Pye in the Face

When I first got back from England in 1999, I dated a girl I went to high school with for a little while. One night while visiting her apartment I left my Mills Hall sweatshirt in her room (hey now,) and we stopped hanging out in the biblical sense a few days later. Eventually realizing where my prized shirt had gone, I called her up and asked if I could come get it. No times ever worked for her, or she’d tell me how much she loved it and could she keep it, etc. etc. I saw her many times over the next 7 years and every time I’d ask about the shirt. “Are you still going on about that shirt? I love it!” But I never would let up - it meant a lot to me.

Here is the only picture I have of me wearing it. Mills Hall in the early 90s was the only all-male dorm at the University of Guelph and we were a very proud and misbehaved bunch. I met one of my very best friends while living there, and I still keep in touch with loads of the old crew. Last week I was asked to be in one of their wedding parties this summer. It’s an ongoing bond and the closest thing to a good fraternity (and there were several fraternities at the school) that Guelph had going for it. Long story short, we all had those sweatshirts, the dorm is now co-ed without any sort of culture like we brought to it and if you’ve since lost it - that’s it. It’s gone.

I ran into the young lady in question at a wedding over the summer and said hello to her quickly. A few days later she emailed me to ask why I’d given her such a dirty look. I told her I didn’t remember giving her one, and certainly didn’t mean to and that I was sorry. She wrote back: “You’re still mad about that stupid sweatshirt, aren’t you?” I told her I wasn’t mad, but that I wished I still had it and that I’d pursued it a lot harder before she got married and threw it away. “I wore it last week” she replied.

It took her several months, but when I got home from Florida Sunday night I had a missed parcel slip at the door and I immediately wondered if she’d actually, finally sent me the sweatshirt back. I just returned from the post office, looked at the return to sender address and began doing a little jig in my front hallway. It’s in perfect condition and I’m wearing it as I type. I am ecstatic, I’m going to forward this post to all my old Mills buddies and to she who knows who she is - THANK YOU!

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.

Appetizer: What was the last game you purchased?
Janet and I bought my Dad a Nintendo DS a year ago so he could play memory and brain exercise games, of which there are quite a few. After he showed little interest in the thing, and my Mom started commandeering it for a crossword game, I decided to see what else was available. Since then I have picked up hockey, football, best of Konami and golf games and some of them are quite fun. I also recently learned about a project which allows you to download and play free, pirated ROMS for the thing - which I may or may not do (insert Terrence Maddox wink here). Last week in Walmart I found a game entitled My French Tutor which I scooped up and played with on the plane to Florida. It’s surprisingly good, great for individual word memorization if nothing else and if you follow the last link you’ll find an objective and in-depth review that will have you dropping croissant crumbs all over the tiny screen in no time. Or something.

Soup: Name something in which you don’t believe.
It’s a toss up between Santa and Superman at the moment. Although I really want the new Blade Runner 5 Disc Ultimate Collector’s Edition, so I should tread carefully. This Amazon description sounds like the coolest DVD box set thingy in human history:

“In celebration of Blade Runner’s 25th anniversary, director Ridley Scott has gone back into post production to create the long-awaited definitive new version. Blade Runner: The Final Cut, spectacularly restored and remastered from original elements and scanned at 4K resolution, will contain never-before-seen added/extended scenes, added lines, new and improved special effects, director and filmmaker commentary, an all-new 5.1 Dolby® Digital audio track and more. Harrison Ford, Rutger Hauer, Edward James Olmos, Joanna Cassidy, Sean Young, and Daryl Hannah are among some 80 stars, filmmakers and others who participate in the extensive bonus features. Among the bonus material highlights is Dangerous Days, a brand new, three-and-a-half-hour documentary by award-winning DVD producer Charles de Lauzirika, with an extensive look into every aspect of the film: its literary genesis, its challenging production and its controversial legacy. The definitive documentary to accompany the definitive film version.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EvkqEOcHFY8

