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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
The blog that launched a thousand ships of fools
I golfed today.
Well, that’s not entirely true, I suppose. I did go to a golf course this afternoon, and I did put on funny-looking shoes (sans tassels, though — I do have some dignity), and I did lug a bunch of metal sticks around and use them as weapons to fend off small, white, dimply balls.
(As much as I’d like to make a joke here about someone’s small, white, dimply balls, I’m just not sure that it’s a good idea. First of all, it’s kinda gross, and secondly, it’s a little bit off-topic (as usual). But mainly, it’s because I’m really only familiar with a limited set of balls, regardless of their relative size, paleness, or dimplosity, and so I can’t be entirely sure that the ‘someone’ in question wouldn’t end up being me. And I already have plenty of people available to ridicule me without joining the fray myself, thank you very much.)
Pressing on — the point is that while much of my activity this afternoon may have appeared — to the uninitated observer, at least — to resemble golf in many ways, I’m pretty sure that the fine Scottish gents who invented the game a few years back would run doughnuts around their graves if I were to actually call it golf. Because I suck hairy lemons when it comes to golf, and there doesn’t seem to be much that I can do about it, unless Arnold Palmer will bequeath me his ‘mad skillz’ upon his death.
(Which he won’t, the lousy fart. I’m getting a summer cottage and two of his cars, and that’s all the old coot will pony up. Bastard.)
Now, perhaps I should pause here for a tick. I don’t want to lose anyone, after all, and I’m not sure how familiar you are with golf. Some people can wax poetic about the sports’ giants and legends, while others don’t know the first thing about golf.
(Well, that’s not true. Everyone knows the very first thing about golf, which is that it’s wrenchingly boring to hear about, read about, watch on television, listen to on the radio, think about, dream about, practice, teach, or actually play. That much is common knowledge, of course. So just assume that there are folks out there who don’t know the second thing about golf.
(Which, by the way, is ‘keep your head down’, the most obvious, inane piece of advice that you can actually offer to someone who’s attempting to hit something that’s on the ground. And it’s all downhill from there.)
Anyway, those folks — the ‘uninitiated’ — are the people I’m trying to get up to speed here. If you know a slice from a fade, and your putter from your mashie, then you can probably skip a couple of paragraphs. You already know everything that I’m about to say.)
So, in the interest of getting you folks who haven’t tried golf, or who don’t watch golf, or hate golf, or have some other sane attitude about the game, on board with the rest of us, I’d like to offer you a brief description of golf that will help you converse with the poor bastards who don’t share your opinions on the matter. I hope that you’ll find something useful here, or interesting, or at least tickly in some pseudo-erotic way. Whatever. But most of all, I hope that you’ll latch on to the thing that I think that you need to remember, the take-home message, the One Important Point™, which is: You’re right, of course. Golf is a ghoulish, demonic nightmare. It’s mind-numbing to watch and maddening to play. Becoming a ‘golfer’ requires countless hours, specialized equipment, and bargeloads of money. It also involves the near-criminal neglect of profession, spouse, children, friends, responsibilites, and — in the most extreme cases — hygeine. And to be a ‘good golfer’, you need to… well, fine, I really have no idea what you have to do to become a good golfer, but I bet it’s excruciatingly long and terribly painful. Like a colonoscope, or a PBS miniseries. All of which is to say, your initial instinct is correct — forget about golf forever, save what I’m about to explain, and sleep long and well knowing that ‘golf’ is just one more wacky brainwashing cult that you’re not going to join in your lifetime. And to keep you on the right path, I now present Everything You Need to Know About Golf Until You’re Dead:
Golf has been around for a long, long time. It hasn’t changed very much since it was invented, which tells you right away that there’s something wrong with it. We don’t practice bloodletting in medicine any more, and sailors don’t worry about falling off the edge of the world, but golfers still follow pretty much the same rules that were used in caveman times. The biggest difference these days is that all the clothing has a Nike swoosh on it, and the balls and clubs require a mortgage to buy. Everything else is just about like it’s always been.
The game of golf was invented in Scotland, and quickly exported around the globe. The actual origins of the game are shrouded in mystery, however. Some scholars believe that golf was a cruel trick perpetrated by the ancient Scotsmen on the rest of the world for making them wear those girly skirts for all those centuries. Others think that the Scots were trying to invent hockey, and took a wrong turn somewhere near the part about needing ice to play on. Finally, there are those who say that golf is simply an ill-conceived adaptation of the ancient game of Skee-Ball, and that the ‘clubs’ were introduced because Scotsmen are all about whacking things with sticks, and wouldn’t have been very interested otherwise.
And that’s pretty much all you need to know about the history of golf.
As for the game itself, golf is surprisingly barbaric for a ‘grandpa game’.
(Checkers and shuffleboard, for instance, are rather tame by comparison. Bird-feeding can be rather violent, of course, but most of that involves strangling pigeons, which can only be seen as a Good Thing™.)
