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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’ve noticed lately that I’ve been making too much sense.
Okay, that’s an easily argued-down point. Let me rephrase it.
I’ve noticed lately that I’ve been staying on topic in my posts. Too much on topic.
See, if I actually start out writing about something, and actually write about that same thing all the way through, never stopping to smell the roses or launch onto some inane tangent, then the title of this blog doesn’t make much damned sense, then, does it? I can’t very well say ‘Where the hell was I? when I know at all times where the hell I am. It’s a simple bit of logic.
At the same time, I’ve been flying without a gimmick lately.
(No, not without a ‘gizmo’. Without a ‘gimmick’. My ‘gizmo’ is just fine, thank you very much.)
I used to have a gimmick — I came up with a new blog tagline with every post, whether I needed one or not. Over a hundred of them, in fact. But I wrapped that up a while back, and since then have been without a trick or twist to spice things up.
Well I say, ‘No more!‘ I’ve decided to take care of both problems at once. Kill the proverbial ‘two pedestrians with one swerve’, if you will.
(What, you don’t like that one? How about ‘kill two Siamese twins with one ill-advised operation’? ‘Two nuts with one crack’? ‘Two tiddles with one wink’? ‘Two…’ You know, I forgot what my point was.
Where the hell was I?
(God, I missed saying that.))
Anyway, I’ve come up with a plan for mixing things up a bit, and with a daily gimmick, to boot. Why, yes, thank you, I am just as pleased as punch. Thanks for noticing.
And what’s the gimmick, you ask? (Assuming you haven’t jammed your eyeballs out with a pencil while waiting for me to get to the damned point.) Well, it’s just this:
Every day, from now until the universe stops expanding and implodes in upon itself (or until I get bored of this little game, whichever comes first), I will, once and only once, use the Merriam-Webster official Word of the Day in a post. Doesn’t matter what it is, or how little it has to do with the topic I’ve chosen. And I’m not just going to plop it in by saying, ‘Oh, the Word of the Day is persnickety, by the way.‘ In other words, I’m not going to cheat. I’m going to learn the word, and use it — highlighted in red or something so you can identify it — as it’s intended in a real, live sentence. I’ll find a way, no matter how ridiculous. Just watch me.
So, that’s my gimmick. Be on the lookout for it. I just subscribed to get those words in my mailbox every day, and I’m already working on today’s. It may not be much, folks, but it’s all I can offer right now. Hope you like it. Maybe we’ll both learn something. Stranger things have happened, right?
Permalink | No CommentsLike most people I know, I have a cell phone.
Un-like most inconsiderate fucktards who own these devices, however, I generally keep mine on ‘Vibrate’ mode. Which means that I’m not likely to be the asshat whose phone annoyingly goes off in the middle of a meeting, or a concert, or dear old grandpa’s wake.
(Which is kind of a shame, really, because I have a much better ringtone than most people, when I do turn the ringer on. When it’s not on ‘Vibrate’, my phone plays the Liberty Bell March by John Philip Sousa. Many of you — the cool ones, anyway — will recognize that as the theme music played at the beginning of each episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus. I’m not generally much for musical ringy-dingy bullshit, but this is just too cool. If only it did the *splat* at the end…)
Anyway, my phone’s usually on ‘Vibrate’. And, if I’ve bothered to remember my phone — a hit and miss proposition, I’ll admit — then the phone’s typically in my front left pants pocket. So I do get a bit of a jolt (and sometimes a little ‘excitement’) when I get a call. But that’s not the weird thing. Lots of people have phones vibrating in their pockets from time to time.
(And some people have other things vibrating in their pockets. But we’re not gonna talk about those people. Or shake hands with them. Don’t encourage the pervs, folks. It only eggs them on.)
No, the odd thing is that I’ve started getting ‘phantom calls’. In other words, sensations — somewhere down there — that make me think my phone is ringing, when it really isn’t. Maybe this has happened to you. Or maybe you’re normal — not knowing, I cannot say. So I’ll keep writing, in case you’re unfamiliar with this situation.
It’ll usually happen when I’m sitting — in the car, maybe, or at my desk. And suddenly — *rrr-rrr-rrr*. Or so I think. Something down in the nethers gets all jiggly, in just such a way as to make me think that I’m getting a call. So I fish my phone out, and — nothing. No call, no missed calls, no love whatsoever. Just the lingering memory of that oh-so-sweet jingly-jangly feeling in my crotchal region, just to the left of the really good bits, along the inner thigh.
