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The Big Haunt: Halloween Costume Conundrums


in Heartwarming

I’m having a Halloween party this year, as some of you already know, and I’m affectionately referring to it as “The Big Haunt“. It’s Saturday October 30th at the SideBar – and is shaping up to be as horrifying as the prospect of having to see Teresa Kerry on television every day for the next eight years. That abrasive, confrontational, overprivilaged windbag reminds me of a cross between Dame Judi Dench and Beula Ballbricker from Porky’s.

Some faithful readers of this blog have confided in me that they don’t know what they’re going to be for Halloween, and they just can’t think of anything. I’m being Julian from Trailer Park Boys. All I need is a black T-shirt (done) black jeans (done) and to grow a goatee (almost done). I have two friends completing the set as Ricky and Bubbles and it’s going to be hilarious. No fuss, no muss – done. Sure, only 1/5th of the guests will have any idea who we’re supposed to be, but I’m not eligible for the costume prizes as the organizer – so who gives a Kerry’s chance at the Presidency.

Look dear friends – stop agonizing. I’ll reference Adam Sandler’s 1991 SNL Weekend Update piece “How to stretch your Halloween dollar“:

You can just use your own t-shirt! Go as Crazy One-Armed Man. [ stuffs one arm under his t-shirt ] “Hey, look at me! I only got one arm, and I’m crazy! Now give me some candy, or I’ll grab you with my crazy one-arm!”

You can use something that’s in your house, even.. [ laughs, holds spoon to his head ] How about a spoon? “I’m Crazy Spoon-Head! And I want some candy! I don’t have a normal head, I got a damn spoon growing out of it! Now, give me some crazy candy, dammit! Ow-ooo, this spoon makes me crazy!”

So stop getting yourselves so wound up about it. It’s just a little Halloween party. $6 pitchers, free food, a DJ and absolutely NO COVER. But you can always spend the night alone in a closet watching Ghoulies and eating nothing but stale candy corn and Hershey’s Special Dark bars. That would be fun, too.

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Documenting Debauchery: The Littlest Bar In Boston.


in Heartwarming

I hate being right all the time. I didn’t fall off the wagon this past weekend, I was run over by the wagon in the middle of a muddy cowpath. My cell phone broke so if I haven’t called you back, don’t take it personally. Old friends and good times though. I don’t regret any of it.

I have a new appreciation for The Littlest Bar. I have been there several times but always figured it was more of a tourist trap. I was wrong – we had an amazing time there (as you can see) and you should drop in if you’ve never been. It‘s located off of Bromfield St. near Park St. on Provincial. And it’s the size of your closet. They store cases of beer on the windowsill, the pay phone is located in the unisex bathroom and it’s jam-packed with only ten people inside. Apparently Monday nights are the busiest so I gander that means there’ll be a whopping twelve. And what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. And a rolling stone is worth two in the bush.

Damien was quick to demonstrate his personal rendition of Zoolander’s signature “Blue Steel” look for a local who seemed just a wee bit too interested. Linda and Betsy battled the chilly New England autumn evening by improvising headgear. You know, the legal capacity of the place is 38. And there isn’t enough room for a mouse to get a hard-on. But thank God they’ve got the souvenir thongs covered.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Throwing Myself Off The Wagon.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: What are your plans for the upcoming weekend?

I haven’t had an alcoholic beverage for nearly three weeks. And I’ve quite enjoyed my self-imposed sebbatical sobriety. But my ex, whom I have not seen in 3 years, is in town (we’re on good terms). And she’s Irish. Lock up your liquor. ‘Nuff said.

Soup: Who was the last person you talked to on the telephone?

Jim Fitzgerald, yesterday. But I rarely talk on the phone. Seriously. I’m not like Paulie from Goodfellas, who didn’t talk on the phone because he was afraid of wire taps. I simply don’t like phones. I have an aversion to them. I also don’t threaten or torture people when they fail to give me protection money on time. Stern brow-beating or the silent treatment is usually quite sufficient.

Salad: Name a hobby that you’ve tried but eventually gave up for some reason.

