hierarchy of.....

The Peter's

1.) Peter Stewart

2.) Peter From England

3.) Peter I met on the bus...technically Pedro

4.) Some guy named Tim....who I call Peter....

5.) Peter B.

Bitches, it's fucking Fesitval de Mother fucking Sol....

Franky boss!

I have done something i thought was special. I was completely completely wrong.wrong, oh engrish.

Do You Smell Somethin?

Well, it's that time of the year again. You guessed it.... Fiesta Del Sol which is more commonly referred to as the Mexican Sun Worship holiday. During FDS, Mexicans get really drunk off of firewater and run around in native deerskin moccasins all the while worshiping a “sun god” they call "Sol."

During this pagan affair, I don my top hat and darken the doorway of my local alchemist’s shop for a pinch of cocaine. After that it is off to the public house. Once at The Royal Arms of Our Lady the Queen Mother, I dab my lips with my embossed handkerchief and adjust my monocle while talking philosophy, politics, and religion over brandies with the neighborhood constable....

Where's the party?

I took out the Razor scooter. I road through the winding roads of Stonewood and Grassy Knoll Plains gated community. I found myself downtown. The buildings inspired me. Sure they were built in 1980, when downtown was founded, but they built 'em to look old. I rode on into the forest preserve that keeps property value up. I went to lake and had a sit. I bummed a Marb Light off some snot nosed teenager who is complaining to a friend about her cellphone plan.

I road on. To my disappointment I came upon a huge parking lot four times the size of the strip-mall it accompanied. I raised my finger to flick off this nature destroying monster when I realized that the grocery store I go to is right there in Pine Oak Malls. I guess this is why people live in the city or the country because the suburbs create the illusion of both (and hurt both) without being true to either.

I saw a Stardust Coffee shop and stopped in for the only kind of coffee one can get within 20 miles of here. It’s nice though because it’s always consistent and they all have the same furniture. The coffee was made by some snot nosed high school student who doesn’t even know which town he’s in. Is this Stonewood?, English Manor?, Prarie Meadows?, all he knows for sure is that its at the intersection of Army Road and Cambridge Avenue.

I went outside. Am I in Stonewood anymore? All the German and Japanese cars are blue instead of black.

Why am I telling you this? Because you're such a great Pal

There has been a blog-astrophe. Old Man No Furniture has railed against InnocentonSaturday for some awfully unclear reason. If you want to read his very hurtful and unfair jeremiad against ol'Sat you can here, but read at your own risk, it's not pretty, only hurtful, very hurtful, towards me, Andy G.

Yet, I am not without charity and love for Strabismus (he is after all striking out in blind anger and one can't help but feel bad for someone in that position.) So I will take the high ground and apologize to him.

Dear Slanger,

I'm sorry I love hearing from you. I'm sorry that your input and stories mean so much to me that I can't help but be hurt when I don't hear from you. I'm sorry that, in my pain and disappointment, I sometimes encourage you to write so that I may bask in your profundity. I'm sorry that I consider you such a good friend.

Repentantly yours,
Cigarrettbreathe

I think it is completely fair to say Strabimeanie tries to stab me in the back when I’m just trying hug him "Hello." I’m used to it by now so don’t feel bad for me, just pray for Strabs and his anger issues. I know deep down he’s a good person, somewhere, deep down, probably pretty deep down, because he’s mean, like pretty mean, but I still consider him a friend, because I’m nice, patient and nice, a lot so, seriously. Let's just hug it out of him....

Broken Furniture!

It has become painfully obvious that my no furniture link is a broken. The blog is defunct. I have updated it accordingly.

I also discovered this new blog which i think sums up the Dirty Dirty South that is, The South, quite well. It is scary down there and I wouldn't suggest every going there, it's bad, like really bad. So bad.

The IceMan Cometh: An Introspective Look Back Over a Working Boy's Year in the World

Anything can happen in this life, especially nothing.- Michel Houellebecq


And so the working boy trudges on. He wakes in the morning and breaks for lunch every day at 2. He walks to his bench and falls asleep in the sun as tourist pass. He dreams.

He never dreams of college. That world is gone and its demise caused neither desire for its return nor excitement for things to come. The uncarved block remains. It never dreams of the future. Who knows why.?! But it does dream of blinding lights, bunnies, and occasionally boobs. What does all this mean? Only one thing....Introspection is for the birds.

