Heartwarming

Saturday night Art and I were walking down Salem Street when I was approached by a young lad of 14 I recognized as one of my little neighbor’s best buddies. “Excuse me sir, can I ask you a question?” Considering our proximity to Martignetti’s, I knew exactly what that question was going to be. “I don’t like the sounds of this, kid” I replied.

I looked down at the slick little bastard in the Jay-Z T-shirt and felt like I was looking at myself, 16 years ago. But it would have been a Public Enemy shirt. Then he popped the question – “Can you get me a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice, please?” I looked down at him and broke into a smile.

I don’t know what struck me as more humorous – the fact he’d ordered such a girly beverage, or the fact that I actually considered buying it for him, if only for a second. If it somehow got back to her that I’d bought booze for one of her son’s friends there’d be a brick through my window faster than you can say, brick. “Listen, I know one of your buddy’s mothers – so I really can’t help you out.” I didn’t stich my little neighbor up and actually use his name, but apparently Jay-Z took my word for it. He said that was “cool” and then retreated to a side street like greased lightning.

Had you told me I’d shut a kid down in that sort of situation today – back when I was 14 – I’d have told you you were crazy. That I’d never be such a buzz-ripping stiff. Then again, I would have also told you that “Rebel Without A Pause” was the greatest song ever recorded.

It’s my little sister’s birthday today! I love her very much – even when she pulls shit like this. So please wish her a bad-ass birthday in the comments and join us tonight at Silvertone if you’re so inclined. Back to the scene of the storm.

May 6th has been a tragic date throughout human history – so it’s probably no accident that Janet chose to emerge 29 years ago today. Let’s look at the facts:

– On May 6, 1937 the hydrogen-filled German dirigible “Hindenburg” burned and crashed in Lakehurst, N.J., killing 35 of the 97 people on board.
– In 1942 some 15,000 Americans and Filipinos on Corregidor surrendered to the Japanese.
– In 1996, the body of former CIA director William E. Colby was found washed up on a riverbank in southern Maryland, eight days after he’d disappeared.
– George Clooney and Tony Blair were also born today.

So we can all take some solace in the fact that she was inevitable. Have a great one, sis, and I hope we get to do this for another 30 years.

This Saturday marks my 5th annual Cinco De Mayo party, and I hope to see you all there. Click here for details. Click here, here and here for photos from past years. Have a look here for the currently optimistic weather report as it relates to pre-party roofdeck revelry. And finally – click here for a personal message from me which will be extended should you not show up for any reason other than having an acquaintance on a deathbed.

If the roofdeck is ‘out’ – meaning it rains, gets really cold or I’m hit by a passing bus between now and then – I still want to see you at the SideBar… even if I am hovering 10 feet off the ground, clueless as of yet to my own demise. None of that will probably happen, so let’s just plan on more fun/alcohol abuse in the sun, and less ghostly manifestations. Aaaarrriba, bitches!

Janet has been in Sweden all week long visiting our old friends Mike and Joanna. I’ve just been sent a barrage of interesting photographs that look like outtakes from a Stockholm tourist pamphlet of questionable quality. But then that, undoubtedly, was the point.

I think this photo was taken on the ferry to Estonia. I love ferrys that have bars on them. The ferry to Martha’s Vineyard, the ferry to Prince Edward Island, etc. It’s like taking the booze boat to Liquorton. Whiskey on the waves. Cockys in the crow’s nest. Pabst on the poopdeck. I’ll stop.

Here Janet enjoys one of at least several non-alcoholic beverages which were imbibed on her trip. After he sent me the photo I asked Mike “Is that Janet’s new Swedish jacket?” To which he replied “One of them.” Now I know Sweden is insanely expensive – that coffee probably cost $11 USD. Janet, did we have a relative die and leave you money that I’m not aware of? Do I need to check in on Grandma?

