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Searching For Peter Grumme.


in Reminiscent

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.

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Oh What A Whack It Was.


in Television

There are two camps of Sopranos fans making noise on the internet this morning regarding last night’s series finale. Like Marmite, Ovaltine, sushi or the Scissor Sisters – you either love it or you hate it. I fall into the former category. Although I had an “oh no Chase didn’t” moment when the screen fell quickly to black at the end, after some thought I calmed down. Like Sam Malone straightening the picture of Coach before turning out the lights on Beacon Street for the last time, it couldn’t have been concluded any better.

Carlo flipped, and ultimately even if Mink can win Tony’s case on the handgun charge there are some seriously rough waters ahead. Three of his best Capos are either dead or incapacitated and of the three remaining one is banging his daughter, one is named after Bobby Darin and one is afraid of cats. But there’s a lot of positives when you think about it that may carry the family through to a feature film, or at least comfort the average viewer who is miffed at the lack of tangible resolution.

AJ finally has his head out of his moonbat ass and is working with Carmine Junior on a movie. Meadow is going to be a lawyer at 170K starting salary and seems to have landed a decent guy in Patsy’s son. Christopher has been reincarnated as an orange tabby. Carmela is pressing on with her real estate development and Janice has 3 kids and Johnny Sack’s old house to be nutty in. And Tony – Tony is genuinely happy. Note the scene where he’s raking the leaves and he pauses to contemplate the back yard, probably thinking about his beloved ducks. Or when he grabs AJ’s hand in the diner at the very end. His closure with Junior in the state mental hospital. I think there were a lot of “finale-worthy” moments that the detractors missed.

Back to Junior and Tony’s scene in the ward. “You and my Dad, you used to run North Jersey.” “Did we? That’s nice.” Maybe it’s due to my current personal situation, but that exchange really choked me up. For all their past glory, and all the ‘respect’ they are supposed to command within their universe – at the end of the day it doesn’t amount to a hill of penne, and the mob simply doesn’t work anymore.

So what happened to Tony at the very end? I remember a scene from a few seasons ago where Bobby is intimidating a guy in a bar who owes him money. It’s the first time you ever see Bobby as anything more than Junior’s flunkie and you can trace his transformation from that specific moment like a road map. He tells the guy that when you get whacked, it just goes black suddenly. Much like the end of the diner scene last night. But I don’t think Tony is supposed to have been clipped in Chase’s final bow. No way.

The level of anxiety that was created in the final moment’s of the Soprano’s last episode was incredible. It was right up there with Henry Hill’s sauce and Carlito’s cousin’s beer cooler. Tony scans the room for potential leftover Leotardo interlopers and FBI goons. From the trucker, to the paisan, to the hip-hoppers, to the couple and back to the guy at the counter again. He’s out in public with his family, devoid of any crew and a sitting duck of the highest order – even with his back to the wall. That’s the life he has chosen and how he’ll have to live it long after we don’t get to follow along anymore.

For this long time Baba-Binger, last night was a calculated mix of both closure and speculation. I am glad Tony and his family survived, and I am especially happy that Paulie didn’t defect to New York – but we know that there can never be a happy ending for any of them. Whether we literally see Tony’s brains all over a big bowl of onion rings or are forever left to wonder exactly whatever happened to that Russian in the Pine Barrens.

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Coming Clean With A Guilty Pleasure.


in Musical

Happiness for me today is my first listen of the new Queens of the Stone Age record a week before it’s released. Lovely, rocking stuff. I also snagged the upcoming Beastie Boys instrument album, The Mix Up. I wish they had vocals, and also weren’t flaming embarrassing bleeding-hearts, but it is a nice platter to play in the background while you work.

Catch me tomorrow when I’m listening to them both in the front seat of the soon-to-be-christened HMS PYE, and am most certainly not wearing trousers.

