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A Good Whack: Victoria Gotti is a Hottie.


in

“People make a lot of stupid assumptions about me when they hear my last name.” I think there are probably potato bugs eating an apple core in a discarded lunchbox in a schoolyard in Saskatchewan that would make assumptions when they hear that particular last name – but I appreciate the candor, Vicki.

“This is life, the one you get, so go and have a ball.” As long as you keep your mouth shut. Or the only ball you’re going to have is the one stuffed in your yapper beside its twin brother that used to be attached to your lap.

“I will say this: It’s really disappointing when you work with someone so closely and in the end a situation that you think you’re doing to help them and their client blows up in your face because of their change of mind and change of heart.” And a quarter pound of C-4 stuffed under the front seat of their Lincoln Continental – wired to the ignition.

And what better way to distance yourself from that pesky mafia lore than to hang around with Sofia Coppola. Before she was Lost in Translation, she was getting her guts blown all over the steps of the Met in Godfather 3. But at least she’s not having lunch with Corky Romano.

I watched her new show, Growing Up Gotti (Mondays at 9 on A&E) and I thought it was great. She’s funny and sexy – and not in a MILF sort of way. It’s more of a MILFANGWA sort of way. If you can figure out my new abbreviation, leave it in a comment. But hurry up – as I expect to hear a Lincoln Continental pull up outside my apartment shortly after I publish this.

“Don’t even start!” Vicki – I’ve started! I’ve started!

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30 Tall Tales #2: Inka’s Icelandic Insanity.


in Reminiscent



“Hello… It’s Inka!“

I have been trying to finish this story for over two weeks now. It hasn’t been easy. Listening to this woman’s voice after nearly 10 years still makes my skin crawl. The quotes I have bolded (see above) link to actual snippets from answering machine messages that were left for my friends and I at our house in Guelph in 1995 after we “picked up a stray” one fateful winter night.

Nick, one of my roommates at the time, found this tape in his parent’s garage recently and converted it to a series of MP3 files. The messages are very creepy, downright ridiculous and you may want to listen to them more than once so please – right click and download them to your hard drive so as not to annihilate my bandwidth limit. And with no further ado, on to our story.

My years at The University of Guelph (1992-1997) are filled with the very fondest of memories. I socialized profusely, worked constantly in seedy student bars, traveled the world on my Dad’s company’s dime, drank for England and even had time to occasionally pick up a book. But just like there is an exception to every rule, there’s an exception to this particular mirthful era of my life. And her name was Inka.

JV, Nick and I were living in a house in North Guelph and the year was 1995. I was working as a student manager at the Boo Sports Bar on campus with JV, and Nick was busy squandering an unexpected inheritance on Molson products. We’d all attend just enough classes to get by. We’d drive eachother crazy with our music: I was way into Jeff Buckley, Nick was partial to The New Fast Automatic Daffodils and JJV had an inexplicable devotion to Frank Zappa which to this day has not yet run its course. But we all coexisted fairly well with a pirahna named ‘Pico’ rounding out the household.

Another friend of ours, Art, was having some of his photography displayed at a gallery a couple towns over. I left Nick and J at home, got into my pizzimpin’ Dodge Caravan and drove to Art’s where some other friends were having a few pre-pretentious gallery opening cocktails. Art likes art, I like Art, so I agreed to pack everyone into the party van and play designated driver. I had previously removed the benches from the back in order to haul furniture, so about 6 people – Peter, Art, Joanna, Jessica and others – were rolling around on the floor as I took tight corners, and they tried not to spill a mickey of scotch that was being passed around.

We got to the gallery – came, saw, pontificated. Feigned class, poise, interest – then filed back into the van and headed off in search of more debauchery. It was decided that we’d hit The Brass Taps on the University of Guelph campus. It was a Sunday night, so we didn’t really know what to expect in terms of revelry, but we were willing to try. We arrived and were pleased to discover that it was in fact the first in a series of short lived Taps Karaoke nights. There were about 30 people in the bar which we figured was reasonable for a Sunday, and we all sat around a table center stage. After a few horrendous renditions of some popular favorites, our attention was drawn to a small, cute and seemingly shy red-haired woman as she took the stage.

