Reminiscent

Some Guelph guys just forwarded me this. Al was my first ever internet project related collaborator. Art, I remember you he and I were working on some website back in 1996. Do you recall the premise? I don’t. I do, however, remember helping to newspaper-ball Al’s entire dorm room when he went home one weekend because he’d pissed someone off. He was a bit greasy. A comment from the email:

“He was the greasiest ladies man ever, so i’m not surprised. One time i heard him say “I love you’ on the phone to his girlfriend back home when he was in bed with some tart he picked up the night before.” No doubt at a Mills pub at the Rock Cellar. Glad to see Al has’s remained true to his roots. “Mills Once, Mills Twice – Holy Jumping Jesus Christ!”

We really need to get the chant online somewhere for posterity. You can be damn sure it isn’t taught during frosh week anymore. I believe it’s been substituted by something from the Koran at this point. I started a little Mills tribute site a few years ago which I think I still have on my computer at home. I’ll dig it up. Stay tuned, boys.

I have touched upon how much I think new rap sucks before. I have also asked myself the question “Am I just old now?” Perhaps I’m just following a cycle, the way my Grandmother must have looked down her nose at my mother’s Elvis ’45 collection. The odd modern rap song (I like Clipse a lot) will turn my head, but en masse – compared to how much I loved it circa 86 to 94 – it’s just awful. Look at my car, check out this tacky spinning crap rim I tacked on to my wheel, Look at my diamond plated necklace which also looks like the wheel of my car, look at the ass on this girl, listen to the blippedy beep I made on a synthesizer in 2 minutes.” Ya feel me?

I am not saying that these themes haven’t been prevalent since the days of the Treacherous Three. I’m implying it’s all anybody bloody talks about now. Sure there are the Talib Kwelis and the like who opt for message – but they are few, far between and rarely on the charts anywhere. And by old school, I am not referring to pre-1988 but all the way up to the mid-nineties. The golden-age of rap occured, for me, about the summer of 92 and then dropped off sharply when Biggie died. You can almost trace it back to the month.

My thoughts are on this today because I watched the VH1 Hip Hop Legends Awards on Sunday night and thoroughly enjoyed the shiznit out of it. The way it works, is 6 seminal rappers are picked to join the legend ranks. Then, after a “Story of…” video is played on the big screen, a medley of that artists’ songs is performed by current rappers, often with the honored artist themself joining in at the end. It was really well done – Beastie Boys songs were performed by Q-Tip, Fabolous and Diddy before they joined in at the end. Rakim was honored and performed as did MC Lyte, Ice Cube and Wu Tang. Segments were punctuated by great old songs by EPMD, Das Efx and the like. It made me wonder what the phunk happened.

Doug sent me this photo last night from a couple of Thanksgivings ago. It’s really remarkably good, if of course you know any of the participants. I took a lot of photos this night at Jim’s too – but none of them really captured the moment as well. Shortly prior to Doug’s email, Phil dropped me a line and asked me to help organize… wait for it… my 15 year high school reunion. The 10 year was a blast, so of course I agreed, but jeepers. 15 years. Nostalgia started creeping in a little bit, and I figured I’d say a few words about how I feel turning into the home stretch of this awful anniversary.

Everyone thinks that they know crazy people, or fun people, or maybe that their high school was a little bit nuts. CCHS, from about 88-92, was a special time. By the time we all got to college in 1992, we were bored. There are many people who’ll attest to that fact. We sowed the shit out of our collective oats. School and town officials really started to crack down after then, and it can all be traced back to the video tape of a party at a certain person’s house – who may or may not be typing this right now – which got about 25 kids kicked off of sports teams. Worst part is, the host in question wasn’t even going to the high school at this point. Anyway, it was the beginning of the end of the insanity.

Concord is a very affluent town, and many of our parents had lots of room for vacations, or even summer/winter houses in other states. My point is – every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night – without fail – there was a party. And if there wasn’t a house to haunt, we’d take it outside. Namely “Eden”, “Boonyards” or “The Mayflower”. We got pinched at Eden once, and a friend went to the clink for peeing on the fire after the police told him to put it out. Jeeps full of soldiers with M-16s invaded Boonyards another time, as we’d failed to realize the muddy lot was in fact property of Hanscom Airforce Base. We were resourceful, we had a little money, we all had our own cars – it was a minor delinquency Neverland.

