Friday's Quizzlet: Short & Sweet.

Appetizer: Using only 5 words, describe how 2004 went for you.
Loving life but still broke.

Soup: Name something you did in 2004 that you'll probably never do again.
Match.com. There's a petting zoo at the Kimball's in Carlisle if I ever get that sort of urge again.

Salad: What did you learn about yourself in 2004?
I'm quite soluble.

Main Course: What news event from 2004 will stand out in your memory?
Bush winning the presidential election. History will be kind to him.

Dessert: Name something you purchased in 2004 that you really, really like.
My HP Media Center PC. I could gush about it for hours.

Resolution Secrets Revealed: Show Us Your Teats.

My greatest New Year's resolution victory had to have been back in 2001 when I vowed to quit smoking once and for all. I haven't had a puff since. Yes I'm gloating - it's no easy task. Would you like to know how I did it? Should I share my secret here, for the ages? I could probably make millions writing a book or creating a self help DVD, but since I'm in such a good mood today I'll let you in on my little secret. Here's how you quit smoking:

You quit smoking.

If you 'only smoke when you're driving', you'll end up right back puffing a pack a day. If you 'only smoke after a meal', same thing. If you like to light up 'just once in the morning while reading the paper', likewise plan on being right back at that smokey teat within a week. And if you only smoke when you drink, you might as well have never even bothered dropping it in the first place.

Here's the tough straight poopy dope: any iteration of smoking will ultimately lead you right back to whatever sad habit you started with. Once I figured that out, removed it from my life completely and stopped pretending I needed to wean myself off of it like a newborn from a juicy teat it was actually kind of easy. So if you're planning on dancing with the dragon this coming year, I want to say to you, best of luck. And teat, just one more time.

What The Fuck Are Robster Craws?

A few weeks back my friend Brukkake asked me to help him out with an article he was writing. He's a news writer for SearchCIO.com and wanted to put together a fun, year-end piece about what some of his readers thought about current and upcoming movies. Sounds innocent enough, right?



Take a gander at the finished product, Geeks Weigh In On The Best Movies of 2004. Look for a witty jab from yours truly, Mr. " It's Looking More And More Like They'll Find Me Dead Beside A Trunk Full of DVD Porn", in the very last paragraph.

Am I like Booger? A huge dork who doesn't realize he's a huge dork? A giant dweeb who's dweebiness is apparent to everyone except him? A pathetic los... Wait. Don't answer that. Don't answer any of those. Goodnight.

E-Mail Bonding.

In a few days, my old email address (david@pye.com) will no longer function. I've been trying to wean most of you on to the new one, but some folks just don't want to get with the times. So, if you want to stay in touch, update your records. One more time for the cheap seats:

My e-mail address is dave (at) davepye.com!

While we're on the subject, some of you have probably noticed that people have stopped listing their email address properly, and have taken to substituting the @ symbol with something else. For example: bob@smith.com becomes bob (at) smith.com. In case you were wondering, this is because there are untold numbers of automated scripts out there, incessantly surfing the web just to harvest email addresses. These addresses are then sold to companies who will spam the bejaysus out of you. So, if you have a website, and you want your email to remain spam-free, disguise it somehow.

So once again - david.pye.com and david@pye.com are ancient history. There will be a time-capsule-esque link to my old website from this one. Update your address books and your browsers, or risk losing me forever.

Retirement Home Away From Home.

Is this thing on? I'm back - and what a tedious trip that was. It was great to see my friends and family, but the whole week had this dreary let's-drag-Grandma-into-a-nursing-home-kicking-and-screaming element to it that has left me extremely glad to be back in Beantown. Other highlights included:

• Driving 4 hours in a blizzard with violent stereo bronchitis.
• Chastizing my little cousin for telling jokes that would make Don Rickles blush.
• Drinking Doornkaat with a German gentleman and seeing the scar on his leg where he was shot by a Russian sniper whilst digging an anti-tank trench in 1944.
• 5 words: Star Wars DVD Box Set. 13 more words: Never sleeping with a woman again having just admitted my excitement at that.
• Walking into the Albion in Guelph after a 7-year hiatus and recognizing people I knew.
• Driving down old highway 6 with a Tim Horton's in my hand and the Hip on the radio.