The Ultimate Collector’s Edition will be presented in a unique 5-disc digi-package with handle which is a stylish version of Rick Deckard’s own briefcase. In addition, each briefcase will be individually numbered and in limited supply. Included is a lenticular motion film clip from the original feature, miniature origami unicorn figurine, miniature replica spinner car, and collector’s photographs, as well as a signed personal letter from Sir Ridley Scott”

Salad: If you could choose a celebrity to be your boss, who would you pick?
He’s sort of like marmite or anchovies in that you either love him or you hate him - but I think the world of Gordon Ramsey. It’s not so much his cooking canon and repertoire, that’s not really up for debate. It’s the no-nonsense, brutal tough love approach to seriously effective business advice that he brings to flailing restaurants in the “Kitchen Nightmares” series. If you know him only from screaming at French kitchen porters or a fat guy named Dewberry from the English and American versions of Hell’s Kitchen - then you’re probably right in assuming he’s an arrogant, narcicisstic prick. If you’ve seen the amazing way in which he can completely transform and save a business on Nightmares - from staff motivation to getting owner’s heads out of the clouds to wedding favors to deep cleanings to simplifying the menu to even decorating the bloody dining room - he is incredibly saavy, genuine and brilliant. “Do you know that, big boy?” On one episode of the English series two (I have been watching Ramsey’s shows for almost a decade), I was thrilled to see him take one of the owners to The Fat Duck in Bray. The restaurant has gone on to international acclaim and celebrity chef status for the owner, Heston Blumenthal, but it started as a little out of the way place which just happens to be located beside the pub I worked at for two years in the late 90s. Heston even bought the Hinds Head a couple of years ago and I have written about him before. The original Hinds Head website was the first site I ever built back in 1998, and my then girlfriend and I were one of the first people to eat at the Duck which was voted Restaurant of the Year in 2001 by Michelin - and if you know anything about the international restaurant game - that’s like winning best director, actor and film oscars for the same flick. Anyway, I pick Gordon Ramsey. “Have I gone soft in the fucking head, or summink?” No, just the midsection.

Main Course: What was a lesson you had to learn the hard way?
Don’t watch my father’s dirty movies when he goes for a motorcycle ride. Because the motorcycle might start making a funny noise forcing him to come home 4 hours early as a result. I remember that day, and look at him now, and it’s a complete mindfuck.

Dessert: Describe your idea of the perfect relaxation room.
One which features walls made of opium and contains furniture fashioned from Macadamia nuts. There’s a TV playing one of those fish tank DVDs and some sunglasses which double as x-ray specs. The only noise is generated by the subtle grunts coming from the Swedish Women’s Volleyball Team as they repeatedly touch their toes in front of me. Every hour on the hour they break to make me a very large sandwich. This is going nowhere, fast. Good luck with your last minute Christmas gift getting and all that good stuff.

Four years and a thousand entries ago, I started this blog - knowing full well I probably wouldn’t maintain it but that it would be a learning experience relevant to my line of work. Who knew? I recently added a “On this date three years ago” feature in the sidebar in the hopes of getting a few eyeballs on some of the Pye in the Face canon. But I don’t think that’s really enough - especially where search engines are concerned. So I’m going to take time out now and then to draw attention to past posts I think are pretty cool and that you very likely missed.

Three years ago the thoroughly unique and enjoyable Tough Crowd was canceled by Comedy Central - much to my chagrin. I wrote a bunch of posts on the subject that I know were passed around and read by people involved with the show - including Jim Norton, Laurie Kilmartin, Patrick from Cringe Humor and probably even Colin Quinn himself. If you want to learn why I liked the show so very much, follow some of the Tough Crowd related links you see in this paragraph. That’s the whole point. This is how we play the reminiscelets game. My good friend Brukakke and I drove to New York to see the last Tough Crowd episode taping and even made it onto the show via an audience shot that you can see below. We met a lot of the guys and it was good closure for us. We were probably the equivalent of Tough Crowd superfans.

