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.

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.

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!”

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.

A Canadian friend of mine has recently been touring the USA for work. I hear from him every few days when he sends me a funny picture, story or both. I thought the snap of him and Beyonce was cool, as was the one he got with Nikki Hilton. But I gotta tell you, I just didn’t see the Saget saga coming.

Trying to date strippers whilst in your 20’s in Canada is a right of passage and, conveniently – they’re absolutely everywhere. You bounce, you DJ, you bartend, you paint the town red four nights a week, you’re bound to run into enough of them to stock three rap videos. We call the profession “Canadian Ballet”, afterall. But the older we get, the further removed we are from that wonderful fishbowl that is young adulthood. And it’s extremely painful.

So imagine Gazza’s pleasant surprise when while doing the business thing in Atlanta, he winds up with a gorgeous peeler on his arm after a night at the bar. There was, of course, an after-party and among the guests was former America’s Filthiest Home Videos host – Mr. Bob Saget. Gazza had been fighting off potential cooze-confiscators all night long, but feared he’d met his match when Bob got his Full House hooks into ‘Bambi’.

Now Bob ain’t bankin’ billions like former co-stars Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen, but he didn’t let that stifle his game. Bob was ready for the after-after party, and our hero must have been a little worried. He won’t admit it, but Gazza had to have felt some relief when the object of his affection made it perfectly clear he was the one she’d be inviting home for a private rendition of Swan Lake.

More details have arisen from the aforementioned evening. Apparently. Donnelly DID get kicked out of the bar. And judging from the message, the bouncers roughed him up a bit on the way out. Uncanny. I have been sent an MP3 of a disgruntled voicemail message that he left on Nick’s answering machine the next morning. This is not for the weak of heart.

The revelry continues North of the border. I am having a very busy week here in Boston, and am living vicariously through these filthy animals. As you do. 

(L to R) Kitsematry looks like a cross between Popeye and the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island (who, by the way, perfected the D’OH! years before Homer Simpson). A swarthy sailor, none the less. Brent seems rather vexed – perhaps because Noor is getting an earful of licky muscle (see below). But that’s par for the course in Holland. Donnelly is either rudely signaling a waitress, keeping snappy time to an old Sinatra favorite, or flipping a bottlecap at the photographer. Either way, he should have been tossed out. And Joe’s goatee seems just a little unsure of whether it wants to come out and play. Facial hair needs to commit, buddy.  

I plan on getting some of my own debauchery in over the weekend. But thanks for keeping me in the lush-loop guys! Nick – We’re going to the Roxx when I’m up.

A friend of mine has just returned to Barrie, Ontario after a 5-year-stint in Holland. I would have kept this information to myself had I not just been sent such a hilarious photograph from his first night back. I strive to keep this page enjoyable for all – with a minimum of private jokes. And racial epithets.

Nick (M) picked Noor (L) and Brent (R) up at the airport and drove straight to the liquor store (see Trailer Park Boys Season 2 Episode 1). After procuring a commemorative Budweiser 28 pack (I wish I was kidding) and a “two-four” of Smirnoff Ice, they proceeded back to Nick’s house. When pressed for more information about the evening’s proceedings, a most forthcoming Nick replied “the truth is …they were really tired the first night here …got juiced, had some laughs and went to bed”. Judging from the photograph, “got juiced in Nick’s garage” might be a more apt description. Nice beard too, Farley Mowat.

God, I miss Canada sometimes. Welcome home, Speckled Trout/Brent – see you in August.