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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So, I should apologize. I promised to thank you way back on Wednesday, and have neglected, until now, to live up to my word. Well, fear not, folks. The gratitude is a-comin’. Your patience shall not go unrewarded.
And frankly, as it turns out, I’m kind of glad that I waited. Because as of today, I’ve got even more people to thank, and just that much more love to spread around.
(I may need a towel before this is all over with. Eek.)
But on to the business at hand.
(And if you think ‘at hand’ is a half-euphemism in reference to needing a towel, then you’re one sick puppy, man. Oh, sure, you’re right, dammit, but you need some serious help. Maybe I’ll see you in my therapy group someday.)
Anyway, the thanks. Like I mentioned earlier in the week, I want to send my very most warmest gratitude to all of you who’ve helped this humble site achieve the milestone of 5000 hits.
(No, wait — that doesn’t look impressive enough; I’ll add in the comma.) 5,000 hits!
(Yeah, that’s better.)
So, it doesn’t matter that ninety-plus percent of these hits have been from clearly unrelated web searches, and people who — through no fault of my own believe that I may have ‘doctored’ nude images of a certain boobly animated bimbo.
(Which I don’t, of course. Not so far as you know, anyway.)
No, such trivialities are irrelevant. At least a couple of you have stopped by and actually enjoyed the experience. Or at least tolerated it, which is good enough for me. I’ll settle for lukewarm indifference, if that’s what’s on the menu. I’m not picky, folks. But more impressively, a few of you have even returned, looking for another high from a freshly baked batch of hilarity.
(Or you’ve come back thinking, ‘Shit, it couldn’t be as bad as last time. Could it?‘ Again, doesn’t matter. You’re back. I’m happy. What the hell else is there?)
So, for all you folks — and particularly those who’ve taken the time and effort to comment, or to throw a link in my direction — I offer many thousands of thanks. If you were here, I’d kiss you. You know, unless you’re a dude. The most I can offer you guys is a pat on the rear. And then only if we’re playing football, or maybe softball, together. Yeah, matter of fact, why don’t we just settle on a hearty handshake, all right? I love you guys, but really — I don’t know where your asses have been. Let’s not go there, okay?
Like I said, though, today I’ve got a few other people to thank, and first on the list is my new bestest bloggy buddy, Buzz. Not only was he gracious enough to link to l’il ol’ me, but he also wrote a nice note today suggesting that his crowd of readers check out the offerings over here.
And when I say ‘crowd’, I mean crowd.
(Okay, I thought of meaning ‘horde‘, but that has such negative connotations. Don’t want to annoy the new folks right off the bat, eh?)
Anyway, Buzz has a lot of friends, and many of them have stopped by today. So I want to especially thank Buzz. Go check out his site, folks.
(Unless you just came from there, of course. Then you don’t have to. I’m not saying you can’t go back. You’re just not obligated. The rest of you should show the love, though. Chop chop.)
And thanks also go to the…um, Buzzites.
(Buzzers? Buzzards? Buzzy-Wuzzys? Somebody help me here.)
I hope you’re enjoying yourselves here. Go ahead — have a look around. Take your coat off and stay a while. The more madness, the merrier, I always say.
(Okay, actually, I don’t. I just made that up. Sorry, thought I could slip that one past you. Won’t happen again. Sorry.)
So. Thanks to all, and double- and triple-thanks to some. Cool. Now what?
Well, as long as I’m here, and without a topic to speak of, I might as well leave you with a couple of ‘program notes’. A ‘State of the Blog Address’ sort of thing.
(Aw, c’mon — you can sit through all the ass-kissing I did for you, but you can’t deal with a little administrative bullshit? Have a heart, folks!)
All right, I’ll keep it short. And I’ll be back later with a real post.
(Yes, whether you like it or not. Tough noogies.)
