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Archives for July 2005

Spare Me Your Crocodile Beers.


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When I was a youth, beer acquisition was always at the forefront of my mind. Who has a fake ID, whose older brother is home from college, will Dad notice a few Coors Extra Darks missing, etc. But with the exception of the usual teen-stupidity-induced boozy backwoods car ride, or alcohol-fueled altercation, I was never willing to risk life and limb for a lager. In some parts of the world, however, the value of human life takes a definite backseat to the bitter.

“Alcohol has been banned in two small Australian Aboriginal communities to stop young people from a nearby alcohol-free township from risking their lives by swimming a crocodile-infested river to get a drink.”

You’ve got to admire their drunken spunk. And I’m no authority on the Australian Outback as I personally never got further inland than the Blue Mountains. Maybe it’s miserable. Maybe a crate of Victoria Bitter is worth a wooden leg. Maybe the poor Aborigines in that town have a busted TV set that playes nothing but Neighbors, Kylie Minogue Videos and the new INXS reality show. Go nuts, guys.

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Pye In The Press.


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The Boston Globe mentioned me in an article on Sunday having to do with people who’d been fired as a result of something they’d written in their blog. Now while this has never happened to me – it certainly fricking should have by now and is as inevitable as a solar eclipse. I was originally really excited about participating in the interviews for the piece, but I now see that they didn’t link to me directly, and didn’t mention the URL properly either. The author was very nice though and I suppose I may get a random traffic trickle from people who see fit to Google me. That or “sad bastard with severely warped priorities and a pathetic measure of acheivement”. But at least I wasn’t bumped by a woman with a purple mohawk. Oh, wait – uncanny.

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Don’t Drink And Choke Rottweilers.


in Heartwarming

“I grab a dog. I choke him and I kick the shit out of him. All day long got my foot up a dog’s ass. Just bang, bang, bang up his ass. That’s my pleasure.” – Mr. Jones

The 16 hours in the car were well worth the three full days up in Ontario. Janet, Jim and I arrived at 3:30 Friday morning after driving up post-work because we wanted to be on hand for Canada Day. Many of my American friends have asked me recently what the signifigance of Canada Day (July 1st) is. Glad you asked – It’s similar to Independence Day, only instead of being beaten back to Blighty by the minutemen after the invention of the long-range bored rifle – the Brits just sort of got bored and left Canada quietly.

During our time at the new Pye compound we hung drywall, landscaped, fashioned enormous illuminated maple leaves onto boats, prepared a huge deep-fryed Mexican feast for three sets of neighbors, got lost on the lake for 5 hours in the dark, caught sick jetski air, floated amongst fireworks and hung huge portraits off of ladders balanced on stairs. That we all returned with little more than a few mosquito nibbles to show for our chicanery is truly miraculous.

I don’t quite remember at which point choking a 1/2 wolf, 1/2 Rottweiler seemed like a clever fricking passtime – but luckily Koba had watched us rip through several bottles of wine at dinner and didn’t take it too personally. But then again, he also chased Spud up a tree twice and was already in the doghouse. He didn’t need to add mauling moi to the manifest. I can go on and on – and yet might – about our glorious weekend up North. But a picture really is worth a thousand words, so I’ll leave you with this massive new holiday gallery for now. Happy 4th you Yankee buggers.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Nerdalistically Impaired And Loving It.


in Monday's Quotelet

Sorry this is late, kids. I’m in the Canadian wilderness on a 56K dial-up with a dodgy cellphone signal to boot – and I’m loving it more than if I’d just watched Justin Timberlake choke on an errant McMuffin. Being ‘connected’ on vacation defeats the purpose. So I’m going to wrap this up quickly so I can get back to the real motivation behind any well-deserved holiday – helping my father drywall the basement. Besides, a mink will probably break wind and interrupt this connection – so let’s just get on with it.

Appetizer: Where do you plan to go on vacation this year?
I’m already here, baby. My parent’s new digs in Portland, Ontario Canada. I’m up here with my sister and my buddy Jim, and we’re having a Flinstone-gay old time. Tonight is the boat jamboree where all the neighbors meet in a nearby cove, hook up their brightly-decorated bateaus and then drink their faces off like upper-middle class pirates. My father has fashioned a huge maple leaf out of Christmas lights and a corrogated steel pipe and attached it to the front of our vessel, “The Filthy Whooore”. Gaudy, gaudy patriotism. Brings a tear to the eye and a verp to the throat.

Soup: What color is your bedroom? What would you change?
It’s the multiple colors of many frayed movie and concert posters. I’ve been in the same apartment for the last 6 years, and DeNiro’s face just doesn’t hold the same decorative charm that it did when I was 25. I’m days away from ripping them all down and bringing my bedroom kicking and screaming into the fact I’m now in my thirties, and that the fastest way to woman’s heart is not actually through a fraternity house basement.

Salad: Do you have a bumper sticker on your vehicle? What does it say?
I covered the loathesome stickery topic only recently, and will definitely defer. Deferring…. now.

Main Course: What’s the worst pain you’ve ever been in?
I broke my leg whilst playing basketball at a keg party in 1992 and then had to have my bones reattached via a metal plate and 5 pins. So I didn’t really have to think about this one too long. It’s a funny story which I’ll get around to telling properly someday. Must press on, as I’ve just spotted a gassy mink through the bay window.

Dessert: Who is your favorite celebrity and why?
Dean Martin. His singing voice was matched only by his acting ability and incredible sense of humor. Unbeknownst to most, he wasn’t actually a booze-bag – his drunken persona was a big part of his charm and he milked it for all it was worth. When Frank and Sammy were howling at the moon, Dean had usually already been in bed for hours. Anyhew, back to the labor – Happy 4th of July, everyone, if I don’t get a chance to check in again. P.S. – R.I.P. Luther.

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