Pye in the Face

I don’t have a Wadio in me tonight, but I’ve gone and done a little something that will allow you to procrastinate at least equally as long. Have a look at the main navigation tabs at the tip top of the page and you’ll see a new one - “Archives“. If you’ve been with me for a while I have made available literally all of the content from the many incarnations this site has gone through over the years. Have a gander and a giggle, talk amongst yourselves and I’ll get back to invoicing.

I wish I could bottle whatever unlikely element got into my weary system today. Up at 7:30 and closing down work for the day as soon as I finish this post for an early night. Two more days like this one and I might just get myself caught up with work. I almost just laughed when I read that last sentence back.

The Boston stop-over on the way back from Florida was professionally successful and socially silly to boot. I have uploaded a revelrous gallery you can peruse should you feel brave with photos from Friday night appearing near the bottom. Budweiser apparently serves towers of beer, which I figured must hold at least the equivalent of a 12 pack, and we took down a few like antelope on the Serengeti at my old homestead - Sidebar. We then moved on to another staple, Silvertone, and proved to ourselves and the civilians in attendence little more than that we should never reproduce.

Saturday night was little Bella’s 7th birthday party at the new Hard Rock Cafe (good riddance, Rack) and yet another excuse to fire (down) harpoons like a Japanese whaling vessel. Then Sunday I headed back to Ottawa by way of Philadelphia and collapsed in my bed sometime around 10pm. I’m quite sad that the Patriots lost the SuperBowl, but to be honest I don’t think I realized it until sometime this morning. These days, 2 straight nights on the razz wipe me out both physically and mentally for the better part of a week.

I am back home, getting back to normal and doing all the things I’ve neglected for the last 5 weeks like laundry, eating food I prepare myself and not sleeping on a pull-out couch left over from a Spanish Inquisition torture galleon. I pick up the puppies on Saturday and obviously have no idea the type of mayhem I am in for. Life, however, is good. And home is definitely not a relative term to me anymore.

My folks just took off to Florida for the winter and I am officially Ted Kaczinsky. Alone, in the woods, growing a beard, writing a manifesto and sending C4 through the mail to people I don’t like whilst dressed up like Weird Al Yankovich. Not really. If it’s any less disturbing, and let’s face it - it probably isn’t - the Indiana Jones costume I have prepared for a Halloween party tonight in Kingston is tres, tres dope. If I do say so Myself. Let me break it down for you.

• An authentic Indiana Jones hat which I bought online from the company who makes them for the movies.
• An $8 bullwhip replica I found on eBay. The real thing goes for $700.
• One of my father’s replica revolvers, complete with holster, which looks frighteningly authentic. If I am shot to death tonight by the OPP there need be little question as to why.
• An over the shoulder belt and WWII satchel that my Mom sewed out of an old canvas beach bag prior to  her departure.
• Khaki pants which are fairly faithful to those worn by Harrison.
•  An off-white collared shirt with a few pockets and things that I found in my Dad’s golf closet.

I tried it on for the first time a couple hours ago and I’m quite happy with it. After I put it on at my party location, I will proceed to smear a little dirt on myself and bloody up my knuckles like I’ve been battering Nazis and/or Thuggees for two hours. The hat is perfect and really makes the whole costume. I will post photos of the Indy getup next week and I invite you to send in your own 2007 Halloween costume photos which I’ll post and review, should I get any. Email them to me and then brace yourselves.

There’s a Facebook group for my high school town, and someone added a “You Know You’re From Concord When…” thread a while ago. Obviously, the group is predominantly much-younger people, but I was curious and added my own point to the thread. You know you’re from Concord When: “Being told to meet your friends at ‘Eden’, ‘Boonyards’ or ‘Mayflower’ makes perfect sense to you.”

Someone from the class of 2004 emailed me today and asked me to elaborate, so I did. This email is extended a couple paragraphs for the sake of the blog and reprinted with express written permission from… myself.

All three were nicknames we had for secluded outdoor places around Concord where we used to “par-tay”. Eden was along the river and accessible from behind the strip mall just off Lowell road near the center where Stop n Shop used to be. I worked there for a summer until they found out I was Canadian and didn’t have my greencard yet. It’s still a grocery store but has a different name now. There was a narrow path that wound through the underbrush for a bit and came out on a nice public lawn on the riverside with a decent amount of tree cover overhead. You could also walk down to it from the bridge down Lowell road a bit.

