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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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We Don’t Have Your Back, But We’re Glad You Have Ours.


in

I didn’t write this letter in response to a recent article in the National Review blog, but I wish that I had. Because, like the author, I went to the same sort of painfully liberal Canadian University, and I too have endured the embarrassment of Canada’s Swissesque high-and-mighty judgmental lack of support for the United States throughout the last 4 years. Nope, I didn’t write it, but I should have. I can still share:

“I just read your Corner post regarding Canada’s inferiority complex when it comes to all things American. I am a Canadian myself, and I just want to say that I certainly don’t blame you for thinking this way – it’s all too true of most of my countrymen, and I imagine it will only get worse as Canada’s Europeanization continues apace, and the differences between our two nations becomes more stark.

However, not all of us are so blind. I belong to a small group of Canadians who believe that we are amazingly fortunate to be neighbors with a great nation like the US, and who understand the burden that the US has shouldered in fighting the war on terror. I know that you are fighting primarily to protect your own country – as you should – but the West will benefit from the inevitable victory to come, and there are some folks up here in the Great White North who understand this, and are deeply humbled by it. Your soldiers are dying on foreign soil, and we are all benefiting, and for that we are profoundly grateful. It pains me greatly that we have stood to the sidelines and done nothing but carp while this is going on. America deserves better neighbors and better allies than we have been to you over the past three years, and for that I am truly sorry.

I just though I’d let you know that we Canadians are not all bland collegiate drones in thrall to the gods of the Left. Actually, I went to a liberal arts university north of Toronto, and so I had no problem picturing the two losers whose company you suffered through on your train trip – I was surrounded by them for five years.

Hopefully, things will change. One thing that reading NRO (and Mark Steyn, and James Lileks, and Glenn Reynolds et al) has done for me, is open my eyes and energized me to promote change in the world around me. In the last two years, I’ve joined the Conservative Party, canvassed during the election, planted campaign signs, answered phones, and eschewed my normal Canadian restraint and started arguing with anyone who will listen (which means my boomer-in-laws, and my parents, who think I’m suffering through some sort of mental episode). I sat at my PC on US election night, and sweated bullets (while perusing NRO and waiting for the results), and was thrilled beyond words when President Bush was returned to office. I can’t help you fight the war, or vote for President Bush, but I can’t make a difference in my own country, and I intend to do just that.

And so, in closing, this Canadian would like to say: God Bless America, and thanks. And don’t count us Canadians out quite yet. There is a well of common sense, and a spirit of resilience up here that simply needs to be tapped.”

I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the author was a classmate of mine at Guelph. It all rings just a little too familiar – daily protests outside my all-male penis-party dorm, vegetarian dishes taking up half of the cafeteria menu, my beloved Bullring being switched to a patchouli and clove cigarette doused coffee house – but at least this person is home, and attempting to help our collective conscience. I’m a million miles away, cringing everytime some ignorant Canadian politician or journalist opens their moonbat mouth. But I wouldn’t be living in Boston if I didn’t love and support the USA, so I suppose in the end that’s activism enough.

Still, like a proud parent whose child has just farted onstage during the last act of the school play, I love Canada unconditionally. But am still beyond embarrassed.

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Loving Lowell: Pixies Countdown Commences.


in Musical

The Pixies land at the Tsongas Arena in Lowell tomorrow night, and I’m so excited I could just… buy some crack. What the hell else are you supposed to do in Lowell? At least they have the Lock Monsters, because there damn sure won’t be any Bruins games this year. My friend Chris is a goal judge for the Monsters, so maybe I can get a good seat behind the penalty box at one of the upcoming games. And some crack.

But back to Los Pixies. This should be a very different experience from when I saw them on their warm up tour back in April. They’ve been on the road for nearly 9 months straight now, and have managed not to kill one another, so I imagine it’ll be a tight, memorable set in front of their hometown crowd. I’ll give you all a full, geeky report on Thursday – but stay tuned for some Thanksgiving photos and stories tonight. Pixies dork, out.

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Friday/Sunday’s Quizzlet: Better Late If Ever.


in

Appetizer: How much money do you plan to spend this holiday season?

I have gifts for a few of my little cousins that I forgot to take with me to Toronto last year. I’m hoping they’ll still be into them, and I can pass them off without having to buy new ones. Although when I was a runt, my parents were lucky if toys held my attention for more than a few days. SeaMonkeys and Star Wars being the obvious exceptions. Some things keep you unhealthily fascinated longer than others. Now won’t you please excuse me for a moment while I go feed ‘Jaws’ and ‘ Orca’ – and then dust my Yoda puppet.

Soup: What was the last television show you watched, and was it good?

