Pye in the Face

Appetizer: When was the last time you visited a hospital?
I had to head down to MGH last December when a seemingly routine cold turned into the worst case of strep I have ever had - or could even reasonably imagine. I lay in bed for three days straight, with a total body buzz, before finally admitting to myself it wasn’t going to go away by itself and that I had to pull myself together before the long drive up to Canada for Christmas. When they called my name in the emergency room, I walked up to the front and was greeted by a doctor who asked me what the problem was. Not being able to speak, I pointed to my throat. He said they’d take a swab and I’d have to wait an hour or so for the reults. I shook my head and pointed urgently inside my open mouth (if I had a nickel). He glanced inside my yapper, made an alarmed face, scribbled out a perscription and told me to get my ass to CVS.

Soup: On a scale of 1 to 10 how ambitious are you?
I don’t have any trouble with the ambition side of things - it’s the follow through. Do I want to have a million dollar home on Lake Winnipesaukee? I think yes. Do I want to leave my apartment this weekend? You must be kidding.

Salad: Make a sentence using the letters of a body part.
Carrie Otis Craves Ketamine.

Main Course: If you were starting a club, what would you name it?
It would be called the Ding Dong Club. A bunch of guys would sit on the floor, roll around punching eachother in the shoulders and just acting like complete ding dongs. Why haven’t I thought of this sooner? Well, either that or something having to do with rug-hooking.

Dessert: What color is the carpet/flooring in your home?
I have recently taken up all of the carpet in favor of the nice hard wood floors underneath. My once tasteful rugs had become cat hair collectors and eye-sores. But you can bet if you were to lick one they’d still be full of taste. I think that if you were to moisten my living room carpet and then wring it out, you’d be left with a couple pints of enough formerly dried booze, dirt and DNA to reanimate Foster Brooks.

For my second weekend in a row of productive sobriety, I’ve opted for a catch-up Marlon Brando movie fest. I ordered every major flick of his that I have been attempting to see for years, and they just arrived courtesy of Amazon. Friday night is One-Eyed Jacks and Streetcar Named Desire, and Saturday is reserved for The Wild One and The Young Lions.

If anyone would like to join me for Brando-Fest 2005, you’re more than welcome to be referred to as one sad fricking individual who should definitely not admit to that fact in mixed company.

It’s actually not as dismal a weekend as it seems. I also have Tonto’s bachelor party to jam in there somewhere, and 2 days of beautiful roofdeck weather to look forward to. So it’s shaping up to be a nice little Saturday. I may hit Home Depot as well. But I dunno… I dunno if I’ll have enough TIME.

Almost a year to the day since I wrote my acclaimed homage de 20,000 Leagues, which still attracts traffic to my site on a daily basis, a Japanese scientist has finally managed to photograph a live Giant Squid in the wild. I think this is absolutely awesome, as I’ve been unhealthily fascinated with the beasts for 30 years. I have no defense or childhood trauma to link it back to. I won’t even eat a fishstick. That’s just the way it’s always been. My childhood was chock full of giant squids, Star Wars and Popeye Candy Cigarettes - and fully devoid of reason.

This photo released by Dr. Tsunemi Kubodera of the National Science Museum, a 26-foot-long Architeuthis attacks a prey hung by a white rope, left, at 900 yards deep off the coast of Japan’s Bonin islands, 1,000 kilometers (670 miles) south of Tokyo.

I don’t want to mislead anyone - so I’m gonna come clean and admit that I wasn’t actually in the original photo. That was just photoshopped in recently. But if I had been there, and was able to breathe 900 meters underwater without the aid of any scuba gear, that is how excited I would have been. It’s practically the equivalent of 100% scientific accuracy if we’re going to split hairs. Again, ladies - please form a line to the left.

So to all you skeptics and nay-sayers be dammned. The truth really is out there if you look hard enough. Next on my agenda - those frigging bastard Minotaurs.

“Live from New York, It’s Saturday Night…”

I suppose at this point I am officially championing a cause. I got Don’s long awaited new CD in the mail yesterday, and was instantly smitten with the lead track, What SNL Stands For. I’m not sure what the hidden meaning is here. Maybe there isn’t one - unless Jimmy Fallon and Matt Damon are metaphors for something, which let’s face it is highly unlikely.