Now, my question is, what the hell is causing this? Are there ants in my pants? Is little Winky taking a mid-afternoon stroll around the grounds? Do I have the dreaded ‘trembling testes disease’? Or is it all in my head? Somewhere, in the back of my twisted little mind, am I thinking, ‘Man, I wish my thigh would wiggle, just a little bit‘, until I will it to happen?
And am I the only one with this little… um, issue? Anybody else out there get these sorts of vibraty sensations?
(And please, people, these are the only sorts of ‘vibraty sensations’ I’m interested in hearing about. I get plenty of spam every day advertising ‘girls with toys’ and ‘hot fun with hand mixers’ and ‘hey, look where I’ve got my electric toothbrush’. Really, if I was interested in those types of vibratorial shenanigans, I’d just click on the links, all right?
Or… ahem, *cough*, more of them, that is. Hey, I had to see the hand mixer thing. That shit is crazy!)
Anyway, I hope I’m not alone in this particular sordid little mess. I’d hate to think I’m the only one with naughty bits that shimmy and vibrate on their own. ‘Cause that would be scary. Help a brother out here, would you? ‘Fess up — you know you’re with me here, right? Right?
Of course, if my twig and berries start playing the Liberty Bell March, you’re off the hook. Even I know when it’s time to call in professional help. Especially if I get the Monty Python *splat* at the end of the song. I don’t even wanna know about that shit. Damn.
Permalink | 4 CommentsToday I witnessed, yet again, the phenomenon of the ‘More Interesting Mutual Friend‘.
This little vignette plays out hundreds, if not thousands, of times every day, in offices and at parties and in bars all over the world. There are always three players. The first two are acquainted, but there’s something… not quite right with them. Maybe they don’t know each other well, or perhaps there’s been some previous unpleasantness. Maybe Person A caught Person B with their finger jammed up their nose, and Person B knows they were caught, um, red-handed. So to speak.
(Green-fingered? No. Too graphic. Moving on.)
Or maybe the two had a fight, or one knows the other cheats on their taxes, or maybe they had a secret torrid affair that ended in tears, cheap red wine, and court-enforced restraining orders. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. The point is that Person A and Person B know each other, but really aren’t all that comfortable chatting together, or being alone together, or even standing near each other without an easy escape route.
That’s when Person C comes in.
(Or ‘Person 3’, or ‘III’, or ‘Colonel Mustard’… I don’t really give a shit what you call these people. Just pay attention.)
Person C is the More Interesting Mutual Friend. Person A knows Person C, and they get along quite nicely. Regular chums, they are. Ditto for Person B and Person C. So when this third actor comes moseying into the scene, the relief of the first two players is palpable. The tension and discomfort just melts away — Person A can safely talk to Person C, and Person B can chitter back and forth with Person C, and as long as Person C is talking, A and B don’t even have to look at each other. As the saying goes, ‘Two’s a creepy, stilted, nauseating conversation, but three’s a party!’ Or something like that. Maybe I’m thinking of a different saying.
Anyway, it’s an interesting phenomenon, and I got to see another example of it today. I got on the elevator at work — on the fifteenth floor — and started riding down to the lobby for some lunch. On the twelfth floor, a woman — petite, thirties, glasses — got on. We stopped again at ten, and a man — thirties, athletic, snappily dressed — entered. Here’s what happened as we passed the next few floors:
Him: Oh. Hey. How are you?
Her: Good, good. Um, good. You?
Him: Pretty good, pretty good.
Her: Yeah.
(Uncomfortable silence as we pass three more floors.)
An older lady of no relevance (to this discussion, anyway; I’m sure she’s pertinent to somebody out there) got on the elevator at seven. By the time we neared the fifth floor, it was clear that something more needed to be said between the two, just in the interest of politeness. And so something was said. Namely:
Him: Um, nice pants.
Her: …
Her: Oh. Thanks.
That’s when we reached floor five, and the More Interesting Mutual Friend got on. There were five or six of us in the elevator at that point, but the two I was listening in on nearly leapt at him, so delighted were they to have someone else to talk to.
Him: Hey! Joe!
Her: Joe! Joe!
Him: Woo hoo! It’s Joe! Yes!
Joe: Er, hey?
Now, we’ve all been in these poor folks’ shoes at one time or another. We’ve either been the first-act schlubs, fumbling and farting our way through an uncomfortable conversation, praying that some More Interesting Mutual Friend will come along to save us.