Another article I read over recently and got a chuckle out of was in response to a blog entry by Moby right after the 2004 election. Moby was so distraught that George Bush had been re-elected that he was asking Canadians if it was alright if he moved up there. I was only too happy to give him an answer. You won’t often see me talk about politics on PITF, or draw attention to when I’ve done it in the past, so enjoy it while you can.

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.

The house that I sit inside as I write this long overdue post is the one and only geographical constant I’ve had in my life. My Grandmother bought it shortly before I was born in 1973, and I’ve been wandering these halls for 33 years straight. We sold it recently, and are out of here lock, stock and barrel on July 31st. It finally sank in today when I met the new owners and overheard some of their renovation plans - and I suppose I’m sad this evening. Finally.

The last 5 years or so, as my Grandmother’s health and mind have deteriorated, the house has been more of a headache than anything anyone wants to be remotely nostalgic about. I watched the new owner’s children run around in the backyard today, and get excited about the dark ravine I used to know like the back of my hand. I looked out the patio doors at the run down pool that we’ve spent hundreds of dollars keeping functional this summer and can almost see one of my parent’s late night parties that used to take place this time of year - 20 years ago. I’m not going to get out of here at the end of this week without at least a little tug at the heartstrings.

There’s my Grandfather helping me put together my Death Star during Christmas 1977. I can almost picture my beloved Planet of the Apes playhouse down where it stood in the basement. The obligatory driveway hand prints from 1987 are eroded but discernible. Last night I slept in the room I lived in for the summer of 1996 when I was at University and washing windows in the next town over.

The dining room table which used to be the epicenter of the house is now quiet, and will be moved to my new apartment come the fall. 10 minutes ago my father decided he didn’t want the Grandfather clock and that’ll go to me too. Janet’s got dibs on the old kitchen table. Life will go on, obviously, but a more crystal-clear end to an era you’ll never find - and I’ll have a sniffle if I want to.

Once upon a time, if you wanted to find someone you’d lost touch with, you’d hire a private detective. In 2007, the first answer my friends and I came up with for this same task was: “Start a FaceBook Group!” That having been said, where the hell is Peter Grumme - a.k.a. Gummer?

Many people who visit this site won’t have any clue, or give a sweet frickin’ tweet, who Gummer is. Simply put, he’s a diamond geezer whom a lot of people would like to get back in touch with. In the age of FaceBook, and it’s fervent Canadian following, not being able to locate him is extremely frustrating.

I’m writing about this today because there are currently next to no hits in Google for Pete’s name. If he, or someone he knows, performs a related query anytime soon they’ll undoubtedly find this post, the FB group and then - salvation. Come home, little shaggy lamb.

Back in 2003 I was in the grips of a pretty severe Rat Pack fascination. Anyone who has ever been to my apartment can attest to that. Dino, Joey, Peter, Sammy and Frank still look down at you from every wall. At the time I worked as an editor and was responsible for writing up user-submitted IT bloopers into longer, readable articles. I always tried to inject a little humor into the proceedings, and I got a little carried away at times. Here is my favorite, which I stumbled upon today while looking for old copywriting examples to show to potential clients.

Discretion, and a love of breathing without a respirator, prevents us from mentioning the name of this fine establishment. But when our Clyde’s contract was cancelled the following day, you can bet he didn’t hang around to catch any shows. Better to miss Goulet at the Trump Marina — than to wake up at the bottom of one.

It’s way over the top in terms of what that site was used to, but my boss liked it, threw it up, and it’s still there four years later. Made me laugh today, see what you think.

Spoke to me Mam today about plans for selling G-ma’s house and getting on with our respective lives. So there are no nasty surprises for any of my peeps, real or imagined, I will be among the faithful Boston departed as of May 1st. I’ve been living in the North End for a little over 7 years, and I will always have a soft spot for this neighborhood and this city. But baby, I gots to go.