To see the true nature of golf, you must look at the game from the ball’s point of view. On each hole, the ball is brought out, perhaps rubbed or even kissed (for luck), and placed on a pedestal. After a short time in this blissful state, the ball is then thwacked as violently as possible with a hard metal stick. One of two things will then happen. If the ball has not done exactly what was intended, then the ball will be cursed and spat at, and then shwacked again, with increased gusto. If, however, the ball has done exactly as asked, it will be praised and appreciated, and then — of course — shmacked just as hard as last time, if not harder. Unless the ball develops the good sense to run the hell away into a forest or lake, the process will be repeated until the ball is irreparably damaged, at which point it will be discarded and replaced with another in short order. The whole experience is very similar to what I imagine dating Courtney Love would be like, without all the drugs and tattoos.
The basic rules of golf are pretty simple. Each golf course has eighteen holes; eighteen was chosen specifically because it doesn’t make a bit of damned sense in any numeric system (including binary, hex, decimal, etc.), and so it would be universally annoying to all the races of the world. The primary goal of golf — apart from fostering apoplectic seizures — is to dump the golf ball into the currently specified hole, using only a series of metal sticks (‘clubs’) and whatever obscenities are available in your repertiore. All of the other rules are just so much window dressing, and can be safely ignored or blatantly broken, particularly when nobody is watching. Scoring in golf is measured in ‘strokes’, which seems promising at first blush, but it turns out that more strokes is worse than less strokes, and that alone should tell you that there’s something terribly misguided about the whole endeavor.
Each hole on the golf course is designated a ‘par’ value — this is the number of strokes that Tiger Woods would need to complete the hole, if only he were just a little stronger, and cheated just a bit. The concept of par was invented to give the casual golfer an impossibly lofty goal to shoot for, thus mangling the golfer’s spirit and fostering a crippling, lifelong obsession with tackling this Herculean challenge. In the golf world, par is the perfect, pristine Cinderella, and we are all ugly, warty step-sisters, jealous and pouty and in dresses that make our asses look big.
Finally, to understand golf, you need to know that your only opponent, and therefore the only person you’re really hurting, is yourself. That’s the real evil genius behind golf — it’s now-you versus then-you, and you can’t win either way. Either you sucked then, or you suck now. More likely, as golf and inconsistency go together like pasties and G-strings, you flip-flop your sucking, depending on the weather, your mood, and how hungover you happen to be at the time. It’s best in the end to just decide that you suck before you start, get it over with, and go play Skee-Ball as the gods intended. Nearly 50 million people out there have been unable to take that important step and just ‘let it go’; I hope that now you’ll be able to succeed where they — right, we — have failed. Good luck, and godspeed.
So that’s all you really ever need to know about golf. And it’s all that I wish I knew about golf. But unfortunately, I was sucked in. I blame my father, you know. He’s a big golfer — yeah, he’s really in deep, and has been for years, I’m afraid. Some of my most vivid memories of my father involve golf in some way. Here, let’s just pick one at random, shall we? Something from childhood, maybe:
Dad (after another crappy shot of mine): Son, I think what you’re playing is called ‘military golf’.
Me (excited to learn new ‘official’ terminology): Gee, really, Dad? What’s ‘military golf’?
Dad: Well, son, it’s when you shoot the ball back and forth across the fairway, like you’re doing on this hole.
Me: Aw, shucks, Pop. I don’t get it.
Dad: ‘Military golf’. Left, right, left, right, left, right…
Me (deflated): Oh. I get it now. Hey, Dad?
Dad: Yes, son?
Me: Nobody likes a dickhead, Pop.
And… scene. Thank you, actors. Bravo! Please pick up your next scripts at the door; we’ll be working on material from the Screaming Tizzy in Fourth Grade, so please start working on your lines for next time. Thank you again.
So, I hope this has been instructive. If there’s just one person out there that I can save from this debilitating condition, then I’ll feel as though I’ve made a difference. If only one person reads this and turns their back on golf forever — well, okay, so only one person period reads this, so I’m not sure how good my chances are — then I’ll be able to sleep a little better at night. Not well, mind you, but better. No, to sleep well, I’d have to forget about that shank shot I hit on the 8th fairway, or the four-foot putt I missed for bogey on the 11th. Or the 6-iron I wrapped around the ball washer on the 15th tee, after dribbling my ball about as far as I could spit it. (But — thankfully — past the ladies’ tees. Those of you who play know what I’m talking about. Those of you who don’t… erm, just ask somebody who does, okay? Ask them what happens when their drive doesn’t reach the red tees… just don’t ask for a demonstration.) So, no, I’m not gonna sleep all that well for a while. I’ve got the disease, I’m afraid, and it plants a seed in my brain after every crappy, obscenity-laden round. It’s the delusion that ‘Next time, I’ll nail that putt’. Or ‘If I just hock my wife’s jewelry and buy those gold-plated platinum Pings, then next time, I’ll kick ass’. Or even, ‘Next time, I won’t swing like a six-year-old girl’. But they’re all lies. Dirty, stinkin’, rotten lies.