There are a hundred good stories, that we delight in telling to eachother when we all get together – which I can never reveal here. So I’ll keep it general: We so crazy. I have lived in a lot of places, and known a lot of people, but this bunch is a special one and I hope we’re all still in contact on the eve of the 30 year. I know we will be. People say to me sometimes, I can’t believe you still hang out with and keep in touch with all your high school friends. And to them I say – Why the hell not? You grow up with these people. They know you better than anyone. Why would you ever throw all that away because you move half an hour away. Why would you throw that away if you moved to fucking Singapore? I like having good friends. Maybe it’s just me.

Last year on my birthday I made many hilarious references to Pearl Harbor. This year I’ll simply reflect on birthdays past, and there’s been a lot of them. Last year we all had dinner in the South End. The year before that was the big 3-0, and I organized a huge party for myself (as you do) at Tiernans which was thwarted by the largest snow storm Boston had seen in years. The year before that, Janet organized a party at Harvard Gardens which was a lot of fun – I sang all the way home in the cab, and then made everyone wait until the song was over until we got out.

Prior to that it starts to get fuzzy. I think 28 might have been at Silvertone. 26 or 27 was a surprise party at Janet’s old place in Inman square. Before that I was in England, and that year they midread the birthdate on my work papers at the pub (they reverse the month and date when reading it metrically) and shocked me with a cake on the 12th of July. Yesterday, my workmates took me out for lunch, also mistaking the numeral 7 for the square root of “DERRR”.

But it’s the thought that counts, and I always have fun with good friends around. This year it’s subdued – some Greek food in Watertown and then early to bed before an important meeting tomorrow. Thank you all for putting up with me for so long, and here’s to another longevitus 32 for all of us.

Gone are the days when I’d long look forward to December. Driving 8 hours to spend 3 rushed days in Toronto before driving back again isn’t quite as much fun as driving 3 hours to Grandma’s to spend a whole week there over the holidays used to be. Turning 13 is much more exciting than turning 31. Staying up all night praying for dawn and anticipating the unwrapping of dress shirts, socks and toenail clippers isn’t quite as mesmerizing as it was when the packages contained Legos, GI Joes and Star Wars figures. I still instinctively get excited about December – but these days it’s more hassle and tension than holly and tinsel.

The dual nature of December couldn’t have been reflected any better than on this, the very first day of the month. Joe Thornton got traded to San Jose – but my coworker Alon’s wife gave birth to little Maya at 7:31 this morning. I’ve also, while typing this, been invited to my first Holiday party at a posh location in Marblehead. So I suppose it could be much, much worse. And for the record – it’s called Christmas, you over-sensitive frigtards. Donnie Hatt is my hero.

The Fat Duck has just been voted the best restaurant in the whole entire world by London’s The Guardian. Now let me tell you why I care. In the years since I left England in 1999, owner Heston Blumenthal has made a serious name for himself, becoming a culinary celebrity across the pond. If Gordon Ramsay is the evil tempermental British chef, then Heston is his calm, measured nemesis. I was there when the Duck first opened, and served Heston and his staff many after-work pints as they were coming up and busting their balls to make a name for that strange, tiny eatery.

The Duck happens to be right beside the Hind’s Head which is the pub I worked at for the better part of two years. Those of you who have been to my apartment and seen the painting I like to show people of the Hind’s have seen the Duck depicted right beside it in watercolor. In fact, Heston bought the pub about a year ago and now owns 75% of the trade in the little village of Bray. Quite an impressive little empire he’s building.

Anyway – I know Heston, he came to my leaving party, and I couldn’t be happier for him. My girlfriend at the time loved his mashed potatoes, and he used to bring them over to the pub every night he knew she was in town. Heston used to be a collection agent, and how he went from cracking skulls to cracking eggs I never really got out of him. But he’s a genuine nice guy with an incredible talent that was evident even then.

