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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA



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I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
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The Electical Spectacle

(Apologies to anyone who noticed the lack of posts in the latter half of the week; life’s been a bit hectic for the past few days. Backfilling to catch up beginning in 3… 2… 1…)

So there was a fair kerfuffle earlier this week, what with the elections and all. I haven’t said much about it, as usual — but there’s a very good reason for that. It’s not that I’m holding back, or being coy or practicing a more-literal-than-usual form of “political correctness”.

(Me, PC? Please. A trip through the archives should replace that notion with a fair sense of horror and righteous indignation.)

The truth is, I’m just not all that interested. Call me cynical or disenfranchised, if you like. But it’s really pretty simple: I don’t trust anyone with strong convictions about what’s right for other people. That pretty much takes politics — and religion, and most forms of talk radio — off the table.

“The results could go either way, your favorite proposition could pass, some wingnut in a tutu running on a glue-huffing platform can tell himself ‘this could be my year‘.”

(It also makes it tricky to talk to certain extended family members. I try to spend as much of my holiday visits with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, for just that reason.)

So I don’t follow politics, particularly. No talking heads, no spin doctors, as little loud opinionated bickering as humanly possible. I’ve long said that if religion is the opiate of the masses, then politics is the bongwater.

But I do tune in on election night. Because that’s a good time.

See, before the votes are tallied, it’s possible for anyone to be right. Or at least plausible. Marginally sane, if you like. The results could go either way, your favorite proposition could pass, some wingnut in a tutu running on a glue-huffing platform can tell himself “this could be my year“.

For me, anything said by anyone in this period is meaningless. It’s like two football teams yapping at each other from the sidelines before a game. Or more appropriately, two high school debate teams putting voodoo hexes on each other before a big match. It’s irrelevant.

What’s fun — for me, anyway — is to watch what the pundits and wags do after the results are in. In sports, they’d all shake hands and head to the locker room. In debate, they… well, I don’t know. Bump pocket protectors and share juice boxes? Something.

But in politics, when the game is over and the talking points talked out? They keep talking. It’s fascinating to see two people, sitting side-by-side in different-primary-colored ties or blouses, get exactly the same information and spin it in completely different directions. “The voters are saying this!” “No, the voters are saying THAT” “THE VOTERS ALL WANT TO SNIFF ELMER’S!!

I don’t enjoy it for the politics, so much as for the sociology of it all. But I watch. For hours on end, long after my wife — who votes, and cares, and only wants to know what the final results are — goes to bed, I watch, hooked on the surreal drama of it all.

And then I get over it, emphatically, for exactly four years. It’s like gorging on marshmallow Peeps once every fourth Easter, and being disgusted to even look at one for the next forty-eight months.

So I suppose what I’m saying is: Tuesday night was interesting, but now I’m just trying not to puke proverbial Peeps all over the place. I’m sure by 2016, I’ll be ready for more. For one night, at least.

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Eek!Cards #138: It’s the Short Bus of Love

someecards.com - I agree that our relationship is 'special'. Only when I say it, I mean it should wear a helmet and not play with the sharp scissors.

(The ‘Eek!Cards’ explan.)


And for your post-election celebration and/or sorrow drowning, check out my latest sudsy mug over at ZuG: Zolton’s Facebook Pranks on Breweries.

‘At’ll put some foam in yer glass, kiddo.

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Hard Lessons, Soft Balls

You know what’s great? Immediate feedback.

You don’t always get immediate feedback in life. In fact, I’d say it’s pretty rare. You sit in class and take a test, you don’t find out how you did right away. The teacher goes off and grades them, or ranks them by how much effort your parents put into their dishes at the last PTA potluck or something, and in a day or a week or after the semester, you get the feedback. It’s totally disjointed.

And most of life is like that. You apply for a job, and maybe you hear back in a few days. Or you don’t. You buy a lottery ticket, and you have to wait hours to hear the winning numbers. You get lucky and hook up with someone — so how were you?

Oh, sure, they’ll say you were great. Probably. But you won’t really find out until they call you in the morning. Or decide not to divorce you, or to tip you for the extra effort.

You know, whichever situation applies to you personally. Hopefully not more than one at a time.

The point is, there are precious few situations in life where you find out, with startling immediacy, whether you’ve succeeded or failed. No sweating it out. No gnashing of teeth. Just a quick ‘thumbs up’ or ‘thumbs down’, and you celebrate the victory. Or you get your head chopped off. Clean and simple.

One of those situations, it turns out, is playing third base on a ‘frostbite league’ softball team in early November, with a wicked one-hop ground ball screaming toward you. This is an opportunity for immediate feedback. If you glove the ball — and, ideally, throw it to first base to get an out — then you’ve succeeded. And if not? If you fail?

Well, then you’ll be smacked — immediately — in the leg with a ball traveling with a high rate of oomph. And there’s your feedback. Failure hurts. Like a bitch.

“Bruises are nature’s way of telling you that somewhere along the line, you made a wrong turn.”

The really nice thing — though perhaps ‘nice’ is a bit strong of a word — is that you’ll be reminded of the result for days on end. There’ll be swelling. Oh, lots of swelling. You’ll have one normal-looking calf, and a second that looks like that huge slab of meat in the back of a Greek diner that they shave to make gyros.

Your leg will, of course, be far less delicious. Even if you soak it in tzatziki. Trust me. I’ve tried.

The real reminder is the bruise, of course. Bruises are nature’s way of telling you that somewhere along the line, you made a wrong turn. Its entire purpose in life is to turn ugly and dark and announce your failures to the world — like a tattoo of barbed wire, or a child your ex-wife has managed to turn against you.

(I’m not sure where exactly my examples turned from “experienced directly” to “heard from my one friend who watches TMZ”. Probably I should meander back to the point.)

The point is, today I failed. I played third base, got smacked in the leg, it hurts like hell, and there’s yogurt sauce all over the couch. Our team lost, too — not on that particular play, but I’m sure I can find a way to lay our collective crashing and burning at my feet. Or at my deceptively delicious-looking purple bulbous calf. Worse still, this was a playoff game with elimination looming — “one and done”, as they say. The other team won. And we’re done. Damn.

So my feedback was both immediate, and long-lasting. An all-day sucker of suck that will probably suck maximum possible suckage when I wake up tomorrow, and ever-so-briefly forget my lesson, or that my leg now resembles a giant inflatable wang. I’ll swing my feet off the bed, leap onto the floor — and be immediately reminded with shooting bolts of pain up my spinal column that I did, indeed, fail at fielding. It is a lesson, therefore, which will not soon leave my waking thoughts.

Not until spring, at least, when we join the league again. And when maybe — if others’ memories are shorter than mine — I’ll be trotted out to third base again, to fend off ground balls with my shins or my chest or parts of my face that I’m not especially attached to preserving. Or maybe I’ll get back to what I used to do, mostly, and catch those balls before they catch me.

It’s either that, or it’s gyro-leg all over again in April. I’d like to think I’ve learned better. But in this case, feedback will have to wait, at least til spring thaw.

And for once, I don’t mind the delay.

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