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I Think My Cat Is IRA.


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Boss lost his small, grey mouse – which chirps loudly when he swats it – about a month ago, and nothing I’ve bought him since has seemed to fill the void. He’s been despondent and inconsolable, mewing incessantly about the evils of British imperialism. And then something most unexpected happened.

I awoke one morning last week to see Boss gloating proudly over… is that… could it be… squeaky mouse?! Was he sent off on some secret mission for the Irish Republican Army (it’s no secret that Boss has had past affiliations)? Did Boss stage a clandestine raid while I slept to free Squeaky from Al Queda captors?

Obviously not. Cats have short memory spans, and like some kind of feline alzheimer patient, I’m sure he just carried the toy off behind a piece of furniture and forgot all about it. Still, it’s fun to imagine that your pet is a secret agent. And to only leave the house during full moons on odd numbered months.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Smurf Me, You Dirty Bastard.


in Monday's Quotelet

This is going to be a short one. Not feeling very humorous today. Loads of work and holiday related stress harshing my mellow, man.

Appetizer: What is something that never fails to grab your attention?

Acts of terrorism, road flares, poutine, small shiny objects and barbed-wire thongs.

Soup: Who was the last person that gave you money?

My Dad wired me some cash in lieu of a birthday present earlier this month. He and my mother are currently spending their summer in a Florida trailer park, so it was a convenient solution. Especially since you can’t send deep-fried turkeys, methamphetamines or Jiffy Wine through the mail. The money went to Pixies tickets, and I’ll spare you any more gushing about how much I enjoyed those concerts. Thanks be to the ‘rents.

Salad: If you were a Smurf, what would your name be?

Where do I start? Here are a few possibilities: Pinty Smurf. Resenty Smurf. Canucky Smurf. Commitmentphobe Smurf. Sanford and Smurf. Tragically Smurfed. I need to stop.

Main Course: Do you believe in astrology? Why or why not?

Not really, although the classic description of a Sagittarius is me to a ‘T’. Still, I won’t be calling Dionne Warwick anytime soon. Christopher Walken’s Psychic Friends is more my speed.

Dessert: Have you seen any snow this year yet?

I saw a few flakes last week, but they melted instantly. The most snow I’ve seen this year was in a Quicktime movie my sister sent me of her snowboarding up in SugarBush. And I’d like to keep it that way.

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Revel In My PS Prowess: Return Of The Wing.


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A group of friends and I used to make time every week for ‘Wing Night’ which was held at the SideBar, usually on Tuesdays. Wing Night would consist of a few pitchers of Pabst and enough chicken wings to be declared a partial poultry genocide. Once Monster and I ate 50 each in one sitting. And, let’s just say, we were sitting down again shortly afterwards in more secluded locations. The night eventually grew to include a rotating group of faces, but then died off sharply around 6 months ago. We’ve recently been discussing its resurrection, and I thought this would be a perfect time to roll out another one of my silly related Photoshops…

What do you get when you marry geeky Tolkienesque fandom with weekly gastonomical hammerings of biblical proportions? Why, Frodo with a Buffalo biscuit, of course. And like a Hobbit to the Cracks of Doom – starting in January I’m bringing Wing Night home again. So prepare yourselves for the very imminent Return of the Wing.

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A Righteous Roomate Reckoning.


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One of my roomates is parting amicably for reasons of finance. It may also have something to do with all the dead hookers. Regardless, Mardi and I will be needing another… Roomate, that is. I have the hookers covered – With lime in shallow cellar graves for the most part.

If you’re interested, know someone who is interested or just have some sort of sick fascination with what the insides of other people’s apartments look like, click the linky: 20 Cleveland Place #1

I don’t really party like a rock star or kill women of the night, anymore. I think that’s important to point out when recruiting a potential occupant. Just don’t send that link to your crazy cousin ‘OCD Skip’, or some girl you know from middle-school who smelt like pee. I’ve had good luck with roomates thus far, and I’m due for a real disaster. Don’t tempt it.

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You’re Not Making Any Friends Here, Dave.


in

Today was the first bitterly cold walk to work I’ve endured this season. We’ve been lucky for a long time as the weather has been quite warm, quite late. But Old Man Winter has tightened his grip, and it’s time to buy another Masque. A quick aside about that wonderful warmth inducing product – remember you’re wearing them. Masques will make you look quite scary, and if you barge into a 7-11 wearing one, you might end up at the business end of a 30-30. If you choose to learn this the hard way, your next Kit-Kat may be your last.