I wanted to get the skyline in this photo, but became increasingly obsessed with the number of cobblestones making up the street. In fact, I’ve already counted all of them four times and am now going to move on to incessant hand-washing and lightswitch-flipping. Yes, the ‘C’ in OCD apparently stands for cobblestones.

I frequently annoy Joanna by applying Switzerland jokes to Sweden. Little does (did) she know – I do this in an attempt to drive her batty (battier). For example: “What did you do yesterday? Sit around and eat Toblerone while watching The Sound of Music three times?” Or “Does the fact that your country is neutral exclude you from buying rounds?” She loves it. And geese.

It’s official. It’s happening. The chihuahua is out of the bag. Harvest the limes and board up the Alamo. Grease up the roofdeck – It’s time for a little Cinco de Cinco!

The 5th annual Cinco De Mayo party will be held Saturday May 7th at The SideBar! Corona will be holding a promotion, my usual DJ will be spinning himself silly, and we’ll be going all the way until 2AM. The official Evite is here, and I’ll be adding more people gradually over the next few days. It’s a free-for-all, so don’t be shy. Bring your friends, add your friends, introduce your friends to my friends, get a tetanus shot. Send me an email if you would like to be added and haven’t been already.

Last year was a decent time, especially when I got punched in the face, and I promise this year will be even better. Between the gratuitous violence and the sunburn, it’s amazing I got any liquoring done. Make the nightmares stop. Speaking of sunburns – weather-permitting, and in keeping with tradition, the roofdeck will be a rockin’ all afternoon prior to the official par-tay. Feel free to join us/make a noise complaint. And if anyone would like to volunteer to have a pinata constructed in their likeness, a la Summer Wheatley, it would be much appreciated.

Back to the Evite – anyone who replies “maybe” and doesn’t have solid plans for that day, or at the very least a gravely ill family member, can suck a habenero. Vote for Pedro.

I’m blogging to you live, all the way from my sister’s apartment in Medford. Jenny, Janet, Damaris, Steven, Aaron and the rest of the gang are currently gorging on Brie, 7-layer dip, Cadbury Creme Eggs and Hypnotiq. Our heavenly father would certainly approve.

Friday night the gang went out for Jim’s birthday and, of course, my camera was in attendance. Big fans of eachother for going on 15 years, my father requested over the phone that I “throw Jim down onto the floor, grab his nuts and then kiss him on the forehead” on his behalf. While that didn’t happen, it certainly was among the nuttiest of evenings. So please enjoy a couple of my favorite snaps as you celebrate this holiest of days.

This year’s Improper Bostonian Beloved Bartender Edition hits the stands tomorrow, and I’m scanning the bejeezus out of my advance copy as I type. The SideBar‘s very own Sharon Cannava graces the cover of this year’s edition, and we’re all buzzing with a ‘local girl does good’ sort of a feel (and 4 Juicy Peaches). Regardless – way to go, girl! But I’m actually dreading all this new found publicity because the place will be even more jammed than usual from here on out. At least I’ll be able to tell my Grandkids I was hanging out there before it was cool – before then telling them to hurry up and change my dialysis bag.

The little SideBar blurb is surprisingly accurate, and really captures many of the things we regulars dig about the place: “Between the career networking and hooking up that goes on, the bar fosters friendships that give it a Cheers-for-twentysomethings feel” I’d wager that the author must have been there after 6pm, however, cause if they’d been there during the day it would have been much more of a “depressing hangout for-career drunkards who spend their welfare checks on Bud Lite Drafts feel“. Still, we love that shite hole dearly.

If Sharon’s being featured wasn’t enough of a treat, my old Concord Carlisle class of 1991-mate Mark Tibbets was also chosen for his undying work and devotion over at The Harp: “I just can’t give it up. These people are like my family“. What do you mean by that, Mark? Harp customers disowned you and made you sleep in the garage? And, of course, frequent Pye In The Face contributor P-Cip made the list again as usual. So congrats, all you Pernod pushers and peach schnapps peddlers – It’s a tough, thankless and curiously addicting racket. We salute you.

