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Friday’s Quizzlet: Don’t Be That Guy.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: What’s one word or phrase that you use a lot?
I use a lot of words from the British vernacular that I picked up when I lived over there, and that I continue to learn from watching far too many UKNova torrents. Some can translate over here, and some just sound completely out of place. It’s not the same as affecting an accent – that’s another kettle of fish of which I was never guilty of. Rather, I find myself saying UK-based words and phrases out of the blue. My favorite is ‘sorted’. Which basically means ‘problem-solved’. I have finally weaned “at the end of the day” out of my system because every time I heard myself say it, I contemplated suicide. It drives me crazy like a Fine Young Cannibal.

Soup: Name something you always seem to put off until the last minute.
There isn’t any one thing. I have productivity spurts and valleys. On a good day, I’ll crank and get every little task/chore done that I can possibly conceive. On a bad day, I may soil myself.

Salad: What was the last great bumper sticker you saw?
If you feel the need to desicrate your car with stupid stickers, then I have no interest in reading them because I’ll already know you’re a gaudy moron. And if you’re still driving around with a Kerry/Edwards sticker on your car, like most of Massachusetts, for God’s sake pull the cock out of your mouth already. But for research’s sake, I ran a few quick searches. I think you’ll agree – this proves my point quite well. But I’m guilty of that level of nerdery myself, sometimes. The other night before the Pixies concert, my sister, myself and some friends were sitting in a pub across the road from Agganis. I didn’t want to be “that guy” in the Pixies tour shirt at the Pixies show – so I was rocking an obscure Frank Black solo T-shirt I didn’t think anyone else would be wearing in a million years. Then, of course, this kid came up to me wearing it too and said “Nice shirt man!” And I realized I was worse than “that guy”. I wasn’t the kid wearing the Star Trek shirt. I was the kid wearing the Deep Space Nine shirt.

Main Course: If you could be invisible for one day, how would you spend it?
I would quietly rob a string of banks, pausing only to hit the odd health club locker room along the way. Was I the only kid whose mother used to take him into the women’s locker room at the public swimming pool? What a fond, unhealthily-advanced childhood memory. I couldn’t tell you the name of my 1st grade teacher, but I can recount to you in explicit detail my weekly afternoons spent eye-level with 2 dozen wookie-bushes at the Nepean Sportsplex.

Dessert: Describe your hair.
It will be sorely missed.

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Faux Better Or Faux Worse.


in

Fran Healy’s fauxhawk was the very first of it’s kind I ever saw way back in 1999 – and I remember thinking it was a pretty cool idea. Much better than this trainwreck, anyway. By the time Travis played Glastonbury that year, the DVD recording of which is still my favorite concert film evah, it had grown an inch and been dyed red – but it still worked really well on his small, pea shaped head. He was even voted best haircut of the year. Jesus, they were a great frickin’ band. What the heck happened?

How this funny, creative and quite likely accidental little idiosyncrasy evolved into the phenomenon it has in 2005 is a friggin’ mystery to me, dear reader. I counted no less that seven of them during my walk home through downtown Boston this evening. Men, women, babies and long haired pets have all signed on for this silly little fruity fad. 20 years from now, fauxhawks will be what pink leg-warmers and skinny ties were to the 80’s. R.I.R. – Retarded in Retrospect. And since I’m in the business of coining phrases this week, I’ll admit it: Yes, folks – I’m a flagrant fauxmophobe.

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Tail Between The Legs.


in Heartwarming

My office has been my home as of late, and my home has become little more than a place to sleep and punch the clown. Initially I really embraced this crazy time at my company, but I’m losing friends as a result of these long hours. And that’s not a joke along the lines of “close your legs, man – you’re losing friends”. I mean I’m literally dropping in the popularity rankings among many of my peeps. So if you’ve been personally left miffed by my M.I.A. meanderings, I do sincerely apologize like you read about. Which is certainly uncanny because you’re reading about it right now.