The music started, and she began to sing “Sweet Little Sixteen” in a thick Icelandic accent. “Zey’re really rockin’ in Boshton… In Peettsburgh, P. A… Deep in ze heart of Texshas… And ’round za Frishco Bay… All over Shaint Louis… Vay down in New Orleeans… All ze Catsh vanna dance vit Schweet Little Shixteen.”

“If you don’t – you’re finished. Don’t play gamesh with me..“

By the time the song ended, we were all on our feet applauding and cheering this seemingly brave woman who’d up until that point been sitting at a table by herself off in the back corner of the bar. In retrospect, that should have been a big red flag right there. But all seven of us were in love with this strange creature, and when Art suggested we ask her to join us everyone agreed and he got up to go talk to her. Five minutes later she was sitting at our table and we were introducing ourselves, laughing and asking her all sorts of questions. Where was she from? Iceland. Where did she live? On-campus family housing. Who did she live with? A boyfriend and their two kids. She seemed harmless enough. We got the complete rundown and when closing time rolled around an hour later, we invited her back to my house – as we had no intentions of wrapping the evening up just yet.

Nick and JV were sitting at home behaving themselves for a change (it was Sunday night, afterall) and had absolutely no idea what they were in for. The eight of us rolled into my living room covered in snow, put on some music and started into a case of Sleeman Cream Ale. Inka suddenly produced a full mickey of cheap, rotgut, white tequila that she’d apparently been carrying or – as I now like to call it – red flag #2. Inka made the rounds, barging into JV’s bedroom and then trying to chat with Nick who was having absolutely none of it. There was some hash oil getting fired up and she took a few big lungfulls – all the while working away at her tequila like a little Nordic trooper. A boozy Beowulf. Things started to get weird very quickly.

“Don’t be afraid. There’ll be no one come vishit you…“

A short while later, Art and I were sitting on the couch chatting and Inka walked up and began shouting loudly at us in Icelandic. Then, just as quickly as she’d raised her voice, she leaned in closer and started singing what sounded like a lullaby. JV and Nick went to bed, and one by one my seriously weirded-out friends started to leave. It dawned on me that I was probably going to get stuck with Inka if I wasn’t careful.

“Inka, Jess is headed back towards campus – you should get a ride with her.” I suggested. To which she replied with a string of screamed and unintelligible Icelandic obscenities. Art got up to catch a ride with Jess and I looked at him with a sort of pleading in my eyes. “Sorry dude, I have to work in the morning.” As he reminded me when I visited him in Vancouver a couple of months back, the last thing he saw as he left the house, was Inka standing over me, jumping up and down screaming “F*ck me! F*ck me! F*ck me!” I was now alone in my house with the craziest person I had ever met. And she wanted a piece.

I picked up the phone and called good old Red Top Taxi. Inka looked at me incredulously and I covered the receiver with my hand and mouthed the words “You’re going home now, Inka.” She screamed gibberish at me again, grabbed her tequila off the table then stormed down the hall and into the bathroom. After 20 minutes I walked over and listened at the door. Silence. I tried the knob. Locked. I had to pee like a racehorse and began furiously knocking in an attempt to get her out of there. When I realized I was going to have to improvise, I ran back into the kitchen, found an empty bottle of Sleeman and, quite frankly, did what I had to do. I hid the bottle in the dining room off of the kitchen and turned out the light, planning to come back for it when I’d managed to get rid of this Scandanavian schitzophrenic.