So, first of all, I’ll point you (yet again) towards the 100 Things Posts About Me. There’s nearly as much crap… er, content there as on the main blog site. Plus, I spent several hours this week updating the template to match the funky blue dealie you’re looking at now. So have a look. Links are on the left — no lines, no waiting.
I guess the only other thing would be to mention my current ‘gimmick’.
(See, with the subjects around here so dry and boring — like phantom crotch vibrations and bomb threat nonsense and Zolton, Master of the Universe — I’ve got to have a gimmick to keep me from getting bored. Pitiful, ain’t it?)
Anyway, a couple of gimmicks have come and gone already. There was CRAP, which lasted about three weeks or so. And there were the daily taglines, which were fun for a couple of months. The current gimmick, devised after several seconds of careful consideration, is to work the current Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day into a post. No matter how ridiculous, or irrelevant, or off-topic.
(And frankly, the more off-topic, the better. Have you seen some of these topics? Frightening.)
So that’s it. All I can really promise you is that I’ll write some sort of goofy blather each and every day. And later this evening I’ll return to my usual boobery self.
(Oh, man, of all the ways I get to be ‘boobery’, this is the one. Bitches! On the other hand, if I were ‘boobery’ in any other way, I’d probably never leave the house. And I’d run out of baby oil. How do you ladies cope, anyway?)
In the meantime, bask in your thankitude, folks. You’ve certainly earned it. And when the afterglow fades, go check out BuzzStuff. And then come back and click those links — archives, 100 Things, ‘Best of’ links, whatever. Just make with the clicky-clicky. This crap’s not gonna read itself, people.
Permalink | 3 CommentsDeep down, I’m a helpful person. An assister. An enabler, if you will. Not only do I like to see people better themselves, I often enjoy nudging them along. Preferably against their will, kicking and screaming. With a cattle prod, if I happen to have one handy.
(Hey, I said I was ‘helpful’. I never said I was ‘nice’. You can’t have it all, people.)
Anyway, I’ve recently come up with yet another way to aid people. This one involves helping people to overcome their phobias and become more productive members of society. And — since I’m all about sharing the wealth — I want to recruit all (okay, both — don’t rub it in) of you to do the same. I think you’ll find the suggestion most agreeable.
So, the cause du jour is to eliminate ‘stage fright’. But perhaps not the kind of stage fright you’re thinking of. When most people think of ‘stage fright’, they have an actor or public speaker in mind, and the person is stuttering and sweaty-palmed at the thought of delivering speeches or memorized lines in front of a roomful of strangers. That’s pretty much the standard definition of ‘stage fright’.
This, however, is not that kind of stage fright.
No, this is a phenomenon — nay, a harrowing and debilitating psychological condition — that predominately affects the menfolk of the world. It’s possible that women suffer from it, too, but I don’t have data on that sort of thing. Any insights on that — once I get to the damned point and tell you what I’m talking about — would be greatly appreciated. Ooh, and pictures would be nice, too.
(Yes, you’ll realize how perverted that is in just a minute, if you haven’t guessed already.)
Okay, where was I? Ah, ‘stage fright’. Right.
Now, like all proper harrowing psychological conditions, this one manifests itself in the bathroom. Public bathrooms, most often, though any old pissbucket will do.
(Which, coincidentally, was also the motto of the folks who first colonized Louisiana — ‘Any Old Pissbucket Will Do’. Seriously, why the hell else would they have stayed there? Hot, humid, swampy and ‘gator-ridden… look, catfish and ‘crawdads’ can’t taste that good. I don’t care what you’re puttin’ in the hushpuppies, dude. Get the hell back to civilization, would you?)
But back to ‘stage fright’. And here’s what it is, in case you’re still not sure. Imagine you’re a guy.
(Guys, you can skip this step. Unless you’ve been having second thoughts, of course. Then, you should play along, too.)
Now, imagine you’re in a shared bathroom of some kind. In an office, or a stadium, whereever. Now, imagine you’ve got to take a whiz.