So yeah. Canada had its moments. And I'm back. What's on for New Years? Let's get that bastard over with, too.

Downtime For SO Many Reasons.

Just a quick note to let everyone know what to expect from Pye In The Face over the next week or so. First of all, I am currently sick as a dog. I've left my apartment once in the last 3 days to go to CVS for Theraflu and Nyquil. I don't know what prompted this malady, but the timing couldn't be worse. So y'all are going to have to do Wing Night without me.

Wednesday my sister and I are driving 9 hours to Toronto for Christmas. The highlight of which will be placing an elderly relative into a nursing home. Happy Holidays. Then Monday night it's off to L.A. to meet with a client.

The next week is going to be awfully quiet. Far more awful than quiet. Bear with me - I shall return.

I Think My Cat Is IRA.

Boss lost his small, grey mouse - which chirps loudly when he swats it - about a month ago, and nothing I've bought him since has seemed to fill the void. He's been despondent and inconsolable, mewing incessantly about the evils of British imperialism. And then something most unexpected happened.



I awoke one morning last week to see Boss gloating proudly over... is that... could it be... squeaky mouse?! Was he sent off on some secret mission for the Irish Republican Army (it's no secret that Boss has had past affiliations)? Did Boss stage a clandestine raid while I slept to free Squeaky from Al Queda captors?



Obviously not. Cats have short memory spans, and like some kind of feline alzheimer patient, I'm sure he just carried the toy off behind a piece of furniture and forgot all about it. Still, it's fun to imagine that your pet is a secret agent. And to only leave the house during full moons on odd numbered months.

Friday's Quizzlet: Smurf Me, You Dirty Bastard.

This is going to be a short one. Not feeling very humorous today. Loads of work and holiday related stress harshing my mellow, man.

Appetizer: What is something that never fails to grab your attention?
Acts of terrorism, road flares, poutine, small shiny objects and barbed-wire thongs.

Soup: Who was the last person that gave you money?
My Dad wired me some cash in lieu of a birthday present earlier this month. He and my mother are currently spending their summer in a Florida trailer park, so it was a convenient solution. Especially since you can't send deep-fried turkeys, methamphetamines or Jiffy Wine through the mail. The money went to Pixies tickets, and I'll spare you any more gushing about how much I enjoyed those concerts. Thanks be to the 'rents.

Salad: If you were a Smurf, what would your name be?
Where do I start? Here are a few possibilities: Pinty Smurf. Resenty Smurf. Canucky Smurf. Commitmentphobe Smurf. Sanford and Smurf. Tragically Smurfed. I need to stop.

Main Course: Do you believe in astrology? Why or why not?
Not really, although the classic description of a Sagittarius is me to a 'T'. Still, I won't be calling Dionne Warwick anytime soon. Christopher Walken's Psychic Friends is more my speed.

Dessert: Have you seen any snow this year yet?
I saw a few flakes last week, but they melted instantly. The most snow I've seen this year was in a Quicktime movie my sister sent me of her snowboarding up in SugarBush. And I'd like to keep it that way.

Revel In My PS Prowess: Return Of The Wing.

A group of friends and I used to make time every week for 'Wing Night' which was held at the SideBar, usually on Tuesdays. Wing Night would consist of a few pitchers of Pabst and enough chicken wings to be declared a partial poultry genocide. Once Monster and I ate 50 each in one sitting. And, let's just say, we were sitting down again shortly afterwards in more secluded locations. The night eventually grew to include a rotating group of faces, but then died off sharply around 6 months ago. We've recently been discussing its resurrection, and I thought this would be a perfect time to roll out another one of my silly related Photoshops...



What do you get when you marry geeky Tolkienesque fandom with weekly gastonomical hammerings of biblical proportions? Why, Frodo with a Buffalo biscuit, of course. And like a Hobbit to the Cracks of Doom - starting in January I'm bringing Wing Night home again. So prepare yourselves for the very imminent Return of the Wing.