So that’s it — golf’s a curse, folks. Fear it. It’s too late for me, but you can still save yourselves. Run screaming from golf, and never look back. It’ll turn you into a drooling idiot (if this blog hasn’t done the job already) — and I’ve got the funny hats and Mickey Mouse head covers to prove it. So just say ‘no’, and lead a happy, loving, fulfilling life. In the meantime, I’ve gotta get to the driving range to try out my new driver. If I find out by Wednesday that it sucks, then I can still use the refund to get our wedding rings back. See you on the links!
Permalink | No CommentsBlog. It’s what’s for dinner.
Well, I’m not entirely sure what to regale you with today. I’ve got a couple of things brewing up there in the old noggin — some thoughts on advertising, and a story about how I discovered I’d become old, plus some other assorted and aforementioned stuff.
(Well, I’m not gonna tell you what it is; if you’ve been paying attention, you already know, then, don’cha?) But I don’t think I have time at the moment to do any of those topics the justice they so richly deserve, so I’m gonna talk about something else.
I know — I’ll give you a State of the Blog report. That’ll be fun. Or it’ll take up space, at least. And I’ll take what I can get at this point.
So, I’m happy to report that my little experiment to inappropriately attract horny pervs was a raging — or should I say throbbing? — success.
(For the backstory on this one, see this post, where I rather inadvertantly created the problem, and this one, where I decided to milk the hell out of it. And yes, that’s a transparent self-promoting ploy to get you to root around in the archives. Don’t hate me because I’m shameless.)
Anyway, I figure that Google picked up the latter of those entries sometime on Monday, June 30th, just as the hubbub that the post describes (said hubbub having been caused by the first post) was dying down. So, after never having even 30 hits in a single day, I then was the oh-so-thrilled recipient of approximately 40 on Monday, then 145, 85, 175, and 35 hits, ending on Friday, July 4th, when Google appears to have re-indexed at just after 5 am local time. The offending (and offensive!) article had by then been shelved into the archives, and it appears that Google doesn’t get around to indexing those. Bastards! Since the post has fallen off of Google’s radar, I’ve had all of six visitors — well, seven, now that you’re here, or eight, maybe — but you folks seem to have been genuinely looking for this site (God help ya), so the six-pack of happy-to-be-here miscreants is much more valuable to me than the gaggle of wank-spankers that was running around here all week.
So, really, I suppose I’m happier to report that the experiment is over, and I don’t see myself repeating it in future. As much as I like jerking around the jack-off crowd… um, so to speak, that is — their constant fevered clickings makes it pretty tough to figure out who’s really reading this crap, and which crap they’re reading. Or to put it another way, the ‘signal to nookie’ ratio becomes vanishingly low. I suppose I’d hoped that a few of the winkie-whackers might appreciate what’s here… you know, wrap up their searches, and clean off, and then come back to see what this place is all about.
(Or, as J-Lo likes to put it: ‘Come for the ass, but stay for the sass!‘)
And maybe that’s happened — we’ll see. If you fit into that category yourself, then welcome! Look around, make yourself at home. Glad to have you! Just keep your pants on and your hands on the mouse while you’re here, and we’ll be fine. I have to wash the slip covers on the couches often enough as it is, thank you very much.
Let’s see… what else? Oh, I did come up with the title I wish I’d called the blog in the first place. I’m too lazy to change it now, and of course wouldn’t want to confuse all of my loyal fans… they’d both be very upset, I’m certain. Anyway, if I’d been thinking clearly on the morning I started this thing, I’d have called it ‘Verbal Obscenities‘. Back in college, we had the following sign posted just inside the basketball gym:
No Food or Drinks Allowed
No Access to Court During Games
No Shouting of Verbal Obscenities
So, of course, our small group of friends was inclined — nay, compelled — to attend as many games as possible, and to scream ‘Verbal obscenities! Booooo! Verbal obscenities!‘ when we felt our team had been slighted. Or during free throws, or timeouts, or tipoffs — constantly, really. It was fun for the first two or three years; really, it was. Ooh, that and taunting the DIII zebras that worked the games. That made us giggle, too.
(‘Hey, ref, we know you! You won’t ref Division Two!‘)
Good times. So, anyway, in retrospect, ‘The Verbal Obscenity Blog’ would’ve been perfect. It’s descriptive, accurate (goddamn it!), and there’s a mildly amusing and highly aggravating backstory. Just like the blog itself! But I missed my chance, I suppose. It’ll just have to find a place on the Pile of Thoroughly Tragic Disappointments with the Menudo autographs I never got, and Fletch 2, and that boob job I’ve been wanting since puberty. (I know, ‘Just like a man’.) Oh, and that, um, cream I bought over the Internet.
(I should’ve known that wasn’t gonna work. As Robert Schimmel once said, ‘Wouldn’t it make your hands bigger, too?’)
That’s pretty much it, I suppose. I’ll still keep bringing you this crap, and if the three of you who read it keep tuning in, then we’ll keep this thing rolling. Oh, but one favor to ask, if you don’t mind: could you check in a couple of times a day apiece? Just for a while… I’d just hate to dip below that six-hit-a-day mark. You know, it’s an ego thing.