(Sorry if that’s a bit saucy, ladies — remember, though, you’re a guy right now. We say shit like that when you’re not around. And quite often, even when you are.)
So, no problem so far. But. But. Now imagine there’s someone else in the bathroom, too. Using an adjacent urinal, maybe, or washing his hands, or just milling around by the towel dispenser. Maybe there are several people in there with you — you know, if it’s a really big bathroom, or you’re in Turkey. Something like that.
Anyway, ‘stage fright’ happens when that other person or people — your ‘audience’ — gets the better of you, and you simply can’t go. You want to go. Sometimes, you need to go. But you can’t. It’s self-consciousness, or embarrassment, or shyness — doctors aren’t really sure. All we know is that you’re about to empty your bladder, and then — no go. Wee-wee aborted. Piss prohibited. It’s the ‘other’ cock block.
Sometimes you can fight through it. You can calm yourself, and take a deep breath, and just squeeeeeeze like hell, and you might get the flow going. But that’s rare. Usually, there are only two options. One is to wait the situation out, and hope the onlookers-who-almost-certainly-really-aren’t-looking get the hell out and let you throw down. The other is to admit defeat, zip up, and go on your way. Neither of these are good choices. And so goes the horrible disease known as ‘stage fright’.
Just about every man has had it at one time or another. For some, it’s chronic. They go into the loo just praying for a solo flight. Others are afflicted only rarely. But we’ve all been there. We’ve all felt the shame. It’s nothing to get all maudlin and weepy about. We’re all in this together. Each of us has stood there for half an hour with our weiner hanging over the bowl and finally walked out, pissed off but still full of urine. Sure, most of us have remembered to wrap Mr. Happy back in our trousers before retreating, but still — there’s a lot of pain and frustration there.
Well, folks, I say ‘No more!‘ I’ve had enough, and I’m ready to help rid the world of this wretched nightmare. And you’re going to help. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna keep a lookout for guys who are suffering from this condition. And every time we’re the ‘other guy’ in the bathroom, we’re gonna do our part to help eliminate ‘stage fright’ forever. And what’s our part? Well, it’s this:
As soon as we detect a ‘problem pisser’, we’ll angle over to the sink. We’ll wash our hands — or just pretend to, as usual — and then head to the exit. We’ll open the door, step aside, and let it close. Without leaving, mind you. We’ll hang out right by the door, being vewy vewy quiet, until we hear those first precious drops flowing into the urinal. That’s when we’ll unleash our cure. Which consists of simply leaping wildly at the person’s back and screaming,
‘Aha!! So you can piss with someone in the room! Hah! You’re cured!‘
Really, I think it’ll lead to some truly beautiful moments. Tearful hugs and heartfelt thanks. All that shit. It could be the most important psychotherapeutic technique since electroshock. I think it’ll be big, and you can all be a part of it. Sure, it could get a bit messy. But I for one think it’s worth it. Now who’s with me?
Permalink | 11 CommentsI made a rather interesting discovery in my car yesterday.
And by ‘interesting‘, I really mean ‘annoying and inconvenient‘.
(I hope that doesn’t throw you off. I still mean ‘discovery’ when I say ‘discovery’, and ‘yesterday’ when I say ‘yesterday’. I wouldn’t screw with all the words in the sentence — that would just be rude. So rest assured that ‘I’ and ‘car’ are pretty much what you’re thinking of, too.
Unless you’re thinking that ‘I’ is you. That would be wrong. ‘I’ is me. You weren’t there. I checked.
Anyway, it’s just ‘interesting’ that’s filling in for other words. I just wanted to make sure we were clear. You may now return to your regularly scheduled blog entry.)
So what did I discover? Well. I’ll tell you.
(Really, that’s the whole damned point, now, isn’t it?)
My car’s heater / air conditioner has four speeds.
(That’s not what I discovered yesterday. I pretty much got the hang of the four-speed thing the first day I had the car.
Okay, fine. It took a couple of days to sink in. I got it in the first week, though. Don’t be pissy.)