I heard the bathroom door open and ran back into the hallway. Inka rushed past me towards the kitchen and I walked into the bathroom, terrified of what I might find. There wasn’t a hole in the floor or a bathtub full of blood, but the bottle of tequila was sitting on top of the toilet tank. And it was empty. And I had had enough.

“Talk to me – If not you’re going to loosshe your life…“

Suddenly I heard a loud scream from the direction of the kitchen: “VHAT VAS IN ZAT BOTTLE?!” she hollered and it dawned on me that she’d just taken a pull off of my makeshift beer-bottle-o-potty. It smashed on the floor and she began drinking water out of the tap, flailing around wildly. She’d have to want to leave now, right? Wrong. I heard a honk outside and realized the taxi had arrived. “C’mon Inka, let’s go!” I grabbed her by the arm, picked up her coat in my other hand and started moving towards the door. She twisted away from me and locked herself back in the bathroom. The cab driver stopped honking, gave up and drove away. “Nooooooo!”

Inka emerged a few minutes later and I laid into her. “Listen, I don’t know what your issue is, and I’m sorry if you’ve got troubles back at home – but I want you to leave. I am calling the cab again, and you are f*cking going to get in it“. She nodded sheepishly, and I called the cab company back to explain what had happened – and to beg them to send out another hack. Cab #2 arrived and I held the door open and stood on the front porch so the driver could see me. Inka retreated into the kitchen and refused to come out. I went and grabbed her, determined to throw her into the snow but she started wailing and I backed off. The cab honked angrily and drove away again. I picked up the phone and called the dispatcher. “Listen, I’m sorry but I’ve got a crazy woman here who won’t leave! Please get your guy to turn around and come back.” The dispatcher replied “What you need pal is a cop. I’m not sending another car to that house.” Inka sang another lullaby to herself and stared at me.

I was exhausted, unnerved and furious. I walked into my bedroom (which did not have a lock on the door) and got into bed. I didn’t know what else to do. Sure enough, Inka came and got into bed with me and I pretended to be asleep. That’s when she started to moan. To this day, Nick and JV are convinced that Inka and I did the horizontal mambo that morning as they were getting up to go to school. And I’m sure they’ll comment to that effect for all to see. She moaned like it was her job for about half an hour as I lay on my side facing away from her. We stayed that way for about two hours until finally she sat up and announced she was ready to leave. Luckily Guelph had two cab companies, and I soon had her out of the house.

My relief was short lived though as I returned to my room and saw her address book on the nightstand. The phonecalls dispersed throughout this story were Inka’s fanatical attempts to get this book back. From Monday to Thursday, we wouldn’t answer the phone and we ended up with a tape full of the evil ranting you’ve been listening to. Finally, we couldn’t take it anymore and called her back and arranged to drop it off at her apartment. We decided it would be better if I waited in the car as most of her aggression seemed aimed at me. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stood watching them in the shadows as they crossed a large courtyard and approached her door.

“I’m not from Canadia if you think ssho…“

Her creepy Icelandic boyfriend answered the door. “Hello messhenger boys!” he said as he bent over to put on his boots. He thought Nick and JV were there to fight with him. Nick tossed the small book past him into the apartment, and after a few more words were exchanged, they turned around and walked back to the van.

She never called our house again, but I did see her about two years later at the University Medical Center. I had a sore throat from hell and was standing in a packed waiting room – waiting to be seen. I noticed her before she saw me and I made sure to stare straight ahead. I watched her glare at me for about a minute out of the corner of my eye, but thankfully she left without saying anything. I was braced for another scene, but perhaps one warm mouthful of my piddle had proven plenty.

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Article Update: Pye 1 – Epson 0.


in

As promised, I have scanned and posted the photos that got me into so much trouble with a pack of monkeys in Malaysia. You can view the updated article here.

I haven’t used my scanner in about a year, and apparently XP is not supported by Epson – the makers of my prehistoric flatbed. But that’s what’s great about internet techies and geeks (“Hello, pot? I’d like you to meet Mr. Kettle Black.”) – someone, somewhere will always figure out a way to get something to work. After a quick Google search, I found someone’s homemade driver and was off to the races. Thanks, Eugene.