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Fighting Back The Cheezy Urges.


in Canadiana

Downtown Boston was my home for almost 10 years. I had a car when I first moved there briefly, but got rid of it as parking was an expensive nightmare and I used it an average of once a month. Before that I lived in England where again, I didn’t need a car. Before that it was 1997 and I was bombing down the mean streets of Guelph in a 9-year-old Caravan (that I was happy to have). What I’m saying here is – I have never had a new car, a car I am proud of, or even a car that Jed Clampett would be caught dead in. Black gold… Texas Tea…

This morning I got a call from my Uncle to tell me that I was now the proud owner of the #1 car on my auction wish list. Like a bat out of hell, I set off to get a haircut for my Ontario license picture, get an Ontario license, open a bank account for insurance purposes, get insurance and then pester said Uncle to go and get the car – which it turns out I will get my mitts on Thursday.While happy as a pig in shit, I am choking back a few inexplicable urges that seem to somehow be associated with owning a cool car…

– I want to take pictures of it.
– I want to take pictures of it with me leaning against it, looking pensive. “You know how many people had to die for me to get this car, baby?”
– I want to take off my shirt, both of them, and lean against it looking pensive. Perhaps staring off into space stroking my chin. “Well baby, that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. I’ll send ya a postcard from Hell.”
– I want to drive slowly past high school parking lots at lunch time blaring Linkin Park’s new CD. They have a new CD, right?
– I want to park it in front of a strip mall convenience store on Friday night and smoke butts. Honestly, the shirt will probably be off again.

I’ll get over all of this, but there will be a period of adjustment. Bear with me, and to my Canadian friends – maybe just stay away from the house for a little while. I’ll figure out how to work the self timer and we can get on with our lives.

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Dead Bird Slash Mouse Saga.


in Canadiana

Alone in a big four bedroom house is how I spend my days, working in Janet’s old room which has been converted into a makeshift office. I’ll be here at least another month, and the silence, after 7 years of living with roommates, is beautiful. All I have to do is look after the pool and keep the place clean should one of the real estate agents want to drop in suddenly with prospective buyers. It seems easy, and it was – until the most horrible smell infiltrated the top floor. We’re talking corpse-worthy, here. First 48, vaporub under the nostrils type smell.

The main realtor, Linda, is in constant contact with my mother who is 4 hours away at the lakehouse. Linda and my mother are convinced I’m going to leave a granola bar wrapper out, thus blowing a sale. So I am doing everything in my power to prove them wrong. So far so good. Needless to say, a gag-worthy, phantom stench is definitely a left turn away from the goal. I checked everywhere – the garbage, the cat litter, under the beds, the toilet tank, all of the cupboards, the attic. I settled on “dead animal” and started combing the vents and any other small place not in my pants that something small could get lodged in and then pass away.

I can obviously only drag this tale out for so long. I discovered the source of the stench while changing Boss’ food and water dish. I thought it was strange that he hadn’t been eating, but would never have assumed that some water from one half of his double dish got over onto the food side and created a nasty chemical reaction that would have make Louis Pasteur retch. It was retched, black and dark green and took only 3 days to manifest.

As soon as the offending goop was flushed – voila. The stank was gone, just like that, and I was able to leave for the weekend, secure in the knowledge that my house-sitting rep was safe. That is until I got home and found the pool had stopped filtering in my absence. You haven’t lived until you’ve stuck your hand in to a skimmer full of dead baby mice up to the wrist. But that is another story. That I may masturbate to later.

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The Belly Of The Beast.


in Sporty

In the middle of all this “I’m so busy… Waaah – I’m moving internationally, change my drawers” bullshit, I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. I get daily IMs and emails asking me why I have the fucking audacity to stop writing regularly. So, in spite of the imminent re-imagining of PITF, which is truthfully well underway and even paid for – I will continue to write. I am honored that any frigger still cares.

I am truly in the belly of the beast this eve. Less than 100 miles away lies the Capital city of Canada, my place of birth in 1973, whose Senators hockey team is in the running for the first Canadian Stanley Cup since 1993 – That’s 14 frigging years for anyone keeping score. For comparative purposes, that’s like the USA not being the champion of inventing chewing tobacco for almost 15 years straight. Brutal, I know.

The end of my Grandmother’s street (I am living alone at her house with Boss until it is sold) has “Bring it home to Canada, Sens!” written in children’s street chalk at the intersection. At least 5 out of every cars I pass have a little Sens flag waving out the window. Every time my beloved Uncle John and I meet for a beer, there are pubs full of Senator shirt clad fans everywhere. It’s a typically quiet and reserved Canadian event of incredible importance.

