Pye in the Face

1. You know how your dog or cat tends to do OK comfort-wise no matter how cold it gets in the winter? The same is not true when it’s 105 degrees in Boston. Make sure you leave all the windows closed when you go to work, and switch off the AC to battle those ridiculous Keyspan bills. When you get home, your pet of choice will be crying and crawling around really drunkenly with its tongue out. It looks like they’re doing a Tara Reid impersonation. Hey everybody - my spaniel is Tara Reid! It never gets old. Coincidentally, neither do any of my pets.

2. Sneak down to the Charles under cover of darkness and fill the wheel wells of one of the Duck Boats with pureed turkey, tuna and raw chicken breasts. By about 10am the smell in those WW2 kilhns should be so bad that even the stray cats and German tourists are gagging.

3. Feed the homeless. They’re out in filthy droves, and you’re a sensitive college student, so spend a night of beer money on sustinence for our more unfortunate citizens for a change. I recommend porridge, french onion soup, raw habanero peppers and salt licks.

4. Take advantage of the local swimming holes. The swan boats only come around every 10 minutes or so, and unlike the Duck Boats they’ve never been equipped with 50 caliber machine guns (to the best of my knowledge). So pop in for a dip when the coast is clear - but wear sandles as the bottom of the pond is very rocky. At least, that’s what I heard from a guy that I know for a fact dumps syringes in there.

Appetizer: What’s the funniest dream you can remember having?
I don’t dream much. But when I was younger I’d frequently wake up and be frustrated that I wasn’t actually Spiderman. The dreams were vivid - shooting webs to swing from building to building, fighting Rhino and Doc Ock, immobilizing Mary Jane Watson with webbing and then making her watch me dance around in my dead grandmother’s clothes whilst weeping profusely. Children fantasize about the darndest things.

Soup: If you were a dog, what breed would you be, and why?
I’d be a German Shepherd. Because, truth be told - There’s a voice that keeps on calling me. Down the road is where I’ll always be. Every stop I make, I’ll make a new friend. Can’t stay for long, just turn around and I’m gone again. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll want settle down. Until tomorrow, I’ll just keep moving on.

Salad: Continue this sentence: “I get confused when…”
… a mathematical equation is thrown my way. I have never been super good with numbers. I have managed several bars, and was in charge of thousands of dollars a night in the face of some aggressively thieving bartenders, so I coped. I also manage my building now which involves a lot of paperwork. But if I had my way, the closest I’d get to math would be figuring out on which chapter of the Body Double DVD you get to see Melanie Griffith’s puckered nostril.

Main Course: Name 2 things that need doing, but you are procrastinating about.
In addition to becoming an adult, I’ve been agonizing about tidying my apartment. I went ballistic on it about a month ago, but several house guests later it’s in need of another deep-cleaning. So that’s my Saturday morning mapped out - and I don’t really mind one bit. Fruit flies and police tape lose their charm after a few weeks.

Dessert: When was the last time you tried something new, and what was it?
A co-worker made me eat her clam on Monday night. It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds. We were sitting in a post-office group at MJ O’Connors when the gauntlet was thrown down. I was enjoying my curry fries when a big bowl of the smelly sea dwellers was dropped on the bar for the others. Knowing full well I hate seafood, I was browbeaten into submission and grabbed myself a shell. I was actually pleasantly surprised - I was expecting a clammy taste. Instead, I got more of a “fishy/industrial strength rubber band/filthy dead rotting trout floater” sort of a flavor. Goes to show you - never say never.

Pet supplies, quality assurance products, calling cards, blinds, air purifiers, room nights, sox tickets, snowboards, coffee machines, insulin pumps - I try and help my clients sell it all. So why then don’t I spend more time using these skills chipping away at the bane of my existence - renting rooms and apartments in the North End?