P.S. – Click my Google Ads. The ads you now see in the left hand column appear depending on an individual page’s content. So they change from comment page to comment page, and occasionally on the home page, too. As traffic to this blog increases, so do my hosting fees. So please, if you see an ad you find interesting, don’t hesitate to click it. I get a few cents every time you do. Much obliged.

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Am I Getting Old Or Does Rap Suck?


in Musical

I went out with some friends Friday night with the focus on dancing to rap music. I used to love rap and still have an enormous stack of CDs in my room. It all started back in 1986 when I bought Licensed to Ill on cassette. I had a strange Walkman that had a speaker on it, and my friends and I spent many hours at the playground shooting hoops and reciting “She’s Crafty” at the top of our lungs.

From there, I got into Run DMC, LL Cool J, Heavy D., Audio Two, Kool Moe Dee and all the big names of the time. My father rolled his eyes and declared it a phase. But six years later in 1992 I was blaring House of Pain and Das EFX out of my car like absolutely no time at all had passed.

The last rap CD I ever bought was Art Official Intelligence by De La Soul and I think I listened to it once. I realized I just wasn’t into it anymore – but why? It’s not that I stopped liking the rap that I listened to 10 years ago. Friday night was proof of that – we watched a bunch of old school videos before we went out and the group of 7 people in my living room were loving it, as was I.

But when we got to the bar and the likes of Ludacris, Lil’ Bow Wow, Fifty Cent etc. started spinning, I wanted to be back on my couch watching Everlast jumping around.

So I have to conclude one of two things. Either I am thirty and rap simply seems stupid to me now (but I like the older stuff for sentimental reasons). Or modern rap has taken a direction that I just don’t dig. When I get home tonight, maybe I’ll listen to some Notorious B.I.G. back-to-back with a little Jadakiss and I expect the answer will present itself fairly quickly.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Ashton Kutcher’s Salad.


in Monday's Quotelet

I stumbled across a website called Friday’s Feast a while back and signed up for it. I just got my first email from them. It’s a questionnaire aimed at bloggers that goes out every Friday. Bloggers who, apparently, are too dim to come up with their own content. But I actually think it’s pretty cool, so I’m going to play along. Look for these every Friday.

Appetizer: Who are 3 actors/actresses that you think are totally overrated?

Ashton Kutcher, Ashton Kutcher and this new kid, Ashton Kutcher.

Soup: Admit something. Anything.

I own Guys and Dolls. On DVD. And I love it.

Salad: If you could take back one thing you’ve said in your life, what would it be?



A stocky friend once overheard me call him “Fatty”. I had never referred to him by that name before (or since for that matter) and I have no idea why I chose to do it at that moment in time. That was 8 years ago, and our relationship has never been the same.

Main Course: What symbol would best represent your personality?

The Trailer Park Boys logo. Funny, crude and boozy.

Dessert: Choose a free gift: a daily back massage, dinner at a restaurant twice per week, or a brand new book twice per month.

The dinners. But eventually I’d feel guilty and opt for the books. I got through University only because the on-campus bookstore stocked Cliff Notes for some reason, and I have a lot of back-tracking and catching up to do before some sort of literary canon karma comes back and bites me on the ass. But I’d endorse Cliff Notes over any selection from Oprah’s Book Club. Oops – she’s currently endorsing Tolstoy. My bad. I swear last week it was Kathy Lee Gifford.

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File Under Finally: Poutine In Boston.


in Consumables

There’s a little gem (dive) at 14 Bromfield St. in Boston called The SideBar. It’s near Silvertone, The Beantown Pub, The Orpheum, etc. It’s famous for it’s cheap wings, immaculate bathrooms, courteous service, $6 pitchers and now a little slice of endangered Canadian cuisine: Poutine.