A Righteous Roomate Reckoning.

One of my roomates is parting amicably for reasons of finance. It may also have something to do with all the dead hookers. Regardless, Mardi and I will be needing another... Roomate, that is. I have the hookers covered - With lime in shallow cellar graves for the most part.

If you're interested, know someone who is interested or just have some sort of sick fascination with what the insides of other people's apartments look like, click the linky: 20 Cleveland Place #1

I don't really party like a rock star or kill women of the night, anymore. I think that's important to point out when recruiting a potential occupant. Just don't send that link to your crazy cousin 'OCD Skip', or some girl you know from middle-school who smelt like pee. I've had good luck with roomates thus far, and I'm due for a real disaster. Don't tempt it.

You're Not Making Any Friends Here, Dave.

Today was the first bitterly cold walk to work I've endured this season. We've been lucky for a long time as the weather has been quite warm, quite late. But Old Man Winter has tightened his grip, and it's time to buy another Masque. A quick aside about that wonderful warmth inducing product - remember you're wearing them. Masques will make you look quite scary, and if you barge into a 7-11 wearing one, you might end up at the business end of a 30-30. If you choose to learn this the hard way, your next Kit-Kat may be your last.

But back to what's going to be my hugely unpopular observation for this fine Wednesday - Boston Common, North Station, Haymarket, Downtown Crossing - were all completely devoid of homeless people this morning. I'm not going to cop out and ask rhetorical questions like "Does it make me a bad person if I'm glad the bitter cold has driven all the carrion inside?" I'm going to make a few up front statements that you can take or leave. Or use as justification to firebomb my apartment (we are in Massachusetts, afterall).

If you have a friend, relative or aquaintence that's been struck homeless by mental illness or some other misfortune, I'm not referring to them. What I'm glad to be rid of for a few months are the rude, aggressive drunks that plague this city every summer. I walk back and forth from North Station to the Copley area to work every day, and am asked for money an average of 5 times a trip. Asked is actually not the best word. Beleaguered might be better.

Maybe living in the city for 5 years has chipped away at my empathy to the point where I no longer feel sorry for people who are passed out in the street, covered in their own pee. Maybe it's because that person is sometimes me. But guilt-trip myself as I might, I can't deny how noticeable and lovely the lack of a vagrant presence was this morning. No one held the door for me on my way into the Dunks, I didn't have to brave the park bench gauntlet past the Park Street T-Station and Krazy Kris Kristofferson and Slow-Motion Man were nowhere to be found.

I do actually hope they're all somewhere warm and cozy, being looked after by social services, getting a shower and sucking down some hot soup. But their numbers seem to be multiplying like tribbles - and I hope it's just my mind playing tricks on me. Or the mentholated schnapps.

The Pixies Play Letterman, December 14th, 2004.

So those monkeys that had gone to heaven? Well they finally flew out of my butt.



It wasn't the first time - they performed 'Tame' in 1989 and 'Trompe Le Monde' in 1991 - but it was uniquely magnificent in it's sheer unlikeliness. This time last year, they weren't even speaking. They play the final show of the reunion tour, or The Pixies Sellout as they themselves call it this week. Letterman was a nice capper.

Joey, Charles, Kim and Dave - thanks for a great year. I feel like such a fanboy freak saying that, but I really mean it. Anyone who knows me will contest to the fact that I can die now. Albeit alone.

Back In Effect Like EPMD.

My technical issues of the last few days have been remedied, and I apologize for the lull. When you don't post for a day or two, and you get emails from your faithful readers asking where you've been, it's a nice feeling. But I'll have to let you know because as of right now I'm just guessing.



But why liken my heralded return to the comeback of a pioneering hip-hop group, you ask? Because a four-day blog absence is similar in many ways to dropping out of favor in the rap world. Gold chains are in short supply. You develop a startling dependency on malt liquor. Your clothing ceases to be "fresh". You can no longer claim to have "drama, hoes". I could go on - and I might. After some more malt liquor.

