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Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.

Archives for March 2005

Chris And The Big Sixy-Deuce.


in Movies

Happy Birthday to the crown jewel of American cinema. Walken is 62 years young today! In celebration, have a quick peek at this list of facts and trivia from his fascinating life. Among my favorites:

  • Always tries to work a jig (dance) into his movies.
  • Jerry Lewis influenced Walken to make show business his career.
  • Was George Lucas‘s second choice for the role of Han Solo in Star Wars
  • Worked briefly as a lion tamer in a circus at age 15.
  • Was on Natalie Wood‘s yacht the night she drowned.
  • Only Oscar-winning actor to portray a 007 villain, in A View to a Kill.
  • Along with Alec Baldwin, he has a standing invitation to host “Saturday Night Live” (1975) every year.
  • In his 35 years in film, he has acted in well over 90 films. He rarely turns down a part, under the belief that making movies (whether they turn out good or bad) is always a rewarding experience.
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The Video Cassettes Of Our Lives.


in Reminiscent

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

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

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

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

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Loving Queens Of The Stone Age Right Now.


in Musical

Yes, it’s true – I’m officially a QOTSA convert. Monster and I went to the show at the Roxy last night, and I thoroughly dug the Christ out of it. Them boys can rock.

The new album is their best yet, and the loss of founding member Nick Olivieri hasn’t been the disaster that everyone dreaded. If anything, they’re better than ever and continue to evolve with each new record. The concert was amazing – I didn’t think the acoustics at the Roxy would be anything to write home about, but everything sounded great. Normally I associate the Roxy with house music and bridge and tunnel steakheads, but it’s a nice little venue. Josh Homme has cultivated a really unique guitar sound that really stands out from the pack, and their use of brass and piano completes the audio steroid package. Big fan.

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Easter Sunday Silliness.


in Heartwarming

I’m blogging to you live, all the way from my sister’s apartment in Medford. Jenny, Janet, Damaris, Steven, Aaron and the rest of the gang are currently gorging on Brie, 7-layer dip, Cadbury Creme Eggs and Hypnotiq. Our heavenly father would certainly approve.

Friday night the gang went out for Jim’s birthday and, of course, my camera was in attendance. Big fans of eachother for going on 15 years, my father requested over the phone that I “throw Jim down onto the floor, grab his nuts and then kiss him on the forehead” on his behalf. While that didn’t happen, it certainly was among the nuttiest of evenings. So please enjoy a couple of my favorite snaps as you celebrate this holiest of days.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Go Back To Jersey, Ya Moron!


in Monday's Quotelet

Atlantic City was interesting to say the least. I made it back safely, and I’ll post some photos over the weekend. In the meantime, it seems the Quizzlet lady has recovered from her grave illness as I found the following questions in my mailbox this morning. Also, tonight is Jim’s birthday. Anyone who’d like to join the revelry, please give me a call.

Appetizer: What is the worst movie you’ve ever seen?
I’m notorious for liking some pretty bad movies, so I think anyone who knows me will take this answer with a big ol’ hunk of kosher salt. I do, afterall, own such classics as Tango & Cash, Evil Dead and Salem’s Lot. But to be honest, I didn’t have to contemplate this question for long. The worst movie I’ve ever seen is Fahrenheit 911. Not for reasons of poor cinematic craftmanship. Michael Moore is a talented director. The reason I hated this film is the way in which it was disguised – and worse yet, perceived – as an objective documentary. Triumph of the Will had less of an agenda. Please read this and then this, and I promise I’ll never mention this fetid pile of dung again.

Soup: Name something that reminds you of your childhood.
Photographs, a fear of wooden spoons and a plethora of mental scars. Speaking of scars, I’ve recently been asked several times, by different people, about the one on my eyebrow. While playing Starsky and Hutch at age 8 in Manotick, I slipped and fell whilst in pursuit of a dangerous criminal (Jennifer Snider). My head came flying down on a rusty trailer hitch of all things, and although I was fine I started bleeding like I’d been chainsawed. Jennifer’s older sister, Janet, was babysitting us at the time and the two of us decided to freak her out. I rang my own doorbell and was standing there absolutely soaked in blood when Janet opened the door and promptly screamed. It was the classic make-your-babysitter-think-you’ve-been-grotesquely-dismembered-whilst-under-her-care trick.

Salad: If you had to live in a large city, which one would you pick?
I would, and did, pick Boston. I could never live in the Urban Death Maze, and I don’t plan on heading back to Canada until I get my citizenship – although Vancouver is looking mighty attractive lately. I can only do what I do in a select number of cities, so my choices are fairly limited. As much as I’d love to move to Kentucky, where I could get an eight-story house for one month’s Boston rent, the only thing I could optimize there would be hate crimes.

