Category Archives: other

We’re An American(a) Band

We used to play electro-punk,
Then tried out zydeco-funk.
But none of these things got us signed.
Another genre we did find!

We did an image overhaul,
And donned some dirty overalls.
We lifted from Neil Young’s “Harvest.”
Let’s go into a gang chorus:

Hey hey hi-yi hey-oh!
Ki-yi-yi yippee yi yay-oh!
Stomp your feet and yell oh ho!
That’s the way these songs all go!

We found a guy who played great fiddle.
And dabbled in washboards a little.
But he would not grow a beard.
Our interest in him disappeared.

We sing of backroads and old barns,
And spin our country bumpkin yarns.
Except that we all met at Choate.
But – hey, to some that’s quite remote.

Plastic Paddy’s Wake (and Bake)

(to the tune of “Finnegan’s Wake”)

Plastic Paddy lived on Linden Street,
A mutt with a tinge of Irish blood.
His North Shore accent wicked sweet
and in his life, smoked too much bud.
So he had a sort of a tipplin’ way
With a love for jäger bombs he was born.
And to help him get to class each day:
Sambuca in his Dunkies ev’ry morn.

CHORUS:
Chug, Chug, Chug, bro, let’s do shots
’til you hit the floor and your stomach aches.
Dudebro, it’s a rager here
At Plastic Paddy’s wake and bake!

One night he shotgunned too much beer.
His head felt heavy, which made him shake.
He fell from the second floor balcony
And they gathered around to help him wake.
They moved him to the futon
where they slapped him twice upside the head.
Someone panicked, “Call the cops!”
when they felt for sure that he was dead.

(Repeat Chorus)

His friends assembled in the living room
And Dave O’Reilly called for shots.
Whiskey, cream, and Guinness chugged,
then finished with a rip of pot.
Maggie McDonald flipped her shit:
“I’m so fucked up, but seriously
we should probably call the cops.”
“Yo, that bitch is tweakin’!” yelled Al Giovanni.

(Repeat Chorus)

Then Suzy Kaplan spoke up with haste:
“You’re killing the buzz, so there’s the door.”
Maggie then gave her a slap in the face
And left her sprawling on the floor.
Then the war did soon engage;
‘Twas woman to woman and man to man.
The kegger war broke out in rage
and a violent riot soon began.

(Repeat Chorus)

Then Teddy Davis ducked his head
when someone threw a can of Natty.
It burst beside the futon bed
and the beer exploded all over Paddy.
Paddy revives, see how he rises!
Paddy risin’ from the futon!
Says, “Whoa. Shit. I’m good now, bro.
Let’s do car bombs! Party on!”

(Repeat Chorus)

Lunchtime

The mid-March weather was crisp and cool, but the sun was shining strong enough that you could get away with a light jacket, so I put on my favorite armor, a grey Dickies Eisenhower that I got back in my punk rock days, before I sold out and became a poorly paid private investigator. I had dressed it up with patches of all the founding fathers — Black Flag, Minor Threat, Op Ivy, Aus-Rotten though I never even listened to that shit, DK, and of course the presidential crest of Johnny, Joey, DeeDee, and Tommy. It was a nice reminder of where I’d come from — maybe how far I’d come since then — and also made me look tough when I was working a case.

The changing seasons also did a number on my bad knee, so I grabbed the shillelagh that I used for a walking stick. It was my da’s from his time with the Irish Guard. He’d tried to train me in bataireacht when I was younger, but when you’re twelve years old there are few things sound as lame as ancient Irish stick fighting. I realized that he would’ve retired this year if he were still alive. I wondered how that worked for the Good People on account of they didn’t really age.

The air outside smelled like shit and sodium and made me strangely nostalgic for The Short Bus, the old tour van that we had when I was playing in The Invisibles. It was actually a converted Type A school bus, so the name was still accurate, if terribly offensive. That old clunker ran on diesel, but for just a few hundred bucks, we made it work with old recycled cooking oil that we got from Chinese restaurants. That’s how I knew Yan, the guy who owned the building where my office and ran the restaurant downstairs. Apparently waste disposal costs a lot of money when you’re frying up that much pickled dog meat or whatever, so we did him a favor and took it off his hands for free. We were kind of a Lifetime-esque hardcore time, and of course we were all vegans at the time. We thought we were stickin’ it to the man and fighting back against oil corporations. Of course, none of us seemed to mind that we were using animal fat to run our van. Or that we were making fun of kids with special needs.

Looking back, that was a very dark time in my life.

I headed east up Essex Street towards the Common, past the cracking roads and crumbling buildings that stood adjacent to the luxury condos that had spread like a virus through the heart of downtown Boston. Gentrification was a weird and wicked beast. I saw Eunice at the intersection of Chauncy and Harrison and waved. She responded with a tiny nod. “Eunice” was just the name I’d given to the little Korean lady with the shopping cart full of empties that she pushed around the city. Her and I had established a kind of repartee over the years, so I felt like she deserved a name. After all, I was one of her biggest donors, and she seemed to recognize me every time I found her scrounging through the recycling bin outside my apartment at four in the fucking morning. Our friendship never developed any further than these subtle acknowledgements, but I was okay with that.