But back to what’s going to be my hugely unpopular observation for this fine Wednesday – Boston Common, North Station, Haymarket, Downtown Crossing – were all completely devoid of homeless people this morning. I’m not going to cop out and ask rhetorical questions like “Does it make me a bad person if I’m glad the bitter cold has driven all the carrion inside?” I’m going to make a few up front statements that you can take or leave. Or use as justification to firebomb my apartment (we are in Massachusetts, afterall).

If you have a friend, relative or aquaintence that’s been struck homeless by mental illness or some other misfortune, I’m not referring to them. What I’m glad to be rid of for a few months are the rude, aggressive drunks that plague this city every summer. I walk back and forth from North Station to the Copley area to work every day, and am asked for money an average of 5 times a trip. Asked is actually not the best word. Beleaguered might be better.

Maybe living in the city for 5 years has chipped away at my empathy to the point where I no longer feel sorry for people who are passed out in the street, covered in their own pee. Maybe it’s because that person is sometimes me. But guilt-trip myself as I might, I can’t deny how noticeable and lovely the lack of a vagrant presence was this morning. No one held the door for me on my way into the Dunks, I didn’t have to brave the park bench gauntlet past the Park Street T-Station and Krazy Kris Kristofferson and Slow-Motion Man were nowhere to be found.

I do actually hope they’re all somewhere warm and cozy, being looked after by social services, getting a shower and sucking down some hot soup. But their numbers seem to be multiplying like tribbles – and I hope it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Or the mentholated schnapps.

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The Pixies Play Letterman, December 14th, 2004.


in Musical

So those monkeys that had gone to heaven? Well they finally flew out of my butt.

It wasn’t the first time – they performed ‘Tame’ in 1989 and ‘Trompe Le Monde’ in 1991 – but it was uniquely magnificent in it’s sheer unlikeliness. This time last year, they weren’t even speaking. They play the final show of the reunion tour, or The Pixies Sellout as they themselves call it this week. Letterman was a nice capper.

Joey, Charles, Kim and Dave – thanks for a great year. I feel like such a fanboy freak saying that, but I really mean it. Anyone who knows me will contest to the fact that I can die now. Albeit alone.

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Back In Effect Like EPMD.


in Musical

My technical issues of the last few days have been remedied, and I apologize for the lull. When you don’t post for a day or two, and you get emails from your faithful readers asking where you’ve been, it’s a nice feeling. But I’ll have to let you know because as of right now I’m just guessing.

But why liken my heralded return to the comeback of a pioneering hip-hop group, you ask? Because a four-day blog absence is similar in many ways to dropping out of favor in the rap world. Gold chains are in short supply. You develop a startling dependency on malt liquor. Your clothing ceases to be “fresh”. You can no longer claim to have “drama, hoes”. I could go on – and I might. After some more malt liquor.

If I were prone to lying, I’d tell you that I spent my downtime pining for the ability to vent publicly online. I’d tell you that my inability to let off steam and share my insights with the world nearly led to an anyeurism of fatal proportions. And if I were a truthful soul, I’d tell you just how much fun you can have playing San Andreas for 8 hours while inadvertantly covering your couch with half-eaten honey roasted peanuts that you can get for $2 a can at the CVS on Hanover Street. And that I will likely die alone having just sort of admitted that is indeed how I spent the majority of my weekend. I suppose the next step is to grow a ponyatil and get a tarantula?

Regardless of my penchant for arachnids and dying alone, I’m back in full effect. And I’ll play a little catch up this week, too. So keep watching/looking away uncomfortably. And best rap group ever, while we’re sorta on the subject.

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I’m Spent. I’m Out. I’m Done.


in

I am looking forward to this week, simply because I have absolutely nothing planned. No concerts, no birthdays, no nights out, no Christmas parties – nada. I am going to work, sleep, then work again… and it will be lovely in it’s lethargy.

My wick is whacked. My midnight oil is burnt. My liver could probably be sold to medical science as a freakishly resilient oddity. I’m thankful for all my friends and the accompanying healthy social life – but I honestly want to move to a cabin in the woods Kazinsky-style, write a rambling manifesto about cheese and speak only to squirrels.