If you ever stop in, tell him “Canadian Dave” said hello. And in case you missed it, I said the best restaurant in the fucking world! Way to go, duckies.

I have a couple of old friends in town who are staying at my apartment this week. They’re more like family, actually – Terry is my father’s friend whom I’ve known since I was 5, and Josh is his 13 year old son. I lived with them during my time in England and we all try to get together at least once a year. When they asked if they could come visit me, I didn’t hesitate for a second. ‘No,’ I said. Not really.

Those of you who have been to my apartment can imagine how tight the quarters have become. I borrowed a futon mattress from a friend and put it on my bedroom floor. So what happens is, the door is pushed open halfway (the mattress blocks it) Terry jumps in to the right and lands on my bed. Then Josh jumps in to the left and lands on the mattress. There’s no floor space to spare, and I’m cutoff from extra-curricular computer activities for the week (which may be a good thing). But they both claim they’re extremely comfortable, and we’ve been having a hoot. Couch city ain’t so bad, either. The gurgle of the fish tank is better than a sleeping pill.

When I got home from work yesterday, Terry had a great bottle of wine, stuffed peppers, bread and smoked proscuitto waiting for me. Terry is a bit of a gourmet, and he obviously loves the North End like you wouldn’t believe. We had a great chat about life, the universe and everything while Josh hacked away at my guitar downstairs. Think musical prodigy. Terry was the landlord of the pub I worked at during my 14 months in England, so his social group became mine. I met many multitudes of interesting characters, and I think we must have discussed them all. Then we got to talking about one guy in particular, who died recently, and I remembered all my damn videotapes.

I probably have 4 hours of video from those days – special events at the pub (New Years Eve, Burns Night, Weddings, Wakes) my trip to Stonehenge, my leaving party, etc. And Terry literally could not believe his eyes. We watched the whole damn thing, and it got pretty emotional at times because a lot of people on those tapes are dead, relationships have since failed, people have fallen out of touch, etc. People used to kid me during the years when I constantly had my camera out. But I always knew that someday they’d prove useful. Someday they’d make people very happy. And that day was yesterday.

The previous article on the Vermont Academy reunion really got me thinking about those strange days, and I realized that there are a wealth of stories which combined would make a great Tall Tale entry. Memories that grow dimmer and dimmer with each passing year – and it’s been 13 already – so with no further adue…

I was 17 years old, fresh after graduating from public high school – only to be dropped right back in to do my senior year all over again. This time with the added bonus of getting used to living away from home for the very first time. It was called a post-graduate year and was a way for me to trade my time on the VA football field for a partial scholarship and the opportunity to get my grades up (way up) in order to get into a better college. It was also called ‘what I had to do in order to avoid spork vivisection by my father’ and, in spite of the remote location, strict rules and rigid schedule – was still a very favorable alternative. Don’t let the Baby New Year photos fool you.

The number of people I still keep in touch with whom I met during that one short year is testament to how formative it was. Every single one of the PGs were stuffed onto the same floor, and we were all former public school party-monkeys flailing to adapt to our new life in the gulag. Up at 6… 8 hours of class… 3 hours of sports… 3 hours of study time… bed. Each and every single day – including Saturdays. We could be expelled for smoking, dipping, drinking or fighting – usually with just one strike. As most of us excelled in all of the above, it took a lot of getting used to and all we had for amusement was eachother. There were many friends made and many, many mischievious evenings born of our collective boredom. Idle hands… the devil… you see where this is headed.

I could seriously write a book about my time at VA but for our purposes here I’ll just touch on a few of the more memorable moments. And it will be hard to pick and choose. To really do this justice, I’ll add one or two stories a day for the rest of the week. I may add new unrelated articles on top, but will keep updating this one – so check back if you dare. I mean ‘care’.