It’s simple, really. As I’ve said before - If I could go back and start this blog again I would have made sure of 2 things: 1) I would have built it using Wordpress. 2) I would have kept it anonymous. But since my neck is already exposed let’s talk about what I have coming up in September - even if it is only in the interests of generating an incoming link (crucial to SEO my friends,) to my building-specific site. If you’re looking for a boston north end apartment, prick up your ears, prick.

- 1 Bedroom, 2 floor apartment with a great kitchen and lots of room. $1400+ a month. Ideal for a couple, or just a really fat bloke.

- 3 Bedroom apartment right next to roofdeck I’ll throw you off of if you make too much noise after 10pm. $2400+ a month. Form a line to the left.

- And the grand prize - 1 bedroom in my 3 bedroom apartment. $780 +. Dear old Nate has been transfered to NYC, and Tommy and I need a new third. We also need a new roomate (rimshot). All the apartments have access to the roofdeck and there’s a washer/dryer in the building.

For all the moaning I do about my building, there’s a reason I’ve lived there for almost 7 years. I’m single, broke, obsessive-compulsive, have a cat, smell funny, have made a disgusting nest out of an old mattress/saliva and have buried a staggering amount of prostitutes in the earthen cellar. But besides that, I love it. AND we’re about to get a brand new roofdeck installed in the coming weeks. Just putting it out there. You never know. Email me if you’re homeless, soon-to-be homeless and do not smell like pee.

Grieving is a process. I’m at about stage 11 by this point, and seeing a formal obituary in print is a big help. Remember the good times. Don’t resent the bar for leaving me alone in this cruel world. I’m coming to grips and moving on with my life. It doesn’t hurt that I was quoted:

“… the regulars are taking it hard. Dave Pye was one of the first bouncers hired at Tiernan’’s when it opened six years ago. ‘Tiernan’s was my home away from home,’” Pye said. ‘“It was a great Irish bar, and I always felt comfortable sending friends who were visiting Boston to Sue and the gang.’ The pub was the first job that Pye took upon arrival in Boston. ‘The owners and staff treated me as one of their own for years after my last door shift,’” he said. “It’’s hard to picture the neighborhood or the city without it.’””

I have mixed emotions regarding this article. On the one hand, I’m happy to be immortalized as part of the bar’s terrific community. On the other hand, I’m in searchable print mourning the loss of a boozer. “Dave, we were all set to hire you, until we discovered your Tiernan’s lament online. You obviously have the priorities of a homeless mentholated schnapps addict.” Does anyone need a quote regarding politics, marketing or business in general? No? OK. Back to the hooker jokes then.

Goodnight sweet boozer. You’ll be sorely missed.

There are 6 elevators in my building, serving only 14 floors. In short, you never have to wait long for one to pop open and magically whisk you to wherever you want to go. I’m sure there are wheels and pulleys involved or something, but it does feel wonderfully enchanted. I also have to point out that there are a lot of consulates in my building - Netherlands, Peru, Brazil and the list goes on. Most of these, thank goodness, are also on my floor. So I get to spend a large amount of time each day shooing lost souls out of my office as they wander in looking for notaries, photos or my favorite - the mythical ATM that is supposedly on my floor somewhere, possibly right next to a Yeti.

“Where ATM?!” is a frequent greeting within the front door of the office we pay over 3 grand a month to occupy. “Well hello there, little fella. Wow, they certainly don’t grow them big in the Yucatan, do they?” I offer him a chair, a donut and point to the coffee machine. No I don’t. “ATM. Where?” I usually shrug menacingly and point towards the broom closet on the other side of the hall. I think they keep Nessie in there.

Where am I going with this… Ah yes. Flocks of foreign folks come to my building daily looking for passports and the like. Fleets. Scores. It’s Ellis Island with fax machines. And should any of them ever Google Park Plaza and have a chance to read this post before arriving, I’d like to share with them 5 simple elevator rules.