There’s an English show I love called Little Britain. It just finished its second season on BBC, and I’ve downloaded and watched all the episodes from a great site called UKNova. It’s a sketch comedy show featuring many recurring characters and is absolutely beyond funny. I’ve also become hooked on the Most Haunted, which I made the mistake of watching alone this morning at 3 a.m. – if you don’t count the Thai prostitute. But she was only still here because she was dead.

Salad: If you had to paint your living room, what color would you choose?

Someone dumped a glass of red wine all down the wall of my apartment’s spiral stairwell while I was away in Concord. So this whimsical question is a reality at the moment. Unlike the Thai hooker. She was Malaysian.

Main Course: Name something clever you have thought of inventing.

The lukewarm reception of my last invention has discouraged me for the time being. Apparently gloryholes are frowned upon in government buildings. Who knew?

Dessert: List 3 things you would like to receive as gifts this holiday season.

You’re very thoughtful, quizzlet. I didn’t realize we’d been familiar long enough to actually exchange gifts. You need only look at my Amazon wish list. Or certain boutiques in Chinatown.

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Gobble Gobble: Turkey Day In Concord, MA.


in Consumables

No word of a lie, this may be my favorite day of the entire year – The night before Thanksgiving. “T’was the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the house. Not a creature was stirring, especially not the headless turkey thawing on the counter.” I typically travel out to Concord to hang out with my high school buddies. Tonight is always a ridiculously fun marriage of old friends, nostalgia and alcohol abuse on a level that might make W.C. Fields wince and check into a clinic.

And it doesn’t stop there – Thursday morning is the football game: My alma mater, Concord-Carlisle High School, against the evil and incestuous Bedford. Fans supporting both schools cheer from the sidelines and the gridiron is ablaze with questionable sportsmanship while the vast majority of the Concord kids who swore the night before that they’d “go to the game this year” sleep it off somewhere else.

As for the horn of plenty/cornucopia stuff, I always eat at my buddy Jim’s house. This year we’re attempting to deep-fry the turkey, which is apparently all the rage. Speaking of raging, I’ll be standing about 20 feet behind Jim with a fire extinguisher in one hand, and a Bud Lite in the other. I was told by another friend last night to use peanut oil and to make sure the bird is thawed before firing it into the fryer. I should probably call Jim and make sure he knows all of this so I don’t show up at his house tonight to find Joan of Arc waiting for me.

Friday is always one of the classes’ 10-yr reunions. Mine was back in 2001 and this year it’s my sister’s. Most of the C-town contingent heads into Boston regardless of whether they’ve got a reunion or not. I crashed the class of 1992’s event with about 10 guys in tow and we had a great time. But we’re a little long in the tooth to do that anymore. The class of 1994’s event is being held at Monster and Bobby’s favorite bar, Vinalia. The bar will be firmly closed to them, as they’re not alumni. So if I do end up attending, it will be because I was summoned there by a hostage negotiator.

Have a great holiday, everyone. I’ll be back on Friday or Saturday with some silly stories or maybe a Boston Police report scan to share. Until then, gobble gobble.

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30 Tall Tales #5: Eye Bet You Won’t Eat That.


in Consumables

Money is a wonderful motivatior. An evil, corrupting, soul-stealing motivator. We all got up at the crack of dawn this morning and spent the entire day in the same 2 square foot area, didn’t we? And the older you get, the more prone you become to the horrific influence of filthy lucre. I learned this in practice when I was around eleven years old – as I went from staunch refusal, to willing participation, in a little under a year. Hold on and let me explain… this doesn’t involve digital rape of any kind. Just Greek food. And yes, I know the two are usually synonymous.

Red Snappers are a type of fish found in various areas all over the world. They’re a very popular food source due to their unique texture and ample size, (God if I had a nickel…) and are treated as endangered in countries that care. They’re huge – the largest ever caught was over 50 pounds and they’re the ugliest form of aquatic life this side of the giant squid. Or Michael Moore in a Speedo.

The kid holding the red snapper isn’t me, so I attached a sweet shot from Sears Portrait Studio in the hopes you’ll be able to picture what I looked like circa the tale I’m about to tell. Alternately, you can imagine the kid holding the red snapper at about 15 pounds heavier and wearing nothing but Star Wars Underoos, and you’ve pretty much got it nailed. My Mom, Dad, Sister and our old family friend Terry Jackson were supping at the best Greek restaurant in Montreal – Molivos. I always loved it when we’d go out for Greek, because my seafood aversion was in full swing by 1985 and there were always plenty of other things on the menu. My parents would be happy because of the plethora of seafood available, and I’d be in fried cheese/hummous heaven.