I’m only trying to get ahead in life. Just trying to get a jetski to go along with that dock. Frantically trying to pay off my unemployment credit card indiscretions from 4 years ago. Tired of paying to live in someone else’s house. Sick to death of riding around in my friend’s cars when I don’t even own a skateboard. And while I am proud of my successes in the last few years, and thankful that I am capable of keeping my nose to the grindstone in this manner, it’s not worth damaging that which I hold most dear.

Those of you for whom this was written know who you are. You’re not a chick, you’re not a casual acquaintance and you’re officially off the back burner should you still care. I don’t like to get too personal on this ridiculous site, but I fucked up last weekend and I know it.

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Ed is Dead-Heads Unite!


in Musical

My 5th Pixies concert in a little over a year and I’ll tell ya – it never gets old. I feed off of the energy, high school nostalgia, power chords and incessant screaming like some sort of vampiristic fanatical fanboy. If Buffet fans are Parrot-Heads, and Dead fans were Dead-Heads – what’s the correct term for an obsessive Pixies fan? Do I sense a phrase-coining opportunity here?

This is a tricky one, which requires more thought than I have time for at the moment. I’ll throw a few quick possibilities out there: Havalina-Heads, Brick is Red-Heads, Gigantic-Heads (that would apply particularly well to me), but I’m leaning towards Ed is Dead-Heads.

So have I successfully coined the bastard? Have a go at it yourself. Here’s a great resource to use for ideas. And another. Before anyone answers “Loser-Heads” I just want to point out that Venditti will get around to posting that moniker eventually, so dig a litter deeper. The crew will be at T’s and the Paradise before and after the concert, so drop in and say hi if you’re hitting the show and I don’t even know.

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Home Is Where The House Is.


in

Despite a convincing performance over the last five years, my parents don’t really want to spend their golden years in a Florida trailer park. And I’ve written several times about how my inexplicably and suddenly uber-liberal father has foiled the evil President Bush, taken his money out of the flailing stock market, and secured it in a house. They bought the 2-acre parcel of land on the banks of Ontario’s Big Rideau Lake just outside of Portland back in 2000 – and finally, after painful battles with the lake nazis, 2 sets of blueprints and a rash of violent sobbing, there’s an actual physical dwelling in the Pye family once again.

Click here to visit the full gallery of what could be considered our first real weekend trip ‘home’ in 5 years. It was quite exhilarating, fun and emotional in between all of the parentally-requested landscaping, and I’ll be back up there again just as soon as is humanly possible. For more landscaping, no doubt.

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Some Like It Hot. Some Can Frig Off.


in

I could be crawling along the freshly painted red Freedom Trail stripe at the Boylston T kiosk, mouth full of peanut butter and saltines with a sun-lamp strapped to the back of my head – and some twat would pick that particular moment to stroll by and declare “What’s the big deal? I like it when it’s this hot!” Well, if that’s indeed the case, please let me extend to you this invitation to die immediately in a roofdeck propane fire.

“Air conditioner? Poppycock – save your utility money and just give in to this beautiful heat. Slather yourself in Crisco and find a nice patch of incindiary North End sidewalk to lie on. Get some rays. Sure, the 16-year-old bubblegum will be liquifying straight into your hair, but I love it I love it I love it!” This girl lives in my building. And while I’m exaggerating her exact statement to me Sunday morning as I struggled to install my decade old airplane hanger AC unit, I am in no way exaggerating the sudden desire I felt to drop said 100 pounds of freon fixture on her jelly-sandled tootsies.

Maybe it’s because I’m a frostback. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t an Afrikaans tobacco farmer in a former life. Regardless, I don’t do well in the heat – and I really wish I still owned one of these.

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Not Guil Teeeeee Heeeeee!


in Musical

I hate being right all the time. I mean, it’s just really getting old. Shaamoown!