In any case, four speeds. Air conditioning — four speeds. Heater — four speeds. Defrost? Four. Plain old fan? Four. One knob, four settings — ‘1 2 3 4’. Pretty standard, from what I’ve seen out there.
So, the discovery is this: sometime in the last two days, three of those speeds gave up the ghost. Just stopped working. Gave at the office, as it were. All I’ve got now is ‘4’. It’s gale-force wind, or it’s nothing. Hurricane force, or no breeze at all. On all the way, or all the way off.
I can’t tell you how fucking annoying this is.
Controlling the temperature in the car has suddenly become a lot like flying a lunar module. The rockets only fire at one speed, namely ‘Balls-Out Mega Super She-Canna-Take-Much-More-Cap’n High’. So adjustments get made with short bursts of the jets, which is really not the way you want to handle these sorts of things.
Take this afternoon, for instance. As I mentioned in my last post, I came home for lunch today. It was about forty degrees in Boston this afternoon. Here’s how the drive home went:
12:13pm: Reach car after six-block walk (because I have no parking at the office; don’t fucking get me started…)
12:16pm: Notice that heat built up from walk is frosting up cold windows. Turn on superheated plasma jets known as ‘Defrost, Speed 4’.
12:18pm: Windshield begins to melt. Interior of car reaches 231 degrees Fahrenheit. Turn defroster off.
12:29pm: Interior of car has equilibrated to outside temperature, which is approximately twelve degrees colder than the vacuum of deep space. Decide that a bit of heat may be in order.
12:30pm: Turn on heater at highest speed. Immediately blown backwards a la the fruitcake in that new Apple G5 commercial. Eyebrows are singed off immediately. Steering wheel warps visibly.
12:31pm: Scramble back to front seat and turn heater off. Dashboard is bubbling. Glove compartment is smoking. Temperature approaches that on the surface of the sun.
12:32pm: Get ‘bright’ idea to use fan to cool car interior off again. Turn on fan, also on setting ‘4’. Shirt is immediately blown off my body and is plastered to the rear windshield. Icicles form on the moonroof.
12:33pm: Turn air conditioner off. Decide to cut my losses and travel the rest of the way without additional ‘help’ from the climate control system.
12:38pm: Reach home. Eyebrows are history. Cheeks are windburned. Nipples are frostbitten. Car has depreciated several thousands of dollars in past half hour. I vow to never eat lunch or drive my car again.
Okay. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. I made a lot of that up.
(Though my nipples are extraordinarily sensitive this evening. Coincidence?)
Still, this all-or-nothing shit is not gonna get it done.
Besides the bother of constantly turning the damned thing on and off, it can hardly be salubrious, now, can it? From sauna to freezer, igloo to desert, the Arctic to Hurricane Alley — this can’t be good for my health. And goodness knows I don’t need any more help in running my body into the ground. I’m doing just fine on my own. Yeah, thanks.
So I suppose I’ll have to have this air circulationy thingamabob looked at soon. I just don’t think I can live like this much longer, particularly with winter coming on ‘hot and heavy’. Or, to be more accurate, ‘cold and clammy’. The last thing I need is a bout of the friggin’ flu because I can’t get comfortable in the car. Seriously, with just the ‘Wind Tunnel’ setting still functional, the temperature is where I want it for about six seconds every ten minutes. I get in the car, it’s thirty degrees. It rockets past sixty-five or so on the way to friggin’ ninety when I turn the heater or defroster on. When I turn them off, it plummets through the comfort zone back to freezing. I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do.
So, if you see me driving along in a snowstorm with my windows down and my shirt off, you’ll know I haven’t gotten this fixed yet. I’m out there with the heater on, trying to find the magic mix of hot and cold and wind, so I can just set the damned thing and leave it alone. Next time, though, I’ll be prepared. I’ll have my sunblock on and my nipple-warmers at the ready. I’ll beat this thing, dammit. Just you watch.