1.) There are 6 of the fucking things. Don’t try and hold them open for your cousin who hasn’t even signed in with security yet like you’re fighting for helicopter space while being airlifted out of Hanoi.

2.) If you run towards the elevator when it is closing, and I make a concerned face and motion towards the side like I’m trying to hit the button that holds the door - I’m not. I’m pretending, and I’ve got to tell you it’s definitely always a high point of my day.

3.) If you’re trying to go back to the lobby, don’t get on an elevator that is going up. You just look like a silly goose and there’s nothing on the higher floors except more people trying to work who don’t want to talk to you and also have no clue where the Tibetan, braille ATM is.

4.) There are embassies and consulates in the building. Don’t look at the security guards like they’re stupid and ignore them, or pass right through the checkpoint so they have to come out from behind the desk like LT and tackle you. Actually, disregard that and keep doing it. It’s priceless.

5.) I don’t speak Spanish. I’m a nice guy and am actually inclined to help you find what you’re looking for. But learn the language. At least, don’t assume that my blatantly pale, caucasoid behind knows what the hell you’re talking about. You could be asking for a bite of my sausage croissant, for all I know. And that’s just unhygenic.

And the children you all keep bringing to allow to roam free in the halls and ring my bell or jiggle my doorknob until I’m forced to get up, walk over and give them the stinkeye - Are you trying to make me feel like my father? I’m just trying to get a little work done. Welcome to our country, now fuck off out of my office.

This is one of the most insane things I have ever read in a Boston newspaper.

“On the fourth anniversary of her brother’s slaying, a woman lighting candles at a makeshift shrine to him was gunned down, killed at about the same spot, on the same day and at nearly the same hour as her older sibling.”

When I read this headline on CNN, I assumed it had unfolded in Iraq or Israel. Nope - try Roxbury. If you read the full article, you’ll see that the poor woman wasn’t even planning to go to the shrine, but went back when she noticed the candles had blown out. Was someone following her, waiting for her or was this a stray bullet and subsequently the most bizarre coincidence in the history of mankind?

Wow - two boring, business-related posts in a row? You know the deal, people. I work in SEO and this site is a great way to get my new projects spidered - so please bear with me. You might even learn something.

The distribution of online press releases has become a major facet of search engine marketing. The practice can be as easy as it is effective, and my new site will strive to answer all of the most popular questions. I know a heck of a lot about this stuff, and decided it was time to put my thoughts and know-how down in one place. Click through, have a read and then suggest press releases at your next marketing meeting for an instantaneous hand-job from your CEO. Hopefully they will give you a raise… and are also of the opposite sex.

Blog this, and blog that. You’re sick of hearing the word. You’ve met 7-year-old kids who have told you your company needs a blog. And now you’re not allowed to be within 30 feet of 7-year-old kids anymore. What the heck are blogs, exactly - and why do they make a difference to your marketing mix? Why am I bothering to tell you? Show me on the doll where the bad man blogged you.

At its simplest definition, a blog is little more than an easily updateable, content management system (CMS). At it’s most effective, it gives individuals and groups the ability to become authorities in their chosen field. Coupled with a service or retail based website, an objective and original blog of quality can drive scores of relevant visitors who may then convert to customers, employees or new friends.

But how do blogs relate directly to SEO and SEM in general? The original content your company creates is ideally updated every few days. Indexing spiders are more likely to visit, and look favorably upon, websites that have changed somewhat each and every time the drop in for a visit. This will increase spidering frequency, and also improve your legitimacy in the eyes of the major algorithms. Not to mention all of the unsolicited incoming links that objective resources effortlessly attract.

Make it good and make it frequent. Add good, niche subject matter and the rest just may take care of itself. I’ll spare you the Field of Dreams analogy.

Appetizer: Fill in the blanks: I ________ when I _________.
I burn when I pee. I smile when I punch the clown. I sweat when I think. I laugh when I murder. I cry when I skydive. I cringe when I take SATs. I rejoice when I eat Greek.