Work is work, I do it, I’ve learned it is probably the easiest activity in which I am engaged. This makes it rather dangerous, since the complacency it creates runs the risk of becoming my dominate character trait. It hasn’t happened, yet. Will it? Well, if it does, I won’t care.

Slain by Produce!

My lunch today was dominated by produce. I had grapes, an orange and a banana. My banana was the color of a football and had the texture of Jello brand gelatin. My orange squirted me in the eye, made my keyboard sticky and tastes rusty...fucked by produce.

He smelt of Garlic: An Introspective Look Back Over A Working Boy's Year In The World

An Doof Ass played a large role in my first year as a white collar super employee. We were flatmates, but more than this we were drinking buddies. His drunkenness is well documented here, but what is less well known is he got roaring ass drunk at 3 p.m. at a X-mas party and called me at my respectable job to tell he he was "drunk as motherfucker" and was going home to retire for the evening (on this occasion his drunk ass was neither robbed nor pummeled). Upon returning home, I found him passed out on the couch. He smelt horribly of garlic, beer, wine, and Hennessey. He refused to clean himself up or vacate the couch. There were empty Old Milwaukee cans strewn about the apartment.

When we first moved into our flat an Doof Ass had one request. He asked that I keep an eye on his drinking so that he would not become accustomed to the either the hag, the foggy memory maker, or the creature. I agreed; however, within a day, I recanted my statement and for that I feel partially responsible for his present state.

On one occasion, we punched one another in the face. As we were exiting a Northside bar early one Saturday morning under the influence of spirits, we yelled at a young couple walking down the street. We called them Wicker Park Monsters and then, almost immediately, began swinging at one another. We were arguing over whether a Baptist or an Episcopal had more right to the front passanger seat. I am proud to say I landed a righteous blow, unfortunately so did he. We then both sat in the back. An Doof Ass claimed this a victory for Episcopalian good sense and compromise. During my devotional that night, I prayed for God to forigve my compromising "heart" and vowed to "stand firm in the faith" in the future.

We were commrades in arms. We learned Friday’s at the office were easy and no one did any work. We learned Monday’s were recovery day and no one did any work. We learned that Tuesday's at the Skylark Dan and Derek both worked, and we could waste a couple of hours enduring Derek’s barbs and tales of conquered women while accepting Dan’s complimentary Pabst drafts. We even learned to smoke less when watching t.v.

p.s. Adam Wood is an douche.

The Collapsable CountDown

Today is 7-25-2005. A week from this day, 7-25-2005, will be 8-01-2005. 8-01-2005 will mark my one-year anniversary in big city politics. What do I have to show for this year? Well, I'm not entirely sure, but I believe something. This week will mark an introspective turn here on NoononSat....Don't worry not introspective in any fucking-terrible-shitty-Russian-author-who-is-terrible-and-sucks kind of way, but in a Cigarrettbreathe kind of way. Stories abound, there are many players, there's An DoofAss, there's Pinky, there's books, booze, women, theft, drugs, rock-n-roll, broken promises, stolen razors, swollen lips, hours and hours of ALIAS, gang bangers, apartments, miscommunications, broken hearts, a terrible terrible Halloween party (An DoofAss you still owe me something for my trouble, on top of your delinquent phone payments), snow, talk of funerals, and the Skylark...There's probably more...I need to start figuring this all out...

The bugaboo

My life is completely uninteresting and rather simple. I go to work, I read books, I watch t.v., I drink, sometimes with friends, and, like all Daseins, I have the occasional unexpected adventure, lucky break, fuck over and etc…In light of this, it seems, I must now indulge in the very ordinary and completely uninspiring task of "going on vacation."

Pure vacation doesn't make sense to me. This, no doubt, has much to with the fact that when I was growing up my family never went on a real vacation. Instead, every family vacation was just a thinly veiled or not even veiled obligation or need that required us to either leave town or take a Sunday off. I remember fondly the summer vacation of 7th grade when we painted the house, or the 12th grade vacation to my Grandfather's funeral.

