Happy Halloween!

1. 
   It's The Angry Piper, Charlie Brown!!

Blog Theft!

Pssst...if you haven't checked out Hill-TV lately, there's a lot of new shit up, not the least of which are the first two installments of my column, The Angry Piper's Book of the Week. Of course, "of the week" implies a weekly basis but in truth it's whenever I feel like doing it, and whenever the Generalissimo decides to post it. The second true installment should be up by the end of the weekend, so take a look. And if you get inspired to join the Revolution we'd be thrilled to anoint you ritually and call you brother (or sister. or whatever you want to be called).

Anyway, from time to time, as Malach can attest, I steal ideas from other peoples' blogs. (see 25 Things, below). This time I swiped the idea from right under the cute nose of unsuspecting Tel.

So, Dr. Jones, once again what once belonged to you is now mine.

Ten years ago: I had just graduated from college with my smoking hot Psychology degree. I was working in a comic book store, but that would soon change. I had a zero balance on my credit cards. I was in great physical shape. I did not drink. I drove a Subaru GL sedan after cracking up my first car, a Dodge Omni GLH. I was going places. I didn't need one night in Bangkok to make the world my oyster.

Five years ago: I was working on a loading dock taking shit from people I ran mental circles around every day. The credit cards had a respectable balance. I had terrible health insurance, but at least I had some. My Psychology degree was forgotten. I had lost touch with Dr. Murk, Malach, and the Angry Veteran. I bought a used set of bagpipes on eBay(mistake). I was in a relationship I should have paid a lot more attention to. I went to Disney World.

One year ago: I thought I was happy with my job as I was finally doing things with my degree, the one I spent all that time in college for, but I was wrong. I spent much time alone, which is certainly nothing unusual. I began writing in earnest. I looked at myself and wondered where all the extra pounds came from, then narrowed my eyes suspiciously at the beer in my hand. I looked at my credit card statements with horror and dread as I got a debit card and wondered why the fuck I didn't have one for the past 5 years. In two months a tree would fall on my car, crushing it beyond all hope of repair, and if I had been inside at the time, then for me there would be no

Yesterday: I went to work and did little of consequence there. I came home determined to write. I posted to my blog instead of doing what I should have been doing, much like today. Oh yeah...and I paid off my credit cards. I'm just waiting for the checks to clear before I cut those little fuckers up into so many pieces it'll take Rain Man to count them.

5 Snacks I enjoy:
Spinach and Artichoke Dip
Fresh Bread
Cheese (all kinds)
Nachos (made in the oven....mmmmm)
Triscuits (damn those crackers are good)

5 Songs you may be surprised to find I know the words to:
Welcome to the Terrordome by Public Enemy
I'll Never Turn my Back on You (Father's Words) by Terance Trent D'Arby
Finest Worksong by REM
Your Love is King by Sade
Human Behavior by Bjork (you should hear me sing it).

5 Things I'd do with $100 million:
1. Anyone who has ever done me a significant kindness would find out how appreciative I can be.
2. Buy a house. MY house. With a fireplace, a big library, and an indoor swimming pool and spa.
3. Buy a bookstore. And a comic book shop. And possibly a vineyard or a brewery, just because I think it would be cool.
4. Travel anywhere I felt like going, with impending trips to Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Greece, (back to) France, and possibly Brazil. Fuck it. I'd have $100 million. I'd hit Brazil too.
5. Probably move out of the country. If so, I'd pass on the comic book shop.

5 Places I'd Run Away To:
1. Paris. I would live there.
2. Nova Scotia
3. Ireland (not Ulster)
4. One of the Greek Islands (just try and find me).
5. Alaska

5 Things I'd Never Wear:
1. Leather Pants
2. Assless Chaps
3. A Cowboy Hat
4. Jewelry of any kind (unless it's my kilt pin)
5. A Fanny Pack

5 Biggest Joys:
1. Reading and knowing that no matter how old I get there will always be books I have not yet read.
2. Music.
3. My friends, the ones I'd take a bullet for. Even though we're not in constant contact, knowing they're there is a joy. (Here endeth the sentimentality).
4. Daydreaming. I do it a lot.
5. Fleadhs!