What I do know, is that this song is funny, catchy and great. Jangly guitars, a whack of echo, reverb and probably his most extensive vocal versatility to date. A lot of Don’s friends and acquaintances visit this site, and I know they’re all anxious for a listen. So excuse the doubling up, but it has to be done. If you like what you hear, join us on October 14th for Don’s Boston show and click here to buy the CD.

I’ve added about 40 more photos from that wonderful Whistler weekend. Still no shots of the ceremony, so if you have some please send them my way. I’m talking to you, Heiss. There are a lot of similar shots, only more of the Concord kids than the Bauercrest this time around. Also, be sure to check out photos of JT and I bumming around Vancouver the day after the festivities, as well as PITF favorite (and current quotelet champion) Graeme with a meth-head on his lap. Albeit a hot one.

Have I mentioned how glad I am that this summer is over? I saw a leaf fall today. I shed a tear, and my wallet sighed audibly.

Got a second? Good. Want to see something funny? OK. Go to MSN. Are you there? Now type “outside sales calls” into the search box. Got it? Hit the search button. I have to screen-shot this as it’ll undoubtedly change soon. Anyway, for posterity’s sake:

In your face, U.S. Department of Labor. That’s for that time at summer camp you beat me in the sack race and then made out with my girlfriend behind the canteen.

Just kickin’ it at 7am on a Tuesday. You know how we do - Chillin’ with Will the Irish window specialist at the moment. $1,000 to fix my two windows, and he has to break apart the wall in my bedroom to get at the sunken system. So apparently the street level hole in my wall will be replaced by an even bigger hole for a few days. So please - stop in for a chat. I’m sure every other pedestrian in the North End, of which there are scant few (thinly-veiled sarcasm), will be doing the same. I’ll make a bundt cake and we’ll talk.

Kipple has been mounting in my apartment for years, and this weekend I vowed to put a big old dent in it. A very productive 24 hours included pitching tons of useless pack-ratted junk, some minor repairs, a violent cleaning and a bunch of updates and changes to DogGoneKnit.com. I also did a little something with a couple of domains I registered a while back that I’ve been meaning to set into motion. In the interest of getting them spidered I’ll mention them now: Boston Sports Blogs is going to be an RSS feed emporium dealing with - you guessed it - local teams. iPodOCD will be a straight-up blog documenting my latest obsession. iPod is one of the most searched for words online today and will remain so for at least a few years. So I’ll link to hacks, news, etc. Maybe build a forum - maybe never touch it again. I don’t know. But the name makes me laugh, and I think it could be fun. Stay tuned.

Can someone please explain to me how in the heck I’m supposed to get any work done today when Death Hunt is on AMC? Mounties, trappers, gunfights, gold teeth being removed with hunting knives - and even Ed Lauter. Oh happy, unproductive Saturday. I guess there’s always tomorrow.

Appetizer: Name something someone has done lately that impressed you.
I was momentarily impressed with Sean Penn’s shotgun-equipped foray into New Orleans. Until I found out that the photographers who snapped those famous pictures were on his payroll. Maybe he can take his shotgun with him on his next self-serving visit to Tikrit and put it to some good use vivisecting his precious insurgents.

Soup: Do you have any relaxing rituals? If so, what are they?
Would gooning a six pack of Canadian count? My friends and I got so ‘relaxed’ in Newport last weekend that we’re all taking this weekend off. If I had gotten any more relaxed Saturday night I’d be playing golf with Farley and Belushi right now.

Salad: If you could spend the winter somewhere else, where would you go?
I like the winter. I am tired of the eternal sweating I’ve endured this summer, and I’m looking forward to dusting off my space heater, cling-filming my windows and saving a fortune on dry cleaning for the next 6 months. Bring it on you frosty bitch.

Main Course: When and where was the last time you had dinner out?
I had jalapeno poppers followed by the Bobby Orr steak sandwich Monday night at The Fours with Mike and Joanna. I normally go for the Flutie, but as I said to the waitress, it’s nearly hockey season and the Orr seemed more appropriate. She agreed. She also offered that next time maybe a tip would be appropriate, too - if I want to drink there before Bruins games in the coming months. I’m only kidding. I punched her out and ran before the check even came.

Dessert: If you had a boat, what would you name it?
PyeSeas II. That was the name of the 25 foot cruiser we had when I was a kid. My last name coupled with my father’s astrological sign. Incidentally, the boat was also imaginative, sensitive, compassionate, kind, selfless, unworldly, intuitive, sympathetic, secretive, vague, weak-willed and easily led. Uncanny.