CRAP (see this post for the CRAP 411):
I had every intention of writing a post-Fourth of July report today all about my experience at the downtown fireworks gala. I even wrote and deleted a couple of paragraphs, but in the end I decided just to let it go. Just take a deep breath (Ahhhhhh!) and let it go. Trust me, you’re not missing much. I started by talking about the Mormon Tabernacle Choir — you know, making fun of Mormons, and wondering how they cornered the market on ‘tabernacles’, and whether ‘tabernacles’ are somehow related to ‘tallywhackers’; really, it wasn’t all that entertaining, so I just scrapped it. Here’s the only part that I thought about salvaging, about the horde of Bostonians gathered around us for the festivities:
<deleted post snippet>
I haven’t seen so many fat, sweaty people in one place since… well, since… okay, look, I’ve thought of a couple of marginally clever ways to end that sentence, but I don’t want to lie to you. I have never seen so many fat, sweaty people in all my life. Here it is twelve hours later, and the cellulite afterimage is still there every time I blink.
(You think I’m bluffing, don’t you? A’ite, Skippy, I’ll represent. Peep this:
“I haven’t seen so many fat, sweaty people in one place since:”
There, ya happy now, punkly?)
</deleted post snippet>
See, now, if that was the best I could come up with for the post, did you really want to read the rest? Nah, I didn’t think so.
(You each owe me a beer now, for not putting you through that, by the way. Self-censorship don’t come free, you know.)
Permalink | 2 CommentsHow many blogs would a blog dog log if a blog dog did log blogs?
So, it’s the Fourth of July here in the States, which is where most of you are tuning in from.
(Actually, I’ve always assumed that ‘The States’ was a global reference to this country, but it’s always been Americans who’ve used the term when I’ve heard it. Maybe it’s just one of those arrogant US-isms that we foist onto the rest of the world, and expect them to understand, adopt, and use, even if it means casting aside other words that have served the same purpose for decades or longer. Like ‘apartment’ for ‘flat’, or ‘chips’ for ‘crisps’, for example.
(Or ‘French fries’ for ‘chips’, for that matter, not to mention ‘freedom – instead – of – French – because – we’re – having – a – screaming – hissy – pissing – contest – with – them – right – now – and – this – makes – us – feel – especially – clever fries’ for ‘French fries’. I mean, who are we jerking around with all of these changes, anyway? The French don’t even call greasy fried potatoes ‘French fries’ to begin with. They’ve got their own, original, name for the things, and as I understand it, most everyone in the world already calls them ‘American Fries’, thanks to McDonalds and BK and Wendy’s (oh my!). So I think we can let it go, folks… we’ve already won the Battle to Claim the Greasiest Possible Food Made with Potatoes. Rejoice. And with the wealth of resources and ingenuity available to us, we’ll soon take the entire War to Kill Everyone in Your Country with Massive Coronaries. It’s only a matter of time, and we’re already way ahead.
Meanwhile, we’ve got the rest of the English-speaking world eating fries when we mean chips, and cookies when we mean biscuits, and so on. Did we get pissed off at them — after the Revolutionary War, maybe — and decide to change all of their food names, too? I thought the recent thing with the French was pretty silly, frankly, but it seems that there may be precedent in our foreign policy history for exactly this sort of unilateral foodstuff nomenclature dictum. How’s that for a way to instill fear and respect into your opponents during a heated debate on matters of global security or economic stability? ‘Ambassador, we may agree to disagree if you wish, but I must warn you — if you do not vote with us on this matter, I’m afraid we’re going to make you use the term ‘goobers‘ to refer to peanuts for the rest of eternity. I think you know what to do.‘ Actually, that one would probably work. I wonder if Jimmy Carter tried that during the Iran hostage crisis…)
Okay. Where the hell was I? Ah, the Fourth.
So, I’ve always thought the Fourth of July a bit odd. Certainly, I can understand it in terms of a birthday celebration for the country; that makes perfect sense.
(Though it is a bit of pressure, isn’t it? What do you buy a country that has everything? I mean, let’s face it — America’s been a bit spoiled through the years. She was still in diapers when France just handed her the Louisiana Purchase. And a couple of years later, what does she get? Jacks? A jump rope, perhaps? I don’t think so. Florida, that’s what she got. Now, would you trust your child with Florida at that age? My word. Personally, I’d have had a good long talk with Spain, and asked to have it put in a trust or something. You know, until she was ready. Some parents just don’t know how to say no, I suppose.
But that’s not all, not by a longshot. At her debutante ball, she gets Texas, from the next-door neighbors.
(And then she had the gall to demand California, Nevada, and a handful of other states from those same neighbors as a graduation present. And they gave it to her! Pushovers.)
Well, by that point, she knew how to get what she wanted. She could charm, or threaten, or pout, or throw a tantrum, all to great effect. And she could cry on demand, if she wasn’t getting her way. She was a manipulative tour de force; no one could resist her. She got lavish presents from suitors — Oregon and Idaho from Britain (‘Ewww… that’s incest!‘), bits and baubles from Mexico, and a rather large, mysterious present from that brooding Russia fellow. Even little Hawaii danced with the American mistress, but by the time she was done with him, there wasn’t much left to speak of.