I can understand those vacation destinations that have amenities you cannot find at home. For example, skiing down mountains or shooting big game animals on the African plains with Timba and Sasqua there to pat you on the back (actually, this last one sounds like the kind of vacation I could enjoy. There is always something to be said for constant pampering and hollow self-aggrandizing activities…). The problem for me, however, is there is nothing I like doing that I can't already do where I am presently located. I don't like nature, or museums (plus why leave Chicago if you want museums?), I don't like skiing or natural water, or for that matter, the sun. This seems to eliminate most destinations, and the reason most people vacation. I went to Paris, once, for a day, and that was quite enough vacation for me. I ate a good meal, drank wine, saw the sights, and then went home.

That said does anyone have any good suggestions for a vacation?

Cigars in Greece

Tonight I might take a bus to Greece. I'll buy a cigar and play backgammon on the sidewalks and talk about the old country. Maybe I'll stop by Italy for its best Italian Ice on Polk, then to Chicago for some dancing in the park and midnight chess and on to Mexico and a 24 hour tacqueria and an ochata.

Last night, Italy was in full form. Heather and I met up with some Irish friends and went to the heart of a small little town. We ate dinner at a quaint little mom and pop store with great pasta and sandwhiches then we strolled down the walk to the gellatto stand. With various outrageous flavors in hand, we sat at a sidewalk table surrounded by old italians gossiping and chewing on cigars while their little dogs ran around the tables (Cinnamon was particularly cute and well behaved). We cut through Poland on the way home, but didn't stop...too tired...

I travel the 7 seas

Tonight, I go to Italy to wine and dine...also, this Sunday we're going to try to get a picnic together at the beach...any and all are welcome...

Journal of a Working Boy #4: How to be successful

In today's troubled times (see Big Business!*!*!), I am often stopped in the super-cool-secret back halls of City Hall by various bigwigs and fat cats. **They ask me how I do it. How I stay so clean when I’m surrounded and, shh, involved in very profitable scandals.** With a Snickers wrapper hanging from my breast pocket, I coolly draw out my pocket watch, by its silver chain, and tell them the secrets that I now pass onto you…(note: these secrets are told through song and dance….the dance (Virginia Reel) the song (The Entertainer by Scott Joplin)…hum along with me!

Super Success is a tricky species. It requires a carefully attuned sense of self-preservation and basic classiness. For example, you know the big project that matters a whole bunch? Don’t get involved with that project. Stay in the background encouraging those who do work hard. You’ll never fail and everyone will like you. Also, save money by having 3 dress shirts and one pair of slacks. As long as on of those shirts is white, you’ve got 3 days of the workweek covered. Finally, stay out late on Thursday night and get a good drunkening going. That way, when you show up for work the next day you’re either hung-over or still drunk. This makes the day fly by and before you know it, you’ve got yourself a 3-day weekend!

Like so many things, these suggestions are pretty obvious, but you would be surprised how many people don't act on them. The key is
consistency.

No Furniture!

While the world spins on its axis, Superdog spins in a broken old chair in the middle of his old folks retirement home apartment. Between shuffle board games with Mr. Klosterman and Old lady Williker, Superdog finds solice in his ability to use semicolons and commas correctly. While he has no furniture, he does have a link on my sidebar.

Open it up!

So I am now recovered from the weekend. I slept me about 10 hours last night and woke up ready for work and what the day may bring. One of my first objectives tonight will be to go the Skylark and see if I'm still welcome there…

Arkansisainsns are a tricky species. You bring them to your neighborhood bar and before you know it your months of hard work drinking there pay off by them getting completely bombed off your bartenders hospitality and then, thinking it the bathroom, pissing in a former an Doof Asses room. Add to this the bitch waitress "Ophelia" who sucks as a waitress and bitched us out for leaving a terrible tip for terrible service (can you see the connection?). Fuck her! From now on, I drink at the bar or stand at the bar or refuse to have her as a waitress and wait for Derek or the old guy with all the tattoos.

I would like to also say that dancing in a small tent for over an hour in easily 105 degrees is never never never a bad decision. Thank goodness I am a married man otherwise I might not have made it out of that tent with my virginity intact. Also, everyone must listen to The Hold Steady. Dresanen, I would also like to believe you would enjoy Deerhoof.