“Lennon’s fans love his farcical, enigmatic lyrics and his crystalline pop sensibility for what they are. And if he’s not yet a big name in his home town, he may soon be able to look forward to a wider audience in the Gulf region. As one reviewer writes on that populist arena of rock-crit discourse, Amazon.com (where Lennon’s three-album average is a solid 4.8 stars out of 5), “Play this CD for the people of Iraq and they would agree that the USA is good.” - The Boston Phoenix

If a little Lennon is all we need as an endgame for Iraq, we should be able to wrap it all up by this time next week. Anyhew, I hate Dave Matthews. But that’s not why I like this song. Nor do I like it for a certain aforementioned reasons which were touched upon yesterday. Rather, I love Really Dave Matthews because in addition to themes of loneliness, awkward youth and autumn, it’s a practical example of the insane lengths intelligent males will go to to get their noodles wet.

When Don Lennon’s 3rd album, Downtown, got reviewed by Pitchfork and the Village Voice, it was a special day for all of us. It was validation for friends and fans everywhere that Lennon had finally arrived. 3 years later, although you’ve still never heard of him, he’s known and respected by his musical peers and actually has quite a sizeable following across the pond and in pockets of the American midwest. Don told me once that getting to Sweden to do a show and watching a sizeable crowd sing his lyrics back to him was a truly mindblowing experience.

“Musically, Downtown sounds a little like Belle & Sebastian fronted by Bruce McCulloch from “Kids in the Hall.” - Pitchfork.

There are songs of Don’s I have grown to like better in the days since 2002, but Really Dave Matthews is what I always shove on to the uninitiated. His first 2 albums are also very special in my opinion, but it’s best not to dig too deeply into the crates right off the bat. Because RDM is a perfect summary of some of the bigger guns in Lennon’s developing arsenal - subtle humor, pop culture references and tunes so catchy that you’ll inevitably be asked to stop whistling one or two of them at some stage. Aggressively.

“I’m not really making fun of Dave Matthews. It’s hard to point to one line where I make fun of him. You just couldn’t do it.” - Don Lennon

The song’s protagonist is a first year college student who pretends to like Dave Matthews in order to impress a girl. He’s a better man than I. Sure, I’ve pretended to be things to impress a girl before - sensitive, a good listener, heterosexual - but to lower myself to the level of the DMB army just to get a little dorm room action? That’s a grenade not even I would be willing to jump on. It’s sweet, earnest and I dare you not to whistle the denoument/outro to yourself at any point today after listening. You know the Routine - hit the ‘ZAP’ button on Radio Pye and finally get to meet Don.

I hate to use this site as a sounding board for my own personal whinginess (like every other mediocre blog in the free world), so please forgive me while this post degenerates into little more than a moany gripe today. And for all the sex killings.

Even though we’re well into September, Boston’s sidewalks are still teeming with tourists and will be for some time. As a result, navigating my daily walk to and from the Theatre District from my home in the North End can be nothing short of infuriating. I bite my cheek and remind myself that one day I’ll live in the country.

But there’s one particular irk I just can’t stifle - and that’s the myriad of daily portages I am forced to make around people who go against the grain on the city’s sidewalks. My perception is thus - a sidewalk can be considered a highway for people on which one should keep to their right as much as possible. If they fail to do so, they should be ‘chin-checked’ or, at the very least slapped with a whale cock. But this hasn’t been festering for a long time or anything.

If I went to Scotland, rented a car and started zipping around on the wrong side of the road, I’d eventually be arrested or even killed in a head-on collision. But it’s not just tourists that careen all over the bustling walkways - there are plenty of native bumpkins and simple idiots who do it too. So am I a lunatic, or is this wrong-side-of-the-sidewalk grievance something that many others share? I am genuinely curious.

‘Don‘ and I went to high school together. And just recently Montreal. But I want you to know that has very little to do with my love of his music. He’s an original, and his shizzy is tight. But don’t take my word for it - look for him on Wednesday Wadio tomorrow, and save this date if you know him or are just a curious live music fan - he makes his triumphant return to Boston October 14th at the Milky Way. Sometimes one must actually go to Jamaica Plain.

His new album, Routine, is out now and you can buy it using PayPal by clicking the link. With song titles like “What SNL Stands For” - and an entire ditty about the day John Ritter died - the mold will continue to be broken, stomped on and fed under a steamshovel for a long time to come. Welcome back, Don. Can’t wait to have a listen or 14.