Don’t cry for me. There are worse problems to have. But do go and go see Ocean’s Twelve. It was surprisingly excellent.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: A Scumble In The Bronx.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: Make up a word and give us its definition.

Balderdash is the best board game ever devised. If you’ve played it, you already know that the object is to try and bluff/fool your friends into picking your phony definition of a real, but little known, word. One night, senior year of high school, Mike, Kent, Nate and a few others were playing it around my kitchen table. I got the word ‘scumble‘ and defined it as “Any fight taking place in West Concord“. When that particular group would get together and play, the game would become about cracking up your friends. That was one of the hardest laughs I’ve ever had. But I don’t want anyone to think we spent our Friday nights sitting inside playing board games because that would be uncool. Not at all – Friday nights were for Dungeons and Dragons.

Soup: What is currently your favorite song?

I’ve previously stated that pound-for-pound, my all-time favorite song is There Goes The Fear by The Doves. And I imagine it always will be. The Pixies’ amazing rendition of Something Against You last night at Avalon would run a close second. But the album I’m currently playing the hell out of at work is Lou Reed‘s New York. I haven’t given it any attention for a decade, and it’s still brilliant.

Salad: What’s at the top of your Christmas wish list this year?

“My Christmas Wish List” in big, red crayon.

Main Course: Name a scent that reminds you of someone in your life.

Hi Karate always reminds me of a shop teacher I had in grade 7. The rumor was, that this guy had removed the inside of his pants pockets. And had once, while he was holding a piece of wood or a hammer or something, asked a student to reach into his pocket to get a tape measure – where they then found themselves grasping a semi-chubbed giggle stick. This story spread like wild-fire throughout our school, and I always felt bad for the man because he seemed absolutely harmless when I was locked in his office with him looking at Austrian pornography.

Dessert: Who is someone on television that you feel probably shouldn’t be?

Jon Stewart. He’s adored by hundreds of thousands of young, impressionable people who are too thick to discern real news from satire. And he’s violently partisan, which makes it all the more unhealthy. I am the complete opposite of a Jon Stewart fan. Used to go see his stand-up, now all I want to do is see him fall down – on a chainsaw.

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Revel In My PS Prowess: The Lawn Boy.


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Busy day at work today, but I want to put something up for my loyal minions. I have a collection of silly Photoshops that I’ve done over the last year and a half, and I thought I’d share a few. Most of them make fun of Monster and/or Bobby – so this should be good for a cruel laugh.

About a year ago, Bobby shared a story with us about how he woke up on his front lawn with his pants off. But who hasn’t? I quickly whipped this up and sent it to 100 of our closest friends. The picture of Bobby was taken from a photo of him spinning some woman on a dance floor. I simply took the cha-cha and fashioned it into an incapacitating outdoor hangover.

Then I got a little more creative…

And then it just got downright disturbing…

I have many more silly creations and will do this again the next time I’m strapped for material. Off to the Pixies tonight, then I’m going into hiding to recover from this zany week. Stay real.

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Best Birthday Present EVAH.


in Heartwarming

I’d like to say it was the presence of my close friends at Joe V’s in the South End. Or the fact that Bobby didn’t show up. But in actuality, it was the SCTV box set. Thanks due to Janet and Adam. Count Floyd be praised.

And another fervent thanks to Katie, who constructed the cake. It had mapley icing, half eaten donuts and Bob & Doug McKenzie on the top. Perfection. Also, Kate and Emily came strapped with a hilarious ‘camel-toe’ themed card and a book I’ve been wanting to read. Nice one.

Have a peek above – Emily looks on in sheer horror as Peter busts out his Hellboy. His horns were courtesy of the parmesan cheese and hot pepper dishes. I sincerely hope they washed those. Sincerely.

When I got home, I found my bedroom adorned with balloons and streamers, courtesy of Betsy and Mardi. So thanks again, one and all, for my SCTV themed birthday. I had an amazing time and was only 3 hours late for work today.

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Happy Birthday To Me. Again.


in Reminiscent

December 7th was once described by President Franklin D. Roosevelt as “A day that will live in infamy”. A great line – and I wish I could take credit for inspiring it. But he was, of course, referring to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I have to thank those dastardly Kamikazes for taking just a smidgen of the focus off of me today. And for accepting me as one of their own and raising me in the jungle on a small island off of Guadalcanal. Now you know.