5 Favorite Toys:
1. Are books considered toys?
2. "The octopus."
3. My PS2, baby.
4. My berimbau, just because I'm the only person I know who has one, and because it's quite sentimental (okay, so I lied above). I still can't string it, though.
5. My life-size inflatable Dr. Murk doll. So...soft and lifelike...I hardly know the difference...

What is cool at my place:
Besides me? Not too much. Although I do live within walking distance of the supermarket and right off of two major highways, so I guess "convenient" would be a better word than "cool".

I hate my neighbors.

The Piper's Woes

Last night I was laying around, fingering my practice chanter in an attempt to learn The Mason's Apron. "Fingering my chanter" means exactly that; it is not a euphemism for any other kind of sordid activity, despite the fact that I was watching womens' prison movies at the time. A practice chanter is what a piper plays instead of his bagpipes when he wishes to avoid small-arms fire from his neighbors, as it is much quieter (about as loud as two kazoos) and looks more or less like a kind of recorder. But I digress.

Anyway, I lay there buzzing away when a profound sense of melancholy came over me. I didn't realize what it was at first, but I gradually came to recognize this feeling: I am in dire need of a fleadh.

A fleadh (rhymes with brah !!), for all you non-Gaels out there, can be roughly translated as "a party", albeit one with lots of drink, conversation and Celtic music. It probably doesn't take much imagination to recognize The Angry Piper would enjoy such an event. Unfortunately, I missed one of my favorite fleadhs (although it's much more than that, obviously) when I went to "One Happy Island" last month: The Southern New Hampshire Highland Games. "But Piper, you whiny prick...it's not like you missed it while you were sunning yourself and drinking Pink Panthers," you say.

To you I say: "Wrong."

See, the SNH Highland Games is the biggest Scottish festival on the East Coast next to the Grandfather Mountain Games in NC. Tons of pipers and musicians go there. It is, in effect, a piper's auditory orgasm. And in the words of Linus re: falling asleep during the Great Pumpkin's visit: "Awwwww...I missed it!!"

I have fond memories of the one last year, mainly because of the friend who accompanied me there. My friend, I'll call him "Chuck", is a big lad. He's 6'7". He's Scottish-American. Like me, he wears a kilt, although on his half-ogre frame it looks more like a blanket. Unlike me, he actually has a right to wear it, as his last name starts with "Mc" and is a prominent clan name, and the plaid is his clan's Tartan. I'm not Scottish (I'm Irish, you bastards!) but I wear the plaid 'cuz I'm a piper.

Anyway, I must relate some things that happened last year at the games, because they're funny anecdotes and I'm feeling droll, and if I can't have a fleadh I may as well remember a good one. First, my friend had me laughing fit to piss my kilt within moments of our arrival. I'd tell you the story, but it won't be funny and you had to be there. Just know that it has something to do with the above paragraph on the rights of kilt-wearing.

However, to give you an idea of my friend and his wit, here's one of the best examples of the off-the-cuff comeback I have ever heard:

The SNH Highland Games, being family-oriented, is a mostly dry event, meaning that alcohol is limited to one "beer tent". Naturally, after a bit of time wandering aroond and aboot, we made our way thither and got ourselves a few beers. It was during this time that we attracted the attention of four (very drunk) young ladies, who were sitting at a table nearby. They adored our kilts. This should give you an idea of how drunk they were, as every other guy at the games was wearing one and it's not like we stuck out. Nevertheless, one spoke up: " So...is it true what they say?"

Anyone who has ever worn a kilt has heard this question, and therefore we all know what is really being asked. I'm sure most of you do, too, but just in case you're not following me, she soon spelled it out: "Is it true that you don't have anything on under that kilt?"

I ignored her and enjoyed my beer, intent on the pipers nearby. Chuck, however, looked at her and replied: "Just me". This set off a storm of giggles at the table.

Chuck, you will recall, is 6'7" tall. My license says 6'1" on it, and I feel positively short around him. Chuck has been known to stand next to complete strangers who happen to be tall, say 6'4" or so, and say right to their face: "Yeah. You thought you were tall." Another of the drunk girls must have had a few more than her friends and was feeling brave.

"So," she said to Chuck, "are you big ALL OVER?" Another chorus of giggles.

And my friend Chuck, bless his heart, took a long drag of his cigarette before answering. "Well," he said, "from what I've been told I should be taller."

