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Sebby owns one of my favorite haunts, the SideBar on Bromfield St. in Boston’s Downtown Crossing, and he recently celebrated the birth of his daughter – Molly. Now, I very much enjoy busting Sebby’s chops so I decided to whip up a little Photoshop on the subject. And he fucking hated it:

I printed it out about 3 months ago on a color printer at work and brought it down on a Friday night. Sebby was working behind the bar and I slowly started passing the photo around to the regulars who began dying with laughter. “What the fuck is so goddamn funny you jerks?” he demanded repeatedly. I waited until he was distracted and then hung it on the wall near the cash register while we all continued to snicker. After about 10 minutes he finally noticed it, shot me a dirty look and then tore it down.

I figured the photo had served its purpose so I didn’t take Sebby’s rejection too personally. But when I went down to the SideBar a week later – he asked me to print him out another one! You can see it, now laminated, hanging on the wall behind the bar on the right hand side of the building. Better a late-good-sport than never.

P.S. – Are we still resurrecting wing night? The plan lost steam over the holidays. I may stop in for a lovely plate full of delicious deep-fried dead poultry slathered in vinegary hot-sauce as soon as tomorrow night. The backlash of living with a vegan.

Boston’s North End has become an extremely trendy place to live over the past decade – so landlords have been scrambling to maximize every square inch of their buildings in an attempt to squeeze any potential nickel out of their properties. The result is a lot of henhouse and basement apartments. My apartment is a split-level, but my actual bedroom is in the basement at the front of the building facing the street. And I chose it because it’s the biggest. Not because I had to mount my sex swing on the lowest possible support girder.

My bedroom windows are street level, and my view consists of feet, hunched over homeless going through my garbage and stray dogs. It’s breathtaking. But in the winter, it gets a lot worse. It’s not the drifts blocking my view, and it’s not the chilly seasonal drafts. No – it’s the 5:30 a.m. snowshovel symphony.

I work late most days. Our office hours are unconventional in that respect and as a result I don’t have to wake up until 9 a.m. So if, like last night, I decide to catch up on Tivo’d episodes of Sanford and Son or bad movies until 2 a.m. – I can still get 7 solid hours of sleep. That is unless it snows, and the folks who shovel Cleveland Place arrive before dawn to clear a path for the morning commuters.

Try and imagine what a snow shovel sounds like at 5:30 in the morning. The dirty, rusty blade scrapes along the cement incessantly – with the edge shiny and sharp from extended use – literally a foot from my unconcious head. I awake with a start and then try to figure out why I’m not actually lying on a beach beside a topless Rachel Weisz (note to self, watch Runaway Jury right before going to sleep again tonight). I bury my head under 3 pillows, groan and pray for the din to cease. When it does, I try to salvage whatever sleepy-time I happen to have left.

And, if its continued to snow, the concerto starts all over again at 8.

Shortly after refugee Elian Gonzales was all over the news, Bobby and Monster tried to get a bunch of us to go to some shitty Cuban-theme party at a downtown Boston dance club. The backlash was immediate. Some poked fun, some refused, some balked and I contributed a Cuban/Elian-themed Photoshop:

I used the same photo of Bobby as I did here, and the original photo of Bryan’s head is from the Tiernan’s candid gallery. I’m sure you all remember seeing the source photo at every Liberal news outlet known to man. Which is basically every news outlet known to man. Baby Monster was eventually returned to the custody of his father in Cuba, while INS agent Bobby retired and opened up his own private poontang detection agency.

I’ve already given this truly awful website some begrudging lip service here on Pye In The Face, but I’ve been forced to revisit it due to an article I just read in my friend’s newspaper. One of the guys who writes for him, Norton Tierra, runs down a refreshing list of reasons Americans have absolutely nothing to be apologizing about.

I could have used any number of photos from the eyesore in question, but I chose these two heartbreakers for the absolute plethora of Dungeons and Dragons jokes I’ll be able to mine. Is the sign pertaining to their disappointment at Bush’s re-election? Or the disappointment they feel because the rohypnol they bought from a fraternity brother before the kegger turned out to be Similac? Regardless, It’s still convenient that whatever EverQuest server they were using last Saturday night crashed long enough for them to contribute this photo.