And, whether we’ve realized it or not, we’ve been that friend, too. We’ve walked in on some horrific, skin-crawly, gnarly conversation and saved the day. We probably didn’t mean to, of course. We were just walking by to ask a question, or ordering another beer, or heading for the john. And all of a sudden, bap! Suddenly, we’re these two peoples’ best friend. It’s all ‘How the hell are you?‘ and ‘Lemme buy you a drink!‘ and ‘Gee, your hair smells terrific!‘ You just have to realize what’s happening — these people haven’t suddenly forgotten that they don’t like you very much. They’re not really your new best pal, and they’re not going to invite you over, or lend you money, or swap spouses with you. No amount of wishing will make it happen, dude. Let the dream die.
But for that one magical moment, you’re the best game in town. These folks will be hanging on every word, ’cause anything you say will be a hundred times better than the insincere pleasantries they were just exchanging. You’re the cavalry, the savior, the man in the white hat. You the pimp daddy, if only for a while.
So soak it up. Enjoy your time in the sun. Next time, you might be Person A or B instead. You’ll be the one clamoring over some half-friend who’s saving you from a more helling conversation. But don’t feel bad. It happens to all of us. Just do your time and get through it.
Or do what the guy in the story above did, and get off at the ‘More Interesting Mutual Friend’s floor, even though that’s not the elevator button you pressed. Like I said, folks, do your time — but if you see an out, for God’s sakes, take it! Dont’ be a hero. Person B wants your ass out of there just as badly as you want to leave. There’s no need to prolong the agony. You’ll be back in that nightmare soon enough. Trust me.
Permalink | 1 CommentI have an orientation meeting at work tomorrow. Another one.
My new job is cool and all, but splitting time in two offices is a big fat bunch of doo-doo. Ahem. Sorry, didn’t mean to get all vulgar and shit on you there. My bad.
Anyway, getting things going is becoming a bit of a pain in the ass. Two offices means two commutes (and reliably cheap parking at neither location), two desks, two sets of bosses, two email addresses, two security IDs, blabbety blah blabbety blah-ble-blah. And two daylong series of meetings to tell me not to share confidential information, give out my password, steal, cheat, lie, or covet my cubicle-neighbor’s wife. Or something like that — I’ve pretty much decided to pay attention to neither. You know, a sort of non-violent protest against the rampant bureaucracy. Very Ghandiesque, no?
In any event, it’s been a chore getting settled in. And to say that I’m ‘settled in’ after a week would be an exaggeration. No — no, a misconception. Nope, not that either — how about a ‘bald-faced hopelessly optimistic lie’? Yeah, that’s about right.
I like to believe — as per my M.O. — that none of this thumbs-up-asses business is my fault. And this time, I might even be right. (For once.) I think I’ve done all I can to get the ball rolling. I went through orientation at one office a week — a full week before I officially started. I attended not one, nor two, nor even three, but four meetings in the two weeks before my first day. I filled out all my forms, and made all my appointments, and took my health screening like a man.
(Well, okay, it didn’t involve a prostate exam, or even a ‘turn your head and cough’ kind of thing, so I guess I really didn’t take it particularly like a man, or a woman, or anything else. They took some blood and gave me a subcutaneous TB test. Any old mammal could have served the purpose. So I guess I ‘took it like a badger’, or ‘took it like an ocelot’, as much as I ‘took it like a man‘. It’s just a figure of speech, all right? Don’t be such a tightass.)
The point is, I think I did my part. Yet here I am, six days in, with no email address, half a desk at once site and a borrowed desk at the other, one ID card, no parking, and no dedicated network access in either place. And, most consternatingly — hey, don’t laugh when I make up words, bitch — another orientation session to go to tomorrow. Guh.
And if that’s not enough — and apparently, it isn’t — I’m not even going to be ‘official’ at one of the offices for another two weeks. See, there’s this other organization (an ‘Institute’, to be exact) that’s being formed on November 1st. It’s a collaborative effort between the two groups I’m working for now. And at this second office, they’re not hiring anyone under the ‘old’ regime; I can go through orientation (tomorrow) and be assigned an email address, but I won’t have an ID card, an official desk, or any of that important shit until the first of the month.
And really, who am I kidding by saying ‘the first’? Please. The new institute may come online on the first, but how long do you think it’ll take them to getting around to things like ‘Peon Registration’? I’m a worker bee, for chrissakes; my part of the totem pole is friggin’ underground. So I’ll likely be getting that ID card and desk assignment for Christmas, or even later. Maybe I’ll just work out of my damned car. That might be easier. And maybe I wouldn’t get so many parking tickets. This job is fucking expensive!
