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Birds. Glorious Birds.

… reads this brand new site’s tagline. And such language might actually seem exciting if we were in England. But the Concord Avian Society is actually a group of guys I went to high school with who spend their weekends watching birds. Yes, the kind that fly – not the kind that hang around in tight Robbie Williams T-shirts waiting for you to buy them pints of bitter. Or ‘my type’ as they’re more commonly known.

Although their consolidation and website are relatively new, these guys have been ‘birding’ for years. When someone first told me this crew had become fowl-fondlers I originally thought they were kidding. Tromping through Walden woods on a Friday night looking for owls sounds like something you’d have to endure after losing a bet. But when you dig a little bit deeper into their modus operandi, the avian attraction becomes more apparent.

“Friday night we will be heading out to Egg Rock in search of a Barred Owl. There will be no booze at this event, unless Cato brings Bud pounders“.

OK, now you’ve gotten my attention. I haven’t raced through the woods with a six-pack of pounders since about 1991. OK – last weekend if we’re splitting hairs. And apparently the society also encourages hazing and deviant sexual activities. I may be in.

“We will head up to Rockport and Gloucester in search of Harlequin Ducks and Razorbills. Please dress accordingly and leave your sarcasm at the door. I’m bringing the Rocky Soundtrack, so if anyone gets out of line you’ll be put through rigorous training… we can catch a lunch of fried clams in Essex where Savage will hit on a barley legal waitress at Woodman’s“.

Now that sounds like a Saturday. Get me a pair of binoculars and some bird-lice talc. I think I’m going to ask Wells if they’ll grant me honorary member status. A wise man once said, “Are you going to chirp all day little birdie, or are you going to peck?” I’m definitely a pecker.

I’m currently involved in the creation of a new online dating related site. We don’t set people up or write profiles or anything, but instead strive to serve as a survival guide and support group of sorts. There are a team of talented writers involved and I’m handling the technical/marketing aspects. The site is scheduled to launch sometime in May, and I’d like to recruit a little help from everyone if I …may. Did I mention May?

One of the interactive sections we’re going to have will be called “Horror Stories”. It will be a bulletinboard-esque area where people can share their absolute worst online dating experiences. I know a lot of people who read Pye In The Face have dabbled in “The Online Thing” – so get those cringe-worthy tales off of your chest – and help a brother out in the process. Just leave an anonymous comment if your tribulation was particularly degrading.

Did your date arrive with chaperones? Did he ask you to accompany him to the bathroom because the doctor told him he ‘shouldn’t lift anything heavy’? Did her breath burn the paint off your car door? Was he easily distracted when you moved your fork around in a circular motion? Did her wheelchair leave scrape marks on your stairwell? Share.

Dealing with a lot today, folks – on many levels. So I was pleasantly surprised by this e-mailed little gem which has had me laughing for 10 minutes now. It’s also refreshing when emails with subject lines like “Best e-mail ever you have to read this LOL!” actually turn out to be funny, as opposed to an angel-related chain letter. Simple things…

This is obviously 2 dead mice from separate traps, with the fornicator’s corpse moved on top of the fornicatee’s corpse: ‘Mousey-Style’. Or is it? They are, after all, among the filthiest of little creatures. I knew mice spread dysentery and the black plague – but necrophilia? I feel like I need to go and take a shower. With a dead chick.

I promised my roomate I’d Tivo the last episode of the bachelorette for her while she’s working. I’ve had it open on my monitor tonight as I’ve been working. And it’s been painful. And I feel a strange urge to crank up a showtune while drinking carbonated mineral water which I don’t fully understand. But it’s almost over and I can honestly say – I want to watch Jennifer Schefft die in a boating accident.

She rejected not one, but two proposals tonight. “I want you to know that I was fully committed to this. I want you to know that.” She’s used that phrase 14 times tonight. She’s a shallow, self-centered sow who likes herself an awful lot. “You’re wonderful. You’ve been great to me throughout this whole thing.” The fact that the two dejected bachelors are sitting beside her on the couch right now as opposed to urinating onto her face in tandem is a tribute to their restraint.

Thankfully, someone in the studio audience just stood up and asked her “Without sounding harsh, what is it going to take for you to be satisfied?” (Bear in mind she rejected someone on the bachelor before she was given this, her own show). She declined to answer that, and the next three questions she was asked. She’s truly awful.

If it’s bothered me this much, I have to assume that the legions of loyal women viewers who watch this show must be disappointed too. And that I’m gay. Somewhere, a casting agent is losing their contract with ABC.

“I hate to advocate weird chemicals, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone… but they’ve always worked for me“.

I was a little sad when Hunter S. Thompson killed himself a week ago. Discovering his books and essays while in University was an eye-opening and welcome break from the conventions of my American lit classes. Thompson made it clear to me for the first time that when it comes to writing and journalism, there really are no rules. Narrative, wordplay – you can bastardize it all, find your own voice and still wind up with something both entertaining, unique and if it’s called for – informative. It also doesn’t hurt to scribble while under the influence. Which is a relief, as I currenly have my pants around my ankles and a Wild Turkey IV pumping into my right arm.