Main Course: What’s a “big word” you like to use to impress people?
I used to run around with a guy named Andy Kirk when I’d go to visit my parents in Hong Kong. Andy worked as a bodyguard for some rich local, and was known absolutely everywhere to absolutely everyone. He showed my sister and I some of the greatest times of our young lives, acting as our personal tour guide over the Christmas holidays of 1994 & 1995. Doormen and club owners in WanChai, Central and Repulse Bay would look at us and say simply “Hello Mr Andy!” before letting our group cut the line and dodge the cover wherever we happened to be. It was an amazing way to see that mad island, and I’ll be forever grateful.

I still keep in touch with Andy, who currently lives in Manchester England, and a few years back he toured with Oasis as Noel Gallagher’s bodyguard. He IM’d me recently to tell me to get the Familiar to Millions tour DVD as he appears on it several times. Needless to say I ran out and got it, and sure enough – there’s Andy in a few scenes looking all big and bloody mean. Anyway, Oasis plays a great song called Acquiesce during the concert. I had never heard of it, as it was an obscure B-side to one of their later singles. Eventually I got around to looking up the meaning of the word – as prior to hearing the tune I had no idea it even existed. The simple definition is to “consent or comply passively or without protest.” So watch for me attempting to slip that word into conversations in the near future. And then beat me unmercifully when I do.

Dessert: Describe your hairstyle.
Tragic. I recently bit the bullet and had it cut after attempting for a few months to grow it out. When I was told last week that my hair resembled Bill Murray’s in Scrooged, I knew it was time to seek out that striped pole.

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Is Easter Still Politically Correct?


in

I don’t want anyone to feel as though I’m pushing my religion on them, so please don’t take offence when I wish everybody a very Happy Easter. Unless you’re an insurgent Islamic fundamentalist – in which case I wish you and yours a swift death at the hands of an Apache Longbow.

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Well They Blew Up The Chicken Man In Philly Last Night.


in

My first foray into Atlantic City kicks off in about 8 hours, and I’ll be without access to email or my precious blog for a couple of days. Whether I’m in an important business meeting, writing an addendum to our proposal or getting slapped around in the back room of a casino – I’ll be thinking about each and every one of you.

So go on without me, dear readers, and I’ll see you on the flipside.

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Boston’s Beloved Bartenders


in Heartwarming

This year’s Improper Bostonian Beloved Bartender Edition hits the stands tomorrow, and I’m scanning the bejeezus out of my advance copy as I type. The SideBar‘s very own Sharon Cannava graces the cover of this year’s edition, and we’re all buzzing with a ‘local girl does good’ sort of a feel (and 4 Juicy Peaches). Regardless – way to go, girl! But I’m actually dreading all this new found publicity because the place will be even more jammed than usual from here on out. At least I’ll be able to tell my Grandkids I was hanging out there before it was cool – before then telling them to hurry up and change my dialysis bag.

The little SideBar blurb is surprisingly accurate, and really captures many of the things we regulars dig about the place: “Between the career networking and hooking up that goes on, the bar fosters friendships that give it a Cheers-for-twentysomethings feel” I’d wager that the author must have been there after 6pm, however, cause if they’d been there during the day it would have been much more of a “depressing hangout for-career drunkards who spend their welfare checks on Bud Lite Drafts feel“. Still, we love that shite hole dearly.

If Sharon’s being featured wasn’t enough of a treat, my old Concord Carlisle class of 1991-mate Mark Tibbets was also chosen for his undying work and devotion over at The Harp: “I just can’t give it up. These people are like my family“. What do you mean by that, Mark? Harp customers disowned you and made you sleep in the garage? And, of course, frequent Pye In The Face contributor P-Cip made the list again as usual. So congrats, all you Pernod pushers and peach schnapps peddlers – It’s a tough, thankless and curiously addicting racket. We salute you.

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A Concord Sabbatical.


in

I went out to C-Town on the spur of the moment Friday night, and stayed until late Sunday. I didn’t click a mouse, drink anything other than seltzer water, worry about work or otherwise obsess for about 36 hours – and it was lovely. I abandoned any additional zany St. Patrick’s day related plans, after the debaucle that was Thursday night, and I decided to get all ‘small-towny’ for the remainder of the weekend.

I lived in Concord from 88-95 and have developed a real affinity with the place. To this day, I like to try and get out around once a month – Many of my friends still live in town and there’s always people to see and places to stay. It’s amazing how much fun hiking, dog-walking and bonfire-building can actually be. City living must be getting to me after 5 years.

I guess I’m feeling more and more like it’s time for me to stop bathing, move into a secluded cabin in the woods and start writing my manifesto. The accompanying letter bombs and anthrax Fed-Exes will come in due time.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Hit Me With Your Best Shot.


in Monday's Quotelet

Here is what I found when I sought the quizzlet this morning:

“This week’s Friday’s Feast is cancelled due to my having a terrible sore throat, fever, and headache. Come back next week for Feast 40!”