The finish line was crossed this past weekend when I attended my final Summer 2005 wedding-related event. And it was a gasser. But enough about me - my friends Chris and Heather have been together for a very long time and finally made honest Newportians out of eachother Saturday afternoon. A reception followed at the Glen Manor house, but the festivities started long before then. By the time I crawled across the threshold of my apartment late last night, I’d been burnt, punched, pickled and even lost at sea. But in the midst of all the zaniness, one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to took place.

Jim and I drove down Friday night after work, and met Kinger, John and Steph, Clarkey and Detroit Velvet Smooth at the Sports Ticket around 10pm. We then headed over to the Cheeky Monkey where the rehersal dinner was held to meet up with the rest of the gang. An open bar, speeches, old friends, hugs and a narrowly averted street brawl with liquored locals rounded out our stay. After a quick shot one street up at Sabina Doyle’s, and a fly by of Via Via to look for particularly intoxicated females to take back to our phatio roofdeck patio (I wish I were kidding) - we rolled back to the house we were staying at on Goodwin street. I once heard that when Michael Caine was researching this role, he hung out on main street for a night with Kinger.

A great time was had by all, and it flowed (literally) into Sunday where after an exceptional catered brunch we took to the high seas, only to have the motor cut out and be set adrift. Luckily some helpful fishermen pulled us back to the dock just after dark, and I’m not currently writing this on a laptop made out of an anchor and coconuts. I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves. I have SO many so I’m going to pick 40 or thereabouts and put the rest up when I get around to them (never). Thanks for having us, kids - and here’s to a long, wonderful life together.

Schniffles the giant rabbit eventually got his message across - there was no way in hell he was buying a watch.

“A seven-minute outburst of pure joy… I’m certain I will not hear a better song for the rest of the year. I dare any artist to top this one. It won’t happen. - PopMatters.com, 2002

I first heard There Goes the Fear whilst sitting on my couch and instant messaging with Moynihan. “You’ll love this song” he said. “NME voted it the single of the year , and you already like the Doves. So download it.” Not one to have my music spoonfed to me, I reluctantly obliged, fired up the long-irrelevant but once magnificent AudioGalaxy and sat alone in my living room waiting to be friggin’ gobsmacked by this remarkable song I’d heard so much about. I wasn’t.

“One of the bouncin-est seven-minute verse/chorus/verse brit-rock epics with a jungle-percussive outro Radio 1 has ever spun.” - Pitchfork

I listened to it a second time while writing an article for the website I was working for at the time. And then again while making dinner that same night. I wasn’t crazy, I decided - the song really wasn’t all that special and I filed it away mentally alongside all the Flaming Lips Mike’s been trying to get me to listen to for the past decade. But the next morning, as if possessed, I put it on as soon as I got up and probably listened to it 20 times that day. I wish I were joking. Who am I kidding? I still love it and am listening to it right now.

“A fantastic anthem where the excitement builds with each twist and turn before exploding with the chorus: ‘Think of me when you’re coming down, Dont look back when leaving town’. These lines reveal the album’s theme; admitting wrong and refusal to regret. Resolutely look to the future instead.” - BBC

Something miraculous happened in those 8 hours I was asleep - I ‘got it’. And for the next 3 years (and still counting) I would listen to the song at least once a day without fail. It’s been on 90% of the mixes I’ve made since that fateful moment, and I’ve continuously pushed the song on all of my music-loving friends like a crack dealer with an overdue Lexus payment. But what is it about the song that makes it so special to me I’m asking myself right now? How do I relay it originally without just pasting in a bunch of quotes? Um, like this gem, for example:

“Personally, I think the song’s about taking a big bag of Es and dancing elatedly and completely uninhibitedly through the night and next morning.” - DrownedInSound.com

If I had to pick a word to associate with it, that word would be ‘euphoric’. This song is Friday night. It’s driving long distances with your best friends. It’s the adrenaline rush of a jetski ride. It’s fuck off work and hello Newport. It Ebbs and flows with many different layers, details and influences. I can count triangles, a wa-wa pedal, cowbells - and some tribal insturment right at the end that sounds like a monkey being wanked-off - amongst the sounds buried in the mix. It shares the slow e-brake pause of a Pixies verse with the catchy sing-along chorus of a Celtic drinking song - all the while powered by a Brazilian rhythm so intricate that I can never accurately remember it for the purposes of air-drumming - even after literally thousands of listens.