All the beer that was in my mouth left in a prismatic spray as I convulsed with laughter. I wish I had thought of that one.

Also at this event, I met the love of my life, only to lose her seconds later. As Chuck and I were roamin' in the gloamin'(ok, it was broad daylight, but who cares?) I passed a lovely redhaired lass, plump of face and buxom of form, whom I was immediately taken with. We shared a glance...then a longer one...and then we were cruelly thrust apart by the torrential crowds. I stood there for a moment, watching as she was engulfed in a sea of plaid, wondering if it was real. "Dude, that chick was checking you out," said Chuck, proving I didn't imagine it. Then she was gone, and I have never loved again.

Anyway, I suppose I'll have to make do with some local drink and company soon. Perhaps a trip to my favorite watering hole in Brighton is in order, as we suffer horribly from a dearth of fine Irish pubs here in Fall River. In fact, there's only one, and calling it fine is like calling Budweiser beer.

As we say in Boston: Latah.

The Mysterious Hat

Yesterday, as part of my normal morning regimen, I punched a steel plate 1000 times to toughen the knuckles on the hand I use to kill people. Later that day I had planned on testing its effectiveness by visiting the town where I grew up and randomly felling cows with my fist-of-iron, but something ruined my plans.

I had just finished my 200 3-finger push-ups and was midway through my set of 300 hanging sit-ups when, on sit-up #138, I became aware of something amiss in my apartment. I have somewhat of a psychic bond with my home and I soon pinpointed the source of my stress. With all the grace of a cat, I swung down from the bar and investigated the object that was interfering with the feng shui of my abode.

It was a hat.

Oh, it looked innocent enough, casually resting on my leather sofa with built-in telephone, drink tray and massage function. A plain, black baseball cap with an adjustable band. The bill was curved and seemed well broken-in. The label inside the cap reads: made in Vietnam.

Here is the problem: I don't own this hat. It is not mine.

Absently I toweled the glistening sheen of sweat from my rippling muscles and sat down, turning the hat over and over in my hands and wondering from whence it came. I mentally ran through my own hat inventory. I have never been much of a hat wearer; I wear them when I don't feel like taking a shower in the morning and want to keep my unruly hair together for a trip to the coffee shop next door. Rarely do I put one on for any other reason. I own 3 baseball hats, two of which were bought for my recent trip to "One Happy Island", where I wore them to keep the sun from blistering my scalp through my thinning hair. The other one is a plain black baseball hat, much like the one I was considering, but it does not have an adjustable band. In fact it's a fitted hat, and it's too small for me (due to the huge size of my brain, no doubt).

So where did this hat come from?

I considered and dismissed my friends. Most, like me, didn't wear hats. Aside from that, none had been in my apartment in a long time, as getting an invitation to The Angry Piper's apartment is about as unlikely as finding a golden ticket in a Wonka bar. Nor would any be so foolish as to court death by arriving unannounced (I discourage drop-by visits. Oh, how I discourage them). Wherever the mysterious headwear had come from, I could be certain it wasn't from a friend.

Who else, then? Aside from my landlady, no one but myself has keys to my apartment, so I can rule out family (although my brother has been known to leave all kinds of shit here). My landlady is one of the coolest people I know. She doesn't wear baseball hats and she wouldn't just waltz through my apartment without a verifiable emergency and without telling me first (or as soon as possible afterwards), so I am confident the hat did not come from her.

Which leaves two possibilities. Three, if you count magic and/or divine providence. Either I brought the hat in myself or someone else did.

I didn't.

If someone else did, they gained access to my residence illegally and without my knowledge. They took nothing with them and left a hat.

Any ideas, anyone?

Disclaimer: Parts of this story may have been fictionalized. Not the hat, though. That's real.

Comics, Toys and Noise

I woke up this morning with a rather sore throat. This is no surprise; I often get them this time of year (I'm usually good for two sinus infections per annum). Despite this, I could soon tell this was no ordinary sore throat as it felt like something large was blocking my airway and it was extremely painful to swallow, so much so that merely attempting to made me gag.

Despite what Owen may desperately wish, I don't often have things all the way down my throat, so I felt it bore investigation. Turns out I have a swollen uvula.