There have been many. I wanted to make stop-motion plastercine movies when I was a kid. That lasted a summer. I made a cool version of Friday The 13th. Went through a lot of red clay on that one. I also collected trading cards for awhile. Other Canadian kids were goo-goo over hockey cards. But I still have a photo album full of Raiders of the Lost Ark cards which I compiled in 1981. It got me a Cub Scout Collector Badge, and several severe playground beatings. I wasn’t always this large.

Main Course: What is the most important personality quality in a mate?

A nice ass. Oh, sorry. I misread that. A nice ass and the patience of a saint.

Dessert: Why is the sky blue (be creative with your answer)?

Because he’s worried that with all the recent successes of SpaceShipOne, he’ll soon have a traffic jam on his nose. I said ON HIS NOSE. A-one and-a two and-a three. I don’t dance folks, this it it. I’m here all week – try the veal.

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Colin Quinn’s Toughest Crowd: Comedy Central.


in Politics, Television

Colin Quinn gets a bad rap. (Update: more than a decade after I wrote this he’s become a best-selling author and has also conquered Netflix, Broadway and dominated every roast he’s ever been asked to participate in. He doesn’t need my misguided sympathy anymore.) So I’m going to tell you why I’m a big Quinn supporter, and an enormous fan of his Comedy Central show – “Tough Crowd” – which I was recently horrified to hear is in grave danger of being canceled.

tough-crowd-logo

A friend of mine, Troy, grew up with Quinn’s younger brother, Mike, in NYC. And I have it on very good authority that Colin is beyond a great guy. I love the fact that he messes up his lines. I love the fact that he mumbles and constantly self-depreciates. He’s a tough, salty, stand-up comedian who’s been walking the boards with uncomfortably sized balls since he was a teenager. And he truly cares about and intuitively understands the state of the planet today.

A lot of people don’t “get” him. But I find his uncomfortable, choppy, blue-collar style to be unique and honest – and have since I first saw him on MTV’s Remote Control in 1988. I had a comedy special he did for MTV, “Colin Quinn Goes Back to Brooklyn” on VHS and watched it for years. I wish I still had it. Anyway, my point is – me and Colin go way back. (Update: Some absolute saint of a human being has uncovered and uploaded B2B since I first wrote this post 11 years ago):

“Then use the fish as a reward!”

Tough Crowd is, in no uncertain terms, a brilliant show which we desperately need. That show used to be Jon Stewart’s Daily Show before it turned into the “Jon-Stewart-shows-a-clip-of-a-politician-he-doesn’t-agree-with-and-smirks-pompously-for-a-laugh” show. The Daily Show in the era of Steve Carell was one of the most consistently funny things on TV. But it’s become little more than a mildly disguised partisan send-up and I just can’t watch it anymore. I don’t refuse to indignantly – I simply can’t.

I would have also stopped watching the Daily Show if it had swung exclusively to the right instead. If I wanted to remain unchallenged, and have my opinion spoon-fed to me like pablum, I’d watch The O’Reilly factor while snorting Xanax or read nothing but the New York Times. Partisan comedy is not dangerous. It’s not challenging. And it’s most certainly not funny.

Enter Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn. If you haven’t seen it, it’s on Comedy Central every weeknight at 11:30 p.m. – or at least it will be for a few more weeks. The format is as follows: Four little-to-fairly well known celebrities, usually enviable veteran stand-ups who’ve been on the circuit for years and are extremely quick on their feet, sit facing each other while Quinn poses questions dealing with current events to which they then hash/lash out. It’s unscripted, save for the occasional skit-like segment, it’s brash, offensive to those who choose it to be, envelope-pushing, no-holds-barred and hilarious.

No one is safe, and no punches are pulled. The guests are from all walks of life – blacks, whites, hispanics, gays, liberals, conservatives etc. – and it can get pretty vicious. In one episode I sincerely thought Dennis Leary was going to punch Greg Giraldo in the face. In another Judy Gold (a Liberal/Jewish/Lesbian) took on Patrice O’Neal (a Black/(arguably) Conservative/Bostonite) in a battle over whose people have been more oppressed over the years. They hit hard, and they’re honest, and they’re always funny.

The Infamous Giraldo vs. Leary Encounter

There’s always an underlying respect among the guests – perhaps because many of them know each other from slugging it out on the brutal national comedy circuit for years – which makes this entire exercise possible and productive. There’s never any political correctness or sugar-coating, and everyone always walks away friends. It’s a bit tough to describe, and I suppose the main point of this article is to get you, dear reader, to watch the show and form your own opinion. (Update: the show has been off-air for a decade but luckily there’s a wealth of archival footage. The interwebnets are a beautiful thing.)