In the end, though, America’s turned out to be a bit of a tease, always flirting with one country or another, or stamping her little feet when she feels she’s been slighted, but never content to find a nice country to settle down with and have some islands of her own. Which is too bad, really — she’s a beautiful lady, and actually quite enchanting if you can get past her little head games and charades. I always thought that she and Australia might make a nice couple, or perhaps Greece. But I’m afraid it’s not likely to happen. America’s getting on in years now, and I don’t know whether the other countries are as interested as they used to be. It looks as though she may grow into a spinster, with a few close friends (and closer enemies), but at the end of the day, only her Louisianas and Alaskas and such to keep her company.)
All right, what was I saying?
So, as a birthday celebration, the Fourth of July makes some sense to me (unlike the last three paragraphs… hoo boy). On the other hand, July 4, 1776 isn’t really the important date, if you think about it. That’s the day that the Declaration of Independence was signed, sure, but the war with the British didn’t end for seven more years, and the treaty recognizing America as a country wasn’t signed until September 3, 1783. That, to me, is the real date that we should celebrate — that’s when the world knew that we’d won, and we could get down to the business of telling the rest of them how they ought to be running their countries. July 4th is like the day when you tell your parents, ‘I hate it here, and I’m eighteen now, and I can do whatever I want! I’m outta here!‘. But September 3 is the day — years later, of course — when you actually score that job flipping burgers at Mickey D’s and scrape together enough cash to move your shit into some creepy old guy’s moldy basement. That’s when you’ve won, not on the day that you ‘declare’ yourself independent. Really, think about it. If Texas had a damned holiday for every time they told the rest of us they were moving out, the banks would never be open in that friggin’ state. Please.
(I can think of a couple of explanations as to why we picked July 4th as the holiday instead, but I’m not sure any of them are good enough to overcome the pretty much irrefutable logic that the 4th really didn’t mean anything until we got out there with our posse and walked the walk. But what the hell — here goes.
It could be that folks don’t want a holiday to distract them from the truly important things going on in September — namely, the start of football season and the baseball pennant races. I can see the logic in that, certainly. Also, it’s entirely possible that once we introduced all of those tittilating mini-explosives into the celebration, someone decided (quite rightly, methinks) that Delbert and Elmo and Andy Joe and Paw wouldn’t be able to contain themselves and not set the damn things off until the fall, so we’d better find a way to get rid of ’em earlier in the summer. And again, that seems perfectly reasonable, but perhaps not enough so to overcome the inertia of actually tryin’ to have a frickin’ holiday in this country on the date that the important thing happened (for once).
No, now that I think about it, there’s only one thing that presents an obvious, open-and-shut case for not celebrating the birth of the country on its actual birthdate, and that’s this — or this is that, whatever: if we plunked a holiday right at the beginning of September, then those of you (poor buggers) with children would suffer through an entire summer with the kids at home, only to send ’em off to school… and get ’em thrown back in your face for a day right away. As if we don’t have enough mental illness in this country already. You’d be there on the couch, thanking your preferred deity that you don’t have to lunch at Chuck E Cheese or wake up to Twenty Thousand Questions for the next nine months. You’d just start to relax, knowing that the problem of shaping your children’s minds is in the hands of underpaid, underappreciated, underequipped and overharried professional educators until June — and then there they’d be, your children, on a Tuesday, maybe, or a Friday, eating paste and sticking gum in each other’s hair, and shaving the alphabet into the dog’s back. At which point someone would have to die, of course. Not the kids, maybe, but somebody, no question. So I suppose I see the wisdom in the date change after all…)
Did I have a point back there somewhere? Oh, yeah — got it.
So, it’s fairly clear to me that we’re not exactly celebrating the birth of the country. Based on what I gather from what was happening in 1776, we’re pretty much celebrating the Revolutionary War, as far as I can figure. And when you get right down to it, setting off small explosive devices seems like a pretty odd way to celebrate anything that involves a war, doesn’t it? I mean, we don’t go shooting Patriot missiles into the sky willy-nilly to commemorate the Gulf War, or build little mushroom cloud bomb replicas to help us cheer about World War II. People are sensitive about those sorts of things, and rightly so. I suppose with the Revolutionary War, it’s okay, because anyone who was involved in it is dead now.
(Well, now that Strom Thurmond has passed, anyway.)
So we’re allowed to fire off what are essentially tiny bombs, and make loud thunderous noises, and shower fiery sparks all over our cities. Think that would go over big with the PTSD-prone Viet Nam crowd to recognize their contributions? Um, no. No? No. Decidedly not.
Maybe in a hundred years or so — once we’re safely sure that we’re not startling anyone who actually participated — we’ll have the same sorts of rip-roarin’ festivals for our recent military forays — the Korean War, Viet Nam, Desert Storm, etc. On the other hand, maybe not. Though we seem to allow ourselves more liberties with our celebratory antics as time goes on, we also seem to give less and less of a rat’s ass with each passing year. And there are only so many ways you can slice a rat’s ass until it’s just a bunch of fur and skin. (My personal record is thirty-eight slices, by the way, though I was using a rusty old razor blade, so your mileage may vary.)