I’m seeing the green shirts, and the leprechaun hats, and the inflatable Guinness pints and I’m thinkin’ that my first St. Patrick’s Day as a civilian in four years is going to be quite the greenish gasser. There are few better places to be on this wondrous day. You’ve got Belfast, and then Dublin, Boston and New York with Chicago rounding out the top five – in very particular order. But I have a little shamrock in my craw today, as I always do on March 17th, and it stems from the fact that everyone who has ever so much as touched a U2 cassette will be running around maniacally professing their dodgy Irish heritage. I want a shillelagh and I want it now.

The last four years I have come out of retirement to work the door at Tiernan’s and have thoroughly enjoyed it. But I have to take an entire day off to do so and I’m also starting to feel more and more like Sgt. Roger Murtaugh. I’m too old for this shit. Regardless, there’s no place I’d rather be on St. Pat’s and I’ll be dropping in after work for a couple hours. Also, be sure to check out the magnificent dancing leprechaun I’ve added to their website to mark this delightful day of days. Dee-lightful.

In working those four St. Patrick’s Days, I learned a few important lessons. Cleaning up trampled cabbage at the end of the night is not something to look forward to. Large inflatable leprechaun hats lose a lot of their charm once they’ve been on your living room wall for a week. Know when to duck. But most memorably I’ve learned that people with questionable links to Ireland like use being Irish as an excuse to act like a complete cunt. So for all of you who have a half Irish grandparent who died before you were born, but will be running around today like you’re Brendan bloody Gleeson on mescaline, I have a few important points I’d like you to remember:

1. You don’t have an “Irish Temper”. You’re simply an asshole who’s never been further outside of the United States than Niagara Falls. The American side.

2. Your red hair is as likely due to your parents having had sex in a front of a hotel television set playing a Carrot Top HBO special than any smidgen of Irish heritage. You were born in Methuen and your father is Jewish.

3. The fact that you’ll get red-faced tonight after 3 pints has nothing to do with “the Irish in you”. It’s called an alcohol flush and it means you’re either a piss-head, a diabetic or an Asian. Rarely all three at once. Another 2 pints and you’ll be punching out your boss, so it’s probably time to head home. I saw it happen and then broke it up two years ago.

4. St. Paddy’s is more about savoring a Guinness and listening to some traditional music with friends – and less about shotgunning a sixy of Natty Lite before putting your head through a plate glass window in the financial district. I wish I were kidding, but I’ve definitely seen some confusion surrounding this point in the past.

Have a great, safe time tonight everybody. And one last word of advice – The parade doesn’t actually start until Sunday. Marching down West Broadway at 4 a.m. tomorrow with your pants around your ankles is likely to get you PC’ed. Regardless of whether or not you’re carrying a baton.

Some people age well, and some people just slowly fall apart. I came across these mugshots last night as I was procrastinating/feverishly perusing for similarly twisted content. They follow a young woman’s courtship with the NYPD from 1983 – 1997. In the first photo, she looks like a legwarmer wearing young co-ed, right out of a John Hughes movie of the era. In the last photo, she looks like Dana Plato. Had she been exhumed.

In addition to this poor girl’s slippery slope, these photos can serve as a time capsule of sorts. In photo 4, circa 1984, she’s got a sweet Deb from Napoleon Dynamite haircut happening. And the very next photo is really the beginning of the end – the Linda Ronstadt look. Photos 8 and 9 I like to call the ‘frontseat crack money blowjob’ phase – and by number 10, judging from the Wendy O’ Williams hairdo, it looks as though those blowjobs had moved to the alley beside CBGB’s.

Now, I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume that this woman was a prostitute. My powers of deduction defy the mind, my dear Watson. I say ‘was’ because if her rapid decline has continued at the same rate as depicted in this series of photos, she’s now a sun-dried tomato on a salad at the Brooklyn Au Bon Pain. A sad montage which should be hung in classrooms all over the continent.