It’s very bittersweet - not so much the fact that I am leaving Boston and moving to Toronto, but the reasons behind why I feel I have to. That having been said, I am tremendously excited to buy a car, buy my own place, spend time with my family - immediate and extended, and the fact remains that I have a tremendous group of friends up there from my very early high school (pre-1988) and University of Guelph days. It’s not like I’m shipping out to the Falklands.

While we’re sorta on the subject, the timing of Facebook’s very recent explosion into the Canadian market could not be better timed. Everyday I get friend requests from people I haven’t talked to in 10 years. We have a group for the house I lived in at Uni, one for my old dorm Mills Hall and the network keeps growing and growing. It’s all very, very serendipitous.

Before I lose consciousness from masturbating with maple syrup in anticipation, I should point out that my current employer, while allowing me to work remotely in the wilds of the North as much as I need too during this tricky time, also wants me back in Boston a few times a quarter - so I’ll still be seeing everyone in Beantown on the regular. No biggie, for the best.

Some Guelph guys just forwarded me this. Al was my first ever internet project related collaborator. Art, I remember you he and I were working on some website back in 1996. Do you recall the premise? I don’t. I do, however, remember helping to newspaper-ball Al’s entire dorm room when he went home one weekend because he’d pissed someone off. He was a bit greasy. A comment from the email:

“He was the greasiest ladies man ever, so i’m not surprised. One time i heard him say “I love you’ on the phone to his girlfriend back home when he was in bed with some tart he picked up the night before.” No doubt at a Mills pub at the Rock Cellar. Glad to see Al has’s remained true to his roots. “Mills Once, Mills Twice - Holy Jumping Jesus Christ!”

We really need to get the chant online somewhere for posterity. You can be damn sure it isn’t taught during frosh week anymore. I believe it’s been substituted by something from the Koran at this point. I started a little Mills tribute site a few years ago which I think I still have on my computer at home. I’ll dig it up. Stay tuned, boys.

I have touched upon how much I think new rap sucks before. I have also asked myself the question “Am I just old now?” Perhaps I’m just following a cycle, the way my Grandmother must have looked down her nose at my mother’s Elvis ‘45 collection. The odd modern rap song (I like Clipse a lot) will turn my head, but en masse - compared to how much I loved it circa 86 to 94 - it’s just awful. Look at my car, check out this tacky spinning crap rim I tacked on to my wheel, Look at my diamond plated necklace which also looks like the wheel of my car, look at the ass on this girl, listen to the blippedy beep I made on a synthesizer in 2 minutes.” Ya feel me?

I am not saying that these themes haven’t been prevalent since the days of the Treacherous Three. I’m implying it’s all anybody bloody talks about now. Sure there are the Talib Kwelis and the like who opt for message - but they are few, far between and rarely on the charts anywhere. And by old school, I am not referring to pre-1988 but all the way up to the mid-nineties. The golden-age of rap occured, for me, about the summer of 92 and then dropped off sharply when Biggie died. You can almost trace it back to the month.

My thoughts are on this today because I watched the VH1 Hip Hop Legends Awards on Sunday night and thoroughly enjoyed the shiznit out of it. The way it works, is 6 seminal rappers are picked to join the legend ranks. Then, after a “Story of…” video is played on the big screen, a medley of that artists’ songs is performed by current rappers, often with the honored artist themself joining in at the end. It was really well done - Beastie Boys songs were performed by Q-Tip, Fabolous and Diddy before they joined in at the end. Rakim was honored and performed as did MC Lyte, Ice Cube and Wu Tang. Segments were punctuated by great old songs by EPMD, Das Efx and the like. It made me wonder what the phunk happened.