In summation – Will you people please stop whining? Don’t apologize for Bush. Don’t apologize on my behalf. But since you already have, allow me to return the favor: I’m sorry you weren’t born a Kurd and gassed along with your entire family and then buried in a mass grave because that may have actually been preferable to screwing produce in your dorm room.

But someone eventually created a welcome alternative, the aptly entitled SorryEverybodyMyAss, at which the less snivelly members of our population are encouraged to submit antidotes to the disgraceful whinges on the original site. I decided to join the fray.

I’ve never liked the way in which household pets, particularly cats, are employed to relay the stomach-turning apologetic messages on SorryEverybody. This does little to help their already less-than-macho image. I found a photo of a fairly distressed looking cat on a shelter’s website, added the scroll and decided to give our feline friends a chance to pick their own party. If cats are indeed as smart as I’ve grown to believe throughout 30+ years of having them around, they’re certainly not Liberals by default. Even though they most certainly sound like them from time to time.

My greatest New Year’s resolution victory had to have been back in 2001 when I vowed to quit smoking once and for all. I haven’t had a puff since. Yes I’m gloating – it’s no easy task. Would you like to know how I did it? Should I share my secret here, for the ages? I could probably make millions writing a book or creating a self help DVD, but since I’m in such a good mood today I’ll let you in on my little secret. Here’s how you quit smoking:

You quit smoking.

If you ‘only smoke when you’re driving’, you’ll end up right back puffing a pack a day. If you ‘only smoke after a meal’, same thing. If you like to light up ‘just once in the morning while reading the paper’, likewise plan on being right back at that smokey teat within a week. And if you only smoke when you drink, you might as well have never even bothered dropping it in the first place.

Here’s the tough straight poopy dope: any iteration of smoking will ultimately lead you right back to whatever sad habit you started with. Once I figured that out, removed it from my life completely and stopped pretending I needed to wean myself off of it like a newborn from a juicy teat it was actually kind of easy. So if you’re planning on dancing with the dragon this coming year, I want to say to you, best of luck. And teat, just one more time.

Is this thing on? I’m back – and what a tedious trip that was. It was great to see my friends and family, but the whole week had this dreary let’s-drag-Grandma-into-a-nursing-home-kicking-and-screaming element to it that has left me extremely glad to be back in Beantown. Other highlights included:

• Driving 4 hours in a blizzard with violent stereo bronchitis.
• Chastizing my little cousin for telling jokes that would make Don Rickles blush.
• Drinking Doornkaat with a German gentleman and seeing the scar on his leg where he was shot by a Russian sniper whilst digging an anti-tank trench in 1944.
• 5 words: Star Wars DVD Box Set. 13 more words: Never sleeping with a woman again having just admitted my excitement at that.
• Walking into the Albion in Guelph after a 7-year hiatus and recognizing people I knew.
• Driving down old highway 6 with a Tim Horton’s in my hand and the Hip on the radio.

So yeah. Canada had its moments. And I’m back. What’s on for New Years? Let’s get that bastard over with, too.

Those who are looking for a new home don’t know many of the benefits of modular homes. There are a lot of different types of homes including prefab homes which are great for first time buyers. With manufactured homes, you can choose from many different homes and designs for your modular home.

Just a quick note to let everyone know what to expect from Pye In The Face over the next week or so. First of all, I am currently sick as a dog. I’ve left my apartment once in the last 3 days to go to CVS for Theraflu and Nyquil. I don’t know what prompted this malady, but the timing couldn’t be worse. So y’all are going to have to do Wing Night without me.

Wednesday my sister and I are driving 9 hours to Toronto for Christmas. The highlight of which will be placing an elderly relative into a nursing home. Happy Holidays. Then Monday night it’s off to L.A. to meet with a client.

The next week is going to be awfully quiet. Far more awful than quiet. Bear with me – I shall return.