My thoughtful sister is taking me out to dinner in the South End with a few folks, but then we’ll be heading to Pho afterwards. If you feel inclined to drop by and help me mourn, you now know where to find the procession. Remember, we don’t have to stop for traffic lights and will likely have a police escort.

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The Pixies At Tsongas Arena In Lowell, December 2004.


in Musical

The fucking Pixies had been removing and cleaning out the heads of everyone you knew that year and now they were coming to your school. Doolittle was your Sgt. Pepper’s, the album after which nothing would be the same, the album that would spawn a thousand imitators, most of them very poor.” – Dave Eggers, SPIN Magazine.

There have been some recent miserable moments when I’ve felt like my youth is truly over. People have slowly gotten married, moved away or otherwise disappeared – and it seems sometimes like our dog-tired glory days have finally crawled to a close. But I looked up at one point this past Wednesday night… and I was with a group of close friends who hadn’t been assembled in the same place for many years… and the goddamn Pixies were playing on stage in front of us! I very much felt like Juan Ponce De Leon had just handed me a can of his magical water and forced me to do a shotgun at swordpoint. The years melted away and I was suddenly back in the front seat of my ’79 Chevy Malibu station wagon – blaring Surfer Rosa after the football game, on the road to some keg party in Concord. And it was glorious. And I shouldn’t have been driving.

I grew up with the guys and gals who surrounded me at Tsongas, and the soundtrack of our young lives was that very same incomprable quartet from Boston. In the car, at the party, on the beach, in the woods – The Pixies were there with us every step of the way. And like old friends who’d vanished without a trace, we never thought we’d see their like again. All of a sudden there we were, and there they were, and it’s hard to describe – but we all looked at one another, high-fived, hugged, smiled and realized the gravity of what was taking place. As overdramatic as that must sound to the uninitiated, the concerts in Lowell last week were a special and memorable time for all of us, and we’ll be talking about them for years to come.

If you’re looking for a setlist or painstaking recount of either concert, Have a look here. There are uber fans on FrankBlack.net that make me look like I slept through both shows – across the street in the back of a car. I went both nights, with a group of about 15 high school friends on Wednesday and my buddy Adam (or the violent gay biker from Halloween as you may remember him) on Thursday. We all met at the Lowell Brewing Company Wednesday night and on the top left you can see Jim, me, Nate, Joanna and Mike gearing up with anticipation and liquor. We headed over to the Tsongas arena around 9:30 to catch the last few songs of the Mission of Burma set. On the upper right you can see PJ in his Nanook of the North jacket, and Ryan plotting the best way to sneak a bottle of SoCo into the venue. Some things haven’t changed. And never will.

After an aggressive pat-down and camera confiscation threat, we got inside and heard the first strains of Burma’s classic ‘That’s How I Escaped My Certain Fate’. Burma rocked like 19 years hadn’t passed since the last time they toured, and the crowd graciously pretended to know who they were. Let me make a quick comment regarding the abundance of the audience – they were awful. We gathered in a section of the seats because the floor/rink was tightly packed by this time, and were shocked to see the vast majority of people remain seated as the Pixies took the stage and broke into ‘Heaven – The Lady In The Radiator Song’. Seated. A few songs and several whiney ‘please sit down and don’t hurt me’ requests into the concert, the 5 rows behind our group were empty as the Johnny-come-lately 20-something hipster ‘fans’ realized we’d be standing and getting rowdy for the duration. Shame on you people – bring some opera glasses next time to complete your fucking experience.

Jim and Janet pose proudly for a picture above – we all had the biggest shit-eating perma-grins on our faces from the first moment we entered the arena. But some of our grins were enhanced by hydroponics as our crew smoked several different types of plant life throughout the concert. We also screamed, danced, drank and simply horrified most of the people sitting in our midst. A sort of ‘real fan vs. poseur’ mentality developed which worsened our behavior. I did, however, catch a few people smiling in our direction and spoke to some younger guys nearby who were enjoying our energy. I don’t know, however, if they enjoyed my screamed rendition of ‘Caribou’ visible for posterity on the upper right.