Doug sent me this photo last night from a couple of Thanksgivings ago. It’s really remarkably good, if of course you know any of the participants. I took a lot of photos this night at Jim’s too - but none of them really captured the moment as well. Shortly prior to Doug’s email, Phil dropped me a line and asked me to help organize… wait for it… my 15 year high school reunion. The 10 year was a blast, so of course I agreed, but jeepers. 15 years. Nostalgia started creeping in a little bit, and I figured I’d say a few words about how I feel turning into the home stretch of this awful anniversary.

Everyone thinks that they know crazy people, or fun people, or maybe that their high school was a little bit nuts. CCHS, from about 88-92, was a special time. By the time we all got to college in 1992, we were bored. There are many people who’ll attest to that fact. We sowed the shit out of our collective oats. School and town officials really started to crack down after then, and it can all be traced back to the video tape of a party at a certain person’s house - who may or may not be typing this right now - which got about 25 kids kicked off of sports teams. Worst part is, the host in question wasn’t even going to the high school at this point. Anyway, it was the beginning of the end of the insanity.

Concord is a very affluent town, and many of our parents had lots of room for vacations, or even summer/winter houses in other states. My point is - every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night - without fail - there was a party. And if there wasn’t a house to haunt, we’d take it outside. Namely “Eden”, “Boonyards” or “The Mayflower”. We got pinched at Eden once, and a friend went to the clink for peeing on the fire after the police told him to put it out. Jeeps full of soldiers with M-16s invaded Boonyards another time, as we’d failed to realize the muddy lot was in fact property of Hanscom Airforce Base. We were resourceful, we had a little money, we all had our own cars - it was a minor delinquency Neverland.

There are a hundred good stories, that we delight in telling to eachother when we all get together - which I can never reveal here. So I’ll keep it general: We so crazy. I have lived in a lot of places, and known a lot of people, but this bunch is a special one and I hope we’re all still in contact on the eve of the 30 year. I know we will be. People say to me sometimes, I can’t believe you still hang out with and keep in touch with all your high school friends. And to them I say - Why the hell not? You grow up with these people. They know you better than anyone. Why would you ever throw all that away because you move half an hour away. Why would you throw that away if you moved to fucking Singapore? I like having good friends. Maybe it’s just me.

When I moved in to my current apartment, it was September 2000 and I was 26 years old. I had a sweet job, a building which was always full of young girls, a fraternity-esque social life and the interior decorating to match. It was cheesy, but it was OK to be cheesy. It was expected - and I was in good, cheesy company. But as Seamus left in September for new horizons in Hartford, I am now the very last of the old guard.

The years have flown past, and I’ve never updated my decor. Sitting in my room now, I see the signed flag of St. George I received when I left the Hinds Head in 1998. An original operational 1977 Han Solo blaster. A remote controlled R2D2 which is even older. A map of Northern Ireland printed on Irish linen I got in Belfast in 2001. Goldfinger, Casino, Die Hard 3 and A Bronx Tale (way to go Lillo by the way,) posters. My skydiving certificate. Multiple DeNiro, Sinatra and Frank Black 8×10s. Unframed photographs that are taped to the walls including my football team group shots that are all curled up at the edges and need to be preserved as they may still impress girls. A creative writing award I won in 1991 that definitely never will. A boomerrang I got in Australia and a wooden machete I got in South Africa. And there’s a few shitloads more.

Let me just say what you’re all thinking - My bedroom looks like the Chinese curio shop in Gremlins, if it were managed by a 12-year-old homosexual.

My Canadian houseguests have been delayed, and I’ve spent the evening boxing up the majority of this juvenile crap and moving it into the basement. I won’t part with it - some of it is actually pretty cool, but it’s time to move my epicenter, my bedroom, into 2006. I’m not a pack-ratting hermit by nature, and it’s just been a matter of getting to a tipping point to send me over the edge towards serious redecoration. And, dare I say it, adulthood. Thankfully, it just happened.