Anaheim is now ahead in the series 3-1 as of 5 minutes ago, and the series is returning Wednesday to California – which isn’t great for the odds. Home ice and one more win and it’s over. But I’ll be watching, and I pray for continued serendipity relating to my move home. Go Sens, and go my bid on a Charger tomorrow in the auction.

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Coming Up For Air.


in

I’ve arrived safe and sound in Canada, and am splitting my time between Burlington and Portland as time and duty allows. I can’t begin to summarize the last 3 weeks properly in the amount of time I have to devote to the blog today, so I’ll instead point you to a couple of FaceBook galleries where I have been uploading and writing captions for all the post-move photos to date. You may choose between a general gallery covering moving, cleaning, garage sales and revelry – or a photo essay documenting phase one of last weekend’s Operation Bunkhouse. Click a photo and scroll through like a sideshow to see the captions. The thumbnails alone aren’t nearly as interesting.

I made a down payment today to my new favorite web designer to thoroughly revamp and re-envision this silly website to which I have grown so attached over the last three years. Reese recently redid my dog sweater site, andf I have the utmost faith in her abilities. So fear not, dear reader (if there any of you left). I shall return with a lukewarm vengeance.

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Dave, We Hardly Knew Ye.


in Heartwarming

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.

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Excuses And More Fucking Excuses.


in Pye in the Face

As anyone in the know knows – I am gearing up for a big, and technically international, move. I am attempting to build a department at work, hand off building management duties and financials to the owners, finish taxes, organize satellite internet access to remote wilderness locations, have a tooth replaced, sort personal accounting, get a new laptop and – oh yeah – blah dee frickin’ blah.

DavePye.com will be back – and better than ever when the dust settles in a couple of weeks. A redesign and move to a different backend will follow shortly after. I look forward to documenting my new adventures in Canada, and will not disappoint. Also, if you’re not already on the Evite for the going away party Saturday night, and feel like you should be, spare yourself the wee dejected sniffle – and just email me for details.

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Ring A Ding Ding, Baby.


in Reminiscent

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.

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Sneezes Of The Cats.


in Animalistic

I took Boss to the vet last Thursday to update his papers for a smooth border crossing at the end of the month. He got a rabies shot in the haunch, and some pink distemper liquid right up his snout. He shook it off pretty quickly and that was the end of it. The vet said he’d probably sneeze a bit for the rest of the day, but he didn’t. I figured that was the end of it.

He’s been sneezing non stop since Monday night. At first it was funny. He’d look off into space as the sneeze came on, open his mouth a little bit and then snap his head forward with a loud “PPHHFFFFT!” But the novelty has passed, and I’m getting worried. I have narrowed it down to two possible causes:

1. He is reacting to the fact we’ve started opening our windows. Something that is floating in on the wind is getting to him. Pollen? The new daschund puppy who moved in across the way? I don’t know.

2. He is a reincarnation of one of the many women who have Heismanned me over the years, and is now claiming she can’t visit anymore because she’s allergic to… herself.

Oh come on, Boss. If it makes you so uncomfortable that I keep the pattern for a human skin suit tacked to my bedroom wall, then just say so. Don’t use the goddamn cat hair excuse again.

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Fine Then. I Won’t Paint The Yellow Easter Egg.


in

Smack dab in the middle of some tactical reverse psychology on a six-year-old yesterday, I was reminded of a poem I loved when I too was a wee’un. It’s by Dennis Lee, and I swear I still knew almost all of it – even 25 years later.

When they bring me a plate
Full of stuff that I hate
Like spinach and turnips and guck.
I sit very straight
and I look at the plate
and I quietly say to it: “Yuck!”

Little kids bawl,
cause I used to be small
and throw it all over the tray.
But now I am three
and much more like me
so I “Yuck!” ’til they take it away.

But sometimes my Dad
gets terrifically mad
and he says, “Don’t you drink from that cup!”
But he can’t say it right,
cause he’s not very bright.
So I trick him and drink it all up.