If I were prone to lying, I'd tell you that I spent my downtime pining for the ability to vent publicly online. I'd tell you that my inability to let off steam and share my insights with the world nearly led to an anyeurism of fatal proportions. And if I were a truthful soul, I'd tell you just how much fun you can have playing San Andreas for 8 hours while inadvertantly covering your couch with half-eaten honey roasted peanuts that you can get for $2 a can at the CVS on Hanover Street. And that I will likely die alone having just sort of admitted that is indeed how I spent the majority of my weekend. I suppose the next step is to grow a ponyatil and get a tarantula?

Regardless of my penchant for arachnids and dying alone, I'm back in full effect. And I'll play a little catch up this week, too. So keep watching/looking away uncomfortably. And best rap group ever, while we're sorta on the subject.

I'm Spent. I'm Out. I'm Done.

I am looking forward to this week, simply because I have absolutely nothing planned. No concerts, no birthdays, no nights out, no Christmas parties - nada. I am going to work, sleep, then work again... and it will be lovely in it's lethargy.

My wick is whacked. My midnight oil is burnt. My liver could probably be sold to medical science as a freakishly resilient oddity. I'm thankful for all my friends and the accompanying healthy social life - but I honestly want to move to a cabin in the woods Kazinsky-style, write a rambling manifesto about cheese and speak only to squirrels.

Don't cry for me. There are worse problems to have. But do go and go see Ocean's Twelve. It was surprisingly excellent.

Friday's Quizzlet: A Scumble In The Bronx.

Appetizer: Make up a word and give us its definition.
Balderdash is the best board game ever devised. If you've played it, you already know that the object is to try and bluff/fool your friends into picking your phony definition of a real, but little known, word. One night, senior year of high school, Mike, Kent, Nate and a few others were playing it around my kitchen table. I got the word 'scumble' and defined it as "Any fight taking place in West Concord". When that particular group would get together and play, the game would become about cracking up your friends. That was one of the hardest laughs I've ever had. But I don't want anyone to think we spent our Friday nights sitting inside playing board games because that would be uncool. Not at all - Friday nights were for Dungeons and Dragons.

Soup: What is currently your favorite song?
I've previously stated that pound-for-pound, my all-time favorite song is There Goes The Fear by The Doves. And I imagine it always will be. The Pixies' amazing rendition of Something Against You last night at Avalon would run a close second. But the album I'm currently playing the hell out of at work is Lou Reed's New York. I haven't given it any attention for a decade, and it's still brilliant.

Salad: What's at the top of your Christmas wish list this year?
"My Christmas Wish List" in big, red crayon.

Main Course: Name a scent that reminds you of someone in your life.
Hi Karate always reminds me of a shop teacher I had in grade 7. The rumor was, that this guy had removed the inside of his pants pockets. And had once, while he was holding a piece of wood or a hammer or something, asked a student to reach into his pocket to get a tape measure - where they then found themselves grasping a semi-chubbed giggle stick. This story spread like wild-fire throughout our school, and I always felt bad for the man because he seemed absolutely harmless when I was locked in his office with him looking at Austrian pornography.

Dessert: Who is someone on television that you feel probably shouldn't be?
Jon Stewart. He's adored by hundreds of thousands of young, impressionable people who are too thick to discern real news from satire. And he's violently partisan, which makes it all the more unhealthy. I am the complete opposite of a Jon Stewart fan. Used to go see his stand-up, now all I want to do is see him fall down - on a chainsaw.

Revel In My PS Prowess: The Lawn Boy.

Busy day at work today, but I want to put something up for my loyal minions. I have a collection of silly Photoshops that I've done over the last year and a half, and I thought I'd share a few. Most of them make fun of Monster and/or Bobby - so this should be good for a cruel laugh.

About a year ago, Bobby shared a story with us about how he woke up on his front lawn with his pants off. But who hasn't? I quickly whipped this up and sent it to 100 of our closest friends. The picture of Bobby was taken from a photo of him spinning some woman on a dance floor. I simply took the cha-cha and fashioned it into an incapacitating outdoor hangover.



Then I got a little more creative...



And then it just got downright disturbing...



I have many more silly creations and will do this again the next time I'm strapped for material. Off to the Pixies tonight, then I'm going into hiding to recover from this zany week. Stay real.