What a friggin’ wimp. Anyway, the last time I started asking myself questions, I was strapped to a mattress and placed under observation for three days. So I invite you, dear reader, to supply me with quizzlet questions today. Post a comment, and I’ll get back to you.

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File Under Fuck, Yeah!: Digable Planets Reunite.


in

Nate just hipped me to the fact that the Dig Plans are back, baby. I spent many nights in my gazebo in the summer of ’92 rocking their first album – and was also one of the few people who also bought and enjoyed the follow up, Blowout Comb. If you’re unfamiliar, picture ‘hip-hop-meets-that-weird-kid-in-your-class-that-used-to-eat-paste’.

The ticky ticky buzz the sun winks the sky,
I fumble through my fuzz and buzz mr. i .
Tell him scoop the beats in the flying saucer kit,
meet me at the port with the nickel bags and shit.

I shouldn’t be as excited as I am. But I am.

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Kiss Me. I’m 1/10th Irish On My Mother’s Side.


in Heartwarming

I’m seeing the green shirts, and the leprechaun hats, and the inflatable Guinness pints and I’m thinkin’ that my first St. Patrick’s Day as a civilian in four years is going to be quite the greenish gasser. There are few better places to be on this wondrous day. You’ve got Belfast, and then Dublin, Boston and New York with Chicago rounding out the top five – in very particular order. But I have a little shamrock in my craw today, as I always do on March 17th, and it stems from the fact that everyone who has ever so much as touched a U2 cassette will be running around maniacally professing their dodgy Irish heritage. I want a shillelagh and I want it now.

The last four years I have come out of retirement to work the door at Tiernan’s and have thoroughly enjoyed it. But I have to take an entire day off to do so and I’m also starting to feel more and more like Sgt. Roger Murtaugh. I’m too old for this shit. Regardless, there’s no place I’d rather be on St. Pat’s and I’ll be dropping in after work for a couple hours. Also, be sure to check out the magnificent dancing leprechaun I’ve added to their website to mark this delightful day of days. Dee-lightful.

In working those four St. Patrick’s Days, I learned a few important lessons. Cleaning up trampled cabbage at the end of the night is not something to look forward to. Large inflatable leprechaun hats lose a lot of their charm once they’ve been on your living room wall for a week. Know when to duck. But most memorably I’ve learned that people with questionable links to Ireland like use being Irish as an excuse to act like a complete cunt. So for all of you who have a half Irish grandparent who died before you were born, but will be running around today like you’re Brendan bloody Gleeson on mescaline, I have a few important points I’d like you to remember:

1. You don’t have an “Irish Temper”. You’re simply an asshole who’s never been further outside of the United States than Niagara Falls. The American side.

2. Your red hair is as likely due to your parents having had sex in a front of a hotel television set playing a Carrot Top HBO special than any smidgen of Irish heritage. You were born in Methuen and your father is Jewish.

3. The fact that you’ll get red-faced tonight after 3 pints has nothing to do with “the Irish in you”. It’s called an alcohol flush and it means you’re either a piss-head, a diabetic or an Asian. Rarely all three at once. Another 2 pints and you’ll be punching out your boss, so it’s probably time to head home. I saw it happen and then broke it up two years ago.

4. St. Paddy’s is more about savoring a Guinness and listening to some traditional music with friends – and less about shotgunning a sixy of Natty Lite before putting your head through a plate glass window in the financial district. I wish I were kidding, but I’ve definitely seen some confusion surrounding this point in the past.

Have a great, safe time tonight everybody. And one last word of advice – The parade doesn’t actually start until Sunday. Marching down West Broadway at 4 a.m. tomorrow with your pants around your ankles is likely to get you PC’ed. Regardless of whether or not you’re carrying a baton.

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The Kitten Had Two Faces.


in

Deuce, the two faced kitten who was born last week in Florida, has died. And I don’t mean she was prone to back-stabbing or gossip – “Pepper left a huge turd in the litterbox last week and didn’t bury it. But don’t tell Snowball you heard that from me.” No, I mean the baby cat literally had four eyes and two noses. All of her internal organs were intact, and the local vet fully expected Deuce to live, but she’s gone to that big scratching post in the sky and nobody knows exactly why.

The kitten was nursing from it’s mother teats with the left mouth, but would occasionally try and get the right one open. So it sounds to me like the poor little bugger might have had two brains to boot. She was due for an MRI next week, but unfortunately we’ll never know what was happening in her little furry head. Godspeed, Deuce, and I hope you and Bubba have lots to talk about.

“Then this one time, Muffin sprayed all over the living room couch and I was the one who caught the spray-bottle beat-down. I swear to God, if she takes my window spot near the birdfeeder one more time – it’s fucking on.”

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