Soup: Name something you use to make your home smell good.
Anything that doesn’t smell like Nate. He has been in New York for a long time, and when he gets back to Boston his bedroom is going to look like that of the ‘Sloth’ victim in Se7en.

Salad: If you could get a coupon for 50% off a product, what would it to be for?
The space shuttle. I heard it’s worth something like 300 billion, so I could sell it back to NASA for a tidy profit. I’d also take a calling card. I don’t want to say that was a bad question, but there are currently prarie dogs in Saskatchewan who are wincing, Quizzlet.

Main Course: Besides sleeping, what do you spend the majority of the day doing?
Writing. Emails, contracts, marketing collateral, instant messages, blog entries - I must average several thousand keystrokes a day. There are far worse types of strokes to have daily.

Dessert: What can you hear right now while answering these questions?
A little voice telling me to get a goddamned life. And my beloved office air conditioner. Most people think I chose my desk location for the view of the Common - not true. A nice, old, effective AC unit sits directly to my right, and I love it so much let’s just say it’s a good thing there isn’t an exhaust valve at waist level.

I saw a little kid this morning with the same Sunnyvale T-Shirt you see me wearing in the photo below from the Beachcomber. He was with his family outside the Park Plaza. I yelled out “Freedom 35!” and he looked at me like I’d just opened the sliding door of a black 1975 Chevy van and offered him moist candy corn. Then it seemed to sink in and he laughed, as did his father. I assume he was a Canadian tourist, but what if he wasn’t? What if the upcoming movie becomes a cult classic along the lines of Strange Brew or FUBAR and I’m suddenly vindicated for all the TPB prattling I’ve been doing on here for the last 24 months? October 6th fast approaches.

I’m really looking forward to digging a hole and crawling into it just as soon as I possibly can. Things have gotten overwhelming fast, and I am looking for ways to quickly cull the herd of stress monkeys stampeding through my weakening psyche. Yoga, aromatherapy and hard drugs aren’t going to cut it. I have to learn how to say “no”. Learn how to say “I am too busy”. Learn how to change my phone number and mailing address before I’m found pushing a shopping cart full of dead squirrels through the Public Garden.

What I should do is stop managing my building. But I’m going to press on, as the worst is almost over. I’m not worried about jinxing myself because short of Godzilla, locusts, nuclear termites or Tom Hanks and Shelly Long moving in - the worst is definitely almost over. It has to be, or I’ve obviously got to start considering the possibility that I may have somehow angered a Mayan God at some point. What I am going to do, is wrap up all the side-projects I have on the go that aren’t making me any money. This blog being one of several exceptions.

Family - I don’t talk about much here. The job - same rules apply, however I will say that both are a bit fucked at the moment. Life happens, and I’m not cruising for sympathy by any means. There are 8 million stories in the windy city, afterall. I’m simply getting the monkeys down in writing to help me figure out a way to combat their growing numbers. Membership is way up this year. I don’t make enough money, have enough ex-wives or have lived the sort of evil life that should warrant me considering becoming a sherpa at 32.

The most important thing I have decided to do, and I’ll likely live to regret publicizing this, is to cut down on the vices and stock way up on the healthy. Vices may constitute beer or frozen DiGiorno’s pizzas. Healthy might consist of a new gym membership or a garden salad. I haven’t figured out the details yet, but have been running some personal experiments that have proven promising in terms of productivity and clarity. This isn’t a mid-year resolution. This is a sea change. I’m calling my shot, and you can just watch me. Besides - Tiernan’s is history. That’s bound to add 5 years to my life right there.

Sort it out, Pye. Sort it out. Sherping awaits.

I was excited enough to be spending the weekend in the Cape - Orleans to be exact. Running into good friends minutes after arriving at Land Ho! was the icing on the cake. After a lovely round of my beloved poppers, we moseyed on over to Wellfleet and hit the Beachcomber. “May I see your ID please?” “Yeah, yeah”. Just tell me where I buy the Frank Black tickets.” After I procured four of them, I set out in search of the Healey brothers and Jeremy - and there was much rejoicing.