To illustrate my point (not the slicing thing; the ‘not giving a rat’s ass’ thing… stay with me, here), just look at the most recognizable homage we’ve paid to wars gone by, and how the tributes get crappier the further back you go. The Viet Nam War, for instance. When things there started to settle down, what did we do? We built a Wall. Tres cool! Pretty unique idea, great sentiment, and now everyone can go by it and see. Nicely done. So, WWII, then. Okay, they got that Iwo Jima statue. Not bad, I suppose, though you have to know the story to realize that it’s not depicting some sort of Olypmic synchronized pole vaulting team or something. But fine. Now go way back — what’s the first momument you think of for the Civil War? And mind you, all of those guys are dead now, too, so we can do whatever the hell we want for it. So, what do we have — giant holographic panoramas of the Monitor and Merrimac, locked in mortal battle? Nope. Huge somber pyres burning over steel and concrete sculptures to depict Atlanta torn asunder in Sherman’s wake? Not even. What do we get? Eleven frickin’ hours worth of documentary by Ken ‘Snoo-oooze‘ Burns. Yip. Pee. With emphasis on ‘pee‘. I can only imagine what’ll be done for the more recent military campaigns in a hundred years or so. Maybe Bazooka Joe will print a special Korean War wrapper every year, or Ticonderoga will stamp ‘Desert Storm’ on special-edition number two pencils. Or worse. Just pray that Ken Burns is long gone before anyone gets around to thinking about it.
Well, that was certainly festive, no? No? It wasn’t? Well, shit, I suppose you’re right. I apologize. I suppose it’s just a little hard to wrap my mind around this particular holiday, what with all of the confusing history involved. Wait, how about this? Maybe I’ll just use today to celebrate the great American traditions of barbecues, beer, and sunburn. I mean, we really didn’t invent any of those things, but I think it’s clear that we’ve perfected them.
(The secret was to get them all together at once, of course, and each in massive, nausea-inducing quantities.)
So, now I’m feeling pretty festive after all. I think I’ll even go get started with a beer, and maybe a hot dog, and we’ll see where that takes me. As for the rest of you — I’m not going to tell you not to hurt yourselves with firecrackers today, as I’ve seen a lot of other bloggers doing. No, I believe that whatever you decide you want to do involving your fragile little fingers, open flames, and unstable gunpowder is entirely your business. I don’t want to know about it, even in the obituary. But I will say this — as you light your sparklers, and your Roman candles (what are we gonna call those when Italy pisses us off one of these years?), and your Tijuana Toilet Crackers, do this for me: don’t use them all. Put a couple aside, and stash ’em away until early September. When you fire ’em off then, you’ll not only get more attention, but you’ll also be able to impress all of your friends when you explain exactly why you held a few back.
Plus, if the kids get wind of it and want to join you, you’ll have leftover cherry bombs to slip into their lunchboxes to dissuade them. And that’s something truly worth celebrating.
Permalink | 1 CommentThat blog you keep reading… I do not think it means what you think it means.
Seen while driving in Brookline at around noon today:
One of those enormous, hulking, has-its-own-zip-code Oldsmobile sedans, piloted by an elderly gentlemen in a dapper tweed jacket, and sporting the license plate:
RANDY-4
“He’s the Polydent Pimp, the Don Juan of Depends, a Ben Gay bitch magnet.”
Now, of course, I’m guessing that there’s nothing shagadelic going on here. After all, the guy at the wheel looked more likely to be hangin’ with folks who put the Grrr in dowager rather than swinger, baby. I’m inclined to believe that the chap’s name is ‘Randy’, and that the vehicle in question was his fourth. Pretty vanilla stuff.
Still, I can’t help wondering if there’s something else afoot.
(Or acrotch, if you prefer — and who wouldn’t?)
I mean, the chronologically challenged need love, too, right? As they like to say in Budapest, ‘Nothin’ says lovin’ like some gummin’ while you’re hummin’.’ Or words to that effect. It loses a bit in the translation, I’m afraid.
So maybe the guy’s name is really Joe, or Fred, or something, and he wants you to come up and ask, ‘So what exactly are you randy for, anyway?‘ Maybe it’s the dirty old man version of those vapid ‘Ask me about my grandkids‘ bumper stickers. A come-on line for the canes-and-walkers crowd. Perhaps he’s really an octagenarian Austin Powers of sorts, only he didn’t get frozen, and just sat around aging all those years. Well, aging and banging, of course, banging and aging, and now here he is, with his mojo intact and a trunkload of Viagra.