Permalink | 4 CommentsMan, I am so tempted to hang around here at home for another few minutes.
It’s a slow day at the office.
(Yes, already, after I’ve been there less than two weeks. No, no, that doesn’t say something about me that I don’t want to think about. I am not lazy and apathetic and easily distracted. Now hush up. I’m trying to tell you something.)
Anyway, I slipped home for lunch at around noon. In other words, about an hour and a half ago, and it’ll take me twenty minutes to get back. I don’t think I’ll be missed, per se. (Story of my life, that…)
But I do want to get something accomplished, and make a good impression, and grow up big and strong and all that shit.
Still. There’s this other thing.
Of course, since I’m home, I’m at the computer. And since I’m at the computer, I’m checking out some favorite blogs, and poring over my server stats. And here’s what I see, with respect to the latter:
My humble little site has gotten a grand total of 4,995 hits.
(No, not today, you whacked-out asscopter. What do I look like, Silflay friggin’ Hraka over here? I mean total, since the dawn of time. Which for the purposes of this discussion was mid-afternoon on June 15th. Nothing that happened before that has any real significance. For now, anyway. You can go back to caring about shit older than that in a minute.)
(By the way, how did ‘asscopter’ work out? It popped into my head today, and I wanted to try it out. I even thought I might have come up with it myself, since I don’t remember ever hearing it before. But as usual, I was scooped. Hell, it’s even got it’s own domain. Where the hell have I been? One of you couldn’t send me a frickin’ memo?)
Anyway, I’m tempted to stick around a little longer and write a proper post, thereby (hopefully) bearing witness to the counter as it ticks over the magical 5k mark. I could even blow up some balloons or something to celebrate. If we have any. Or maybe just some old condoms — like I always say, any inflatable latex bag will do in a pinch. Which, um, isn’t usually quite as bad as it sounds. Almost? Yes. Quite? Probably not.
But I really should be going. Oh, I’ll be back this evening. I’ve got a topic all ready for the day (hint: it involves my car), and I’m ready to roll with it. And now, I’ll have to also find the words to thank all of you who’ve helped to bring this site to the brink — nay, the very cusp — of a hallowed, if somewhat arbitrary, milestone. Why, I’m all misty-eyed just thinking about it. (Even if most of you first stumbled onto the site while surfing for greasy porn, or quasi-political bullshit. Or greasy porn and quasi-political bullshit. Hey, what you do in your spare time is none of my business. Just so long as you drop by occasionally to say hello, I’m cool with all of your lifestyle choices.
(Well, generally cool. I still reserve the right to put plastic over the furniture and put an ass-guard on the dog if you come to visit. Can’t be too careful, you know.)
So, I suppose I’ll just have to miss the big event. (Unless it had the decency to happen while I’ve been absorbed in this bit of blather.) And I’ll have to wait until a bit later to thank you properly. And I do mean ‘properly‘. So get out the whipped cream and assume ‘the position’, folks. We gonna have a partay when I get back. Ruff!
Permalink | No CommentsSo, I was flipping through my list of fun blogs this morning, and came across Lara’s litany of weird shit that she does.
Well.
I’m not one to play the one-up game… but I think I probably have her beat. I’m just a half-step shy of a straight-jacket and a protective helmet. Any tiny little insult or aggravation could plunge me into the abyss. So don’t be a dickhead; you don’t want me on your conscience for the rest of your life.
(Okay, fine, so it could be worse, I suppose. Despite my rather obvious failings and peccadillos, I’m still able to function, more or less, in society. I’m not completely antisocial, or maniacal, or misanthropic. I don’t belong to a cult. I don’t (currently) suffer from psychoses, or mood swings, or even trichotillomania. So it could be worse. Hell, I could be Harland Williams. If that isn’t enough to drive a guy off a tall building, I don’t know what the hell is.)
