A Public Apology To Chris Cornett.

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.

DNC Is Coming To Town: Reporting For Duty.

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."

DNC Is Coming To Town: Freedom Trail Follies.

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."

Herb Gets A Woody (Harrelson).

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."

Exclusive: Bob Saget Cock Block Blocked.

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.

DNC Is Coming To Town: Horse Puckey.

Horse puckey! That's not a personal comment on the state of our fair city at the moment, so much as an observation. There are road apples everywhere! There are Democrats everywhere! In fact, you can't pick up and throw a road apple without hitting a Democrat (as I learned earlier today before a short visit to precinct 11). 



Horses are out in numbers in an equestrian show of force. Children love them and terrorists fear them. I once heard about an unreleased episode of Mr. Ed where Wilbur was accused of harboring a Taliban warlord. Mr. Ed took the term WMD (Wilbur Must Die) to heart and it nearly spelt the end of the series until the plot idea was scrapped in favor of Ed giving free rides at a birthday party instead. 



The boys in blue - and their long faced, saddled and very continent counterparts - are on the case. Even though I nearly ruined a new pair of shoes this afternoon, I'll take dirty treads over a dirty bomb any day of the week. Here's what I say to 80 million dollars worth of security: "Yes, please". I didn't ask that my backyard be invaded by this circus. I have one more thing to add: "Hi ho Silver - all you conventioners please go - away!"

Sunday Night Insomnia.

I can set my watch by it. Sunday night rolls around, I've watched everything HBO has to offer (how the hell did they ever get Pat Buchanan on Ali G. by the way?) and I can't fall asleep. I bought this stuff called Alluna a while back. It's a herbal sleeping pill or something. There are as of yet undiscovered tribes, in the heart of the Peruvian jungle, who could have told me it wouldn't work.

The dodgy marketing language should have been my first warning. "It works by helping you relax so you drift off to sleep naturally." How about helping me to sleep so I can drift off to sleep naturally? How about a non perscription sleep aide called "Sledgehammer to the back of the skull"?

I'm sick of TV, I've read every book in the apartment and I'm just about ready to see how long playing Monopoly against myself might be interesting. I even read The DaVinci Code last month God forbid. The success of that book just astounds me. People who normally can be found reading... well... People, have told me proudly that they read it and loved it. And I usually just want to tell them to maybe keep that to themselves. To stop helping to deify the mundane.

I'm guilty of reading my fair share of trendy books-of-the-minute, but I realize that I shouldn't run around singing their praises like I've just discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls - lest folks think I'm a moron. There's a sample I've always loved from an old 3rd Bass record (file under white, Jewish 80's hip-hop). I don't know where they lifted it from. "He's stupid, but he knows that he is stupid. And that almost makes him smart."

And if you think what I wrote sounds a wee bit pompous, remember: I just admitted I still listen to 3rd Bass.

Get Up. Get Out Of Bed. And Let's Party.

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.

Still Bananas In Barrie.

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.

DNC Is Coming To Town: Fleet Center Infiltration.

Who left the screen door unlocked? Atlanta's own Boston Blogger gets inside the hornet's nest for a podium's-eye-view. Living proof that Dems will vote for anyone. As long as their last name has nothing to do with shrubbery.



"And I vow that the American family will have two chickens in every pot, two 40's of Crazy Horse in every pantry - and the entire Brand Nubian discography in every CD player."

The Return Of The Speckled Trout.

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.

DNC Is Coming To Town.

We want Santa Claus back. Immediately. The Democratic National Convention has arrived.

My friend, The Boston Blogger, works for CNN and is in town from Atlanta for a week covering the convention. He will sit in a sweaty editing truck for 18 hours a day outside the Fleet Center before returning to the North End to haunt my couch. I'd forgotten all about the convention, and when he called last night to say he'd arrived in Boston I briefly panicked - it's on.

I walk to work everyday, nearly clear across Boston proper from the North End to Copley and back again. During my pilrimage this morning, I saw a number of things that snapped me back into reality and reminded me what the next week is going to be like for urban dwellers. You know the DNC is in town when:

1. The Boston Globe has people giving away today's edition for free all over the city as if it were The Metro. Fish markets everywhere rejoice.

2. There are college kids spreading 900 pairs of empty Army boots across the steps of Government Center, tagged with soldier names under the title "An artistic Representation of the Costs of the Iraq War". Subtle, guys. I don't suppose those boots would have been of more use to Boston's homeless? Paging Dr. Shoals.

3. Boston's homeless are surprisingly absent, while we're on the subject. Usually converging on Boston Common near Park Street, none of my favorite characters were in residence this morning. Not Slow Motion Man, not Kris Kristofferson, not Stinkles - none of the folks I've come to know, give demeaning nicknames, and love were to be seen. This is amazing. Have they been bribed and shipped to Nahaunt? Will anyone in Nahaunt notice?

4. Hari Hari. Krishnas on the Common. Whacking drums and chanting about unconditional peace - straight out of Airplane. "Don't you tell me which zone is for loading, and which zone is for unloading." "Look Betty, don't start up with your white zone shit again."