He’s the Polydent Pimp, the Don Juan of Depends, a Ben Gay bitch magnet. He’s workin’ Old Folks’ Homes up and down New England, shagging spinsters and wagglin’ his wrinkly walleye at every widow from Windham to Woonsocket. Yes. Yes, I’m sure of it now. And I say, more power to him. He may have some miles on his tires and a hitch in his giddy-up, but if he can still find the bat, then he deserves a turn at the plate, just like everyone else. I for one salute you, old horny dude! Rock on!
So if you see my new hero, give a holla. Beep your horn, wave to the old guy. Ladies, blow him a kiss. We should be so lucky to be in his condition at that age. But don’t go overboard, unless you’ve got a soft spot for… well, soft spots, I imagine, and liver spots, as well. See, my man’s a playah, and if you open the door too wide, you might just discover the answer to the question posed earlier: our crotchedy Cassanova is RANDY-4U.
Permalink | No CommentsDude! You’re gettin’ a Blog!
If you’re anything like me, you’re a bit of a smart-ass.
(Okay, if you’re everything like me, you’re an incurable smart-ass on the wrong side of thirty with a manic pet pit bull, a spouse who’s smarter than you (not to mention a lawyer), a newly-minted mortgage on a hundred-year-old house, and looming unemployment. (Try not to hurl.) Oh, and right now, your ass is kinda sweaty. But not from anything interesting, mind you — you’re just a little warm this morning. Sounds perfectly dreamy, doesn’t it?)
Moving on… let’s assume for the moment that you’re inclined, as I am, to drink deep from the murky pools of smart-assery. I think that’s a pretty safe bet, given that you’ve managed to get this far without flinging your monitor away in disgust and horror. Plus, if you’re not a smart-ass, too, then we’ve really not got a lot to talk about. So let’s go with it, shall we?
So, we’ve extablished that we’re smart-asses.
(Why, oh why, did I decide that word had a hyphen? Dammit, now I’m just annoyed. I can ramble this stuff out at breakneck speed, with the letters and commas and periods… but then I hit a stupid hyphen, and it’s way up there on the keyboard, and if I don’t actually look, then I end up with a ‘=’ or a ‘]’. (Or a ‘]{p_]=’, if I’m having one of my little spells.) Screw this; from now on, it’s ‘smartass’, okay? Please. You’ll be saving me about three hours of therapy. Agreed? Good. S’all right? S’all right.)
Anyway, as a fellow member of the ‘Piss ’em Off and Make ’em Cry‘ club, I want to ask you this: Have you had your Moment yet? That is to say, your ‘Smartass Achievement Award Moment’? The one that proclaims proudly to the world and the pantheon of deities that you are, indeed, a full-time, full-fledged, fine-feathered, don’t-fuck-with-me, card-carrying gen-u-ine Smartass™, with the pedigree papers and restraining orders to prove it.
‘Cause I’ve had mine. And I’m gonna tell you about it. Right now. (Well, okay, in a few minutes, really — I tend to get distracted by random thoughts (and pointless tangents, and shiny objects, and people named Renaldo, or Jasmine, or April…))
(Hey, speaking of ‘April’, who did ‘July’ piss off way back when, as they were deciding which months would be good for naming little girls after? I mean, I understand how the long ones got left out, and March is still shitty and cold in much of the Western hemisphere, so March is out — but what the hell’s wrong with July? We’ve got all sorts of snot-nosed little Aprils, and Mays, and Junes, and even Augusts, running around and jumping rope and leading cheers and joining sororities, but no Julys. It’s not right! And then, to make it worse, there are millions upon millions of Julies. Are they deliberately teasing July, by getting as close as they possibly can without using it? Not to mention the Jills, and Jillys. And Julis with no ‘e’, but a star, or a heart, or a pentagram of some kind, dotting their i’s. (Which is criminal. Girls, if you’re out there, and you have an ‘i’ in your name, please — use the damned dot that you were born with. Please. You didn’t come into this world with a cute little heart, or a smilie, or even a damned circle. Just dot your friggin’ ‘i’ and get it over with, ‘k? ‘Cause if you don’t, I’m afraid that someone’s eventually gonna tie your widdle pigtails over your eyes, and boot you down a flight of stairs. I’m just looking out for your best interests. Really.))
Now, where was I? Ah, the smartass Moment of Glory. Of course.
So, the story of the Moment is handed down from one smartass to another, generation through generation. I had a guide, of course — my ‘peevish professor’, my ‘comeback coach’, my ‘dean of disparagement’, a veritable ‘sensei of sassiness’.
(Why yes, I did just buy stock in Reference.com, and thanks oodles for asking!)
And now I’ll pass the story of the Moment on to you.
I don’t want you to misunderstand the Moment, however. The Moment is not necessarily your best effort, your shining example of how deliciously acerbic you can be if you stay up all night working on witty repartee. No. That sort of effort shows great commitment, certainly, and dedication to your craft… and frankly, that you have no life whatsoever, and really need to find a friend or a hobby or an inflatable doll or something.
(And put on some pants, would you?)
Anyway, burning the midnight oil in this manner won’t get you any closer to your Moment. You may go blind, or grow hair on your palms, perhaps, but your Moment will be as elusive as ever. It’s just the nature of the beasticle.