I feel like I’ve pulled my pants down somewhat having now admitted my unhealthy obsession and unnatural love of this masterpiece. But if you’re nothing else after reading this, you’re very fucking curious. Have a listen on Radio Pye in the left-hand column. There Goes The Dave.

Rarely do I relinquish my seat on any form of Boston public transportation, with good reason. In a litigious, bleeding-heart stronghold like this - clean cut white males like myself run the risk of being called racist, sexist or ageist before their bum is even out of the seat. “What, you think that just because I’m an older, Latino woman that I’m lazy and need to sit down!?” “No ma’am, you just shat yourself.” No one really fouled themselves this morning, but I did have yet another attempt to be thoughtful and considerate to others swatted down and vilified by a patronizing ‘do-gooder’.

An older gentleman got on the train at Government center, and as he walked past my seat I noticed he was having a hard time navigating and holding on the the rail. I readjusted the laptop, coffee and gym bag I was burdened with and got ready to stand up and suggest he take my place. As I looked up towards him, a 20-something hipster chick with Buddy Holly glasses and an iPod was shooting me a look from across the car that couldn’t have been nastier if I’d just badmouthed Interpol. I ignored her and sat the very gracious old-timer down.

Chivalry is not dead. It’s doing 5-10 in Fulsom for choking someone to death with a Nano cord.

1. Marry a guy who’s only God-given ability is to wear hats that Sinatra would have referred to as “faggotty”. The guy in question should also have been previously married very unsuccessfully. This is key.

2. Make sure said spouse already has two kids from a previous marriage whom he never sees. Cause things will be different this time around, and the second time is always a charm. No wait… yes that’s right. The second time.

3. In the tradition of Posh Spice (Brooklyn) and Madonna (Lourdes), name said baby well before it is born and after a city you’ve been to once yet pretend to have a deep connection with. I have a bigger connection to London and can’t even fit into a half-shirt.

4. On the subject of half-shirts, since your career was basically founded on them, make sure that the eventual birth results in a cesarian section scar so enormous that Islamic fundamentalists begin to pray in front of it.

Yes, kids. My former imaginary girlfriend, Britney Spears, gave birth today. I’m not saying anything every other man, woman, child and dungbeetle on the planet isn’t also thinking today. When I moved back from England in 1999, Spears had just broken onto the scene and was poised to embark on a long and lucrative career. But she’s shat it away in a short year like an Arby’s roast beef sandwich which was eaten too fast and had horsie sauce all over it.

Even Madonna waited until she was 40 to pop out a sprog. You can be goddamn good and certain certain there was no need to give her a C-section. She could have easily given birth to a gas truck by that pont. She timed the pregnancy extremely well, though - as she’s happily married, pushing 50 and set for life with a long exciting career behind her. And at least one vagina.

But age 23? Kevin frigging Federline? Girl - you could have committed suicide. You could have been killed by overzealous paparazzi. You could have overdosed. Britney - I’m very disappointed in you. Because you see, Brit and I have this little arrangement. I provide her with wisdom and guidance - and in return she doesn’t know who the hell I am.

“Just when I think I’m out - they pull me back in“. - Michael Corleone.

I wasn’t going to try and duplicate the naughty nightmare that was last Halloween’s The Big Haunt, but the people have spoken and we’re going to do it all over again. The people have also requested a change of venue, and an offer just fell into my lap. I believe they call this sort of coincidence a harmonic convergence or something. For the sake of my karma and chi, BH2K5 is officially a GO! And this year - it’s taking place in a real live haunted house!

In addition to the genuinely spooky suburban fall atmosphere, there will be a DJ, food, booze, prizes and games. There will be plenty of non-alcoholic options for the designated drivers, and plenty of places to sleep for those who think that designated drivers are for pussies. We haven’t worked out exactly what the costs to you are going to be, but they will be well within reason and certainly worth the short drive to Concord.

Will the Victoria’s Secret angel and the rest of the Canadians return? Will the gay biker drop in to beat the frig out of another kid in the living room? Will I actually spend more than 10 minutes on my costume? I don’t know - but I promise it’s going to be fucking legendary. I also promise not to drink an entire bottle of pucker and crap myself. Stay tuned for the Evite tonight, and keep Saturday, October 29th open for the Haunt. This is going to be one for the ages/Concord PD.