Then he gets up and roars
and he stomps on the floor
and he hollers, “I warn you, don’t eat!”
He counts up to ten
and I trick him again,
and I practically finish my meat.

Then I start on the guck,
and my Daddy goes, “Yuck!”
and scrunches his eyes ’til they hurt.
So I shovel it in
and he grins a big grin
and then we all have dessert!

Granted, she ‘accidentally ‘dropped and smashed it shortly after I was finished my masterpiece. So the joke may have been on me. Happy Easter, regardless!

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Top 10 Ways to Save the NHL


in , Sporty

Killer wrote a great article over on GoonBlog today. If you’re fed up with the new NHL rules, migrate over and have a gander. It’s insightful and hilarious. Here’s a wee taste:

1. Eliminate the Instigator rule: The players hate it, the fans hate it and it just plain does not make sense. Let the men police themselves. If two willing combatants have an issue with each other they can settle things the right way; one-on-one! If some wing ding wants to fly around the ice taking liberties, he will quickly be approached and dealt with accordingly. Paul Mara had two Instigator penalties this season… yeah you read that correctly – Paul Fuckin’ Mara! During one of his final games with the B’s before being traded to the Rangers, he was about to get into a scrap when the ref reminded him he had 2 and one more would get him suspended. The puss bag who he wanted to go with kept goading him fully knowing Paul couldn’t do anything.

2. Suspend hit from behind offenders: There has been WAY too many of these infractions this past season. Forget giving them a 2 minute penalty, toss their ass out of the game and suspend them. I know there will be a gray area and all that but getting blasted from behind is just about the worst thing – unless of course you are My Better Half who seems to enjoy it.

Wow. Read the full post here.

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Wednesday Wadio: Charles Has A Licking Problem.


in Wednesday Wadio

I have been laughing at this video all day. It also just so happens to have an original song as the soundtrack – so technically it can pass for Wadio this week. It’s only a minute long. It’s also wicked feckin’ retaaarded.

I feel for Charles’ owner, because Boss also has a severe licking problem. I wish I didn’t taste like salt. But I don’t know what Charles’ deal is. His hypothalamus? At any rate, put the damn thing out of its misery. Extra points if this isn’t stuck in your head all damn day.

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Trailer Park Boys: Season Fucking 7.


in Television

While most of us are running around filled with glee at the imminent start of the Sopranos’ final 6 episodes, let us not forget that April also marks the start of a new season in Sunnyvale. Season 7 begins with “I Fuckin’ Miss Corey and Trevor” and premieres this Sunday night at 9pm:



“The Trailer Park Boys are back for their 7th season. Cross border dope smuggling, model train hobbyists and Sebastian Bach, ex-frontman of Skid Row collide in these 10 hilarious new episodes.“

It sounds like the boys will have a few run-ins with Americans in this new foray. After a little digging, I found some spoilers. They boys will be selling meat in the LC parking lot to make money. Lahey switches from Liquor to dope. Apparently there’s several new animals in the park, including Sheryl the Crow and some raccoons. Ricky discussing the new influx of critters: “… but I got fuckin’ insects now coming to my trailer, frogs and fuckin these things that look like cats but they got this long beaky nose things , they’re all attracted to my dope …“

As for #7 supposedly being the Sunnyvale’s last hurrah, Rob Wells (Ricky) recently said: “It’s still up in the air,” he said. “We’d love to keep going. A couple of people are a little tired and burnt out and need a break.” It’s no secret who Wells is referring too. Corey and Trevor are apparently completely absent from this series because the actors who play them didn’t want to participate. Which I’m sure they’ll regret in a few years when they’re both living off bar appearances. “We’re definitely up for keeping going, if everyone else is.” In the new series it’s apparently reported that Corey and Trevor have been committed to a mental institution because of all the abuse at the hands of Ricky and Julian over the years.

If you live in Canada, you can watch the entire first episode as of yesterday on Showcase’s website. If you live in the states, like me, it’s blocked. Bugger. But never fear my Yank friends, about an hour after the show airs on Sunday it will be available for download via a torrent right here. If you can’t wait, here’s a poor quality torrent rip of the webstream that is blocked in the USA. Now frig off.

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