I read that the reason Comedy Central wants to cancel Tough Crowd is because it doesn’t retain enough of Jon Stewart’s Daily Show audience which precedes it at 11 p.m. To me that is tragic. To me that’s akin to canceling a Dylan show because everyone is going to leave after the opening act, N’Sync. I’m not criticizing Stewart’s lefty audience. I am criticizing those members of his audience that are sitting in their high chair waiting for Mom to open that next jar of Gerber‘s, skewing the demographics. And I am vehemently criticizing Comedy Central for catering to them.

Tough Crowd is like watching your friends, who all love and respect each other, argue in a bar on a Friday night. They speak their mind, they challenge each other’s opinions, and they all leave friends. Debate is healthy and we all need it in our lives. I cherish Tough Crowd, but it looks like the curtain is falling. Kudos to Colin – I’ll be watching wherever you end up.

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Google Gets Politically Correct – In Spades.


in

I work at an online ad agency. We have clients. Those clients pay us to manage their online advertising campaigns. Google has just scolded me and removed one of my client’s ads because I used a word in an advertisement they felt was “in violation of their policies and guidelines”. When Google takes down one of our ad campaigns, it hurts our client’s sales and therefore threatens my very livelihood. So you’ll forgive me if I endulge myself and share some of the the details with you now.

One of our clients is an electrical supply manufacturer. They make things like cable ties, butt splice connectors, wire markers, block spades, heat shrink tubing and fork terminals. Did you spot the offensive word there, folks? Not so fast, butty.

A block spade is some sort of a cable connector/insulator and is in wide use by electicians and contractors everywhere. This is also the term that Google felt offensive enough to warrant abruptly stopping my client’s sales of last night by removing their ads from their almighty publishing network.

I can see you’re confused. But then again, so was I. Let me try and explain.

“Spade” – on it’s own and only in certain circumstances – is an antique racial slur. When you’re referring to a poker game or planting a tree, it’s a perfectly acceptable facet of the King’s English. Dictionary definitions include: “sturdy digging tool”, “black, leaf-shaped figure on certain playing cards” and “castrated man or beast”. It can even be used as a verb when describing the act of digging.

Calling an African American a “spade” is something your Grandfather might have done right before cranking up his Model-T Ford or cranking one out to Betty Page. My point is, it’s not even a racial epithet that’s in use any more. If Google is penalizing electrical supply manufacturers for using the word, in an obviously non-pejorative format, I sincerely pity the garden tool and playing card industries. Oh, and Western civilization.

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Mount St. Helens: Lessons In Eruption.


in

1980 was a great year. Post-It notes and the Sony Walkman were introduced, Reagan was elected President and Christina Aguilera, Nelly and Chelsea Clinton were born. Yes, t’was a truly glorious and defining year in human history.

At 8:32 Sunday morning, May 18, 1980, Mount St. Helens erupted. I was 7 years old at the time and remember watching it on TV well. Helen is back in the news again, and I wonder if I’m the only person who’s a little concerned that residents of Washington State seem to have have completely forgotten what happened 24 years ago.

  • 57 people were killed as a result of the eruption. Of these, 21 bodies were never recovered from the blast zone.
  • 7,000 big game animals, 12 million Chinook and Coho salmon, and millions of birds and small mammals died in the eruption.
  • The massive ash cloud grew to 80,000 feet (18 kilometers) in 15 minutes and reached the east coast in 3 days. Although most of the ash fell within 300 miles of the mountain finer ash circled the earth in 15 days and may continue to stay in the atmosphere for many years.

Scientists have been watching the mountain closely since last week when increased lava flow and other seismic data led officials to evacuate the surrounding 5 mile area. Friday’s activity has been described as a “hiccup”, and five miles may seem excessive to some people. But I’d like to again draw your attention to the fact that the ash cloud, which would be responsible for the bulk of any fatalities, spread 18km in 15 minutes back in 1980. It takes me less time to clean my apartment. And a lot less time time to make love to my imaginary girlfriend who sometimes visits me from Niagara Falls.