Yesterday Kyle and I went to a lovely annual Christmas party up in Marblehead that I have not attended in 4 years. Several of the guests were induviduals from the aforementioned job with their little children, and subsequent lives, in tow. Towards the end we met a 63-year-old mortgage broker who proceeded to tell me how nice I was and that she wanted to set me up with a young girl she knows in Beacon Hill. She asked for my business card. On the way home, Kyle told me that the woman was just going to try and sell me property. I realized he was right - because if you didn’t know me, all gussied up and being extremely polite at a posh Christmas party, you’d think I really fucking had it together.

The scene switches, and my latest hypothetical lady love is staring up at a magazine cutout of Al Pacino in Serpico as I whisper sweet nothings in her ear. And… scene. I’m framing the autographed Trailer Park Boys glossy and leaving it where it is, and the football photos are also getting framed and can stay, but look out world - Peter Pan is growing up and redecorating.

Incidentally, the Bob and Doug Mackenzie action figures are also staying. And here you thought I’d completely lost my shit.

Last year on my birthday I made many hilarious references to Pearl Harbor. This year I’ll simply reflect on birthdays past, and there’s been a lot of them. Last year we all had dinner in the South End. The year before that was the big 3-0, and I organized a huge party for myself (as you do) at Tiernans which was thwarted by the largest snow storm Boston had seen in years. The year before that, Janet organized a party at Harvard Gardens which was a lot of fun - I sang all the way home in the cab, and then made everyone wait until the song was over until we got out.

Prior to that it starts to get fuzzy. I think 28 might have been at Silvertone. 26 or 27 was a surprise party at Janet’s old place in Inman square. Before that I was in England, and that year they midread the birthdate on my work papers at the pub (they reverse the month and date when reading it metrically) and shocked me with a cake on the 12th of July. Yesterday, my workmates took me out for lunch, also mistaking the numeral 7 for the square root of “DERRR”.

But it’s the thought that counts, and I always have fun with good friends around. This year it’s subdued - some Greek food in Watertown and then early to bed before an important meeting tomorrow. Thank you all for putting up with me for so long, and here’s to another longevitus 32 for all of us.

Gone are the days when I’d long look forward to December. Driving 8 hours to spend 3 rushed days in Toronto before driving back again isn’t quite as much fun as driving 3 hours to Grandma’s to spend a whole week there over the holidays used to be. Turning 13 is much more exciting than turning 31. Staying up all night praying for dawn and anticipating the unwrapping of dress shirts, socks and toenail clippers isn’t quite as mesmerizing as it was when the packages contained Legos, GI Joes and Star Wars figures. I still instinctively get excited about December - but these days it’s more hassle and tension than holly and tinsel.

The dual nature of December couldn’t have been reflected any better than on this, the very first day of the month. Joe Thornton got traded to San Jose - but my coworker Alon’s wife gave birth to little Maya at 7:31 this morning. I’ve also, while typing this, been invited to my first Holiday party at a posh location in Marblehead. So I suppose it could be much, much worse. And for the record - it’s called Christmas, you over-sensitive frigtards. Donnie Hatt is my hero.

The Fat Duck has just been voted the best restaurant in the whole entire world by London’s The Guardian. Now let me tell you why I care. In the years since I left England in 1999, owner Heston Blumenthal has made a serious name for himself, becoming a culinary celebrity across the pond. If Gordon Ramsay is the evil tempermental British chef, then Heston is his calm, measured nemesis. I was there when the Duck first opened, and served Heston and his staff many after-work pints as they were coming up and busting their balls to make a name for that strange, tiny eatery.

The Duck happens to be right beside the Hind’s Head which is the pub I worked at for the better part of two years. Those of you who have been to my apartment and seen the painting I like to show people of the Hind’s have seen the Duck depicted right beside it in watercolor. In fact, Heston bought the pub about a year ago and now owns 75% of the trade in the little village of Bray. Quite an impressive little empire he’s building.

Anyway - I know Heston, he came to my leaving party, and I couldn’t be happier for him. My girlfriend at the time loved his mashed potatoes, and he used to bring them over to the pub every night he knew she was in town. Heston used to be a collection agent, and how he went from cracking skulls to cracking eggs I never really got out of him. But he’s a genuine nice guy with an incredible talent that was evident even then.