I stopped in at The SideBar on my way home from work tonight to help send off a friend of mine who’s moving to Colorado (Good luck, Dan!). I love the food there, and as plate after plate of cheese fries kept flying out of the kitchen I asked Ronnie, one of the owners, if he’d ever heard of Poutine.

“Poo-what? Jesus.” he replied. I explained to him that it was French-Canadian in origin, and very popular North of the border. “Hell, you can even get it at Wendy’s up there.” I said. “Well what the hell is it?” he asked. “Sounds f*cking disgusting!”

“Not as f*cking disgusting as it looks.” I assured him.

In a nutshell, Poutine is a bowl of fries, cheese and gravy. Where are you going? You should really hear me out on this. It’s been getting a lot of press in the U.S.A. recently (even Disney characters are getting in on the action) and I told Ronnie his could be the first bar in Boston to serve it. He could help spearhead the Canadian invasion which you should have already realized is imminent by now. Jason Priestly. Shatner. I don’t even need to go any further.

I asked him if he had any gravy in the back. He said he didn’t, but then disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes – obviously contemplating something. Obvious only because he had ceased swearing for 45 seconds. He then walked back behind the bar to serve some new customers who probably thought they had already heard every possible use of the ‘F’ word known to man before walking through the front door.

Then Ronnie went back into the kitchen and returned with an enormous bowl of what was quite possibly the most beautiful incarnation of Poutine I have ever seen in my life. He laid it out in front of me and my friends and slammed a fistful of forks down onto the bar. We dug in – cheese and gravy flying everywhere. “This is f*cking good, dude.” Ronnie admitted.

I’ll spare you the complete history, but Canadians in general – and especially the French – have weird eating habits. I bet before reading this, you thought our national cuisine consisted of nothing but tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, hot dogs and Kraft Dinner. And you were right.

But we have our proud Poutine too, and now an establishment in Boston where it can be enjoyed. Ronnie and the other owner Sebby, are intrigued – but still reluctant. I implore everyone to a) visit the almighty SideBar the next time you’re in the area and b) Ask Ronnie or Sebby to make you some Poutine! This could catch on. But I need your help, Boston. And some Alkaseltzer. And definitely not in that order.

– “What do I owe you for dinner, Ronnie?”

– “Nothing. You’re all set.”

– “Well I should hope so, since you f*cking ate it all.”

– “Get out.”

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Toilet Humor. Quite Literally.


in

Can you guess where this photo was taken?

If you guessed “The South” – You’ve just won a brand new bottle of Toilet Duck. If “Georgia” was your answer, well done – I’ll be sending you a brand new box of 2000 Flushes. And if “Highway 38 in Georgia” was your wager, you hit the nail right on the head. Proceed immediately to the nearest CVS, purchase one of their generic toilet tank pucks. Chew. Repeat if necessary. Just tell your friends you had a blue raspberry Slush Puppy.

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An Arthur In Roma.


in

My friend Art is on location in Rome, photographing hotels for a certain enormous travel website. He sends photos, a story – and the heebie jeebies.

“On my way to the castle this weekend, I got stuck in a one-horse-town going door to door begging everyone to let me use their phone so I could get a hold of the hotel and get them to send a driver for me. There were no taxis available out there on a Sunday, and I was still half an hour away from the hotel. I just about got back on the train and went straight to the airport to come back home.”

But Art, you’re not in Vancouver. You obviously didn’t go home. You got to the castle.

“Finally…about four hours late and 10lbs lighter from sweating my ass off. It was 36 f*cking degrees outside and my Italian sucks.”

Looks like an awesome castle though! Must have been beautiful, serene and a nice place to spend a week.

“I was the ONLY guest there, out of a hundred empty rooms”.

Sounds spooky. You didn’t like, cruise around on a Big Wheel, find yourself talking to a bespectacled bartender or run into ghostly little girls in the hallways, did you?