After “Dining” At A Chain Restaurant.

Next time,
please check
with the kitchen

and see if
it’s possible
for them to bring

me a brick
of lard and a
salt lick. Because

I can’t
imagine that
would make me feel

any worse than I do now.

That Was The Homophobic Girl I Poured A Beer On And Then Got Her Kicked Out Of The Bar That Was

I recently attended a bachelor party in a strange dystopian place that was not unlike a Terry Gilliam movie, and while I’m not legally allowed to speak of many details, there is one anecdote that I feel obligated to share.

At this point in the evening, we were, of course, terribly inebriated and acting generally inappropriate in public, as these things tend to go. For what it’s worth, this was fairly common in our chosen destination, and with the exception of one horrified mother, most people seemed to be entertained by our behavior. We met a group of girls, one of whom was celebrating her birthday. They appeared to share our debaucherous attitude, and agreed to pose for a photograph with the Man Of Honor.

Naturally, I decided to photobomb their picture with the Bachelor, because alcohol. Another friend in our group joined me in the fun, and we posed behind the group of girls with me kissing him on the cheek and both of us giving big goofy thumbs-up because that would obviously be hilarious (alcohol). One of the girls saw this, and with her face scrunched up in absolute disgust, she yelled: “Ew, you two are gay?!”

“Don’t worry, we can crop the faggots out of the photo,” replied the birthday girl. (The “faggot” and “gay” comments may have been reversed, depending on which witness you ask from our group)

Needless to say, I did not respond well to this girl’s comment. These girls definitely knew that we were with the Bachelor Party, and that there were much, much, much more offensive things happening nearby than two dudes messing with their friend’s photo.

Unfortunately, I was too shocked in the moment to say or do anything witty (a rare thing for me, I know). But as the evening wore on, I filled with rage every time I saw them (and then naturally forgot about it whenever they were out of sight and continued to have fun).

Some time later, we were deciding to leave, and after a brief conference with some of the guys I was with, we all agreed that it would be a fantastic idea for me to pour a beer on her head. We staged an elaborate domino train alibi, whereby one of the guys would bump into me on his way out, and I would trip and bump into another one of our guys, and then fall back and pour beer on the girl.

Long story short, I am the most amazing actor ever after I’ve been drinking for 15 hours straight because I was not very subtle in my beer pouring. After the planned bumps, I lumbered towards her with one conspicuously lethargic drunken elephant step and dumped the beer, but not before she had a chance to grab a glass with about an inch of water in it and throw it at me in response.

Unfortunately, she missed, instead hitting one of my other friends, at which point security promptly arrived and told the girl and her friends that they had to leave. “That faggot dumped a beer on me!” she screamed at the security guard, very clearly soaked from the beer that I had in fact poured on her. “I got pushed,” I said with a shrug, although it was probably more of a slur. But somehow it convinced him of my innocence, and the security guard brought the police over and they escorted the girls from the premises and in conclusion it was the best night ever and totally made up for the fact that I lost waaaaaaaaaaay more money that weekend than I wanted to.

What’s Cooking? I Smell A Rat!

So, if you’re on Facebook, you might be seeing a story going around about an abandoned cruise ship that’s drifting around the Atlantic. Only it’s not completely abandoned…it’s allegedly filled with diseased, cannibal rats.

Now, killjoys are responding to this with some Smithsonian article pooh-poohing the existence of the cannibal rats. Some of us don’t care. In fact, some of us are TOTALLY THRILLED about the very idea that such a pleasure ship might exist. To that end, a Facebook Fan Page has been created for what we are calling the Rat Boat. And at least one of us thinks that Disney/Pixar should GET ON THIS and make a musical animated extravaganza. I am offering my services to write the lyrics for this. Here is what I’m thinking for the BIG OPENING NUMBER:

RAT 1:
We live upon this ghostly ship
Adrift on the high seas.
No pesky human beings on board –
We do what we please!

RAT 2:
The problem with no people, though,
Is that we’re short on grub.
We’re scroungers with nothing to scrounge:
Therein lies the rub.

RAT 3:
No bread, no cheese, no bits of fruit.
We’d eat that if we could.
And so our ratty shipmates
Start looking pretty good.

CHORUS:
What’s cooking? I smell a rat!
So have a seat! Let’s chew the fat!
Just don’t wonder: “Who was that?”
What’s in this dish? I smell a rat!

You can thank me later, Bob Iger.

A New Year A New You

As I get older, I just more prefer to beat defeatism
to the punch by simply not making the resolution
to begin with; come mid-January, there’s no guilt.
“Fat clothes” remain me-sized. There is nothing
a shade smaller to aspire to nor despair over.
There is no need to reset the alarm clock. It rings
when it always has and I awake to peeping
daylight through the blinds. No pre-dawn Zumba
or activity more rigorous than making coffee, not tea,
to wash down all those tasty, tasty carbohydrates.