Saturday saw the great white whale hit the beach for the first time in a couple years. I gotta tell you, I really enjoyed it. I should be in a burn unit right now, but I had fun getting there. Then we headed back to Mark’s hacienda and spent several hours playing with Henry the baby English Bulldog before getting our grill on. I cooked for 10+ people, and had a great time doing it. Props are definitely due to my assistant griller, Damaris. She refused to cut my hair on her day off, but kept the hot dog buns blazing. Subsequently, Moynihan kept the Rolling Rocks blazing and before I cashed in my chips around midnight I’d heard at least 7 stories about Baader Meinhoff.

Sunday we headed back to the beach for a seal sighting, some whiffleball and paramedics. An older gentleman who was lounging right in front of us had to be carried away on a stretcher after having a reaction to the very cold water. It was a little scary but luckily I think he’s alright. The same can not be said for my stomach which looks like a tomato right now. I’ll add some photos when I eventually get them. Of Henry the Bulldog, not my stomach. Alright, my stomach.

There was an action/drama/comedy - an adramedy, if you will, on TV in Canada when I was growing up called The Beachcombers. The late Bruno Gerussi headed up the cast of the popular show whose 19-year and 324 episode lifespan became the longest in Canadian television history. Here is a quick synopsis of the show: “The adventures of a professional lumber salvager and his friends in Gibson, British Columbia, Canada.” How they managed to stretch that premise for 2 decades, I’ll never know. No, wait. I remember now: “The format focused on physical action–boat chases, storms, rising tides, various rites of passage, a long-distance swim, taming a wild dog, a vision quest, but violence was largely confined to experiences with physical objects which break up or blow up or somehow threaten the characters.” Awesome. And for my Canadian friends who haven’t seen a photo of Relic in a while, enjoy.

OK - That was quite the tangent. Regardless, PITF reader and fellow Tiernan’s refugee Greg sent me this photo from his camera phone last night. It’s a very low-budget poster for the upcoming Frank Black show at The Beachcomber bar in Wellfleet. Many of my friends have been talking about this, and it’s probably already sold out. Still, I’m going to give it a go and see if I can get down there. Who’s with me? I saw Frank Black at a tiny bar in London, Ontario in 1996 and it was one of the best I’ve ever seen. I’m a goin’.

And let’s talk about this poster for a second. It’s Frank Black, not your buddy from college who’s a stockbroker during the week. What’s with the student council 8×11 ‘poster’? Vote for Allison. The handwriting looks like the author was riding in the back of a biplane distributing these from the sky like communist propaganda leaflets. And maybe use a photo that doesn’t make him look like Peter Lorre with dysentery next time. Greg, where the heck did you see this?

When will it sink in? Like a shot of Jameson’s topped with Bailey’s into a 2/3 pint of Guinness, I keep waiting for the other car bomb to drop. At least we have our memories - 6 years and hundreds of laughs, songs, fights. And hours before Liam, Susan and company turned out the light and set the alarm for the very last time, we had one last hurrah in the old place. Now you may think I’m being overdramatic - but anyone who knows me also knows I’m handling this remarkably well. With the exception of the whole “climb into a bell tower with a high powered WWII bolt-action rifle” thing that happened on Saturday, of course.

I remember the first time I ever entered Tiernan’s - it was St. Patrick’s Day 2000 and I had just been offered a great new job. My soon-to-be CEO, a friend of the owners, snuck me in through the kitchen door as a thrall of people waited outside to get in. So basically, the first time I ever drank there I was already a VIP. A great day in every way, shape and waitress - and from the giddy-up I was hooked. I also remember the day that company folded, a year later, and I again walked into the pub only this time not quite so jovial. Having already heard the news, owner Liam looked at the bartender and said “Dave Pye does not pay for drinks in this bar tonight!” What a guy. What a place.