If you ever stop in, tell him “Canadian Dave” said hello. And in case you missed it, I said the best restaurant in the fucking world! Way to go, duckies.

I have a couple of old friends in town who are staying at my apartment this week. They’re more like family, actually - Terry is my father’s friend whom I’ve known since I was 5, and Josh is his 13 year old son. I lived with them during my time in England and we all try to get together at least once a year. When they asked if they could come visit me, I didn’t hesitate for a second. ‘No,’ I said. Not really.

Those of you who have been to my apartment can imagine how tight the quarters have become. I borrowed a futon mattress from a friend and put it on my bedroom floor. So what happens is, the door is pushed open halfway (the mattress blocks it) Terry jumps in to the right and lands on my bed. Then Josh jumps in to the left and lands on the mattress. There’s no floor space to spare, and I’m cutoff from extra-curricular computer activities for the week (which may be a good thing). But they both claim they’re extremely comfortable, and we’ve been having a hoot. Couch city ain’t so bad, either. The gurgle of the fish tank is better than a sleeping pill.

When I got home from work yesterday, Terry had a great bottle of wine, stuffed peppers, bread and smoked proscuitto waiting for me. Terry is a bit of a gourmet, and he obviously loves the North End like you wouldn’t believe. We had a great chat about life, the universe and everything while Josh hacked away at my guitar downstairs. Think musical prodigy. Terry was the landlord of the pub I worked at during my 14 months in England, so his social group became mine. I met many multitudes of interesting characters, and I think we must have discussed them all. Then we got to talking about one guy in particular, who died recently, and I remembered all my damn videotapes.

I probably have 4 hours of video from those days - special events at the pub (New Years Eve, Burns Night, Weddings, Wakes) my trip to Stonehenge, my leaving party, etc. And Terry literally could not believe his eyes. We watched the whole damn thing, and it got pretty emotional at times because a lot of people on those tapes are dead, relationships have since failed, people have fallen out of touch, etc. People used to kid me during the years when I constantly had my camera out. But I always knew that someday they’d prove useful. Someday they’d make people very happy. And that day was yesterday.

The previous article on the Vermont Academy reunion really got me thinking about those strange days, and I realized that there are a wealth of stories which combined would make a great Tall Tale entry. Memories that grow dimmer and dimmer with each passing year - and it’s been 13 already - so with no further adue…

I was 17 years old, fresh after graduating from public high school - only to be dropped right back in to do my senior year all over again. This time with the added bonus of getting used to living away from home for the very first time. It was called a post-graduate year and was a way for me to trade my time on the VA football field for a partial scholarship and the opportunity to get my grades up (way up) in order to get into a better college. It was also called ‘what I had to do in order to avoid spork vivisection by my father’ and, in spite of the remote location, strict rules and rigid schedule - was still a very favorable alternative. Don’t let the Baby New Year photos fool you.

The number of people I still keep in touch with whom I met during that one short year is testament to how formative it was. Every single one of the PGs were stuffed onto the same floor, and we were all former public school party-monkeys flailing to adapt to our new life in the gulag. Up at 6… 8 hours of class… 3 hours of sports… 3 hours of study time… bed. Each and every single day - including Saturdays. We could be expelled for smoking, dipping, drinking or fighting - usually with just one strike. As most of us excelled in all of the above, it took a lot of getting used to and all we had for amusement was eachother. There were many friends made and many, many mischievious evenings born of our collective boredom. Idle hands… the devil… you see where this is headed.

I could seriously write a book about my time at VA but for our purposes here I’ll just touch on a few of the more memorable moments. And it will be hard to pick and choose. To really do this justice, I’ll add one or two stories a day for the rest of the week. I may add new unrelated articles on top, but will keep updating this one - so check back if you dare. I mean ‘care’.