Okay, enough bitching. This is actually going to be a really cool job, and the paperwork shit will be over with soon. So, lest I leave you thinking that the job is all piss and no vinegar… or, um, something like that… I’ll tell you something fun about the office I’m going to tomorrow.
So, this is the place where I’m ‘sharing’ a desk. Actually, I think what I’m doing is more akin to ‘commandeering’ than sharing, but that’s just splitting hairs. The guy who’s normally at the desk is on vacation for three weeks. And I’m an orphan until November. We’re the perfect deskmates — I’m polite, considerate, quiet, and don’t rummage through his shit. And him… well, he’s in another country or something, and therefore physically unable to bug the shit out of me. Like I said, perfect.
Anyway, I’m mooching this guy’s desk temporarily. He’s got the usual array of books, and notes, and office shit, and assorted ‘knick-knacks’. (Though I’ve been unsuccessful so far in locating any ‘paddy-whacks’ in his office. I’ll let you know if I find any.) All in all, pretty standard stuff.
Then, though, there’s the official-looking piece of paper taped to the wall over the phone. It’s typed — obviously a standard form of some kind — and along the top, it reads, in big black letters, ‘ATF Bomb Threat Phone Checklist‘. It’s one of the funniest pieces of paper that I’ve ever read. It shouldn’t be, but it is. I’m not sure whether that’s my problem, as usual, or whether the people who’ve written the thing are at fault. In any case, I really don’t know how helpful this ‘Checklist’ would be, should the unthinkable ever happen. Perhaps you’ll agree.
So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll post the ten questions (and one final instruction) from the form, and for each, I’ll try to guess what sort of answer the caller on the other end of the line might give. Remember, this is the form that’s meant to be referenced if some psychotic douchemonkey rings up to say that he’s planning to atomize the building you’re currently standing in. Or ‘she’. Could be ‘she’. Never is, but could be. Got to give the ladies props, right? One of them could get out of bed one day and decide to dynamite the shit out of an office park. Could happen, I guess.
Anyway, on to the form. After you fill in your name, and ‘exactly‘ what the caller says, you’re instructed to ask the caller these ten questions. Here we go:
1. When is the bomb going to explode?
Bomb-Toting Freakjob (BTF) Possible Responses:
2. Where is the bomb?
BTF Possible Responses:
3. What does it look like?
BTF Possible Responses:
4. What kind of bomb is it?
BTF Possible Responses:
5. What will cause it to explode?
BTF Possible Responses:
6. Did you place the bomb?
BTF Possible Responses:
7. Why?
BTF Possible Responses:
8. Where are you calling from?
BTF Possible Responses:
9. What is your address?
BTF Possible Responses:
10. What is your name?
BTF Possible Responses:
So, after the world of information that you glean from this rather brilliant line of questioning, you’re asked to make a judgement of your own. You know, if you haven’t been blown into little tiny pieces in the three hours or so it took you to go through the questionnaire section of the form. This last bit of detective work involves a determination of the caller’s state of mind, based on characteristics you’ve picked up from the caller’s voice.
Your choices are:
| Calm | Stutter | Giggling | Stressed |
| Disguised | Slow | Deep | Accent |
| Nasal | Sincere | Crying | Loud |
| Angry | Lisp | Squeaky | Slurred |
| Broken | Rapid | Excited | Normal |
Now, I don’t know about you, but when I see a list like this, I can only think of those little ‘mood magnet’ thingies with a bunch of corresponding cartoon faces that all look like Calvin (of ‘& Hobbes’ fame). Some people (me included) put them on their fridge (or outside their office), and use a little indicator to show people what kind of mood they’re in.
(Okay, I don’t do that. The one on my fridge is permanently stuck on ‘Lovestruck’. Yeah, I’m a dopey married sap. Suck me, all right?
Anyway, most people lie on the damned things, anyway. I always use to check the things before talking to people at the office, and they were always wrong. I’d go in expecting ‘Hopeful’ and get ‘Overwhelmed’. I’d think I was walking into ‘Cautious’, only to end up with ‘Enraged’. I don’t even think ‘Pissy’ or ‘Asshatted’ were choices… yet that’s what I ran into more often than not. Where are the frigging ‘truth in advertising’ laws when you really need them, eh?)