Lessons in Leaners
Many of our more creative moments stemmed from the fact that we could get kicked out of the school for so much as belching at an inopportune moment. If, God forbid, revenge needed to be meted out on some disrespectful 4 year student it had to be done very anonymously. There were three particularly memorable reprisals that I want to share. The first involves my least favorite floormate, Eric. Eric liked make a lot of noise and keep me awake at night. A skinny little soccer player, he also liked to flaunt the fact that I could do absolutely nothing about it should I want to remain enrolled in school and out of juvenile detention.

The dining hall served Chicken Cordon Bleu about once a week, or ‘exploding chicken’ as we affectionately called it. When you sliced into the breast, which was stuffed with cheese and ham, a hades-hot stream of molten provolone would shoot out and burn the back of your hand (or worse). But I didn’t plan on burning Eric – No, rather I recognized the true reprisal potential of poultry. I ate half of my portion and then stuffed the remainder in a napkin before returning to Slum 3.

Eric was a soccer player and had a very expensive pair of cleats that he was quite proud of. Soccer season had yet to begin, and I knew that said cleats sat unused and out of mind in his closet. We weren’t allowed to have locks on our doors (leading to many thefts by the extremely dodgy and maladjusted 4 year students leading in turn to many of the described revenge tactics) so I waited until Eric went to the bathroom before striking. I kneeled down inside his closet and quickly jammed handfuls of chicken up inside the toes of both his beloved soccer shoes. I returned to the empty hallway and went back to my room – the perfect crime.

A few days later, Eric and his roomate were sleeping in friend’s rooms, as the vile stench of rotting chicken had driven them out – despite their best attempts at locating the source. About 5 days went by before a janitor thought to examine the shoes. Suspecting ‘foul’ play we all got a good talking to from our dorm parent Mr. Shapiro, who knew full well that Eric’s frequent annoying behavior had left him with the equivalent of a bullseye painted on his back as far as the PGs were concerned. The event, like the stench, blew over fairly quickly after that and Eric started keeping to his end of the hall after lights out.

I was watching Reno 911 last night (now that Tough Crowd With Colin Quinn has gone the way of the Do-Do, things are tres bleak on Comedy Central) and I heard the line “white women don’t age well”. And it got me to thinking. What about white men? What about me and JJV? Can I get away with an article like this in Massachusetts, or will people start drawing comparisons between me and Josef Mengele? Anyway, I was looking for an excuse to use the photo you see below, which was taken in October 2004 – and was suddenly reminded of a very similar picture taken all the way back in 1999. Hence the painful carbon-dating which is about to commence. And subtle racism.

I think we’ve done extremely well. Herb wins for overall youth retention. Although I’m not entirely sure the shaved head of recent years is meant entirely for law-enforcement intimidation purposes. JJV wins hands down in the hairline category, as I’m having a few issues in that department, but has admitted to me recently that he’s like 240. Is it in bad taste to discuss a friend’s weight in public? Oh without a doubt. But he had it coming.

I’ll have to give myself top marks for keeping the weight down, and my recent health kick of the past year has really paid off (or let’s face it – I wouldn’t have written this). So all-in-all we’re not doing too badly. Come see us in another 5 years, when Herb is a stunt double for Al Roker, JJV pulls a ‘Brando‘ and I develop an intimate relationship with Sy Sperling.

December 7th was once described by President Franklin D. Roosevelt as “A day that will live in infamy”. A great line – and I wish I could take credit for inspiring it. But he was, of course, referring to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. I have to thank those dastardly Kamikazes for taking just a smidgen of the focus off of me today. And for accepting me as one of their own and raising me in the jungle on a small island off of Guadalcanal. Now you know.

My thoughtful sister is taking me out to dinner in the South End with a few folks, but then we’ll be heading to Pho afterwards. If you feel inclined to drop by and help me mourn, you now know where to find the procession. Remember, we don’t have to stop for traffic lights and will likely have a police escort.

My sister went to Disneyland last weekend and confirmed what I’d heard for years and never wanted to believe. And no, it’s not that Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride is much scarier when you’re six. I’ll get back to this point.