One more thing, I seem to think a certain an Doof Ass has left, surprise (!), the country to suck the marrow from the bones of another 3rd world. I believe an D.A. is visiting the Dominican Republic with his "family" (here one can justly ask what "family" could possibly mean to such a vagabond), but I know his addiction to tobacco and sugar cane rum are too strong to keep him from the back alleys of any place he finds himself. No doubt, the Wood's are in for a surprise when they find their "son" half naked, punched out in some gutter with a broken cigarette in his lips and his right hand firmly gripping a brown bottle with Rum written on it, in crayon...

Big Business!*!*!

Sometimes when I get to work in the morning I read The Trib. Sometimes when reading The Trib, I read about a guy who I say Hello to everyday get arrested by the Federal Government. So, in keeping with my daily routine, I say, Good Morning, Robert. Unfortunately, Robert can't hear me now.

Learning from my mistakes

I didn't get sunburn and I was never too drunk to enjoy myself completely. That said, Intonation Music Fest on Sunday was fucking great. The Hold Steady and Deerhoof kicked so much ass I had to lay on the blanket and just listen the Wrens kick it. The 10 hour day flew by and when you dance your body to death for an hour and half with two super swingers such as Peter B. and Eric Singley you have to know you've pulled off a decent time.

I'm honestly just trying to make it through till four o'clock so I can go home and go to bed. My prayers go out to Dresanen, hope you're back on your feet (Also, is the new Potter any good?).

Journal of a Working Boy #3: Let Freedom Ring!

In my office there is a large recycle bin next to the fax machine. When a fax comes across the wire, we stamp the date on it and bring it the Boss Man and he then forwards it to the appropriate parties (it took me a year to find out this was part of my job).

Now, many of you may not be aware of this but Chicago is currently involved in a heated debate about smoking in public places and private business. The anti-smoking lobby is attempting to blackmail the City into placing a smoking ban on all private businesses (save, of course, rich elitist clubs and tobacco shops) and even require that smoking take place at least 25 feet from any public building (how one intends to enforce such a law is beyond me). Of course, this anti-smoking lobby uses such sound and profound logic as "If New York has a smoking ban, it's absurd for Chicago not to.” I for one know Chicago is always quick to do whatever it can to be like New York.

Yesterday around 2 o'clock I undid my tie, loosened my belt and bought a bag of spicy Cheatos and a coke. I was sitting at my computer trying to get past the porn blocking software, when for some unknown reason I decided to take a walk. I licked my fingers clean, slammed the rest of my soft drink and set off into the world of cubicles. During my mid-afternoon constitutional, I happened to walk by the fax machine and I noticed about 300 pages of recently faxed information (it was still warm). Letting out a large grunt at this impending workload, I waddled over to the machine and began thumbing through the information. It was all one fax.

Not only was it one fax it was a fax of probably 500 or so letters from people saying they supported the smoking ban.

I am a smoker. There I've said it. Not only am I a smoker, I am also a passionate supporter of freedom. In this moment, I saw the loss of freedom flash before my eyes.

The Freedom! For a long drag on that first cigarette from a pack after talking well into the night about the state of Evangelical culture.

The Freedom! For the Saturday “I just got up and am hungover" cigarette at the local coffee shop on 18th and Blue Island.

The Freedom! To blow smoke into an doof asses face when he goes off on world travel.

The Freedom! To constantly carry mints around when I'm with my family.

The Freedom! To have to buy cigarettes on my lunch break because if I don't have a cigarette after work I'm crabby the rest of the day.

All these freedoms and more flashed before my eyes and I don't like the loss of freedom, not one bit. So I did what any freedom-loving patriot would do. I destroyed the documents before anyone else saw them.

Letting out a series of triumphant yells, I threw handful after handful into the recycle bin! Oppression be damned!

Let freedom ring from every bar stool and yellow stained finger tip!-toss- Let freedom ring from every cigarette burned drivers seat and tar covered wall!-toss- Let freedom ring from the mouth of those of us with perpetual coughs!toss- Let freedom ring because we all know you not only look sexier but you actually are sexier if your smoking! In other words, it’s not simply a preference, it’s a statement of an ontological fact!-toss-. Let freedom ring from my apartment that always has a weird smell!” –toss- *belch*cough*.

I got so worked up after throwing away these petitions that I had to return to my cubicle and have another coke to recover my strength. Of course, by this time it was 2:15 in the afternoon and so it was time to begin getting ready to go home.