Anyway, Eden was a huge cop magnet and we only used it as a last resort when nobody’s parents were out of town. My friend got arrested one night, fully cuffed and stuffed, for peeing on the fire after the po-po told us to put it out. “I don’t care how you do it, but put that fucking fire out!” Well, my pal got a night in the docks and an embarassing Concord Journal Police Log entry for his efforts. The worst part is, the Journal listed the charge as “indecent exposure”, with his real name and age. That could have meant a million different things, and I’m sure his grandparents enjoyed reading it over Sunday breakfast while envisioning him running through a local preschool with his pants around his ankles.

Boonyards was a field that accessible by an overgrown dirt road just over the Bedford town line on Bedford Street that extended out from the Concord center rotary. Technically it’s located on Hanscom airforce base which we learned the hard way one night when soldiers with M16s on jeeps showed up to break up our bonfire. I was off in the dark fiddling with a British exchange student and made an easy escape.

Mayflower was in West Concord technically, and you had to go through the back of Thoreau hills to get to it. I don’t think the police ever found it during my CCHS career, but we accidentally rolled a full keg down into someone’s backyard one enchanted evening. That attracted a lot of attention and I don’t think I ever returned.

Glad I could impart some history on my wee descendants. Concord was a strange place in the early 90’s era. When I got to college in 1992, it bored me to tears. I’ve had this conversation with dozens of my friends who had the same freshman year blues. We’d wonder why people in our dorm got so excited over a lame frat keg party, and the rest of the kids on our floor wouldn’t believe our high school stories. The classes of 89 and 91 especially - we’d already fucking done it all. We kept Mr. Kryple and Ms. DiCicco on antacids - that’s for sure. The outdoor spots were backups, and the tip of the iceberg. Good times.

For the long awaited Canada Day 2007, which is like the… 160th anniversary of the day the loyalists grew a pair and declared a Dominion (horribly inaccurate summary), I did a number of very patriotic things. When you live alone in a house for two months, like one of the kids from Flowers in the Attic, having your only sibling and several of your best friends in the same house for a long weekend is a little exciting. Throw in a boat, fireworks, some liquor and the birth of a nation – and we’re talking 6-year-old at Christmas excited. Here are the highlights.

1. Worked on Operation Bunkhouse for exactly 1.5 hours in 4 days.

2. Got so pinted one night that I didn’t get out of bed for the entire next day – again, whilst all my friends whom I was longing to see were here.

3. Continued to aggressively not work on the bunkhouse.

4. Provided one friend with so many patriotic punches to the ribs that he eventually retaliated with a full cup of beer to the lap.

5. Emotionally scarred a 10 month old border collie.

6. Wrote and sang at least 17 new songs whilst liquored, including such nouveau favorites as “Who’s Gonna go to the Truck and get some RedBull?”, an acapella cover of “Jump Around” and the timeless “Who Wants to go to the Gazebo and Have Drinks?”. I believe Sully has extensive video of the wonderful additions to the modern musical canon, so stay tuned.

7. Paid an extortionate amount of money to have satellite internet installed which has gone down about 15 times so far. Lightning has a very negative effect on the weak signal, as do dragonflies farting near the dish I have to assume at this point. The best part is, I got to climb a 24 foot ladder and cut down all the branches on the tree for the guy who installed it. Maybe there’s a voucher in the mail.

My gallery is here, and Sully’s should be up in a few days at which time I’ll add another shameful link. Thanks for making the trip to everyone from Boston and Toronto – it meant a lot to me, and my parents had a great time in spite of me channeling the ghost of Brendan Behan for two evenings straight.

Many, many emphatic thanks to everyone who came to my send off bender at Kennedy’s on Saturday night. The show of support and love really had a positive effect on my sister and I, and will make these next tricky months a lot easier. I couldn’t be more sincere. Highlights included:

• A genuine pink Red Sox thong from Tony B.
• A surprise appearance by Moynihan who flew from fucking SWEDEN to be with us.
• Two philanthropic Harkins brothers and one lovely Heather who allowed us to give out free drink tickets to all the guests.
• Janet’s brainchild - the photo album - which was passed around and signed by all.
• The largest assembly of BrainGEM veterans in 5 years.
• More hugs and kisses than I will probably get for the rest of my life.

Let’s wrap this love-fest up. It’s time to get packing, cracking and plow through the next seven days. See the photo gallery here, and you all have a place to stay in Toronto forever.

I never remember my dreams. My sleep issues run so deep that my brain doesn’t have time for REM by the time I actually manage to get to snoozieland. But I took a cat nap today and had visions that were so strange and disturbing that I realized I should probably finish my Toronto story as means of exorcism. But first, I have to tell you about this fucking dream.