Drudge is calling for the arrest of the prosecuting attorney, and I’d like to personally substitute the word ‘arrest’ with ‘public penis flogging’. What a long, drawn out, exhaustive, gold-digging, meritless, hyper-litigious crock of shite. Congrats, Mike. If your lawyers let you keep a few scheckles of your dwindling fortune, here’s hoping you get yourself a celebratory present. In fact, I think the only way for you to ever truly be safe from these sorts of allegations will be to go completely broke. So treat yourself to one last bag of deceased celebrity bones, tweak an ear (the left one needs to be bleached and the lobe shortened a bit) and lock yourself in your bedwing before masturbating voraciously to Home Alone. You’ve earned it – so take a load off/all over the 48 inch plasma screen.

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Unidentified Flying Reject.


in

Frequent reader Justin sends these photos he took earlier this weekend during a trip to Los Angeles. “I saw a UFO this weekend – do you want an exclusive for your blog?” read his excited instant message. I couldn’t contain my excitement as I waited anxiously for his emailed photos to arrive. I don’t know if I expected the Roswell autopsy caliber of snap, but I think you’ll agree – these are less than breathtakingly spectacular.

Still, I appreciate the contribution and I’m sure you just ‘had to be there’. The UFO seems to be circling the Merrill Lynch building. Whether it’s a financially savvy extra-terrestrial, or simply Richard Branson coming in for a hang glider roof landing to make some portfolio adjustments – we may never know. These are life’s strange, sweet mysteries. Thanks, Justin!

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A Sweltering Gallery Update.


in Pye in the Face

Whilst hiding from the heat today and trying to get some work done, I stumbled across another whack of photos on my hard drive. Have a look at some VA gallery additions from a reunion a couple of years ago in Saxton’s River, a Thanksgiving 2004 in Concord bunch you’ve seen before in the old gallery and finally a new album dedicated to partyish photos that just don’t seem to fit anywhere else. As always, please email me anything you’d like to see added.

All my plans fell through for today as I still have not received my telephone which my Mother seems to have shipped via The Pony Express. So apologies all around, and I hope to be back in contact with the rest of the world shortly. It’s funny how cut off you get when your cell phone is off limits. And by funny I of course mean extremely fucking pathetic. Technology has taken the land line out of the equation in many households, and it’s a risky prospect should you lose your sqwuaker.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Unrelated Trainwrecks.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: Name one thing that made you sad this week.
Let’s just say, I’m likely funeral-bound tomorrow and we’ll leave it at that. Safe trip, Mr. H.

Soup: What was the last object (not person) you took a picture of?
Before we left Canada last weekend I took a photo of the deck stairs my father and I built together. It was nice working with the old man on something after so many years. I don’t think my parents realize how much having this house means to me. The fact that they’re already talking about how much they can sell it for was my first clue.

Salad: Who do you talk to when you need help in making a decision?
I try to make good, quick decisions and then stick to them. I loathe prolonged indecision and I try not be guilty of it myself. Another personality trait which was forged working in student bars. But a good one, as opposed to the penchant for drink and the encyclopedia-esque knowledge of hip-hop lyrics. One quick unrelated thing – watch this. And here’s another bunch of gallery additions.

Main Course: If you were a weather event, what would you be, and why?
I’d be a Willow Wisp. There was a strange cartoon I used to watch when I was a kid about this group of animals that lived in a forest. One of the characters was Willow the Wisp – and I eventually asked someone and figured out what the heck it was supposed to be. It’s like a bog gas pocket that burps up from the ground when it gets cold and many people throughout history have mistaken them for ghosts. And Michael Moore.

Dessert: Suggest a website that you think your readers would enjoy visiting.
I link to interesting sites all the time. As do all “bloggers” – so this may be the most redundant quizzlet question to date. Can’t you ask me more questions about movies, you silly little freak? Sigh… Let’s divert this question to the readers. This should be a trainwreck of inappropriacy if ever there was one.

