’t you at least make sure your feet are comfy? Really, that’s about all you’ll have left.)
I have to admit, though, that a few boxers have been worth watching over the years. Everyone loves Ali, of course; I also had a soft spot for Evander Holyfield. Maybe it was his style, or his presence. Maybe it was the ‘soft spots’ in his head; I don’t know. I just know that I really don’t often watch boxing matches, and can’t remember ever paying for the privilege.
That’s another thing I don’t get — why do the big, potentially interesting boxing bouts have to cost us sixty fricking bucks? And why does it keep going up, and who the hell keeps paying these fees? Stop encouraging these pay-per-view bastards, people! Lookit — yes, I just typed ‘lookit’; let it go, dammit — we get the World Series for free, right? NBA finals, Stanley Cup, Super Bowl — free, free, and free. So why is boxing so fricking special, and more importantly, how do I get my hands on some of that swag? Hell, I know plenty of people who’d be willing to strip down to their skivvies and slap and smack at each other — how come nobody’s paying to see that?
(Except that one guy, who wanted a refund when he found out the people in the ring weren’t gonna be small-nosed sorority girls. Pick, pick, pick.)
Well, that’s about all I’ve got tonight, folks. I’m not sure we really got anywhere, but I did get to say a few words about the ‘sweet science’. And now my third Simpsons is over. And hey, no nearly-naked greased-up Willies!
Or, um, none on the television, anyway. But I, uh, I’d better go. There’s this, um, thing I forgot to do. Yeah. A thing. Right. G’night, then!
Permalink | 2 CommentsWow! It seems that I’ve made a near-miraculous comeback in the waning hours of the latest Blog Madness Bills Region Elimination Round. Seriously, an amazing leap, to within one vote (at press time) of my worthy competitor, The Hard Life, and his entry, This One’s for the Ladies.
(Which is really funny. Damn him!)
Anyway, if you haven’t already, hop on over and vote. Well, first read, and then vote.
(This ain’t Florida, dammit. Or, if it happens to be Florida in your neck of the tropics, then it ain’t 2002. Take yer pick.)
Either way, go have a read, and a vote, and then maybe a beer. As for me, I’ve already read and voted, so now it’s time for me to toddle on home for the third — and perhaps most delicious — item on that list.
And don’t worry — I’ll be back later to earn that beer with some sort of post or other. About something. I’m sure nudity or boobs or infinitely embarrassing anecdotes from my childhood will be involved. Quite possibly all three. Until then, go check out the madness, and enjoy the evening. Cheers!
Permalink | 3 CommentsWell, here we go again, kids. It’s Blogger Idol time, so let’s skip the pleasantries and just get ourselves lubed up, shall we?
(Click icon to see all Week Five posts)
Week Five Topic: ‘Picture This’
Well, poop. I’m not really much of a ‘picture guy’, really. You know, having no artistic talent or visual imagination to speak of.
(That’s right, folks — it’s all words and voices up there. Frightened yet? You oughta be.)
On top of that, I’m not the most photogenic person on the face of the planet. Oh, I’m not the least photogenic, either, of course — at least as long as Carrot Top and Sandra Bernhardt are alive, anyway. But I’ve never really enjoyed having my picture taken — I never know where to stand, or where to put my hands, and I always, always, always blink before the flash goes off. Without exception, without fail. It’s one of my more annoying involuntary habits. (Though not nearly as vexing as many of the things that I do on purpose. Those just suck.)
Anyway, the blinking — there seems to be no way to stop it. I’ve tried everything I can think of, from holding my eyes shut until the picture’s about to be taken, to looking away from the camera until the ‘pre-flash’ occurs, to bugging my eyes open like Marty Feldman on a coke high, hoping that if I just get those damned eyelids far enough apart, they can’t whoosh shut before the picture is snapped.
But they always do. The bastards.
So, I’ve got whole shelffuls of vacation snaps and wedding shots and ‘candid photos’ with my eyes in various stages of shutness. Sometimes, they’re just closed, which looks most natural.
(People see these pics and say, ‘Oh, he looks so peaceful. It’s almost like he’s sleeping.‘ This is how I know I’m not photogenic — when your best pictures get ‘compliments’ normally given to dead people at their own funerals, then you know you’re never going to be asked to be in the front row of any group shots. Or couple shots, or even your own portraits.