“I drank the mini bar dry in order to get drunk enough to ignore all the shadows moving around in my room and fall asleep.”

Don’t blame the undead. You would have done that anyway.

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Shallower Than A Puddle.


in

I phoned up a really gorgeous ex-girlfriend of mine the other day. We lost track of time, chatting about the wild nights we used to enjoy together. I couldn’t believe it when she asked if I’d like to meet up and maybe rekindle a little of that magic.

“Wow!“, I said, “I don’t know if I could keep pace with you now! I’m a bit older, and a bit balder than when you last saw me!” She giggled and said she was sure I’d meet the challenge!

“Yeah“, I said, “just so long as you don’t mind a man with a waistband that’s a few inches wider these days!” She laughed and told me to stop being so silly! She teased me, saying that she thought tubby bald men were cute!”Anyway“, she said, “I’ve put on a couple of pounds myself!”

So I told her to f*ck off.

Thanks to Taz for the submission.

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Documenting Debauchery: Masshole Luau.


in Heartwarming

Saturday night some of Concord Carlisle’s most prestigious alumni joined forces with the good citizens of Watertown for one pissah of a Hawaiian luau, kid.

Half of these friggin’ kids were friggin’ rocked off of James’ friggin’ fruit punch. The other kids were gassin’ bottles of Twisted Tea like it was 90 degrees at Fenway in August, dude. And of course, there was a half-barrel of Bud Lite floatin’ in a friggin’ kiddy pool like Mary Jo Kopechne.

And… scene. OK, I’m finished channeling the ghost of Ricky from Revere and ready to discuss some of the evening’s festivities. First of all, let’s analyze the above photo. Is anyone else creeped out that Ryan (far left) looks like he’s about 12 years old? It looks like a Big Brother field trip gone horribly wrong. A NAMBLA initiation ceremony. I need a shower. Kate looks ravishing, as always. Brian looks like someone just slammed his schnutz in a car door. And we know full well that didn’t actually happen until Sunday morning.

JT and I throw the goat in protest of Nomar’s untimely trade to the Cubs. It was the topic of many emotional statements throughout the night. All of which ended with “kid” or “dude”, kid.

We were all lookin’ for something to do Saturday night, so it’s a damn good thing that Ricky on the far left there brought along two tickets to the gunshow! Last time I saw forearms like that, I was throwin friggin’ peanuts into the friggin’ gorilla cage at the zoo, dude. Pissah.

I need a weekend to get over last weekend.

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Dictionary For Women’s Personal Ads.


in

40-ish………………………………………49

Adventurous…………….. Slept with everyone

Athletic……………………………….. No tits

Average looking……………….. Ugly

Beautiful……………………… Pathological liar

Contagious Smile……………… Does a lot of pills

Emotionally Secure…………………. On medication

Feminist…………………………………… Fat

Free spirit……………………………… Junkie

Friendship first…………………….. Former slut

Fun…………………………………… Annoying

New-Age………… Body hair in the wrong places

Old-fashioned……………………….. No BJs

Open-minded…………………………… Desperate

Outgoing…………………. Loud and Embarrassing

Passionate…………………………. Sloppy drunk

Professional……………………………… Bitch

Voluptuous…………………………….. Very Fat

Large frame…………………………… Hugely Fat

Wants Soul mate…………………………. Stalker

Never, ever again.

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A Public Apology To Chris Cornett.


in

It’s 6:14 and I should have already been at Chris’s Wiffleball Tournament out in Concord for about 4 hours. My cell phone went dead, and I’ve lost all my numbers. My ride never called me. My mother is sick. I needed clean drawers. There was a sale at Penny’s.

I did get a little (OK, a lot) banged up last night (see photo) but that is NOT why I missed the tourney. If I hoot with the owls, I crow with the roosters.