Anyway, I don’t want to go into the full list of oddball bullshit that I make myself — and the ones I love, naturally — put up with. Neither of us has that kind of time. Plus, I’ve covered a lot of it before; check out some of my 100 Things, or browse through the archives. Really, there’s plenty enough maladjusted, schizophrenic nonsense in there for everyone. Trust me.
But Lara has inspired me to mention something that I haven’t written about before. First, I’ll say that I usually eat the way she does — crappy junk first, and tasty stuff last. Really, that’s the only way that makes sense. You don’t want to be down to your last bite or two of dinner, staring at the last three Brussels sprouts or a lukewarm lump of liver. That ruins the whole damned meal. So, of course you gobble that crap up first — and as fast as you can, lest you smell or taste the rancid shit — and save the good shit till the end. The steak, or the garlic bread, or whatever’s smothered in cheese. That’s what eating’s all about.
That’s not the real kicker, though. What I’m really here to confess is that I’m a ‘plate cleaner’. I mean a compulsive plate cleaner. At home, in a restaurant, at a dinner party — it really doesn’t matter. If it’s on my plate, and it’s not obviously garnish or silverware of some kind, then it’s goin’ in my mouth. And if there’s sauce or liquid of some kind involved, then I’m getting just about all of that, too. I’ll use whatever absorbent-looking food I can find to sop, squeegee, or scoop whatever juicy goodness (or even not-so-goodness) is on my plate.
Really, it’s not important whether I like the food, though tasty dishes are a lot easier to clean up than bland, nasty crap. But the critical thing is that I finish it. Mealtimes are strategy sessions — potatoes have to be saved for a while, since they’re good at soaking up sauce and gravy. Bread’s a good liquid-control food, too. Tortilla chips are good for scooping. Every food has it’s purpose and place; my chowtimes are veritable symphonies of action — a well-placed bit of chicken here, a dinner roll put to good use there. And all the while, the fork is flying — sculpting, pushing, and mixing the foods, all with the final goal in mind: total and complete annihilation of all foods on the plate. No crumb shall be uneaten. No drop of sauce remains. When I’m done, you’d never know that there was food on the plate to begin with. The plate’s clean enough to eat from.
(Well, okay, not that clean. There’s probably some drool and stuff on it. C’mon, it’s just a saying.)
And why do I go to such trouble? Well… um… er… honestly, I don’t know. My friends don’t obsessively clean their plates. My wife doesn’t do it. Hell, my parents don’t even do it. You’d think that if I got it from anyone, it would be from my parents ramming, ‘Clean your plate! Clean your plate!‘ down my throat while I was growing up.
But they didn’t. One of my father’s favorite sayings is, ‘Eat what you want. But want what you eat.‘ Which seems to be some weird, old-fart way of saying, ‘Just eat until you get full, then stop. Don’t worry about what’s left on the plate.‘
And yet, I do worry about what’s left. Or rather, I would, if I ever left anything behind. But it just doesn’t happen. I’m routinely accused of licking my plate, or letting the dog clean it, or wiping the remnants into my hair.
(The last of which probably comes from my being a messy eater, and ending up with food on my shirt, or hands, or yes, in my hair. Hey, I said the food’s got to get the hell off my plate. I never said it had to all make it to my mouth. I’m not getting any points for technique here.)
So, that’s my story. If I thought you could think any less of me, I might not have told you. But I suspect that this changes your opinion of me very little, if at all. Honestly, how far could I possibly have to fall? And now I’m done. I think I’ll go eat a cookie to celebrate. And when I say ‘eat a cookie’, you can bet your ass I mean the whole cookie. I’ll chomp down every last bite, and then mouth-Hoover the crumbs off the napkin. If I lose a few on the floor, that’s fine. My loss; the dog’s gain — that’s fair. But you better believe that the napkin — or the plate, if I use one — will be pristinely clean when I’m done. Why? Dunno. That’s just how it happens. When the cookie crumbles in my house, it still gets eaten. No damned cookie is gonna get away from me. Not in my house.
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