Best Birthday Present EVAH.

I'd like to say it was the presence of my close friends at Joe V's in the South End. Or the fact that Bobby didn't show up. But in actuality, it was the SCTV box set. Thanks due to Janet and Adam. Count Floyd be praised.



And another fervent thanks to Katie, who constructed the cake. It had mapley icing, half eaten donuts and Bob & Doug McKenzie on the top. Perfection. Also, Kate and Emily came strapped with a hilarious 'camel-toe' themed card and a book I've been wanting to read. Nice one.



Have a peek above - Emily looks on in sheer horror as Peter busts out his Hellboy. His horns were courtesy of the parmesan cheese and hot pepper dishes. I sincerely hope they washed those. Sincerely.



When I got home, I found my bedroom adorned with balloons and streamers, courtesy of Betsy and Mardi. So thanks again, one and all, for my SCTV themed birthday. I had an amazing time and was only 3 hours late for work today.

Happy Birthday To Me. Again.

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.

The Pixies At Tsongas Arena In Lowell, December 2004.

The fucking Pixies had been removing and cleaning out the heads of everyone you
knew that year and now they were coming to your school. Doolittle was your Sgt.
Pepper’s, the album after which nothing would be the same, the album that would
spawn a thousand imitators, most of them very poor." - Dave Eggers, SPIN Magazine.

There have been some recent miserable moments when I've felt like my youth is truly over. People have slowly gotten married, moved away or otherwise disappeared - and it seems sometimes like our dog-tired glory days have finally crawled to a close. But I looked up at one point this past Wednesday night... and I was with a group of close friends who hadn't been assembled in the same place for many years... and the goddamn Pixies were playing on stage in front of us! I very much felt like Juan Ponce De Leon had just handed me a can of his magical water and forced me to do a shotgun at swordpoint. The years melted away and I was suddenly back in the front seat of my '79 Chevy Malibu station wagon - blaring Surfer Rosa after the football game, on the road to some keg party in Concord. And it was glorious. And I shouldn't have been driving.

I grew up with the guys and gals who surrounded me at Tsongas, and the soundtrack of our young lives was that very same incomprable quartet from Boston. In the car, at the party, on the beach, in the woods - The Pixies were there with us every step of the way. And like old friends who'd vanished without a trace, we never thought we'd see their like again. All of a sudden there we were, and there they were, and it's hard to describe - but we all looked at one another, high-fived, hugged, smiled and realized the gravity of what was taking place. As overdramatic as that must sound to the uninitiated, the concerts in Lowell last week were a special and memorable time for all of us, and we'll be talking about them for years to come.



If you're looking for a setlist or painstaking recount of either concert, Have a look here. There are uber fans on FrankBlack.net that make me look like I slept through both shows - across the street in the back of a car. I went both nights, with a group of about 15 high school friends on Wednesday and my buddy Adam (or the violent gay biker from Halloween as you may remember him) on Thursday. We all met at the Lowell Brewing Company Wednesday night and on the top left you can see Jim, me, Nate, Joanna and Mike gearing up with anticipation and liquor. We headed over to the Tsongas arena around 9:30 to catch the last few songs of the Mission of Burma set. On the upper right you can see PJ in his Nanook of the North jacket, and Ryan plotting the best way to sneak a bottle of SoCo into the venue. Some things haven't changed. And never will.



After an aggressive pat-down and camera confiscation threat, we got inside and heard the first strains of Burma's classic 'That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate'. Burma rocked like 19 years hadn't passed since the last time they toured, and the crowd graciously pretended to know who they were. Let me make a quick comment regarding the abundance of the audience - they were awful. We gathered in a section of the seats because the floor/rink was tightly packed by this time, and were shocked to see the vast majority of people remain seated as the Pixies took the stage and broke into 'Heaven - The Lady In The Radiator Song'. Seated. A few songs and several whiney 'please sit down and don't hurt me' requests into the concert, the 5 rows behind our group were empty as the Johnny-come-lately 20-something hipster 'fans' realized we'd be standing and getting rowdy for the duration. Shame on you people - bring some opera glasses next time to complete your fucking experience.