About 3 bottles of Kourtaki into the meal, my Dad and Terry began to pick on me. A ginormous red snapper had just arrived at the table, and they started berating me for not wanting to try any. As I stared into the cloudy, dead eyes of the steaming snapper Terry must have noticed a visible shudder of revulsion. “You’re such a little wimp. Try one bite.” To which my father added “Don’t waste your breath on the little chicken. More for us.” Terry wouldn’t give up, and pretty soon he had a forkful stabbing towards my face. “You couldn’t PAY me to eat that ugly thing!” I whelped. Terry looked at my father and a most treacherous smile began to creep across both of their faces. Terry produced $20 and my father quickly matched it. $40 is a fortune to an eleven-year-old kid, a huge score, and suddenly the small nibble of white meat didn’t look all that terrible. “OK!” I recanted and reached for the fork.

“Oh no, kiddo. It ain’t gonna be that easy if this much money is involved.” They both simultaneously surveyed the aquatic corpse. “You’re going to have to eat… the eyes!” My mother and sister gasped in horror as my dreams of a lifetime supply of Popeye Candy Cigarettes and Fun Dip came to an abrupt halt. The red snapper’s dead eyes resembled poached eggs, and I felt saganaki start sloshing around in my stomach as I tried to imagine eating them. I curtly told my antagonizers to forget it, and decided I’d rather put up with their taunts for the rest of the evening.

But a child’s motivations invariably change as they get older. When I next saw Terry about 9 months later, he was visiting us at our home on Springhill Drive in Lorne Park, Mississauga – and I had a new friend. The just introduced Nintendo Entertainment System. The retsina was again flowing, and I could see a red snapper smoking on the BBQ. I waited until after dinner (until they were good and drunk) and then casually mentioned the Montreal incident. “I’ve really regretted not taking you guys up on that bet. But I could have never eaten those gross eyes.” Terry fell right into my trap. “David, let’s make it $50. Gordo – cough it up“. Next thing I knew, there were five $20 bills fanned out on the dining room table in front of me. I looked up, smiled, and I’m pretty sure my father flashed a “we’ve just been hustled” look momentarily over his face. I grabbed a butter knife and began scooping the gelatinous white blobs out of their sockets.

Laid out side-by-side on a coffee saucer, they didn’t look quite as threatening. I was followed over to the kitchen sink by Terry, my father and about 4 other dinner guests. I filled the biggest glass we had with water and grabbed the first eye. It came apart in my hand, and I saw to my dismay that while the exterior was eggish, the core was a rock hard little marble. I slapped a greasy hand over my mouth, swallowed, gagged and then chugged the water. The second eye went down in much the same fashion. I turned around triumphantly to a series of pale faces – but mine was covered in an enormous smile. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out was coming out the next week.

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New Years Eve: Oh, It’s On Now!


in Heartwarming

I haven’t worked out the details yet, but there will be a New Years Eve party at the Sidebar. I’m going to keep the cover as cheap as possible. None of this $80 a head bullshit. There will be a DJ, champagne and attire will be casual. If you’re looking for a ridiculously fun and low maintenance NYE solution – save the date. I’ll put an Evite together when I’ve settled on the particulars.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Blues Brotherly Love


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: What do you think is the perfect age to get married? To have a child?

No one has any business getting married until they’re at least 27 or so. See the world, meet some people and as cliched as this sounds – ‘find yourself’. I’ve had a pretty wild life so far, and have been lucky in terms of travels, relationships, friends and adventure. I am faithful that the rest will fall into place by itself. When it does, I’ll be comfortable and ready – with no room for regrets in my head full of fevered, debaucherous memories. In reality, I’m probably going to die alone at age 52 beside a trunk full of pornography.

Soup: If you could change occupations, what would you want to do for a living?

I probably should have been a police detective. I have this ingrained sense of right and wrong and although it veers disturbingly in certain areas, it has served me well thus far. I don’t shirk when I see a dead body, I look good in bad suits, I already consume unhealthy amounts of coffee and donuts and can readily repeat the statistic “more (police) cars were destroyed in the making of the Blues Brothers than any film in history”. Wouldn’t you feel safer at night?

Salad: What does the color green make you think of?

Menthol. A couple of years ago I had a strange phase. I was given a can of menthol shaving cream and things just snowballed from there. I started buying skin lotion with menthol. Then I got some face cream with menthol. Then I bought a bottle of mentholated schnapps and woke up suddenly in an ATM vestibule. I knew it had gotten out of control when I bought a carton of Newports and then smoked the whole thing at the Dudley T stop in Roxbury.

Main Course: Has something happened over the last year that you didn’t expect?