5. The Freedom Trail gets a facelift. And has been extended to run the length of the Boston Common's Tremont St. pavement. And is fuggin' ugly. I tiptoed around the cones surrounding the wet paint on my way through and immediately thought of Jamaican beer. Attention Boston public works: "Jamaican me crazy!"

This topic isn't deceased - not by a longshot. I am going to strive to keep this blog apolitical, but it's going to be difficult for the next week. Great Kerry's Botox, it's going to be difficult.

Kitty No Likey.

Thanks to Linda for forwarding me this story:

"My sister-in law is from Oklahoma and has a slight accent. She has cats and when she lived in the south she would take them to the groomers and have what is called a Line Cut. To her a line cut is when all of the fur hanging down below the cat's tummy is taken off (because it gets matted or snarled).

   
 
When she moved to Chicago with my brother, one of the cats fur got all tangled up during the move so she took it in for a line cut. She was quite surprised when she heard the price as it was twice as much as it was down south. She confirmed with the groomer that he understood what a line cut was and he said 'yes, I know what a LION cut is'. 
 
It seems her accent came out sounding like LION not LINE and this is how her cat was returned to her. She cried for a week...but not as much as the cat. It was November in Chicago and the cat needed all the fur it had."

Wow. That cat is PISSED. Please folks - No p*ssy trimming jokes. You're better than that.

Extolling Virtues: The Fark Photoshop Contest.

Few things give me more workplace joy than the occasional glimpse at Fark.com. It's the best collection of news links from around the web - all done with a humorous twist. Every day they have several Photoshop contests, where site members are given a theme (Photoshop your favorite actor/actress into Star Trek in an effort to save the franchise, What the USA would look like if it had never left the British Empire, etc.) that they have to visualize in the form of an uploaded - and drastically altered - photograph.

There are several recurring popular elements - Christopher Walken, A squirrel with huge testicles, Michael Jackson, George Bush and Michael Moore being standards. Some of the "Farkers" as they call themselves come up with ideas that will have you rolling on the floor. And the prize for winning? Bragging rights among your fellow dorks. Or, "Forks" as I call them. But they're a sharp bunch who make me giggle every day. Check it out. 

Trailer Park Boys Lament.

I have spoken to several of my American friends here in Boston who have seen Trailer Park Boys on BBC America. Apparently the episodes are being ripped to shreds by the censors. I can no sooner imagine watching TPB full of bleeps than I can Eddie Murphy's Delerious or Slap Shot. It cripples the show and I'm very sad because this incredibly funny and original Canadian export is not going to get the fair shake it deserves with American audiences.

 +  =

Blame Miss Jackson (yes, I'm nasty) and her left breast. I just read an interview with TPB's creator, Mike Clattenburg, where he said the show was originally contracted to run uncensored -  but BBCA changed their minds after the Superbowl Halftime debacle.

TPB has been shot in the foot and is doomed to fail for the same reason the proposed American version of The Office will never work. The creative cussing, colloquialisms and East Coast Canadian vernacular are a large part of what makes the show so endearing, funny and - dare I say - special. They've taken the heart and soul out of TPB and I implore anyone who cares to download an episode from the file sharing program of their choice to see it as it was intended.

30 Tall Tales #1: Malaysian Spider Monkey Mishap.

This is the first in a series of thirty of my best stories - one for every year I have been alive. Every word of this series will be true. Every detail accurate to the best of my memory. Truth is always stranger than fiction.

Holy Christmas. It was December 25th, 1995. I knew my day was destined to be weird when I awoke in a hotel room in Kota Kinabalu Malaysia, turned on the TV and learned that Dean Martin had died.

German tourists are the bane of my father's existence. If you run into one couple in your hotel lobby, rest assured there's at least another hundred nearby - as they always travel in large packs. They have this infuriating strategy of getting up before dawn, going down to the pool area of whatever resort they're occupying to "claim" every available chaise lounge for Germany - by laying their towels over them. Then they go back to their rooms to continue to sleep off all of the schnitzel and Rumplemintz from the night before. Usually until 11 am. A Beach Blanket Blitzkrieg.

+ =

On vacation the year before, close friends of my parents - who shall remain nameless - snuck out right after all the Germans had returned to their beds to rearrange the towels into an enormous swastika. My father's tactics are just slightly more subtle, and after he threw the towels of four still slumbering krauts into a pile on the patio, we sat down and set about discussing what we would do that day.

Resort pamphlets had advertised a tour where a guide takes your party by outboard motorboat around the South China Sea to a series of nearby islands. We located the dock where a group of fellow tourists was gathering and signed up for the next sortie. Soon two native Malaysians appeared with life jackets, fishing line and a cooler then instructed us to climb aboard.