Thompson remains original, even in death. He often expressed his desire to have his ashes fired into the sky by a cannon, and to honor that wish his family has sent out a nationwide call they hope the rare breed which are cannon-owners will heed. Move the snow-blower out of the way and dust off your best Civil War replica boom sticks. Hunter needs you. And just what do you get if you agree to help fire Hunter out of your cannon? Why, the honor of firing Hunter out of your cannon, of course. Anyone who agrees to make the trip, cannon in tow, will be financing the trek themselves. I paid $8 in shipping for a miniscule phone battery last month. So best of luck to the fortunate volunteer. They also have to win an essay writing contest and entries must be exactly 100 words in length and sent via snail mail.

My apartment is full of all kinds of crap I’ve collected over the years. But alas, a cannon is not part of the clutter. So as my own personal tribute to Thompson, I fired open a bottle of Retsina and forced 2 of my friends who’d never seen it to watch Where The Buffalo Roam on Saturday night. Bill Murray’s hilariously accurate portrayal came to pass after he befriended Thompson in the late 70s and spent a lot of time with him at his Owl Ranch in Colarado. It’s said that it took Murray months to get out of character and he ‘continued to act Gonzo through the beginning of the next season of Saturday Night Live, to the consternation/annoyance of cast and crew members’. But at least he has never been Al Franken.

I love having a site like this – interactive, current, communal – but this stress exists to come up with good content each and every day. I know I’m not the only one who suffers from this fun new bloggy plague. If a site ceases to be ‘sticky’ people no longer show up every day to get stuck. Some days, I’ll post 3 or 4 different articles like it’s nothing. On others I could be channeling Steven King, who could write 16 pages about a popcorn kernel, and wouldn’t be able to think of a single word. It’s easy when you have a sports or political blog because there’s always fresh fodder for your typing fingers. But when your common thread of choice is simply humor – ’tis a whole ‘nother ball game. Still – Pye In The Face has been going strong for 9 months and 300 posts, so I’m still a ‘functioning’ ____ (insert my new medical condition’s name).

There’s also this other annoying distraction that keeps me from musing more during the work week. It’s called a job. Before I get back to it, however, I feel the need to coin a phrase coming on. What could one chisten ‘the stress induced by pressure to come up with blog content’? I await your suggestions.

What a wonderful Saturday in human history. Not only is the big Mardi Gras party tonight, but the new fish tank is up, running and populated! Monster and I drove to the Galleria this morning and stocked up on supplies. I got a new light, food, 2 underwater Mayan castles, a net and even a new scratching post for the Boss. And what of the fish, you ask? You’ll remember earlier this week I was all excited about getting to choose what sort of fish I wanted. I even asked for suggestions. It turns out, the nice lady at Petco told me what sort of fish I had to buy. And they’re scarcely bigger than ants. I was disappointed. I’ll explain.

“You’re going to start off with three Tetras.” The lady turned her back to me and walked over to the tank she had in mind. I immediately balked – “I am? These guys are miniscule. May I ask why?” She didn’t appreciate my questioning her ultimate fishy wisdom. “Because. They’re hardy” came the strained reply. Obviously she meant that the little buggers were resilient, and a good way to kick off a new tank and balance out the PH levels before introducing more delicate additions. “What, like they solve mysteries together?” That got her laughing, and she ended up being quite helpful in the end. As opposed to the fat twat I initially took her for.

So she gave me three Tetras to start off with. Any more than three fish introduced at a given time can cause toxic shock to the rest of the community. They’re tiny (for scale see the one circled above to the right in front of the sacred Mayan temple) and indistinguishable from one another – so I’ve decided to call them the Hansons. Hopefully they won’t wrap foil around their fins and bash new fish into the glass. All in all, I think my little ecosystem is off to a ‘swimming’ start (LOL, ROFL, ROFLPM!) and I’ll keep you updated when I add new citizens. Cornett, Jodice and Jim will be here in half an hour for the party pre-game – at which point the Hansons won’t be the only residents of the apartment up to their eyeballs in filthy liquids.

It’s my distinct pleasure to welcome Cole Thomas Peden into this crazy world of ours, and it’s a better planet for having him. Best wishes to Steve, Jen and their new family. “He’s honestly a wee miracle,” says the proud new Dad, and apparently Jen is taking to motherhood “like a duck to water”. I’m not sure quite how Steve is taking to it, but I’m going to use this opportunity to drop in my personal favorite “like a fat kid to a Smartie“.

He was born at 4pm on Valentine’s day, and weighed in at 7.7 lbs. I fully expect Cole to be running his own print shop by the time he’s old enough to fire his maiden paintball. Nice work, kids. I look forward to meeting/scaring the heck out of the little guy. Yes it’s true, babies love me. And be sure to click here for a Pye in the Face exclusive – Cole’s very first music video.