Archives for December 2004

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.

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.

Those who are looking for a new home don’t know many of the benefits of modular homes. There are a lot of different types of homes including prefab homes which are great for first time buyers. With manufactured homes, you can choose from many different homes and designs for your modular home.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.