The uvula, for those who don't know, is the flap of skin that hangs from the roof of your mouth. It's supposed to cover the nose when you swallow so food doesn't get stuck up there. It is not to be confused with the vulva (although the words are similar), which is something the Angry Piper doesn't have (and hasn't seen in a while) and is quite another thing entirely. The uvula is most often seen when you bang your toe against something and let out a scream like Tom Cat of Tom and Jerry. Then it can be seen swinging side to side as your mouth opens wide as a cavern and you bellow your rage and frustration at the world (which is also something I did at 5:30 am as I tried to step over something in the dark and hit the foot of my bed). So far the day was starting out just swell.

When I looked in the mirror, my uvula, usually the size of a dime, was about the size of a quarter. It so happens I am a physical freak and I have what is known as a double uvula. Unlike the standard teardrop shape most folks have, mine looks like an upside-down valentine heart, which is a sign of virility and sexual dynamism in many cultures (because I say so). Needless to say, it had grown so large as to tickle the back of my throat, making me have to constantly swallow to avoid gagging, and it hurt like hell. This is the part where you should all feel sorry for me, because it put me in a mood most foul for the rest of the day.

The title of this blogpost was the slogan of a comic shop my friends used to own. I once appeared in a commercial for this store, wherein my head exploded as I frantically tried to cope with a customer's request for Spider-Man comics. I had to go to a comic book show today, where I was a vendor. I'm trying desperately to get rid of my comics, toys and novelties because I am seriously re-locating soon and need to free up the room. Well, the show was a bomb. After my table fee, I made about $150.00, which is a low amount for what I have, despite the fact that I'm practically GIVING MY STUFF AWAY.

The show ran from 10 am to 3pm, but I was there at 8 to set up. People pretty much stopped coming in at 1:30. By 11, I had only sold $12.00. It was a flop.

Now, I had been to this show before, several times, and the place is usually an anthill of sweaty, unwashed, slobby fanboys dressed in the same sweatpants and comic T-shirts they've been wearing for the past 4 days who can't wait to spread their greasy mitts on comics while breathing open-mouthed; their halitosis practically a visible fog as they beg and barter, looking for the best deal on whatever they seek. I was prepared for that, despite feeling like I was going to swallow my uvula. But the dork tide never rolled in. I was expecting to walk out of the show clearing $500.00 or so, but the low take was only half of the problem, and quite frankly, it was the smaller half.

The bigger half was that I didn't want to pack the shit up again and bring it back home. But I had to.

Two reasons why the show was dead today (three if you count my horrible luck): The Patriots were playing. But more importantly, a HUGE comic convention, Wizard World, took place last weekend in Boston. No one has any money left. Guess there's always next time.

Couple of interesting things I learned at the show: The talk amongst the geeks who did attend, including myself and other vendors, was all about Serenity. Some of the vendors had Serenity toys (and they still had them at the end of the show, which shows how dead it truly was). The only action figures I saw were for Captain Mal Reynolds and a Reaver. Oh, and a guy was wearing a T-shirt that said "Fear The Reavers" on it. Available at specialty comic shops everywhere, Sassy, along with the Serenity comic book which is written by Joss Whedon and fills in the storyline between the end of the series and the movie. Haven't read it myself, but I heard it's good.

Anyway, the preface to my big, fat, pretentious project on Hill TV is up for your viewing pleasure. Go check it out; there will be a first posting within the week. By then, Dr. Murk will have hopefully changed the background color on my webpage over there to something other than Invasion of the Body Snatchers snot yellow. (I'm begging you, brah!)

And just in case that whole double uvula has you intrigued, ladies (and come on-how could it not?) you should know that my "Sexual Style" is "Soft". Which hopefully doesn't mean what it sounds like. Damn Quizfarm.

Well, I'm off to eat my dinner if I can get it past my swollen uvula. It's not as swollen now, but that's because I haven't eaten anything all day and I'm starving. A dark crusty bread with butter, a big hunk of St. Jorge cheese, and to wash it all down: Sam Adams Oktoberfest.

Oh yeah. I'm a health food nut.