I was at my Grandmother’s house, which had been transformed into a building which was a cross between the movie House and various other naughty structures. Rickety, dark, old, evil smelling, foreboding - an uncanny resemblance to the real thing. My Grandmother was gone, presumably already in ‘the home’, and she had a large variety of animals left behind. All of which had to be killed. By me.

My sister was there, but she was busy packing stuff up and getting ready to leave for Boston. My task was domestic housepet genocide, and I was expected to do it by others in the house as casually as they were cleaning, organizing and inventorying. There were cats which I neck-wrung without difficulty (which is ridiculous because I love cats). A rabbit which I stomped. I think I drowned at least one hamster. A giant furry beetle which I tore into pieces and fed to other furry beetles before then massacring his buddies, too. But when I got to the attic there was one pet left which I could not bring myself to assassinate.

A large-eyed dog, some sort of terrier, was cowering from me up there, behind 30 years of curio crap. I picked it up, brought it downstairs and pleaded with my sister to quietly put it in her car and take it to Beantown with her. She eventually agreed, and I started taking loads of trash to the dump like I’d spent the morning re-arranging a sock drawer.

What is the worst or most bizarre dream you’ve ever had? Should I just check into an evaluation facility right now?

I simply don’t know where to start in describing the events of last week, and I’m not entirely sure I should. It was an adventure, nay - an odyssey. There were moments of fun sprinkled on top, but I don’t think I have ever been as happy to cross the threshold of my apartment after a trip. This will take a few entries, but I feel the need to decompress via writing about it.

I arrived in Buffalo on Friday the 5th and walked to the Enterprise Desk to pick up my rental car. I was second in line, but a mass of people quickly built up behind me as the woman in front argued that the price she was being charged was not what she’d been quoted. As her suitcase was held together with duct tape, I quickly assumed the woman was not a frequent flier. The counter person handled herself well and, much to the dismay of the disgruntled hippy, called me forward. “I have never in 7 years seen anyone quoted a price anywhere near that low, ma’am.” Moonbeam pulled out a prehistoric cell phone, claiming she’d call the Enterprise office she’d first talked to, which she promptly dropped and shattered on the floor. I briefly felt sorry for her until I realized I still had to drive 2 hours to Toronto in the pouring rain and that I’d sooner she just shut up and fuck off.

When I got down to the rental garage, after a credit card counter mishap of my own, I was pleasantly surprised to see a PT Cruiser brought around for me. I am not a huge ‘car guy,’ and initially thought the vehicle was pretty sweet. I pictured Frank Nitty firing a tommy gun from the window, or a bunch of surfboards sticking out the back. Little was I to know the level of ridicule I would receive over the next 10 days, as apparently ‘PT Losers’ and ‘those cars for gays’ aren’t that highly regarded amongst my Canadian friends and family. Still, I liked it.

I made it over the border, down the QEW, over the Gardiner Express way and up Spadina to Jason and Amy’s without incident. After a very wet greeting from Marj the border collie (pictures forthcoming) we picked up Richie and went out for pizza. After dinner, a long discussion over what a ‘gusset’ was, and an hour of YouTube back at Richie’s we all hit the hay. If the three of us had read this paragraph 10 years ago, we’d have scoffed. But it was good.

Saturday we got up and took Marj to the dog park where she befriended an ungroomed miniature poodle named Allie. Allie’s owner, a friendly 60-something man, chatted to us for awhile and I quickly realized more of the potential fun of dog ownership. He knew everyone who passed us who even said hello to his little dog by name. Although I love my Boss I think he may be getting a playmate/nemesis shortly after my move. I have no idea as to breed yet, and will have to give this careful consideration.

In the afternoon we went to Duff’s for wings and eventually ended up back at the house with J’s sisters, husband and kids who are all rapidly becoming favorite people of mine. Oh, and Ryan was there too. Then I scooted off to the Rose and Crown as I had… wait for it… a date. When I decided to move to T.O. I changed the zip code on my old Match profile and re-launched it - just to cushion the blow a little bit, as it was not an easy decision. Within a day I had gotten a wink from a lovely gal who I’d chatted with on and off up until my unplanned visit. On a spur, we decided to get a beer. I wouldn’t be mentioning it if it hadn’t gotten interesting.

She was a lot of fun, and we were having a grand old time when I started to get text messages from JV. “Hurry up with the broad and let’s get going.” came the first. I knew he wanted to go meet Richie at TuCats later on, and I told him I didn’t think the date would last long as she’d told me before hand she had to get up at 5am. I texted back that I’d call him when we were done, and to fuck off. The next message came in: “Look over to your left“.