Among the highlights were a slowed down and dirty ‘Crackity Jones’, an extended version of my very favorite ‘Number 13 Baby’ and a smoking fast and thunderous ‘Something Against You’ (which you can see PJ air-guitaring above) that still has my head banging 3 days later. They encored with a superb ‘Where Is My Mind’, the lights came up and we went back to the brewery a happy band of Pixies punters. The photo on the right was taken shortly afterwards, and you know it’s been a memorable night when the designated driver (me) is making a face like an elderly vagrant pressed up between the bars of a protective custody cell. But rest assured, it’s Diet Coke induced. I got the also pictured Peter and Adam home in one piece. Well, two pieces actually. They were separated thanks to an innovative medical procedure last year.

Thursday night I went with Adam, who was mistaken 17 times for the former bassist from Queens of the Stone Age – but I think that suited him just fine. We rolled in and got great seats to the left of the stage but again – everyone was sitting down! Who the fuck are you people? We wandered out on to the rink, barrelled our way through the throngs and got pretty close to the stage. We stayed there bobbing and weaving for the rest of the set, and the two concerts ended up very different experiences as a result.

I still have this Thursday’s Boston proper date at Avalon to cover, so I’ll wrap this up for now. It’s my birthday this week, and I’ll have ended up seeing the Pixies 3 times in 8 days. That fact is making the dawn of my 31st year just a little more palatable. Unlike Tsongas Arena fried dough. Who am I kidding? I love that shit.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Jeffrey Dahmer’s Kitten.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: Tell about a toy you remember from your childhood.

In 1978 I was given a remote controlled R2-D2 for Christmas. And get this – it went forwards and backwards. So I could pretend I was a Jawa and chase R2, or I could pretend I was some sort of droid-a-phobe and run away from him. I could also aim him directly at my father’s shin, hide behind the couch and then let him rip. Yep… pretty much limited to chasing, running from or inflicting bodily harm on parental units. Now I realize why I got nuthin’ but Nerf the following year.

Soup: If you could make one thing free for everyone, what would it be?

Healthcare. And Airborne Effervescent Health Formula. It saved my life this week. On a side note, I’m going to be Osama Pye Laden this weekend, so don’t bother looking for me. I’ve had a nagging sickyness for days and days. I just want to relax on the couch, play video games and snort vitamin C. Oh, and then there’s the hour tomorrow when I’ll be online frantically trying to get tickets for the December 9th show. And those should be free, too.

Salad: How many times per day do you think about your significant other?

Whenever I file my nails, trim my cuticles, read my own palm, use hand cream or practice new shadow puppets. If you didn’t like that joke, try this one: I hadn’t thought about her in a couple of hours but then I accidentally unplugged my freezer and she began to stink. Damn it, Mai Lin – why couldn’t you have just shut your fat Malaysian mouth?

Main Course: Name something you believe in 100%.

That John Kerry is now working as a bartender at the Lowell Brewing Company. He and Teresa must be on the outs. If you don’t believe me, go see for yourself. Take in a Lockmonsters game, find some crack to buy and then head to the brewery to see John. He’s a little down in the dumps these days.

Dessert: List 3 things you did this year that you would consider a “good deed.”

How about 1, demanding quizzlet? I jumped on a grenade just the other night. My roomate had some of her friends in town, and as I was feeling sick I opted to go and spend the night at my sister’s – because I knew they’d keep me up and that I’d end up throwing something sharp at them while snot ran down my face. What I got in return was a red wine stain down the length of my stairwell wall, a nasty call from the building manager and a sound scratching from my sister’s new kitten who is possessed by the spirit of Jeffrey Dahmer. Fuck a deed.

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Holy Fuck I Love The Pixies.


in Musical

As you all know last night I went to Lowell to see The Pixies, and I’ll be doing a write up with some hilarious photos over the weekend. How much did I like it, you ask? I’m going again tonight. So please excuse the blog inactivity, I’ve been busy recapturing my youth, navigating that most treacherous of Lowells, and rocking the sweet bejaysus out of the Tsongas. Cut me some slack – I’ll be 31 in 5 more days. My window of opportunity for juvenile stupidity and debaucherous activity grows smaller by the hour. Or maybe it doesn’t. Look at Nick Nolte.

Nate: I almost died drag racing to this song through Concord about 15 years ago.

PJ: Dude, I almost died every time I was in a car listening to The Pixies.

And… scene. See you all tomorrow.

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