The guide's name was Raphael, or "Raffi" as we began to refer to him. I am not sure if he appreciated the nickname, but we'd never met someone with the same name as our beloved Canadian children's singer. Raffi took us around to an island where we swam and were assured "No sharks, 100%!". I pulled on some fins and a mask and started chasing a squid to see if I would get inked. Then we fished with spools of line and pulled out some of the freakiest looking aquatic specimens this side of Atlantis. But nothing could prepare me for my lunch on "Monkey Island".

Raffi and his assistant grabbed the cooler and led us to an area where they started to prepare lunch. The island was about two square miles in size, with sandy beaches and a steep hill in the middle covered in jungle. I wandered away from my family, small disposable Kodak in hand, to explore a little bit. I came across a Japanese man and his son who were staring up at a tree and laughing. He reached into a bag and pulled out a piece of watermelon before throwing it straight up into the air. I followed the path of the watermelon's flight and noticed a monkey sitting in a high branch staring off into space. When the watermelon got up to him, he snatched it out of the air while looking in the opposite direction. The three of us had a giggle and I continued on my way. That's when I noticed that the island was literally crawling with spider monkeys.

Used to stupid tourists with "food source" stamped on their foreheads, a large pack of monkeys with absolutely no fear of humans stood in the tree line of the jungle - dashing out occasionally to steal apples, bags of chips, whatever was left unattended. I remembered the small Japanese child I had just met and wondered if he might end up a series of large monkey turds.

The little buggers seemed small enough, and I decided to follow a path into the jungle not particularly concerned by potential primate problems. Erosion and tree roots had created a natural staircase up the side of the hill and it cut through the dense surrounding jungle. I reached the top and followed another path until I got within sight of the beach where everyone had started eating. I had just decided to head back when I heard a loud "EEEEP!" coming from my left.

I turned around and came face to face with a nest of ten spider monkeys. They were quite upset at my intrusion, and were walking back and forth and staring at me. A large male appeared from behind them and began sizing me up. He looked pretty funny with his little moustache, beard and bushy eyebrows, but I knew right away he was this particular monkey pack's "goon" and I should probably think about high tailing it. But I had to get a picture.

Anyone who has ever used a plastic disposable camera knows that when you wind the film it makes a loud clicking sound. This was news to the monkey posse, and when I started cranking the spool forward, the screaming increased and the enforcer moved forward. He bared his signifigant toothage at me and charged. Here are the two photos I managed to take before the monkey business began.



There was a forgettable film released in 1995 called Congo. I had just seen it, and one scene in particular jumped into my mind. Scientists hiking through the jungle stumble across a huge gorilla who subsequently charges them. The guide tells them to "Stay still and don't move a muscle" in the face of this enormous creature. They manage to do so, and the Gorilla stops in front of them and then scampers.

My new little monkey buddy was a far cry from a gorilla, but all I could picture were those teeth sinking into my calf as I attempted to run away. So I made a grumpy face, stared into it's eyes and stood my ground. The monkey closed the distance between us in about 2 seconds flat and then stopped at my feet - staring up into my face. When it became apparent he was all "EEEEP" and no bite, I stomped my foot and screamed back at him, sending the whole crew packing into the jungle like the starters pistol of the Boston Marathon.

Dear readers, I hope that I've imparted some monkey wrangling wisdom you can take with you on your next trip to New Guinea, the Amazon, a Dave Matthews concert - anywhere there might be large groups of shirtless apes waiting to start trouble.

Good Roomate Hunting.

I have met 8 people in the last 48 hours who want to live with me. It's not a decision to be taken lightly and it's a bit frightening, truth be told. So I line them up, one after the other, and try and get a sense of who they are. A sense of what type of music will be blasting out of their room on a daily basis. A sense of how often I'll come home to an apartment full of their friends. A sense of what discussion topics I can expect. A sense of purpose. A sense of pride. The will to live.

The following are all direct quotes taken from the interviewees, and the subsequent grades I marked beside their names in my potential roomate notebook:

I went all the way to the Coachella festival to see the Pixies. A+
This guy was cool, but I think he Googled me before he came over because our likes were just a little too similar. Eerily so. I was waiting for him to tell me that he was secretly Canadian, raised in Manotick and had a father named Gord. Actually, you can't spit in Canada without hitting someone named Gord. Bad example. But don't spit on my Dad unless you have good health insurance. Wait, everyone in Canada has health insurance. Dad - get an umbrella.

My boyfriend won't like that I'm living with a guy. C-
Attractive, pleasant girl. But my name was in the roomate ad. Perhaps she thought "David" might be a girl's name in inner-city neighborhoods. "Stevie! Did you see the friggin' rack on David?" I want the half hour I spent listening to you talk about your boyfriend back. And (as an aside) a steak sandwich.

This is an interview? I might not get to live here if I want to? F
No, this is a homeless shelter - and I welcome any mentally deficient pee wafting vagrant off the street who might need a place to crash with open arms. Just pay me the rent when you get around to it. No pressure. What - you didn't bring your suitcase with you?

Wish me luck people. If you don't hear from me for awhile, it's because I let Dahmer move in with me.

Blogging in Boston.

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.