This “hiccup” is also the most activity that’s been reported at the site since May, 1980.

Keep an eye on the Mount St. Helens Volcano-Cam and cross your fingers on behalf of these clueless cougars. And maybe see if we can get Nelly and Christina to headline the on-site Mount St. Helen’s benefit that’s due to kick off 14.5 seconds before the lava starts spraying.

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DogGoneKnit.com Gets A Google Page Rank!


in

The dog sweater knitting pattern site that Janet and I have been working on finally broke it’s little doggie cherry and got a Google Page Rank. And it’s ended up with a rating of 5/10 which is no small feat for a new site. I am writing about this for two reasons:

1.) I am a tremendous dork and am actually really excited.

2.) Janet has informed me that I am no longer allowed to bother her about when we’re going to get together to finish the site.

So folks, please – if you know my sister, phone, fax, email or IM her today and ask her why DogGoneKnit.com still isn’t finished. She’ll then tell you to f*ck off. But better you than me.

It’ll be funny. I swear. Grr. Not Brr.

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Rodney Dangerfield Is Dead.


in

I just heard this awful piece of news from a friend of mine who works for CNN. He is currently in a “news gathering trailor in cleveland for the VP debates” and it just came through the wire.

I need a moment to compose myself and will write more later.

OK. Later: Apparently my happy thoughts bought him an extra week, but that’s a small consolation. If you need a laugh, listen to this. And I posted these in a comment last week, but I think a lot of you may have missed them. Here are my all time favorite Rodney Dangerfield jokes for you to commiserate and commemorate:

>> I tell you, with my doctor, I don’t get no respect. Well, I told him I’ve swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. He told me to have a few drinks and get some rest.

>> I tell ya when I was a kid, all I knew was rejection. My yo-yo, it never came back!

>> Some dog I got too. We call him Egypt because he leaves a pyramid in every room.

>> My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met.

>> I’ll tell ya, my wife and I, we don’t think alike. She donates money to the homeless, and I donate money to the topless!

>> When I played in the sandbox the cat kept covering me up.

>> I could tell that my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio.

And my all time favorite: >> A girl phoned me and said, “Come on over. There’s nobody home.” I went over. Nobody was home!

So long Rodney and thanks for all the laughs. You’ll always have my utmost repect.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Beating My Tiger.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: What sound, other than the normal ringing, would you like your telephone to make?

Whalesong. Is my phone ringing, or is there a martian in my apartment? Sometimes I’d wake up and just not be completely sure.

Soup: Describe your usual disposition in meteorological terms (partly cloudy, sunny, stormy, etc.).

Mostly sunny with a chance of carefully timed resentment.

Salad: What specific subject do you feel you know better than any other subjects?

I’d like to say Search Engine Marketing or Mesothelioma. But the actual truth is Trailer Park Boys and The Pixies. Oh, and how to have good parties and draw scary goblins. Not so specific.

Main Course: Imagine you were given the ability to remember everything you read for one entire day. What books/magazines would you choose to read?

First I’d read a periodic element table – it’d be fun at parties. Then I’d read a sports almanac from the future and as many back issues of Tiger Beat as I could get my hands on. I’d be spitting Orlando Bloom facts like it was my job.

Dessert: If a popular candy maker contacted you to create their next candy bar, what would it be like?

It would be a cross between my three favorite candy bars: Nestle Crunch, Skor and Whatchamacallit – It would be called ‘Whatinthefuckchamacallit’.

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Vance Gilbert And The Boston Music Awards.


in Musical

A funny thing happened last night at the Boston Music Awards. My friend Rachel hooked my sister and I up with tickets, VIP passes and the whole 9 yards. I saw many local Boston music celebrities there – Rick Okasek, Frank Black, Steven Tyler, New Kids On The Block and Kim Deal… were absolutely nowhere to be seen (I had you going for a minute there).

However I did see Tom Hamilton, The DropKick Murphys and Vance Gilbert (please hold your applause until all the nominees’ names have been read). I recognized Vance‘s name when I read the BMA website last week and quickly remembered how I knew him.