Then there was the time I brought my father there, and without hesitation Susan paid for our lunch and made me look like a king when I went for my wallet. Then they presented my Dad with a shirt, hat and one of Liam’s CDs which he wore/listened to for the rest of the day. She would also do that sort of thing when she knew I was bringing clients and friends there, all in the best interests of (I’m assuming) one of her favorite regulars. That’s what makes a great pub, that’s what I miss most about UK English/Irish bars and that’s why I’m likely bell-tower-bound at least once more before all the spit and sawdust has cleared.

See the full gallery from Friday night here. There are so many other great/horrifying stories from the wreckage - The post-St.Patrick’s Day parties, the celebs who dropped in, my silly benders and the subsequent damage, waterfights, Christmas stockings, booth conversations, New Year’s Eves… And the people I will sorely miss from down through the years - Freddy, Kenny, Brian, Pistol Pete Massa, Kim, Greg, Emily, Joanna, Linda, Edwina, Nick and the Wyndham crew, all the Gemmers, Davy Jones, Steve, Martine, Johnny Mac, Danny x2, Brownie and of course Susan and Liam themselves. Thanks for a great ride, everyone. Feel free to leave your memories in the comments below. It’s time to take the side door out to Franklin Street and get some Gatorade on the way home. Turn out the light and set the alarm. I’m too shitfaced and sad to remember the code.

This blog has been sitting neglected for the past week like a red-headed stepchild. And I’m sorry, baby. Of course I still love you. Even though I was stupid enough to create you in Blogger two years ago instead of Wordpress. Even though I use you to annoy people, find homes for roaches and tell far too many dead prostitute jokes. You’re my one and only, and I love your little blue, green and orange ass. No I don’t think you’re a baboon. You’re putting words in my mouth now, baby. Shhhhhh.

No you did NOT see me at the movies last week with Squidoo. That is so over. What do I have to do to prove it to you? Add another bad radio program to the sidebar? How about another guestmap, would you like that? More news about my leaky roof? I’ve got it - another piece about how rainy it is this summer? A picture of my cat? How about another joke about how I’m going to die alone beside a trunk of DVD porn? I haven’t used that one in a while. What’s it going to take?

And… SCENE. This week PITF turns two years old. To help you fathom how unlikely it is for a blog to ever turn two years old, that’s 14 in dog years, - and about 672 in blog years. I’d be giving myself a pat on the back, if I weren’t already giving myself a pat on the back. In honor of this miraculous occasion, I will be updating the “classics” list on the left hand side for the first time in forever to encourage a little nostalgia. Which is a little like inducing vomit, only less potentially damaging to the esophagus.

I am in absolute shock right now. You heard it here first, folks - Tiernans is closing forever. Take a moment to digest that, if you’re someone who cares, and then try this on for size - today is their very last. I had a message on my phone from one of the waitresses and just listened to it as I was walking to work this morning. I don’t have to tell anyone who knows me how much I have enjoyed this pub over the last 6 years. I have had hundreds of fun-filled nights there, and the building and staff have held a special place in my liver. I am gutted. I’ve lost my clubhouse.

I started working the door on weekends there in about 2000, and did so on and off for the next 4 years. 4 rowdy, cabbage-filled St. Patrick’s Days in a row. I built the website, hung my own Christmas stocking every year and had many, many, nay - many parties for my friends on the premesis. It is a truly sad day.

The San Francisco location will remain open for business, and life will go on. Perhaps this is a sign from the ghost of Brendan Behan that it is time to slow it all down. I was planning on staying in and behaving myself this weekend, but obviously that strategy has just been sadly and violently pre-empted. Obviously, they’re not going to take all the food and booze with them to California, so it could get interesting. If you’re a fan of the place and have nothing planned for this evening - join me at the wake on Franklin and Broad.