Around 3:00 the Boss Man asked me if I knew what all that paper in the recycle bin was about. I told him the truth..."It's from some crazy person. You know, one of those crazies we get all the time

Kurch Kicker

apparently this site is devoted entirely to kicking churches, here is a series of ugly churches being kicked.

Also here is a link to series of videos involving people shooting firewords at each other.

Mudblood

Here's a funny little link to a funny little article... about Harry Potter.

George Franklin

Last night I learned that 4 people from Little Rock Arkansas will be coming to Intonation (Jill, Heather's best friend, "Dirty" Zack, and Jamie and Tod or something like that). Their arrival will come only hours before the arrival of Dsddan.

Dan and I had similar junior high experiences. While his excuse for a solitary friendless existence was a body cast, mine had much to do with being short and shy. It was within this context that we met each other through Matt Brink. Now Matt had a distinct talent for making friends with funny, self-deprecating loosers. I remember one night in particular in 7th grade when I slept over at Matt's and we not only watched a movie with exposed breasts in it (it was some Van Dam movie) I also had the distinct privilege of watching Matt play Fallout, a computer game, from dusk till dawn. It wasn't a very good friendship but it was all I had. Dan, at this time, had a similar situation.

Well, after a few chance encounters and such, Superdude and I found that we both had a mutual love for TGIF. This quickly blossomed into a friendship that would span the generations. We would get together to watch t.v. and make jokes. Entering high school our stock had risen considerably. While by no means cool we were no longer friendless. We spent many nights talking and occasionally galactic bowling (sometimes even with women. At one point, Superdude was the bosom buddy of two ridiculously hot girls).

Perhaps, however, nothing brought us together like working together in the kitchen of Susie’s Shack. I worked about 4 nights a week during the school year and Superdude was often times the dishwasher. Now the restaurant is small so by 7 or 7:30 the place is basically empty and Superdude and I have 2 hours to kill before we can close. Sometimes it was weed with the co-workers, something it was throwing left over cake all over the kitchen. Sometimes it was having Joe come over and eat free chicken strips next to the oven so we had someone new to talk to. I remember those nights as some of the best of my life. It was then a very sad day when Superdude developed a rash from the chemicals in the dishwater and quit the job.

Into college we found ourselves on the similar path of philosophy and spent the summers in his basement playing sega. I returned to the Shack every summer during college. While doof asses bounced around the world seeking keep thrills, “cultural” experiences and general self indulgence, there were those of us who were working 50 hour weeks just so we could go back to college to endure such individual ask us “What did you do this summer.” To them I say fuck you! And to Superdog I say: Do you remeber when...

May I borrow 6,000 dollars?

Nuvo! the video is really cool.

To the Journey!

With an exciting weekend almost upon us, I feel I should introduce my readership to my two old chums on their way down from the frozen north of Minnesota. Their names are Sackson and Joe. Many of you have probably met these young upstarts in the past. For some of your their arrival will signal your first interaction with "the kingdom." Let's start with Joe.

Joe lived in Fargo for most of his life, but was born in the state capitol of Bismarck. I remeber my first interactions with Joe were on the grid iron of junior high football and the ballfield of gradeschool rivlarly. A natural athlete, Joe was a star quarterback on our "F-M (Fargo Moorhead) Atheletics" football team. As a skinny nobody who played tackle, I was responsible to keep Joe safe. We didn't talk much. On the ballfield, we were rivals. I was memeber of the Roosevelt Elementary School Hounds, Joe was on the Horace Man CircleJerks or something like that. Now Roosevelt and Horace Man were the two working class Elementary schools. We were the teams that were made up of guys whose dad's either never came to games or came drunk (I remeber once when Dallas was pitching his dad showed up so completely gone. He heckled Dallas for 3 innings before other parents finally got him under control.) Anyways, due to our economic and social standing, Horace Man and Roosevelt put much behind our success at summer baseball. In the much anticpated showdown between our two underfeated teams, the Hounds triumphed after a one Travis Dollinger was expelled from the game for lowering his shoulder when he plowed the catcher at home. Since, that left Horace Man with only 6 players, the Hounds were victorious by default. This game still causes some tension between us. The Hounds won, that's all the history books can say. What if's are looser talk, talked by loosers, who lost to the Hounds, who were the winners.