About 7 years ago, I was working as a student manager at The Brass Taps in Guelph, Ontario Canada. Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights it was a student-bar-madhouse, but on weeknights we’d have a variety of bands and solo performers playing live. One Monday night I came in as a civilian to check out the scene with some friends, and our attention was immediately drawn to the performer onstage. He was a great singer, gifted guitarist and, above all, he was incredibly funny. We were literally rolling on the floor as this guy sang songs about coffee, crime scenes and even a did country western rap. I talked to him after the show, told him I’d spent many years living in Boston and bought 3 of his CDs which I still have to this day. We talked about Boston for about half an hour, had a drink or two then I wished him a happy stay in Guelph and was on my way home.

The next night I was on duty. I arrived at 6 p.m. swapped floats out of the safe for the new shift of bartenders and waitresses that were coming in, went down the checklist of managerial things one has to do and then saddled up to the bar for a coffee. I asked the ‘tender who was playing that night, to which he replied “Some guy named Vance Gilbert”. I smiled and told him I’d seen him the night before and we were all in for a treat.

And indeed we were. Vance played with the same energy level as the night before, had an entirely different set-list and every moment I wasn’t putting out a fire somewhere I was watching the show. He had all the kids laughing, clapping and eating out of his hand. The show ended and he was surrounded by another group of new fans and well-wishers and I went into the office to begin the long tedious process of cashing out for the night.

All of a sudden, one of the bouncers came into the office and said “That dude with the dreadlocks wants his money and he’s being a bit of a dick“. I asked him who he was talking about, ’cause as far as I knew my credit was still good with the Guelph Jamaican cocaine syndicate. “No“, he continued. “The singer guy“. “Oh you mean Vance. He’s a good guy. From Boston. Send him in“.

All of a sudden, “crazy-business-Vance” entered the office and started flailing his arms around, maniacally yapping about how much I owed him, etc. Based on the nice conversation we’d had the night before, I thought he was messing with me. I laughed at him and said hello. He turned things up notch, got right in my face – so much so that one of the bouncers came into the office and went to grab him. I waved off the meathead, stood up and said to Vance “Hey. What the hell is wrong with you? I’m the guy from Boston. Don’t you remember talking to me last night?” He told me he didn’t remember, and he didn’t care. I dropped my pleasant demeanor and told him that his contract (which I had read out of curiosity about an hour before) clearly stated that he got paid at the end of his three night stint, and not a moment before. I was a little pissed off at this point and sat back down, turned around and went back to my work. Vance continued to hoot and holler for a minute or two before giving up and going back to the main bar.

Regardless of that strange altercation so many years ago, it was great to see him sing again last night, and I highly recommend getting out to one of his upcoming shows.

Vance, I thought we were boys.

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John Kerry Now Vying For The Oompa Loompa Vote


in
Desperation Is A Stinky Cologne. But by all means, sing along.

Oompa Loompa doompadee doo,

I’ve got another puzzle for you.

Oompa Loompa doompadah dee.

Stop staring at his daughters and listen to me.

Four purple hearts is a bit of a stretch,

“Reporting for Duty” has made us all retch.

What now – will you just run for office in France?

Or is Teresa still wearing the pants?

You’ll get no – You’ll get no,

You’ll get no – You’ll get no,

You’ll get no Air Force One!

Oompa Loompa Doompadee Dack,

Maybe you can have your old sennett job back.

And please bring Ben Affleck to France with you too,

Like the Oompa Loompas doompadee do!

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30 Tall Tales #4: A Funny Little Drinking Problem.


in Heartwarming

This is a fairly short story, and the humor will probably be lost on people who don’t know us and weren’t there to see it. But the folks involved still tell this story all the time – and it never ceases to send us careening into fits of laughter. I will try very hard to do it justice here, and make it palatable to the masses. That having been typed and just re-read, this is never going to work. Sigh.

It was a Saturday in 2001. Chris Cornett, John Henry, Dave Kingman and I had been drinking. Heavily. All day. They drove in to North Station in Boston and met me at a bar called The Fours which is right across from the Fleet Center. We convened around 4 p.m., ate, drank and were merry. If, by merry, you mean falling down obnoxiously, sickeningly and most dangerously drunk. Around 9 p.m. we left the safety of Canal Street and wandered back towards downtown.