Jim and Janet pose proudly for a picture above - we all had the biggest shit-eating perma-grins on our faces from the first moment we entered the arena. But some of our grins were enhanced by hydroponics as our crew smoked several different types of plant life throughout the concert. We also screamed, danced, drank and simply horrified most of the people sitting in our midst. A sort of 'real fan vs. poseur' mentality developed which worsened our behavior. I did, however, catch a few people smiling in our direction and spoke to some younger guys nearby who were enjoying our energy. I don't know, however, if they enjoyed my screamed rendition of 'Caribou' visible for posterity on the upper right.



Among the highlights were a slowed down and dirty 'Crackity Jones', an extended version of my very favorite 'Number 13 Baby' and a smoking fast and thunderous 'Something Against You' (which you can see PJ air-guitaring above) that still has my head banging 3 days later. They encored with a superb 'Where Is My Mind', the lights came up and we went back to the brewery a happy band of Pixies punters. The photo on the right was taken shortly afterwards, and you know it's been a memorable night when the designated driver (me) is making a face like an elderly vagrant pressed up between the bars of a protective custody cell. But rest assured, it's Diet Coke induced. I got the also pictured Peter and Adam home in one piece. Well, two pieces actually. They were separated thanks to an innovative medical procedure last year.



Thursday night I went with Adam, who was mistaken 17 times for the former bassist from Queens of the Stone Age - but I think that suited him just fine. We rolled in and got great seats to the left of the stage but again - everyone was sitting down! Who the fuck are you people? We wandered out on to the rink, barrelled our way through the throngs and got pretty close to the stage. We stayed there bobbing and weaving for the rest of the set, and the two concerts ended up very different experiences as a result.

I still have this Thursday's Boston proper date at Avalon to cover, so I'll wrap this up for now. It's my birthday this week, and I'll have ended up seeing the Pixies 3 times in 8 days. That fact is making the dawn of my 31st year just a little more palatable. Unlike Tsongas Arena fried dough. Who am I kidding? I love that shit.

Friday's Quizzlet: Jeffrey Dahmer's Kitten.

Appetizer: Tell about a toy you remember from your childhood.
In 1978 I was given a remote controlled R2-D2 for Christmas. And get this - it went forwards and backwards. So I could pretend I was a Jawa and chase R2, or I could pretend I was some sort of droid-a-phobe and run away from him. I could also aim him directly at my father's shin, hide behind the couch and then let him rip. Yep... pretty much limited to chasing, running from or inflicting bodily harm on parental units. Now I realize why I got nuthin' but Nerf the following year.

Soup: If you could make one thing free for everyone, what would it be?
Healthcare. And Airborne Effervescent Health Formula. It saved my life this week. On a side note, I'm going to be Osama Pye Laden this weekend, so don't bother looking for me. I've had a nagging sickyness for days and days. I just want to relax on the couch, play video games and snort vitamin C. Oh, and then there's the hour tomorrow when I'll be online frantically trying to get tickets for the December 9th show. And those should be free, too.

Salad: How many times per day do you think about your significant other?
Whenever I file my nails, trim my cuticles, read my own palm, use hand cream or practice new shadow puppets. If you didn't like that joke, try this one: I hadn't thought about her in a couple of hours but then I accidentally unplugged my freezer and she began to stink. Damn it, Mai Lin - why couldn't you have just shut your fat Malaysian mouth?

Main Course: Name something you believe in 100%.
That John Kerry is now working as a bartender at the Lowell Brewing Company. He and Teresa must be on the outs. If you don't believe me, go see for yourself. Take in a Lockmonsters game, find some crack to buy and then head to the brewery to see John. He's a little down in the dumps these days.

Dessert: List 3 things you did this year that you would consider a "good deed."
How about 1, demanding quizzlet? I jumped on a grenade just the other night. My roomate had some of her friends in town, and as I was feeling sick I opted to go and spend the night at my sister's - because I knew they'd keep me up and that I'd end up throwing something sharp at them while snot ran down my face. What I got in return was a red wine stain down the length of my stairwell wall, a nasty call from the building manager and a sound scratching from my sister's new kitten who is possessed by the spirit of Jeffrey Dahmer. Fuck a deed.

