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My sister and I spent 15 hours in a Subaru Outback together this weekend. In the interests of diplomacy, and all around getting along, some road rules quickly emerged.

1. Whoever is driving gets to pick the music.
2. Janet’s iPod is only allowed to play through fully once. Two words: Scissor Sisters.
3. Dave has to remain alert during the Thruway/Turnpike transition at Albany. This stems from my taking the wrong exit on the way home at Christmas and adding 2 hours to our 9 hour trip back from Toronto.
4. Family Guy: Live in Vegas shouldn’t be played all the way through.
5. Whoever is driving gets to use the cupholder.

It’s good to be back, and I’ll go into more trip details when I’m not so severely, severely tired. Most people pay other people to landscape. They don’t drive 15 hours to volunteer.

Janet and I are headed up North to visit our parents tomorrow, and activity here will be sporradic/incomprehensible at best. I’ll save you the lame excuses about how busy I’ve been, what the blood test results were, my kidnapping by harbor pirates – and just say that as we approach the 1 year anniversary of Pye In The Face, I am enjoying it more than ever. I will return from the homeland with a huge new gallery of funny photos, plenty of new writing material and no doubt some sort of outhouse-induced skin infection. Bear with me during my Chappelle-esque wilderness sebbatical. And someone please remember to feed Boss.

Very.

They got me 3 times this morning during my merry jaunt to work. The first was at the end of Salem Street – “Hi, how do you get to Haymarket from here?” she asked. “Easy… follow me.” I’m not sure if she did, because I walk at a pretty fierce clip and her short little self likely had to break into a trot to keep up. I hope she didn’t scuff her walker in the process.

The second inquisitor got me as I was crossing Government Center Plaza. “Helloooo…” the bearded-wonder said in a strange, sing-songy voice. “Do you have the time?” I rolled up my sleeve “It’s 10 past 10.” I told him. “THANK you.” he said, and then looked at his female counterpart in such a satisfied kind of way that she must have tried to warn him not to approach me for fear of a beating or a bum rape or something. I refrained from asking him if was true Al-Zarqawi had been wounded, and if there was an address to which I could send a bouquet/Patriot missle battery. As I was late for work.

But she’d be the exception to the rule. Because every summer, as the tourists descend, I may as well have an “Information” sign strapped around my neck. As I’ve said before, I kind of enjoy it. Because the inquiring mind’s level of politeness dictates whether I send them to their intended destination, or whether I send them into the Combat Zone. It’s fun for so many reasons. Especially if they have small children with them.

“Excuse me sir, can you tell us if the information booth is around here somewhere?” two little old ladies asked me as I was walking through the common. And I was quickly reminded of another reason I probably shouldn’t be representing Boston in the face of tourism. “Yeah… see that little building with the turquoise trim? Between those fucking pine trees there?” Their eyes widened, and I actually felt bad. I swear profusely until I’ve had my first coffee.

I just took a gander at the 10-day weather forecast for my favorite zip code, 02116. They are predicting rain all 10 days. Why did I move back from London again? Walking home from work late last night, I was blown around Tremont street like a rag doll – normally I have to pay good money for that, and it happens on Washington Street. My Putnam umbrella acted as a parasail as I tried to find a comfortable medium between remaining dry and being pulled straight into the grill of a utility truck.

This morning, as I walked back to the mines, devastated umbrellas lay strewn about the city – everywhere. Like scattered corpses in the wake of a holy crusade. If that comparison sounds over-dramatic, that’s because it is. But I must have counted 20 dead little soldiers between the North End and Copley. So I want to share a little secret of mine with you, faithful reader.

I have a friend, let’s call her Yuki, who works for Putnam. About two years ago she overheard me complaining of an unfortunate umbrella-blowout I’d suffered on a particularly windy walk to work. She proceeded to tell me about the Putnam umbrella (not to be confused with an escrow company), which is so well made that when it’s plastic spines are blown inside out – it can be easily popped back into it’s original state. These buggers are rugged. Rugged buggers.

I now own two, both courtesy of Yuki, and I love them. They keep all of my broad bod bone dry, and can fend off the mightiest gusts Beantown can muster. I can’t stress this enough – make friends with a Putnam employee immediately. Use them, sexually or otherwise, to get an umbrella. But get an umbrella/handjob, you must.

Friday night at the Ritz, Wilma and Dick Triconi hosted a wonderful engagement party for their son, Doug and his lovely fiancee, Cara. I haven’t had that much fun in a very long time. Cara is originally from Calgary, and her parents flew down from the Great White North for the occasion. Simply put – they had no idea what they were in for. But Camp friends met Concord friends met relatives and the evening was a great success.

But the soiree was not without its scandalous elements! Not to take anything away from Doug, but at 2 a.m. that very morning at Mohegan Sun – Al and Rachel got engaged! No one even really knew they were dating! So congrats to you crazy kids as well. They gave me their blessing to blogify their formerly secret love. And before you ask me which trailer park they’re thinking of moving to, they were at Mohegan for Rachel’s birthday. It wasn’t hand-picked by Al as the perfect proposal place. Although let’s be honest… no one would be too shocked, budday! Double down and let it ride. Whoops! You just did.

My favorite part of the evening was the end of Doug’s speech – when he screamed “Sexual Chocolate” and dropped the microphone on the floor. The angry DJ didn’t calm down when we explained Doug’s reference (“That’s a $150 dollar mic , man!”), but the Concord contingent were howling. The “8-ball of Viagra” joke Doug aimed at a table full of his elderly relatives also met with furious laughter, as did Kingman’s tie.

See the full gallery of photos (so far) here. I installed some great new software over the weekend. You can leave comments and captions and even vote for your favorite pics. What you have to do (unfortunately) is register via the link the top of the gallery page (takes 2 seconds). Then you have the option to comment on all the individual pic pages once you’re logged in. Sorry for the extra hoop to jump through, but it doesn’t take long and you only have to do it once.

I realized that in all the excitement I’m a complete spaz and didn’t get a single good photo of Cara, so please email me all your snaps – there were plenty of Pye In The Face readers in attendance with cameras, so don’t hold back. I am talking to you, Stacey, Rachel and Mary Beth. Let’s get a fun gallery together with lots of captions and comments which I can then forward to the happy couple. I need your help, kids. EMAIL me your pics!

I have to leave early to get to Triconi’s engagement party tonight, and I’ve a mountain of work to get through beforehand. So the Quizzlet will be delayed until some point over the weekend. A thousand pardons, and I’ll leave you with something to keep you busy in the meantime. Here’s me dipping your pacifier in gin:

1. Are you afraid to die?

2. If you had your way, would you rather die because of a disease or instantaneously?

3. It’s your last day alive and you know it. How will you spend your last 24 hours?

4. Describe your funeral or wake.

5. How would you want your remains to be put to rest?

Pretty morbid, I know. But a sad story I heard last night got me thinking about the happy hunting ground a little bit, so I’m running with it. Post your answers in comments, and don’t die over the weekend.

Do you like what you read here everyday? Am I on your favorites menu? Does your employer inadvertently pay you to laugh at dead hooker jokes? Have you preempted an important conference call for Friday’s Quizzlet? Then click some of the ads you see in the left hand column every once in a while. Shameless.

Liken it to throwing a rupee at a Calcutta beggar who has just beaten his Grandmother unrecognizable for your entertainment. It pays for hosting. If you want to make an omlette, you have to beat a few East Indian senior citizens unmercifully.