After those summers, Joe and I became summer associates through Babe Ruth baseball which allowed us to cross school boundaries. Though on good terms, I was not much for social activity and thought Joe "too cool." It was not until Junior year of high school that we realized we were kindred spirits. During a fourth hour study hall I sat next to him and his friends in the cafeteria. Within a day or two we had agreed to form a band and spent the next 2 years playing in Temple Baptist Church's sanctuary. I moved from the bass guitar, to the guitar, then to the keyboard, guitar, drum machine combo, and finally back to just guitar. Joe was a drummer, then bass players, then guitar playing drummer. I remember many winter nights with numb fingers bashing out swinging guitar riffs with Joe's outrageous drum fills. We played pretty much everyday for an hour or two. The church volunteer janitor, Einor (who was about 80 years old at the time and basically blind and deaf), loved to clean the sanctuary while we were playing beacuse he enjoyed feeling the music. Perhaps, those were the happiest days of my life.

Unfortunately, life goes one. Joe went to Mnpls for college while I went Wheaton. We have stayed close throughout these years but I imagine we both wish things had turned out differently. While we only played one song publically over that two years. That song garnered us instant status and hellos from girls who had never talked to us before. (It also lead to Joe's girlfriend of three years breaking up with him after she found out the song was about one Ms. Allison Hockenberry who was, at the time, Joe's one desire. This information however would never have came out if the song had remained "Untitled" as planned. Unfortunately, our singer at the time, my brother Danny, knew the songs actual title "316" (allison's locker number) and since he was the singer people asked him for information on the band for the program book. It was an honest mistake.)

Of course, there's more to our exciting and long lasting friendship, but those are just a few of the highlights. Next up, I will introduce you to Dan, perhaps the only person in the world who I can be completely honest with at all times.

A Bold New Cigarrett Developemente

Dear Faithful Reader,

Just a note to say you now can post comments here on noneonsat...even if you don't have a blog of your own! It's just one more step we're making here to make your blogging experience more complete.

batman begins is like way better than Bredo gives it credit for, seriously

Dear faithful film viewer,

Every once in a while there arises within the blog-o-sphere (see bankrupt! for an engaging take on the phraseology of "blog-o-sphere." No doubt bankrupt!'s parents are very pleased their hard earned dollars put him through college so he could extrapolate thusly from their back porch) a debate. Such is the case now between this venerable established blog and some little nobody blog hoping to make a name for himself. Reluctantly, I must accept the challenge he has laid down.

Bankrupt! makes a couple of claims in his "batman begins" article. In typical English major fashion, these claims are couched in tangential undeveloped quips housed in superfluous commas and armchair lanuage. It is up to me to decipher and debunk his claims. I am all to happy to do so.

Claim 1: Too many characters, especially too many bad guys...I don't get the sense of closeness in these bad guys[.] -Bredo
Response: Well it is true the bad guys never kissed or anything to show their "closeness," one might actually think such handholding would be antithetical to their bad guy nature. Also, too many bad guys? Are you drunk? More bad guys! More fight scenes!

"Claim 2:" Two; Bruce. Bruce is a rich kid, turned vigilante, with a mind and body! bent on justice, not revenge, with the base of overcoming fear. Ok, that is noble, but what really is his motivation? If not revenge, then good for the sake of good? His character is layered to the degree that he gets a sense of justice in him, and then that turns to self-righteousness, and then is balanced by the calm (English?) restraint of his butler, and his love for that go-getter girl. We are left wondering at his capacity for good action. He is reaction after reaction. But I do allow this point to be weaker, because batman ultimately is our darker, gothic hero. Hard for us to know what goes on in that bat mind. -Bredo
Response 2: You can actually see this criticism undermine itself as it is being written.

Claim 3: Gotham was too big, and too computer. I would have appreciated shots of chi-town, not mixed with shots of NY.
Response 3: The movie was shot almost exlusively in Chicago (this might not be readily apparent to those who don't live here) by a Chicago native. And besides the NYC shots show it for the ugly-fat-stepsister it is to Chicago's grand architecture and general classiness.

Claim 4: He [Morgan Freeman] played the same character in these movies. The old, wisened, "he said so knowingly", wink, underdog friend.
Response 4: So?

Claim 5: Alfred, oh Alfred, why couldn't we see more you you and your relationship with Bruce. And you could have been so funny!
Response 5: Butlers, by nature of their vocation, are meant to be seen and not heard. He lives in Bruce's shadow, which is both consistent with his job and personality and the comic. Sorry there weren't enought one-liners for the peanut gallery.