PITF favorite Gary Puppa has been in Colorado pitching his innovative services to various NBA teams – and just sent me a couple of photos from an All-Star Game party he snuck through a kitchen ventilation shaft to attend. I’m only kidding, of course. Gary was obviously invited. The other attendees only thought he’d snuck in. After the misunderstanding was cleared up, and the rest of the guests realized Gary was indeed supposed to be there, they immediately asked him if he still talked to Corey Haim.

Method Man (a.k.a ‘Meth’ a.k.a ‘Johnny Blaze’) seemed to take to Puppa (a.k.a ‘Pupp’ a.k.a ‘Corey Feldman after a bender’) like he was a box of White Owls. The fast new friends were later seen observing a moment of silence for ODB before swapping do-rags. I find it fascinating that although these photos were taken 2 minutes apart, Meth has managed to change his entire wardrobe about 8 times. So, so fly.

And just when Gary thought the evening couldn’t get any fawnkier, Redman burst onto the scene like a glaucoma patient’s capillary. While the ‘Funk Dr. Spock’ gave the camera the NYC salute, Meth took a swig of his Motorola and called Ghostface on a Budweiser. Great pics, buddy. When’s the release date for the first Pu-Tang Clan album?

Back in October, Wardy organized a Vermony Academt reunion at a Vietnamese restaurant in Brookline. I’ll update this entry with more details after I talk to him as I can’t remember what the place was called. It was multi-year, so classes from 1992 all the way back to 1942 were represented. I met a lot of great people whose names I really wish I could remember now. If it weren’t for these photos that I just found on a CD while cleaning my room, I’d continue to think it was all a dream stemming from bad pork.

First we have myself and the illustrious Billy Kelleher, who lived across the hall from me on the 3rd floor of Alumni Hall – or Slum 3 as it was affectionately known – in 1991-1992. Billy and I were both ‘ringers’ brought in as post graduates on scholarships to play sports. Billy’s hockey talents far exceeded my fruity meanderings on the football field, and he went on to captain the Dartmouth team for several seasons. He currently lives near me in the North End, and we get silly a few times a year.

That’s Doug Rumsey on my right, another former Slum 3 boy. Doug is a successful model whom you’ve probably seen in AT&T Wireless and Gap ads. And lookie here! A quick web search reveals that he is also a Vermont Stud, which I will be sure to tease him endlessly for the very next time I see him.

Q: Since you said you weren’t shy, where’s the strangest place you’ve had sex?
A: Wow, that’s very personal, so how about I tell you about a kiss? I kissed someone underneath a waterfall in the Virgin Islands. There’s just something about the ocean and the water.

Oh my God you’re so busted, Rumsey.

The headmaster, Jim Mooney, asked me if I’d like to visit VA sometime soon and do a Q&A with the students about what I do for a living. It would take place at one of the morning meetings where I’d stand on stage in front of the entire school like I did several times 13 years ago. The faculty would want me to talk about online advertising. But all I’d want to tell the kids about is the silly shenanigans we got up to when I was a student there. I’d like to do it eventually, but first there are several statute of limitation laws I’m going to have to look into.

My father sent me these photos a couple of weeks ago. I chuckled, shook my head and then vowed I’d never show them to a soul – for fear that such strange nuances of my ancestral lineage may one day exclude me from public office. Now that I think about it though, I’ve pretty much ensured as much all by my lonesome. Still, I figured I’d keep the snaps to myself for fear of embarassing the old man in public. You can see why for yourselves…

The photos were entitled “babynewyear.jpg” so I can only assume the stories I’ve heard about my Dad being the Trailer Park’s resident Foster Brooks are true. Gordo is basically the wind-up entertainment for this portable Floridian community. Kudos to him for enjoying his retirement, however disturbing it may be to the rest of his kin. He makes a superb baby new year, and it looks as though there was at least one costume change involved as well.