Holy Fuck I Love The Pixies.

As you all know last night I went to Lowell to see The Pixies, and I'll be doing a write up with some hilarious photos over the weekend. How much did I like it, you ask? I'm going again tonight. So please excuse the blog inactivity, I've been busy recapturing my youth, navigating that most treacherous of Lowells, and rocking the sweet bejaysus out of the Tsongas. Cut me some slack - I'll be 31 in 5 more days. My window of opportunity for juvenile stupidity and debaucherous activity grows smaller by the hour. Or maybe it doesn't. Look at Nick Nolte.

Nate: I almost died drag racing to this song through Concord about 15 years ago.
PJ: Dude, I almost died every time I was in a car listening to The Pixies.

And... scene. See you all tomorrow.

We Don't Have Your Back, But We're Glad You Have Ours.

I didn't write this letter in response to a recent article in the National Review blog, but I wish that I had. Because, like the author, I went to the same sort of painfully liberal Canadian University, and I too have endured the embarrassment of Canada's Swissesque high-and-mighty judgmental lack of support for the United States throughout the last 4 years. Nope, I didn't write it, but I should have. I can still share:

"I just read your Corner post regarding Canada's inferiority complex when it comes to all things American. I am a Canadian myself, and I just want to say that I certainly don't blame you for thinking this way - it's all too true of most of my countrymen, and I imagine it will only get worse as Canada's Europeanization continues apace, and the differences between our two nations becomes more stark.

However, not all of us are so blind. I belong to a small group of Canadians who believe that we are amazingly fortunate to be neighbors with a great nation like the US, and who understand the burden that the US has shouldered in fighting the war on terror. I know that you are fighting primarily to protect your own country - as you should - but the West will benefit from the inevitable victory to come, and there are some folks up here in the Great White North who understand this, and are deeply humbled by it. Your soldiers are dying on foreign soil, and we are all benefiting, and for that we are profoundly grateful. It pains me greatly that we have stood to the sidelines and done nothing but carp while this is going on. America deserves better neighbors and better allies than we have been to you over the past three years, and for that I am truly sorry.

I just though I'd let you know that we Canadians are not all bland collegiate drones in thrall to the gods of the Left. Actually, I went to a liberal arts university north of Toronto, and so I had no problem picturing the two losers whose company you suffered through on your train trip - I was surrounded by them for five years.

Hopefully, things will change. One thing that reading NRO (and Mark Steyn, and James Lileks, and Glenn Reynolds et al) has done for me, is open my eyes and energized me to promote change in the world around me. In the last two years, I've joined the Conservative Party, canvassed during the election, planted campaign signs, answered phones, and eschewed my normal Canadian restraint and started arguing with anyone who will listen (which means my boomer-in-laws, and my parents, who think I'm suffering through some sort of mental episode). I sat at my PC on US election night, and sweated bullets (while perusing NRO and waiting for the results), and was thrilled beyond words when President Bush was returned to office. I can't help you fight the war, or vote for President Bush, but I can't make a difference in my own country, and I intend to do just that.

And so, in closing, this Canadian would like to say: God Bless America, and thanks. And don't count us Canadians out quite yet. There is a well of common sense, and a spirit of resilience up here that simply needs to be tapped."

I wouldn't be at all surprised if the author was a classmate of mine at Guelph. It all rings just a little too familiar - daily protests outside my all-male penis-party dorm, vegetarian dishes taking up half of the cafeteria menu, my beloved Bullring being switched to a patchouli and clove cigarette doused coffee house - but at least this person is home, and attempting to help our collective conscience. I'm a million miles away, cringing everytime some ignorant Canadian politician or journalist opens their moonbat mouth. But I wouldn't be living in Boston if I didn't love and support the USA, so I suppose in the end that's activism enough.

Still, like a proud parent whose child has just farted onstage during the last act of the school play, I love Canada unconditionally. But am still beyond embarrassed.