You see, the Moment is that one opportunity — that one opening — where you find that you’ve blurted out the perfect line for the situation, even before you realized what you were saying. Somewhere deep in your mind, something clicked, and you took just the right angle, with the right delivery, and just the right tone, and bam, without even knowing what you were doing, there it is. Pure reflex. Every single person within the sound of your voice is staring at you, gaping in wonder and shock, rendered utterly speechless, and with a single thought running through their collective minds:
‘What a dickhead.’
And that, my lords and ladies, is when you’ve arrived. You’ve graduated into full smartass-hood, with your own parking spot and a key to the executive bidet. You are now more highly evolved than the rest of your neighbors — you have the ‘fight or flight or put that bitch in its place‘ instinct. You pimpin’, baby. And you’ll be able to die a happy man or woman (whichever way you decide to go with the operation…).
So here’s my guru’s Moment, as transcribed from the official log. It’s not exactly Abbott and Costello, but that’s not the point, remember. The reason that he earned his wings with what you’re about to read is that he took a situation in which no tomfoolery was expected or encouraged, and he went and tomfooled all over the floor and halfway up the walls.
(And if you’ve ever had tomfool stains, you know how hard it is to get the smell out of shag carpet.)
Anyway, here’s his proudest moment, culled from a phone conversation to his dentist’s office:
Receptionist (via phone): Hello, Dr. Payne’s office.
(No, I don’t know the dentist’s real name; let it go. Dr. Payne was my old dentist growing up, and let me tell you — never in the history of our species has a moniker better suited a man. He drilled, he pulled, he poked and prodded… I think he’s got parts of my lung somewhere in that infernal office of his, he probed so deeply. And then, he started working on my teeth! My teeth, ladies and germs! Teeth! Thank you, I’ll be here all week.)
All right, I’m starting over. From the top, everyone. Places! And…. action!
Receptionist: Hello, Dr. Payne’s office.
Mark: Hi, I need to make an appointment. One of my teeth has been giving me some trouble.
Receptionist: Okay. (pause) Would next Tuesday be okay?
Mark: Sure.
Receptionist: And would morning or afternoon be better?
Mark: Um, afternoons are usually better.
Receptionist: Okay. (pause) Two thirty?
Mark (with mock anger, without missing a beat): Two thirty?! Tooth hurty?! Well, of course my tooth hurty; why the hell do you think I’m calling?!
Receptionist (thinking to herself): ‘What a dickhead.’
And that’s it. The shining pinnacle of Mark’s life; his fifteen seconds of fame. (His mother is sooo proud, let me assure you.)
And the best part is, the receptionist didn’t call the cops. Or sue him, or even hang up. As a matter of fact, when Marky showed up for his appointment the next week, he even scored a date with said appointment-taker. Of course, Mark’s kind of a runty little guy, with scruffyish, receding hair. And a bad hip, which gives him sort of a gimpy walk. Think of a thin Jason Alexander on a bad hair day with a stick up his ass, and you’ve pretty much got Mark. So obviously, he didn’t get a second date, but I think he got to second base or thereabouts (and even further, after he dropped her off at her place), so I’d say he did all right.
(Heya, Mark, if you’re out there — you’re a weener, dude. I know, I know — ‘don’t care!’ Jagoff…)
So that’s Mark’s story. Mine was a little different, and in an even less appropriate situation. My wife and I were having dinner with a group of my in-laws — her mother, and some aunts and uncles, I think — and it went something like this:
Aunt-in-law (to everyone, more or less): Oh, yeah, I used to have a terrible time remembering things. I’d forget my keys, or my purse, all sorts of things.
Wife: Wow, what’d you do?
Aunt-in-law: Well, I bought this book on how to improve your memory. And it was fantastic! It had all sorts of tricks you could use to help you remember, memory games to help yourself —
Wife: Oh, mnemonics?
Aunt-in-law: Gesundheit, honey. Anyway, it really helped me out. I don’t have any problems with forgetting things now. My memory’s like a steel trap!
Me (before I even knew I’d said it): Really? What was it called?
Aunt-in-law (surprised, because I hadn’t been paying much attention): What?
Me (trying to keep a straight face as my mind caught up to my mouth): The book. What’s the name of the book?
Aunt-in-law: Oh! It’s… um… er, it’s… uh. Hmmm. Oh. *sigh*
Everyone at table (thinking to themselves): ‘What a dickhead.’
So as you might surmise, that aunt really doesn’t talk to me much anymore (though I suspect it may be because she has trouble remembering my name *tee hee*). And that’s the story of my most smartassedy Moment. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
And that’s also all I can really tell you about Moments in general. So now you know. Or maybe you’ve already had your Moment; if so, lemme hear about it. You can never read too many smartass stories, ya know. And if not, well, keep tryin’, kid. Eat right. Meditate. Watch a lot of those angry standup comics all the kids are raving about. And maybe one day, you’ll have your time in the sun. Cherish it. Remember it always. Just don’t take a bow afterwards, or laugh at the zinger you’ve unleashed. The very last thing you want is to ruin your own Moment.
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