Listen – don’t you just love it when they catch the giant squids? Last week off the coast of British Colombia, a salmon fisherman named Goody Gudmundseth netted a 20kg, 1.5 metre long Humbolt Squid. Also known as the Jumbo Flying Squid. Flying squids? Oh, Goody! Eventually Gudmundseth turned it over to the Royal B.C. museum for study, but said that he’d almost decided to “use the squid for bait or to eat it as calamari”. I don’t know what he was thinking about when he gave it to science. I mean just look at that delicious grey thing. Can you also jar up the squid juice out of the tub so I can pour it over my mashed potatoes tomorrow?:

But in 2002 a giant squid was caught off the coast of Tasmania that makes Goodie’s look like a malnourished Sea Monkey. Actually, it just washed up dead on the beach. Which is a good thing – they would have needed Captain Nemo, seaQuest DSV, Das Boot and Red October to catch this monster. The friggin’ thing was 60 feet long and weighed over 550 pounds! Add that to the fact that it reeked like a hundred dead carps in the sun, and you can understand why I was so excited.

As you can see by now, I’m a bit of a giant squid afficianado (form a line to the left, ladies) and so I found myself recently reminded of my favorite Disney movie, 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. The nutshell: Captain Nemo rescues Peter Lorrie and Kirk Douglas after he sinks their ship. He shows them his ultra-modern submarine – The Nautilus – holds them captive and then gets killed by a big giant squid at the end. That was really only half a nutshell. But I love the film and even had the LP when I was a kid which I listened to on a Mickey Mouse record player to no end like a good little Disney zombie. So I guess that’s where the whole squid fascination thing comes from. There are worse things to be fascinated by. Like shiny keychains or Kreskin, for example.

So I was understandably psyched when my parents took me to Disneyland for the first time in the late 70’s – because I knew full well there was a big, glorious 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea Ride waiting there for me. The nutshell: You’d force your parents to wait in line in the hot Florida sun for 2 hours because there were only 2 subs going around on a track which each probably held about 10 people. You’d get in and listen to Captain Nemo take you on a tour of the lagoon, during which you’d see sunken ships, mermaids, Atlantis and yep – you guessed it – a giant squid. It was, in all fairness, a pretty cool ride for 1971. And I always found it incredibly eerie (I made three trips to Disneyland and rode it at least 5 times, the last hurrah being in 1991.)

You can still take a tour of the old ride on a site made by a similarly disgruntled fan here. And this is a page full of horrifying photos a Disney employee made during the old lagoon’s final destruction just this past July. And I have to give full credit to this guy, who has assembled an amazing collection of videos he was sent in by folks who’d taped the ride pre it’s 1994 demise and some great footage from a former Disney employee who worked on ride maintenance (no small feat) for a decade.

So the first thing I asked Janet when she got back from Disneyland Monday was “Is it true that they closed the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea Ride?!” To which she looked at me like she’d just caught me dressing up like Captain Kirk and acting out scenes with imaginary Romulans or whatever they’re called. Which she hasn’t yet, by the way. And then replied simply, “Yes.”

Incidentally, that bastard Eisner has closed Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, too.

Here’s another one of the photos Nick sent me. It’s Ray-Ray in my room at 113 Janefield in Guelph, Ontario – circa 1996. 3 years after this photo was taken, I would return to this house to visit, and find the room painted blue with mirrors all along one of the longer walls. To my dismay, I learned that Venditti had rented the house to a “boy band” and my room had become the rehearsal space. Fer f*ck’s sake.

But at this point in time, it was very much my own. And I thought I’d dissect some of the overabundant decor (keep in mind this is just one wall out of four).

Left to right. Well, there’s Ray-Ray. That’s a Shining poster above his head along the wall with the window. It’s my favorite scene in the movie, when Nicholson is drinking at the bar with the ghostly tender. “I’m the sorta guy who likes to know who’s buying his drinks.” As we move right, you’ll notice 4 Star Wars cups that I got at Taco Bell. Those were always really big with chicks I brought home. The R2D2 to the right of the cups is remote control operated, and I think I got it for Christmas in 1977.