Over the next five hours we hit a veritable bevvy of bars during our travels, and inexplicably wound up a mile away at the Black Rose. Everything was beginning to shut down, the band started packing up their stuff and it became obvious this would be our last stop of the evening. John ventured out and returned with 4 pints of God-knows-what and we settled in, if only for a few fleeting moments.

Chris, who made the rest of us look stone-cold-priest-sober, turned to me with a bent, unlit cigarette in his mouth and inquired “Hey hasshhh you gotsa light budday?” I shook my head and Chris swung around and headed towards two women who were standing nearby. His motor skills were fading fast, and I’d like to describe his gait as “shakey”, but I’ll settle for “picture what Quasimodo would look like if he was drunk and had just crapped himself.” I looked over at John and Dave who were staring right at him with unmistakable “this is going to be good” smirks on their faces.

Chris addressed his quarry: “Hello ladiesshhh!” They looked a little taken aback, but saw the rest of us standing nearby and relaxed when they realized there were liquor-wranglers ready to step in. Chris motioned to the unlit cigarrette hanging from his mouth. One of the women asked if he needed a light, to which Chris replied with a violent nod of his head. The cigarette sufficiently fired up, he took a haul, blew it out right in their faces and proceeded to speak.

“I’ve got… problemssshhh.” he began.

“Alcohol problems?” the woman replied, a sincere look of concern washing over her face.

“That’s one of them!”

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Not Envying Mark David Chapman.


in

“I really didn’t want his signature, I wanted his life. And I ended up taking both.”

Mark Chapman shot and killed John Lennon outside the Dakota apartment building in NYC on December 9th, 1980. Chapman had been lurking most of the evening and had gotten Lennon to sign a copy of Double Fantasy while he was leaving. Several hours later, John and Yoko returned and Chapman, who had been waiting patient/insanely shot him five times with a .38 revolver. Chapman calmly waited to be arrested, Lennon died on the way to the hospital to be admitted instead to the morgue, and New York City rallied in stunned silence around the crime scene.

Chapman has now been in jail for 25 years – as long as he was old when the murder took place – and has a parole hearing on October 4th. Glad to see he put the time to good use in the weight room. Officials are worried that if parole is granted, Chapman will face the wrath of Lennon fans still angry and unwilling to give peace a chance after a quarter of a century.

Why do they fear for Chapman’s safety? Let’s start with the fact that there are a myriad of international websites calling for his immediate execution. People all over the world are waiting with itchy trigger fingers, and cyanide-soaked copies of Catcher in the Rye, for Mark David Cartman.. er… Chapman – to be released into their clutches.

You know what they call that? Instant Karma.

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Migrating From Blogger To WordPress.


in Pye in the Face

Big changes are imminent at davepye.com if you remotely care. I’ve been turned on to a new publishing program called WordPress, and am subsequently sold on the idea of jumping the Blogger ship. It’s more complicated, clunkier and difficult in terms of graphic design – but so much more versatile. If I roll up my sleeves, learn some code and make it happen, it’ll make this site a lot more fun and dynamic for everyone who surfs it daily.

So if my blog entries become less frequent, you know why. Bear with me.

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The Best Funny Corny Cheesy Pick-Up Lines


in

This my 80th post. Wow. To all the non-believers out there, I guess I’m officially blogtastic. Or bloginine. Or a blogiot. Or whatever. Anyways, in keeping with this article’s questionable beginning so far, I found an enormous archive of cheesy, corny and funny pick-up lines. I have painstakingly read through them all (There’s about 500) and selected the best of the worst. And hey – it’s Saturday. So get out your notebooks boys and try spitting some of these tonight.

>> Are you a parking ticket? (What?) You got fine written all over you.

>> Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?

>> My name is ____. Remember it, bcause you’ll be screaming it later.

>> Did you hear the latest health report? You need to up your daily intake of vitamin ‘me’.

>> Don’t walk into that building — the sprinklers might go off!

>> Giant polar bear (What?) It broke the ice.

>> You’ve been a bad girl/boy. Go to my room.

Alright, so maybe they’re not all that and a bag of chips. I used to teach pick-up lines (particularly #3) to an 8-year-old I knew when I was a bartender at The Hind’s Head of Bray in England. Then I’d set him loose on the female populous of the pub. It was really funny. Until one afternoon he started trying them out on his mother, who was also my boss.

I got the Sunday morning shift that week.

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