Hell, I went the other day to get a head shot done for standup, and they hid me behind a lamp. And I still blinked. Meh.)
Anyway, like I said, the ‘sleeping’ pose is the good one. There’s also the ‘eyes squished shut’ look, the ‘squinty scrunched-up nose’ shot, and the ever-popular ‘Exorcist’ pose, where there’s still a little sliver of each eye showing, but no pupil, so I look like some alien bodysnatcher belched up from the depths of Hell. Yeah, that’s a good look for a groom. The families loved that one.
(And yes, I realize that being ‘belched’ from hell probably isn’t technically compatible with being an ‘alien’, assuming that hell is… you know, down there somewhere. Just work with me, here, all right? Sometimes I get all excited and just throw words together. And who knows — maybe subterranean demons are aliens. Seriously, have you ever met one? Who’s to say, really?)
Circling back to the point, pictures suck. At least, the pictures I’m in suck. I’ve seen a few out there that didn’t include me and were quite nice, so I have to assume that I’m the problem. My only chance to make a positive photographic contribution is to have the shutter snapped in broad daylight, where there’s at least a slim chance that I can keep my damned eyes open. Even then, I’ll probably end up in some ridiculous pose, with my hands thrust three feet into my pockets, or arms awkwardly akimbo like a bad ‘Yul Brenner in The King and I‘ impression. It’s just a friggin’ nightmare.
A-hah! Which gives me, finally, not only an idea for how to tie in this week’s topic, but also a way to get out my true feelings about getting my mug shutterbugged. It all fits perfectly, and it’s simply this:
The next time someone asks me, ‘Can I take your picture?‘, I’ll simply turn to them, smile sweetly, and say,
‘Yeah, I don’t think so. Why don’t you picture this, bitch!‘
And then.. I don’t know, I’ll do something crude and awful, like moon the person, or flip him or her off, or unleash a squealing ninja nipple-twister.
(That’s the other person’s nipples being twisted, if you’re scoring at home. Just to be clear.
Aw, hell, maybe I’d give my own just a little tweak. Just for giggles.)
Anyway, I don’t know if it would work. Certainly, it’ll get a little dicey around Christmastime, when the family photo ops come fast and furious. I’m pretty sure Dad’s not gonna take too kindly to being given the finger, and Mom’s never liked having an ass waved in her face. I suppose there’s a chance that dear old grandma might actually appreciate having her boob-ends twiddled… but I’m not terribly excited at the prospect of trying to find the damned things. Maybe I’ll just moon her, too. She’ll get over it.
But definitely, I’m gonna use the ‘Picture this!‘ line. I’m digging that. So thanks for the idea, Darren — hey, this Blogger Idol thing is really coming in handy! Sweet!
Permalink | 3 CommentsHeh. I love my blogroll. I love that some people are witty, and others are brutally honest, and still others (or, to be fair, many of the same) curse almost as much as I do.
But I think what I love the most about my blogroll is the diversity. Sure, there aren’t many blogs on my list dedicated to politics, religion, or the life=and-death rigors of high school life — these are subjects about which I know or remember little, and it seems unlikely that my particular brand of blogginess would appeal to the authors of such sites. But outside those parameters, I’ve got a wealth of people from different backgrounds, geographies, opinions, styles, and outlooks on life.
I was reminded of this just today, as I made the rounds around a few sites, and saw the exact same item commented on by two people on my blogroll. Commented on, yes, but rather… differently. To say the least. I’ll show you.
(But before I do, I’d just like to ask that you be extra-specially nice to both folks linked below, no matter on which end of the spectrum — or in the vast, yawning ‘middle ground’ between — you happen to fall. They’re both fantastic bloggers, and really nice people — I just get a kick out of seeing the two opinions juxtaposed like this. No harm, ill will, or fun-poking is intended or implied. Promise. If anything, maybe it’ll scoot a little traffic both their ways.)
Okay, now that I feel I’ve sufficiently disclaimerated, here’s a pair of short posts that describe just exactly how two of my bloggy buddies felt about the holiday-inspired decorations in effect yesterday on their Google toolbars:
Rachel of The Real Dragon Babble — ‘Google‘
Monkey of I Am the Monkey — ‘Don’t make me sick.‘
Ah, that nutty, quirky, schizophrenic blogroll of mine! Did I mention how much I love it? Man, it must be Valentine’s Day — I just can’t help myself — I love it!
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