About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Man, 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!
Permalink | 3 CommentsDamn. The pressure’s really on for next week. I’m starting to get nervous.
You see, this upcoming week, I have… nothing going on. Zip. Zilch. Boobies.
(Sorry, did I say, ‘boobies‘? I think I meant to say, ‘bupkis‘. How embarrassing.
Still, we have to go with the contestant’s first answer, right? I’ll take the hit for my mistake. Boobies for me next week! Huzzah!)
Okay, so technically I have a little bit going on — there’s some work I’ve got to do, and a semi-show on Wednesday, and the daily posts here, of course — but compared to the whirlwind that has been the last few weeks, my dance card is refreshingly, mercifully… terrifyingly free. I’ll explain.
For the past month or so, I haven’t seen much of my house. As you can see from the ‘Standup Standup’ section on the sidebar, I did seven shows in January, and tonight have my third in February. Now, I love doing these open mikes, and it’s great fun and practice, but that’s ten evenings out of forty or so in this still-young year that I’ve been out and about. I’ve also been playing volleyball twice a week — less some weeks, but three times last week, for another ten or twelve nights away from home, sweet home. It’s pooping!
(I can say that, right? If it’s okay to say you’re ‘pooped’, then the process of getting there is ‘pooping’, right? It makes perfect sense.
What? Nobody says that? Well, why the hell not? Are you shitting me?)
Anyway, the point is that I’ve been not ‘home and snuggled up in my PJs and bunny slippers by a roaring fire with a hot cup of cocoa and my favorite shawl’ more nights than I have been ‘home and snuggled up and blabbedy blah, nobody’s really gonna read this whole fricking quote the second time, are they?’ But that’s all changed, at least for this week. This week, there’s just one show. One volleyball night is finis until fall, and the other has an off week. I’ll be out tonight, but then I fully expect to spend six of the next seven fabulous nights right here in the ‘comfort of my own’. But it gets better.
Monday’s a holiday, albeit a fairly bogus one.
(Seriously, ‘presidents day’? How many countries actually celebrate, ‘Hey, look, we managed to find someone to lead us!‘ Day? And it’s never for the present goobered leader, either — it’s for all the previous people who’ve been thrust into the gaping maw of the office and spat out the other end. ‘Ooh, ooh, look, we elect presidents! Let’s have a party!‘
I dunno — sounds like the kind of bullshit a king, or some slimy dictator, would call. Look, Independence Day I can understand. Even, if I really try and get just the right kind of drunk, Flag Day. But how many parents with school-aged kids — or any citizens, for that matter — take the time on Presidents Day to crack open a frigging encyclopedia, or do a web search, to learn the first damned thing about the prior leaders of our country, anyway? Your average schmuck on the street knows, at any given time, who Washington, Lincoln, Kennedy, and the last three schmoes in office were. And s/he thinks that Ben Franklin was in there somewhere, and probably that he led the Boston Tea Party.
Look, if you want to save this holiday — and I would argue that it doesn’t need saving — then dedicate each year’s ‘special day’ to a different president. Go in order, or randomize it, or — better yet — start with the obscure ones first. And for chrissakes, get some corporate money behind it! Nothing gets off the ground these days without high-profile sponsorships. Really, do you want some vague, meaningless, largely ignored holiday, or would you rather have events like this once a year:
‘The Sixth Annual President’s Day Extravaganza, featuring Martin ‘The Little Magician’ Van Buren
Narration by James Earl Jones and Katie Couric, with Carrot Top as our ‘man on the street’
Featuring musical guests Lee Greenwood, Nelly, and a very special duet by Justin Timberlake and Gerald Ford
Proudly brought to you commercial-free by your friends at Pepsi, Philip Morris, and the Ford Motor Company‘
Yeah, you know what, never mind — let’s just bury this freakin’ holiday, instead. Nobody needs that kind of shit on a Monday.)
All right, where the hell was I, anyway? Oh, the ’empty’ week I’m about to have. Got it.
So, no work on Monday, and home every night except Wednesday. I’ve even got less to write and bitch and cajole about blogwise — I was just upended in the King of the Blogs competition, and things aren’t looking so hot for staying alive in Blog Madness, either. So there go a couple of posts a week of filler material, asking you to vote, or begging you to read, or being handed a free topic on which to write. Sure, I’ve still got Blogger Idol, but things are definitely going to be a lot quieter around here for a while.
And that’s the scary part, you see. Here at home, and in this space, I’ve been putting things off, pooh-poohing projects because ‘I haven’t got the time‘. Well, now that’s not gonna fly any more. I do have the time, and there are a dozen things that I should be doing — even a few that I’d like to be doing, however challenging they might be — but have been able to keep at arm’s length since Christmas because there just aren’t enough hours in the day to tackle them. But now the hours are flooding in, I’ll soon be awash in free time (relatively speaking, anyway), and… well, frankly, that whole ‘PJs by the fire’ thing is sounding really good. Eep.
I’m afraid that I’ll look back after the next week or so is over and find that I really didn’t accomplish anything (except pissing off a bunch of foamy-mouthed flag-wavers over my Presidents Day rant, most likely). And then, soon enough, I’ll be swamped again, and the list of shit I’m not doing will just keep growing and growing, ad disgustum.
So that’s why I’m taking a pledge, right now, to get at least one freaking thing done this week. Come hell, high water, or holy hand grenades, I will accomplish one of my many goals before next Sunday. You heard it here first, folks — it might be one of the blog features I’ve been thinking of, or I might feel the muse and move the whole enterprise off of Blogger, finally. Or I might finally set the stereo up to CD-transferitize those vinyl LPs I’ve been lugging around for fifteen years. Maybe I’ll read a few of the mounting pile of books on my desk, or get serious about evaluating my standup bits, or paint the trim in the damned living room.
(Okay, so I’m not gonna paint the trim. I’m fighting that one for the rest of forever, or until my wife physically throws the dropcloth over the couches and dresses me in my painting clothes. In my world, that trim is gonna stay just the way it is, flaws and all, until we move out of the house. Not because it looks perfect or anything, mind you — it’s just an awful pain in the ass to paint around all the crap in that room for a few little niggling spots that nobody (except us) notices, anyway.
I’m sure she’ll put her foot down one of these days and demand that we finish it, though. My only hope then is to distract her somehow while she’s trying to slip my painting pants on. I suppose I should probably just stop wearing underwear until then, to improve my odds. Hey, I can’t predict when she’s gonna finally snap — better chafed than sorry, right?)
Anyway, something is gonna get done. I just don’t know what, yet. I’ll decide that later — it’s only Sunday afternoon, you know. I’ve got a whole week to get something accomplished, right? Baby steps, people — baby steps. Right now, there’s a set of pajamas, two bunny slippers, and a soft couch downstairs with my name written all over them. Free time, here I come!
Permalink | 2 Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