My expectations have been exceedingly low in recent years, so this could be any number of things. Vanilla Coke was an emotional moment for me, for example. I’m certainly glad that the Eastern Seabord hasn’t been reduced to rubble by now as I’d predicted. I feel obliged to ask Mr. Al Zarqawi – ‘Can’t we all just just get along?’ Barring his answer being anything other than ‘Hammala! Hammala!Hammala!’ Or ‘Allah akbar’, I say we make Fallujah the new ‘Silicon Valley’ – or ‘smoking crater of hot sand’, to be more specific.

Dessert: How old were you when you had your first kiss?

Maybe I should switch to a quiz that isn’t written by a woman? Nah, I’ll be a good sport. Her name was Suzanne, and it was 1986 – so I would have been 13. This was my first real kiss. The earth moved. I’m talking boobie-grabbing, tongue and all while I had her propped up on a dryer in my friend Chris‘s basement during a birthday party. This girl moved fast – she was 15 and already in high school. I won’t go into any more detail because my mother reads this, but let’s just say it was a very interesting 3 months. God bless ya, ya feckin’ cradle-robber, ya – wherever you are.

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Moonbat? Thy Name Is Carolyn Parrish.


in

The Moonbat ain’t so virtual anymore. I wrote about this horrible and embarassing Canadian Liberal MP cunt’s antics back in August. Now Paul Martin has sacked Carolyn Parrish from the caucus for stomping on a George W. Bush action figure on national television. This got into the Drudge Report down here in the states, and has been an enormous ostrich egg in the face for the Prime Minister – and ME. Yet another nationally publicized anti-American instance I’ll have to begrudgingly explain to my Yankee friends.

What Matt Drudge won’t tell you is that the TV show in question, This Hour Has 22 Minutes, pre-dates the identical Daily Show and is actually really, really funny. It’s a timely satirical comedy show that’s been shown on CBC since 1990. Parrish overstepped her bounds as an elected official in doing what she did, but Drudge should have mentioned the context. It was a ‘bit’. A foolish and feciscious ‘bit’ which has had significant concequences – but a ‘bit’ none the less. One more time for the cheap seats: ‘bit’.

So, basically this is me demonstrating my oft-mentioned attempts at objectivity when taking in the news on a daily basis. But that handicapped-whore still needs a spork vivisection. Maybe she can get a job on Mike Moore’s next picture.

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Meet The Autorantic Virtual Moonbat.


in

I am posting this wonderful little piece of technology because it’s extremely well done and funny. It also reminds me of talking to some of my more ‘educated’ friends. Whenever I miss my frostback bretheren, or feel a need to have a conversation with an absent Monster, I can now turn to the Moonbat and it’s like they are right there in the room with me.

Here’s how he works. Pretend you’re having a conversation with your favorite Moore-educated, politically open-minded Kerry mourner, and ask him a question. Imagine that you’re in Starbucks chatting over a chai lattes about who you both voted for. Here’s an example you can use: You’re not going to like this, but I voted for Bush because I believe the security of our citizens comes first – regardless of popular international opinion. Feel free to copy and paste.

If you’re a hyper-sensitive intellectual who’s about to leave me a comment regarding how easy it would be to create a conservative/republican version of the Moonbat – or the ‘Virtual Voice Of Reason’ as I’d probably call it – save your breath. Because you’re correct. Now stop whining and design one of your own if you can stop watching The Daily Show long enough. Is anyone listening to me? Shit – what a waste of my time. They’ve all moved to Canada already.

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New Year’s Eve Nonsense – Who Wants Some?


in Heartwarming

Everybody’s good at something. I’ve always had a knack for throwing good parties. Whereas New Year’s Eve has always excelled at sucking. I’m tired of stuffy black-tie events that usually involve more effort than a wedding and are always a lot less fun. I’m tired of slapdash, mediocre house-parties that are thrown together at the last minute because nobody has anything remotely better to do. I’m tired of never having anything good to look forward to when the ball drops – save for yet another ferocious and expensive hangover. So I’m about ready to throw my hat into the ring and organize an NYE party at The SideBar. I also just used the word ‘slapdash’.

But I’m not going to stick my neck out if nobody cares. I want to get a feel for public opinion on this proposed bender before I spend a month and a half working on it. So here’s the deal – I promise it will be fun, and I promise the price will be right. There will be a DJ, food, champagne and I’ll do my damndest to fill the place with lots of people you know. You’ll be able to invite your friends, and we’ll keep the party going until 2 a.m. It’s a convenient downtown location, and it’s right near the ‘T’. And no, I’m not making any money off of this. Chime in below.

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