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Axel Foley? Shiiit, Negro – That’s All You Had To Say!


in Movies

I was about to write another scathing, vagrant-slagging tirade after reading this awful article (so much for moving to the ‘Couv), but I’ve already done it to death. “We get it, Dave – you’re an anti-homeless crusader for the greater good“. Luckily something else triggered a sudden fit of movie fanboy nerdery and you’ve all been spared – for today, anyway.

Albeit from the Sun, this article claims that wunderkind Quentin Tarantino has been talking to Eddie Murphy about directing him in… wait for it… Beverly Hills Cop 4. Samuel L. can take over as the always-angry Chief Todd, and Travolta can enhance the old Paul Reiser role. Uma Thurman will cancel out any need for Brigitte Nielsen, and Rosewood and Taggart will have their revolvers replaced by Desert Eagles. Come on – it’ll be fun, motherfucka.

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Apathy Trumps Empathy Every Time.


in

As I cut across Boylston street this morning on my way to Park Plaza, I noticed a man making strange gestures and swearing to himself while staring at the ground. Had it still been this past weekend, I’d have just said “Good morning, Dad” – but alas, the old man is 350 miles away. So I knew I was about to cross paths with yet another of Boston’s lost souls.

He was weaving erratically back and forth across the sidewalk, scattering frightened oncoming pedestrians like a beaver barreling through bullrushes. I slowed my pace down to try and anticipate the best way to pass him without a cootie crossover, and as I focused my full attention on the man I realized three very alarming things. The first was that he was only wearing dirty socks on his feet. The second was that he was wearing blue hospital pants. The third was that we were less than a block away from the New England Medical center.

When I sat down at my desk a few minutes later, I looked at my telephone and thought about dialing 911 to report a possible escaped mental patient. But then I realized I was in the epicenter of the metropolitan liberal stronghold that is Boston, MA. And that he’d probably gotten $6 in change, a cup of soup and a handjob off an Emerson student by the time I’d reached my office door.

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Waste Not, Want Nautilus.


in Movies

Back in October, when I was in the throes of a self-imposed, month long sobriety experiment – I stayed in on a Saturday night and wrote a strange article about Disney’s old school 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea Ride. When I re-read it now, it’s quite funny and definitely the work of someone who is pining for a lost childhood memory. And definitely not used to being sober on a Saturday night. Regardless, I read this amazing article yesterday about a sub-wreck that’s been rediscovered off the coast of Panama:

“A British explorer has found an early submarine that he believes was the inspiration for Nautilus, Captain Nemo’s vessel in Jules Verne’s novel Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea.”

“She was built in 1864 by a visionary craftsman, Julius Kroehl, for the Union forces during the American Civil War. But the boat, called Explorer, was never used in the conflict and was subsequently taken to Panama where she was used to harvest pearls.”

A maritime museum in Canada had a record of the ship’s final resting place, and asked the explorer to check on it when they heard he was in the area. The Explorer was the first primitive sub to have a reversible airlock which allowed crew members to leave and then return to the ship whilst it was submerged. The museum had an 141 year old written report on the demise of the Explorer which detailed the abandonment of the ship and the simultaneous deaths of the entire crew… but it wasn’t from drowning!

“The submarine, which measures 36ft by 10ft, was lying in under 10ft of water off Isla San Telmo, an island in an archipelago known as The Pearl Islands, since being abandoned after three years in the pearl industry. Her crew all died from what was described then as a “fever”, but what was more likely to have been the bends after they regularly submerged to about 100ft to work.”

Read the full article if you’d like. It’s amazing how yesterday’s trash becomes an influencial, modern treasure. It’s also amazing how whomever I leant my 20,000 Leagues DVD to has not yet returned it. Still more amazing is the fact that I just admitted I forget who I leant it to, and thus will never see it again. May ye get the bends, ye scallywag!

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