But then I got word that he had actually been checking the blog on a regular basis, and was miffed that he had yet to be featured! The old man reads my site? Jesus, that changes everything. Actually, we’re talking about Gord here. I don’t need to change a thing. And since we’re on the topic, I’ll share my favorite exchange with him from last summer:

“Hey Dad – I didn’t know you liked Mike’s Hard Lemonade.”
“Well, actually I enjoy a nice bottle of it every night while I watch the sunset.”
“You know what it is, right?”
“What?”
“Malt liquor for chicks.”
“Fuck off.”

It’s been 3 months since the Halloween bender, and I’m gettin’ all itchy for another par-tay. I don’t think it’s a personal hygiene issue. But rather a desire to rage against the dying of my New Years resolutions. Actually rage towards would be a more accurate description. Join me, won’t you?

Unless you suffered a head injury in a snowmobiling accident over the weekend, you’ve probably surmised that it’s a Mardi Gras theme. Just what does that entail? Glad you asked. We’re going to have Eric the DJ spinning until 2, the Corona girls wandering around encouraging debauchery, some door prizes courtesy of a local radio station, a specially themed drink menu and as always there is absolutely no cover! I should also probably mention that it’s Saturday, February 19th at Tiernans.

                Titties ‘Till Fat Tuesday – Get those beads ready, boys.

So bring your beads, Girls Gone Wild camera crews, silly hats, disturbing masks and all the other trappings of a proper Mardi Gras celebration. I get ribbed a lot because I plan for parties way in advance. Well this time around you’ve got a little under two weeks. Get a babysitter, a designated driver, a tetanus shot – whatever you need to get yourselves down to Tiernans for the festivities. You won’t be sorry.

I’d love to see anyone who’s interested at the bender in question, and you can click here for more details. Feel free to add yourself and your friends to the Evite. Come one, come all. Unless of course I owe you money or have at any point impregnated you.

It wasn’t a surprise that the party was a success, I’m just saying that we successfully surprised him at… the… party. Anyway, Bobby and I threw up a smokescreen and told him we were going to Abe & Louie’s for a quiet dinner. Then, since we had a very ‘late reservation’, we decided to hit the SideBar first to kill time – where about 15 friends were lying in wait. “SURPRISE!” When the staff realized it wasn’t yet another health inspection, Sharon started serving up the bevvies and the wings which were enjoyed almost as much as her tanktop.

It’s funny how the only birthday present that was given to anyone was from Peter to me – a Charleston Chiefs shirt he forgot to give me back on December 7th. Above we see Peter, myself and Sarah listening to Monster’s increasingly liquored birthday prattle. If I look confused it’s because I most definitely am. More thanks to Sebby for the spread and Betsy for the decorations!

After the SideBar closed we wandered across the street to Silvertone for a Dark & Stormy. A very tasty drink indeed – although most heterosexual bars don’t carry ginger beer. I snuck out around 11:45 and was in bed watching The Surreal Life by 1am. I got in touch with Monster this morning to make sure he hadn’t been incarcerated, and I’m happy to report he’s already at the office – bleary eyed and boozy tailed. Many thanks to everyone who came! You made his day.

Triconi and Krintzman, a.k.a. Doug & Doug, have their new Southern Comfort TV spots airing twice this weekend during the two showings of Me Myself & Irene on FX – tonight and tomorrow at 10pm EST. The jist is, they’re scouring the seedy depths of New Orleans during Mardi Gras seeking SoCo’s secret recipe, and all sorts of funny hijinks ensue.

If you haven’t already, visit their site and watch the two hilarious videos they have posted. Then click here to see Tri-con manhandling my cat. And if you’re in watching TV tonight or Saturday, tune in and catch the spots. It’s a great movie, and the multiple ads are spaced out throught the two-hour slot. Good luck boys! This could be the start of something big. Or at least a crate of free SoCo, which Krintzman would likely prefer over Playboy bunnies anyday.