UPDATE: Spending more time on Quizfarm has been beneficial in my long journey to self-discovery. I have learned I am most like Napoleon Dynamite (as opposed to anyone else in the film), "Romantic" in bed, more like the X-Man Storm than any other X-Man, "Day Horny", I will likely die of natural causes, my biggest sin is sloth (true, BTW), am more like Gandalf than any other LOTR character (surprising, but cool), and I am most like The Riddler as opposed to any other Batman villain. There's more, but I'm not about to reveal all my secrets to you.

Drunken Rantings

Another rare sighting

I would encourage all of you to take a gander at Hill TV within the next few days. My weekly column will be starting up within the week and I'm looking forward to really flexing my pretentiousness. I'm oiled and speedoed already. (Enjoy THAT image).

Random thoughts: So last night I was watching Dog: The Bounty Hunter. Don't ask me why...I simply can't come up with an explanation as to why I feel obligated to watch this horrible show. Actually, I can. As I said in another blogpost, I'm usually not one to covet my neighbor's wife, but then again, my neighbor isn't Dog: The Bounty Hunter. (In fact, my neighbor is a drug dealer.) That Beth is, to put it mildly, "Freakin' Sweet." God, I love the big girlz.

Know what I hate? Lots of things. But I really hate when people refer to Arnold Schwarzenegger as "The Governator". It's bad enough the guy is a governor, period. And I don't even live in the same state as him, the Angry Veteran, and a cool California chick. But it still irks me. Kinda like when Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez became "Bennifer." Not that I gave a fat, floating shit about either of them, but the fact that some people DO drives me nuts, because I had to hear about it on TV (those rare times I turned it on) and the radio.

Coupla shout-outs God, I hate that term too, but I'm 3 sheets to the wind (thanks, Guinness!), so I don't care.

Angry Vet-Update your blog, you stupid bastard.

Dr. Murk, I love you in that special way men love other men.

Malach...umm...I ain't got nuttin' for you, man. I'm busy tryin' to do for me.

I wish they all could be California Girls (like you, Tel), or New York Girls (Like you, Red Flame, who is too chicken to post to this blog). Tel, please tell your friend Sassy I know why she cried during Serenity, but I'm way too much of a man (i.e. I'm emotionally dead inside) to show similar feeling, even though the biggest Scottish guy I know (6'7") cried too (no, I'm not kidding). I'd tell her myself, but her post on Serenity was old, and no one checks old posts for comments except me.

Owen is the Tree of Happiness. Seek his fruit.

Eve, I just got off the phone with you. Get back here for the holidays. Please.

Betty-as always, you're just the bee's knees. (Now you KNOW I'm drunk).

OK, I'm off to drink the rest of my pub draft cans. I'll do a real update soon. In the meantime, check Hill TV and get inspired! Slainte!

PS: Before anyone asks, Yes, I am wearing underwear in this picture. I don't usually when wearing my kilt, but I figured I'd err on the side of caution for this. Attractive as it is (all things considered), my scrotum doesn't need to be seen all over the Web.

Movie Review

The Angry Piper doesn't often give advice, even when asked by those who suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and who desperately need it. But I'm giving some unsolicited advice today to all of you:

Go see Serenity. Today.

I can't be any clearer than that.

For those fans of Firefly (like me and my buddy), it was incredible. For those who aren't fans of one of the best shows to be ignored and unsupported by its parent network (which includes, no doubt, many of you, who never got a chance to see it) it will be incredible. Mark my words, even those of you who aren't keen on science fiction (like you, Betty).

Yeah, it's science fiction. The action is terrific. The effects are awesome. The characters are believable and sympathetic. There are some major surprises. The dialogue is Joss Whedon at his best. Go see the fucking movie. Because if you do, maybe Fox will realize they can't recognize a good series when it bites them in the ass and they will start it up again (like they did with Family Guy). I'm hoping for the Sci-fi Network to pick up the series instead.

I recommend you buy the Firefly DVD set and watch all 13 episodes of it first, but it's not necessary. The movie does a good job of setting up the backstory and introducing the characters with a minimum of exposition. You can watch the movie without seeing the series, but some scenes won't have the same impact. Of course, you can always go back and watch the series later (and if you see the movie, I'm betting you'll want to).

In keeping with my solemn promise to the Generalissimo, I will be writing a weekly column at Hill TV. Look for my introductory article within the next few days. I will likely be moving my blog over there as well, but don't worry: for those of you who want to follow me slavishly, you'll get the heads up in time to change your favorites.