Anyway, I suppose we’re meant to ignore the fact that some of the words on the list are adjectives, and some are nouns. I’m sure such distinctions are irrelevant when there’s two tons of TNT packed under your water cooler. And try not to think about what some of the more ridiculous combinations might sound like. Like ‘rapid, calm, and lisping’. Or ‘deep, squeaky, and slurred’. Just pray that you’re never called by a maniacal Oompah-Loompah, or Eric Cartman. Or my mother-in-law.
(But don’t tell her I said that.)
Anyway, that’s my rant for the day. Hope you’ve enjoyed it. It’s taken a while to get all of this out. So I think I’m gonna go into the kitchen, change my mood on the fridge to ‘Exhausted’ and hit the sack. Same time tomorrow, folks?
Permalink | 1 CommentWell, that was weird. I’m just shell-shocked now.
It all has to do with procrastination. I am an expert procrastinator. World-class, baby. And not just with icky, distasteful, or boring things. No way, dude. I procrastinate about everything. Just today, I put off blogging until the last minute, and completely zoned out on working on my fledgeling comedy routine. That’s over and above the stuff from work that I planned to do today. And this is nothing new. I’m an equal opportunity putter-offer.
So it may come as no surprise that I never watched the end of 24, my very most favoritest show. And not just the last episode, either. Any old procrastinating fool can miss an episode. No, folks, I spaced on the final three shows. I recorded them all — this was in my pre-TiVo days — and just let the tape sit, collecting dust, for what, four months? Six? Since the last season ended, whenever that was.
But now, the show’s starting up again, ready to go into its third season. And my wife and I didn’t want to miss any storylines.
(Yes, I dragged her down with me. She wasn’t allowed to watch the taped episodes unless I could watch, too. Of course, onve we got the TiVo, she wasn’t able to watch, permission be damned. Hell, it took me twenty minutes to find the magic combination of TV settings and remote controls that would magically get us the picture from the VCR. Thank goodness we don’t have to do that often.)
So, we decided to catch up, all in one night. And god-damn, was that intense! Holy shit! If it wasn’t somebody getting shot or stabbed or crashing their car, it was planes ready to drop bombs all over the place, or politicos sniping and sneering at each other. Damn.
It was tough to watch the whole thing at once, too. We taped episodes during the season sometimes. And — predictably — we would often watch the taped show on the night before, or the evening of, the next episode. So we’d had some experience with back-to-back heart-pounding shows. But three in a row? That’s madness! Madness, I tell you!
Or at least ‘stressness’. I’d forgotten how easily I get sucked into that show, and scheme and race and seethe with the actors on screen. It’s the only show I’ve never missed — or at least taped — in the past two years. So I had to catch up before the show begins again next Tuesday. But now I’m all jittery. Three hours of 24 is like a frigging caffeine enema — I won’t get to sleep until three in the morning. My heart is still all pitter-pattery.
But the good news is that the wife and I are ready to get jiggy with the new season now. And with TiVo to help out, we won’t even have to worry about remembering to record it. It’ll show up automagically every week, whether we’re paying attention or not. Which is good, because we’re often not. Ain’t technology grand?
What I’m afraid of, though, is that our little TiVo friend will do nothing but feed our disease. With the show guaranteed to go on tape every week, we’ll have no pressure to watch the thing when it’s actually aired. I can see us relying on the ‘miracle box’ to record everything, and just watching when we ‘get to it’. Which, we’ve shown, can be weeks, or even months, later.
I’ve even done the math. The TiVo will hold thirty-five hours of shows. 24 has — duh — twenty-four hours’ worth of episodes per season. So it’s entirely possible that we won’t watch a single episode during the broadcast season. We may just let them accumulate, show after show, week after week, until we have the whole damned thing on tape.
At which point… well, we’ll drag our feet, most likely. We’re not terribly adept at learning from our mistakes, I’m afraid. So you may hear this same sort of thing this time next year, only we’ll be doing a freaking marathon of 24-watching — all the episodes, not just three. Eighteen hours or more of suspense, intrigue, and gunshot wounds, once the commercials are filtered out. We’ll just wake up one Saturday and do the whole. Frigging. Thing. Eek.
I can’t even imagine what that would be like. Two-plus hours of this stuff was harrowing enough. But every cliffhanger, every car chase, and every backstabbing, two-timing double-cross? Holy edge of your seat, Batman! I’ll have to pop some Valium or something just to cope. Drink beer all the way through it, or slurp Nyquil to even out the heart-pounding fury. Jeez, what an ordeal.
I can hardly wait. Woo!
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