You know you’re banged up when: a.) You’re drinking Heineken (yuck). b.) You’re drinking it at Sissy K’s (yucker). c.) Uncle Fester tries to give you a handjob in the bathroom.

Sorry dude. I must admit – I suck sometimes.

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DNC Is Coming To Town: Reporting For Duty.


in

I don’t know who Kerry Edwards is. But I bet she’s wicked hot.

Johnny’s speech kicked ass. I’ll admit it. But the Saudi Royal Family reference ruined it for me – totally. You had me… and then you lost me.

Keep Mike Moore’s paper-thin horseshit on the sidelines if you want to stay in the running.

I watched it word for word from the bar at the Wyndham hotel. But I’m still confused about one point: Did John Kerry serve in Vietnam? Cause I’m still unclear. No really. Was he in that particular war – because I don’t think that was ever made abundantly clear at any point tonight. Southeast Asia, right?

“My name is John Kerry, and I’m reporting for duty.”

JESUS.

I sat next to a Georgia senator, a democratic party psychiatrist, and even clinked glasses with a nice woman who had actually gone on a date earlier that evening with Colin McNickle. You remember him – Teresa so eloquently told him to “shove it” a few days ago. I asked her if he’d gotten over it. She went to smoke a cigarette and never returned. Some dates go well. Some dates don’t. Most women find me repulsive.

“Bottom line – As long as none of the speeches tonight contain references to drowning hamsters, we should be alright.”

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DNC Is Coming To Town: Freedom Trail Follies.


in

We’re into day four now, and the city of Boston awaits Kerry’s acceptance speech tonight with great eagerness and several effigerial burnings. The Democratic party is abuzz on the city’s crowded streets, waiting to crown their mighty war hero and great leader. It’s no picnic. It’s like ants on a discarded celery stick full of Cheez Whiz after the picnic. Forget I mentioned a picnic.

I made it in to the office finally, after having to traverse yet another Falun Gong protest, several “Friends of Hillary” campaigners who met with an expletive from yours truly when they attempted to block my path – and just general pedestrian congestion. Picture Pamploana’s Running of the Bulls held in the North End. Picture a romantic stroll through Calcutta.

I felt a need to mete out a degree of retribution during my mosey, and had my opportunity when stopped for directions near the Bell in Hand. “Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me how to get to the Fleet Center please?” The inquisitor had so many press passes and credentials around his neck, I thought I was talking to Flava Flav for a second. Flav would have been a great commentator for MTV now that I think of it. A much better choice than Wonkette, anyway. They could have called the segment “Cold Lampin’ at the DNC” or something. Where was I?

Giving directions. “It’s at the end of the Freedom Trail. Just follow the red line on the pavement over that way.” at which point I pointed towards the North End. For those unfamiliar, you can get to the Fleet Center quite quickly from that area by walking in the opposite direction. I made a funny. Alright, so I was a dick. But I think everyone who visits Boston should get to visit the North End, even if it’s because they were given maliciously bad directions.

“Sorry I’m late. I got a little lost. I didn’t realize the Fleet Center was part of the Freedom Trail. Yeah, some 2nd round draft pick named Paul Revere hit a buzzer-beater there in 1776 to beat the Washington Redcoats in overtime. And apparently they all wore cornrows back then. I did not know that. Yeah, I met this really helpful local.”

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Herb Gets A Woody (Harrelson).


in Movies

While Woody Harrelson can usually be found throwing rocks at police, when they’re protecting him on a film set he’s all smiles. That’s my buddy Herb on the right in between takes of Woody’s upcoming movie  The Prizewinner of Defiance Ohio.

Julianne Moore and Laura Dern are also in the flick, so I know Herb will be guarding them closely. Perhaps uncomfortably so. Perhaps it will even begin to border on ‘creepy’.

“Officer Drummond? That’s Ms. Moore’s trailer’s air vent you’re peeking into. The catering tent is over here. No don’t apologize – It happens all the time.”

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