The flags along the top of the room are Players Light promos that I stole from The Brass Taps. Then there’s the enormous Smiths poster behing the entertainment center. Speaking of the Smiths, further to the right are every one of their CD box covers pasted on a bristol board. I was a little obsessed for several years. Then you have the enormous Queen is Dead poster that I always loved.

Above the CD covers is a picture of JFK lodged between 2 more Lush CD boxes. God, they were a great band. I got to see them live once when they opened for Jane’s Addiction in 1991 at the Wallace Civic Center in Fitchburg, MA. Picture of Elvis and a Jerky Boys bumper sticker above that. If you’ve never played Jerky Battleship – do yourself a favor. Suede postcard.

The bookcase – stuffed kangaroo I got in Australia, Gorilla mug I got in Malaysia and stacks of CDs on the top. Books. Huge pile of Cliffs Notes top shelf to the right. And people wonder how I got through University. Bottom shelf, Movie Quotes board game. I think the box of trivial pursuit-esque cards is probably still in the office of the Brass Taps. Further right – metal Walker Muffler sign with John Madden on it. Illegible Sean Connery Goldfinger poster, and a Jamiroquai one below it.

What an interesting little time-capsule. If you’re still awake, frig off.

There have been many memorable thefts, robberies and heists throughout human history. The 1963 Great Train Robbery in England. The Boston Brinks Job which occurred around the corner from my North End apartment in 1950. And the lesser known 1996 pilfering of the cardboard likeness of one certain southern gentleman and fried chicken magnate – Colonel Harland Sanders – from the Kentucky Fried Chicken on Stone Road in Guelph, Ontario.

We were young, and we were tacky. Our house was plastered with beer paraphenalia and movie posters. Many of us were also usually plastered. Our kitchen boasted two huge wall hangings – Bob Marley and De Niro in Taxi Driver. We had a portrait of all the house’s inhabitants hanging prominently in the front hall. The addition of Harlan didn’t seem like such an aesthetic stretch when JJV called a house meeting and hatched his evil plan on that cold day in March. A plan to snatch the Colonel right out of his own sanctuary – KFC.

Jason had been in the KFC earlier that same day, and had immediately become smitten with the life size cardboard cut out of Colonel Sanders which greeted customers just inside the front door. The plan was simple. A textbook snatch-n-grab. Nick, Richie, J and I would pull up behind a fence which bordered the back KFC parking lot. We’d wait in my van, with the engine running, while J ran inside and liberated the Colonel’s effigy.

We thought the plan would go off without a hitch… so it was a good thing that it did. J ran into the restaurant wearing a black wool toque and his best Canadian Tuxedo (full denim ensemble). There was a young girl working behind the counter, and several people waiting off to the side for their orders. Jason simply said “Hello” before grabbing the Colonel, folding him in half and darting back out the front door.

We waited back in the car and snapped some photos of his escape. I peeled out of there like Jim Rockford himself was in hot pursuit, and we took the long way back to 113 Janefield to make sure we weren’t followed. Why we thought that the police, Kentucky Fried Mercenaries or anyone else would be interested in chasing 4 shitheads for a piece of cardboard is beyond me all these years later. But it sure was fun.

… and then there was the time we decided it would be a good idea to head on down to Sears Portrait Studio to have a house photo done. So we did. They didn’t all make the final cut, though. Here are two of the deleted scenes.

In this first one, JJV, Nick, Ray-Ray, Richie and I decided on a prop theme. As the photographer, used to snapping babies and families, watched in horror – we looted through her prop chest and came up with some doozies. I think Ray-Ray still has the camisole.

This next one affectionately became known as “The one where Ray looks like he has down syndrome”. If it were not for that fact, I think this would have been the one we selected for the framed portrait.

And finally, here is the one we chose to have blown up and framed. It hung in our front hall and greeted our guests for 3 years. Guests who usually then shook their heads and said things like “You guys are sooooooo retarded”. This became known as the Goodfellas pose, although I look more frightened than mean. Venditti looks like, well, Venditti. Nick pulls off the “mean Greek” look fairly well, and Ray-Ray and Richie also look convincingly menacing.

Those were good days, boys. Thanks for the memories.