Lessons in Leaners
Many of our more creative moments stemmed from the fact that we could get kicked out of the school for so much as belching at an inopportune moment. If, God forbid, revenge needed to be meted out on some disrespectful 4 year student it had to be done very anonymously. There were three particularly memorable reprisals that I want to share. The first involves my least favorite floormate, Eric. Eric liked make a lot of noise and keep me awake at night. A skinny little soccer player, he also liked to flaunt the fact that I could do absolutely nothing about it should I want to remain enrolled in school and out of juvenile detention.

The dining hall served Chicken Cordon Bleu about once a week, or ‘exploding chicken’ as we affectionately called it. When you sliced into the breast, which was stuffed with cheese and ham, a hades-hot stream of molten provolone would shoot out and burn the back of your hand (or worse). But I didn’t plan on burning Eric - No, rather I recognized the true reprisal potential of poultry. I ate half of my portion and then stuffed the remainder in a napkin before returning to Slum 3.

Eric was a soccer player and had a very expensive pair of cleats that he was quite proud of. Soccer season had yet to begin, and I knew that said cleats sat unused and out of mind in his closet. We weren’t allowed to have locks on our doors (leading to many thefts by the extremely dodgy and maladjusted 4 year students leading in turn to many of the described revenge tactics) so I waited until Eric went to the bathroom before striking. I kneeled down inside his closet and quickly jammed handfuls of chicken up inside the toes of both his beloved soccer shoes. I returned to the empty hallway and went back to my room - the perfect crime.

A few days later, Eric and his roomate were sleeping in friend’s rooms, as the vile stench of rotting chicken had driven them out - despite their best attempts at locating the source. About 5 days went by before a janitor thought to examine the shoes. Suspecting ‘foul’ play we all got a good talking to from our dorm parent Mr. Shapiro, who knew full well that Eric’s frequent annoying behavior had left him with the equivalent of a bullseye painted on his back as far as the PGs were concerned. The event, like the stench, blew over fairly quickly after that and Eric started keeping to his end of the hall after lights out.

I was watching Reno 911 last night (now that Tough Crowd With Colin Quinn has gone the way of the Do-Do, things are tres bleak on Comedy Central) and I heard the line “white women don’t age well”. And it got me to thinking. What about white men? What about me and JJV? Can I get away with an article like this in Massachusetts, or will people start drawing comparisons between me and Josef Mengele? Anyway, I was looking for an excuse to use the photo you see below, which was taken in October 2004 - and was suddenly reminded of a very similar picture taken all the way back in 1999. Hence the painful carbon-dating which is about to commence. And subtle racism.

I think we’ve done extremely well. Herb wins for overall youth retention. Although I’m not entirely sure the shaved head of recent years is meant entirely for law-enforcement intimidation purposes. JJV wins hands down in the hairline category, as I’m having a few issues in that department, but has admitted to me recently that he’s like 240. Is it in bad taste to discuss a friend’s weight in public? Oh without a doubt. But he had it coming.

I’ll have to give myself top marks for keeping the weight down, and my recent health kick of the past year has really paid off (or let’s face it - I wouldn’t have written this). So all-in-all we’re not doing too badly. Come see us in another 5 years, when Herb is a stunt double for Al Roker, JJV pulls a ‘Brando‘ and I develop an intimate relationship with Sy Sperling.

December 7th was once described by President Franklin D. Roosevelt as “A day that will live in infamy”. A great line - and I wish I could take credit for inspiring it. But he was, of course, referring to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I have to thank those dastardly Kamikazes for taking just a smidgen of the focus off of me today. And for accepting me as one of their own and raising me in the jungle on a small island off of Guadalcanal. Now you know.

My thoughtful sister is taking me out to dinner in the South End with a few folks, but then we’ll be heading to Pho afterwards. If you feel inclined to drop by and help me mourn, you now know where to find the procession. Remember, we don’t have to stop for traffic lights and will likely have a police escort.