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Separated At Birth? Robert Downey Jr. and Slick.


in Reminiscent

My friend and former Guelph roomate, one Slick, has scanned and emailed me a bunch of photos from those crazy years, many of which I’ll be sharing here on the site. Now, you probably remember when Robert Downey Jr. was arrested for the first time back in 1996. Due to the frenzied media coverage, the inhabitants of 113 Janefield Ave couldn’t help but notice Slick’s startling resemblance to the fallen star. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Robert Downey Slick Jr.

Luckily, the bags under Slick’s eyes stem from many all night study sessions and not the freebasing of crack cocaine in stranger’s homes. Well, at least that’s what he told us.

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Introducing Graceland North.


in

My parents are attempting to build a house on 2 acres of land near Portland Ontario. It’s been a long, arduous process which has taken four summers now. Thursday, they finally broke ground with an approved blueprint and the blessings of Parks Canada (or the Lake Nazis as my father calls them) and we were there!

Here are the first shots of our new as-of-yet-unamed house (I’m leaning towards “Graceland North”):

Note the awesome view of the Big Rideau Lake in the left photo, and the trailer in the background on the right. That trailer has been their home since we sold our house in Marlboro in 2000, and I for one am extremely excited to have a house – or even a muddy pit as the case may be. OK. As the case is – back in the family once again.

And let’s talk about my father’s new glasses for a moment. We spent the weekend calling him a mix of Corrado Soprano (left) and Bubbles (right) and he gleefully posed (in character, mind you) for both photos.

Speaking of Bubbles, I now have my little British cousin, Josh – thoroughly addicted to Trailer Park Boys. We watched every episode of seasons 1 & 2. And the outtakes. And the deleted scenes. Then we just stared at the DVD case for a while. I may have an obsession. But there are worse things to be obsessed with. Like clown porn, for example.

A more healthy obsession of mine has got to be garlic. I’ve loved it since I was old enough to say the word, and when our neighbors and longtime friends Steve and Judy (who own a beautiful house just down the road from our bomb crater) suggested we take a trip to the Perth Garlic Festival on Saturday, I was in the car faster than you can say “Sweet mother of God, what is that awful garlicky stink?”

When we paid our $5 and got inside, I noticed an abundance of chip wagons – and knew there must be poutine in the vicinity. Chalk up another new vice for Josh. But it’s hardly surprising since he’s used to English food and I’ve seen him go nuts for boullion cubes. After we “shared” an order (notice him murdering a few forkfulls on the left while Janet makes a strange face in the background) I got my own and kept him at bay with threats of grevious bodily harm. Then, the fever spread and Janet got herself a batch which Josh then proceeded to pilfer. The two of them were lucky enough to get their picture taken with “Clovey”, the festival mascot. It’s good to see Clovey back on the garlic circuit after his well publicized battle with heroin, which I’m not going to retread here.

It was also my parent’s 38th wedding anniversary this past weekend, and Steve and Judy hosted a wonderful Retsina/Port/Merlot/Champagne fueled dinner which was more fun than I’ve had in a while.

After dessert was cleared away, my parents shared conflicting accounts of the night they met. My mother’s version involves a city called “Fruitland“, a sock hop and another man. My father’s spin features cutting someone off in his Plymouth, student nurses and guarding a case of beer with his life. The line that went on to win my mothers’ heart?: “If I give you a beer, will you shut up?” My sister and I agreed – our conceptions were the holiest of miracles.

We wrapped up the trip with a good old-fashioned camp fire for which Janet and Josh went out in search of S’More fixings. Unable to find the traditional graham crackers and Hershey bars, they improvised with chocolate chip cookies and Aeros. I got a cavity just watching them try to slap them together once their marshmallows were roasted. And insanely jealous as well as fatter.

The swimming, the boating, the holiday hijinks – it’s all over for another summer. But I dare not shed a tear, as I know that next summer Graceland North will be in full effect. And I won’t have to worry about sleeping on an outhouse floor to get away from mosquitos. That’s artistic license, of course, as I stayed in a comfy bed at Steve and Judy’s and the closest I came to roughing it was watching 48 Hours in French.

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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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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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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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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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Exclusive: Bob Saget Cock Block Blocked.


in Heartwarming

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.

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Blogging in Boston.


in Pye in the Face

My website, david.pye.com, has been a labor of love for the past 5 years and a great way to keep in touch with those that give a budgie’s hindquarters. It takes more time than I have to keep it properly updated – and believe me, when I don’t add anything new for a long period of time I hear about it. It’s nice to be wanted. Not like in a Dr. Richard Kimball sort of way, but… I’m sure you get my point.

So the site is evolving, and this blog will be center stage from now on. I’ll add the odd gallery and keep everything in place that’s currently part of the site, but this page will become the heart and soul. The epicenter. The Matrix. Ernest Goes to Jail. Ishtar. Where was I?

Right. I can share my musings when they strike, post photos I think y’all might like to see and even interact with anyone who chooses to post a comment. I can do it quicker, easier and more frequently than when my site was just clunky HTML.

So hold on tight and brace for the blogging. Or don’t. In fact, watch this video clip instead. It’s one of the funniest things I have ever laid eyes on, and my gift to you.

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