I spun my head around quickly and just caught two shapes ducking behind a post opposite my table. The girl asked if my friends were here, and I sheepishly told her that I thought they were. She stood up, walked over behind the post and said “Well you might as well come over and join us now”. Nick and JV sat down at our booth like two little schoolboys who’d just bee caught peeking into the girls’ bathroom. My date gets full credit for that ballsy move, and I’ll be coming back for her like Chuck Norris when I move up there on the strength of that alone.

We were piling into the SUV a half hour later and headed over to the aforementioned bar where a gang of Welland kids were supposedly waiting for us. As I walked up to the front door, I heard a voice say “Oh my God, it’s you.” I turned to look at the doorman, and realized it was a great guy who had worked for me at the Bullring 10 years earlier. I think that might have been the moment when I really felt 100% good about this move. I have roots and affinities there, and I miss them. I may not stay in Canada past the dealings with my family, but I need to go stay. More to come.

What an uncanny topic, given my current appearance. I am really looking forward to going to see Rocky Balboa tomorrow night. The buzz is good and I always love the underdog. Whether it’s a 56-yr old actor making a boxing movie and having it work - or me not falling down a flight of stairs, liquored. By the way, the photo below isn’t actually me this time.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I put off taking painkillers all day because I had a large report to finish. A consultation with the plastic surgeon tomorrow (I wish I were kidding) and then that will hopefully be the last time I mention this ridiculous misfortune. Again, I’m not referring to Rocky, hopefully.

Larry “The Beaut” has worked at and brightened up pubs around this dirty old town for as long as I have lived here. I worked with him myself at Tiernans many times, and he’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. Larry’s health has been an issue as of late, and he’s now making a steady recovery after a very scary couple of weeks. Friends and family are holding a fundraiser for him tonight at Hennessey’s right beside Faneuil hall. It should be a nice Tiernans reunion while raising some money to get Larry back on his feet. If you’re in the neighborhood, please stop in.

I’ve just posted the photos from last weekend’s brouhaha at the illustrious Welland Soccer club. You’ll also see a few photos from the Friday - with peelers apparent and a few choice stills from Chopper’s garage. More explication to come.

Watch this immediately. The best news is, it looks frigging hilarious. In case you’re retarded, click the MEDIA link when you get there. UPDATE: Found it on YouTube. You’ve no excuse now, retard.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mike, Jo, Mark, Janet and I got back from our most recent trip to the Great White North last evening, and although I spent the vast majority of the time doing chores around my parents place - it was still a welcome rest. I could do without the zebra mussel cuts from putting in the dock and boatlift, and I have more mosquito bites than a Calcutta streaker. This, however, is the cost of getting wild in the Ontario woods. Or at least sitting around in a nice house with the AC cranked. The most ‘roughing it’ I think we did was probably having the DVD remote malfunction.

Other gallery moments worthy of note - Gordo chair-dancing to Stompin’ Tom Conners, The technicolor Canadian Maple Leaf photo ops, rockin’ at Remy’s in Westport, campfire chicanery and an arsenal of missles that would make Kim Jong Il himself jealous. Enjoy!

A recipie for trouble if I’ve ever heard one: Tiernan’s now has a lightning-fast, free wireless connection. My apartment was party-central for some reason Monday night, with both my roomates independantly entertaining for a combined atmosphere that resembled the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse that time it was invaded by monkeys. Needless to say, even locked away in my room like a sober veal - I got very little done. I had a deadline yesterday, and I needed a quiet place to work after-hours and so I decided to see if I really could get shit done at my favorite pub - because I was never able to when I tried at the Hind’s Head upon the procurement of my very first laptop in 1998.

Some boneless Buffalo wings and a couple Diet Cokes later, I was well on my way to getting my work finished. By midnight I was all done and having a Smithwick’s with the North End restaurant crew that goes there every night. So, all in all, a nice little productive evening. I think Tiernan’s may become a library of sorts for me. Especially during the week when it’s quiet. Anyway, the real point here is that I got an important phone call while I was sitting there, typing away.

It was Jim on the line, and he sorta sheepishly asked me if I’d be interested in getting a timeshare in Newport this summer. Perhaps he was under the impression that I enjoyed sweating profusely in dense urban settings and didn’t want to impose. Normally when we all go down there, we’re treated like royalty at Heather and Chris’ awesome house. But they have a little sailor on the way, and things done changed this year. I didn’t even think about my answer. I’m in, and I’ll be spending as little time in Boston as possible over the next 4 months. Perhaps that will cure my geographic antsiness for awhile. But definitely not the aggressive alcohol dependency.

“Once I get some liquor into me, I get up and I sing this one.”

I have been looking for an excuse to try and embed a movie in one of the blog entries. And obviously - I’ve found a doozy. Enjoy the liquor and the whores, too.