Claim 6: The girl. Forgettable
Response 6: but still busty and cute. Let's see...oh yeah, it's a comic book movie!

Claim 7: This movie took too long to develop.
Response 7: Maybe if Alfred cracked a few jokes it would have kept P.B.'s attention.

Claim 8: The movie was shot fast so that the watcher wouldn't notice the lack of dialogue.
Response 8: Let's see, it took too long to develop and was too fast...

Claim 9: Macabre needs quiet lurk, suspense, and then the violent. This movie was violent the whole way through.
Response 9: Does anyone agree with him on this one?

In conclusion....actually, Batman Begins was great.

Do I smell burning scones?

Dear Faithful Reader,

P. Bredemeiereiere (sp?) has started a blog. Mr. Bredo's blog is an enticing little scamp though it is not without its shortcomings. Check it out on my links page under "bankrupt!"

Hey! Douche Bags!

Joe and Sl777nger, get the fuck in contact with each other and figure out a way to come down together and split gas money. You can catch up on the road and agree to gang up on me for the weekend, I'm fine with that. Just get your shit together and get to chicago around noon or 2 so we can go out for lunch with Allen and probably Jim and um...Sufjan Steven's publicists brother...etc..

It's a tricky species

Dear Faithful Reader:

My addiction to high stakes gambling is on the wane. As of Saturday my days of roulette success resemble my ability to appease my wife's wrath. Oh cruel twist of fate that led poor Andy, Adam, Tad and Richard to the twisting table and its temptress of tumble. While Adam, like a 79 year old chain-smoking blue hair, whittled away his 10 minutes of excitement (and 10 dollars) arm-in-arm with the the 25 cent slots, I could only be appeased by real excitement. With gallant Tad Lindsey on my right we commenced to take on the roulette table like a 30 rack and a baked potao. Unlike beer and carbohydrates however the table left us cold and wanting when, after 5 minutes, our stacks had diminished to nothing like our reason for being in that loud cramped fishbowl of debauched. Some have said perhaps this will be the end of my gambling days. To them I say I simply went in with too little money and too few cigarettes.

The Debate begins!

Dear Faithful Reader,

I just read an e-mail I received over the weekend from one, Peter Bredemeier. Now in it he says "Batman Returns sucked." I however have put full support behind the new Batman flick and found it completely enthralling. Christian Balle was a superb rich man turned vigilante. He was completely believable as an aristocrat with inherited superiority and this made Bruce Wayne all the more compelling when you see him change into a street thug as Batman. Secondly, the story was simply wonderful in its unfolding; it was neither rushed nor drawn out. You got to know Bruce Wayne and understand why he’s the antihero he becomes. It is not simply the death of his parents that drives Mr. Wayne to dawn a mask and cape, but his very nature is that of an individual who is afraid of life and ashamed of his shortcomings. You care about Bruce Wayne, you are not simply interested in Batman’s ‘toys’ and moves. Not to mention Gotham is a wonderful mix of future and present. From the simple Ford Taurus cars to the elevated monorail, Gotham comes alive!

I say Peter is an idiot and should watch the movie again with new eyes. Peter also does not like Lost in Translation and lots of other great movies and likes Mars Volta. So there it is, what say you faithful reader?

Journal of a Working Boy #2: Boss Man's Gone.

Dear Faithful Reader,

As I look around my cubicle walls, I am suddenly overcome with a great sense of pride at recent goings on. The Boss Man has been absent for the last 2 days, due to an engagement in Las Vegas with craps tables and cheap lobster. In his absence I have been able to complete a series of self-portraits. I capture my image by the reflection and refraction of fluorescent light through a series of interconnected candy wrappers and toilet paper rolls. I then trace the image with my green "editing" pen and fill in the finer points of my features with my red "proofing" pen and sign each piece with my black "for writing on the inside of my calf" pen. I am quite pleased with the results. Thus far I have given each of my co-workers a print from the series and their silence, upon receiving the work, speaks volumes to its power upon even the most casual observer.

Tonight, this working boy will begin the weekend by throwing back a couple bottles of suds with some close friends to celebrate the safe return of Adam Wood to America. No doubt Mr. Wood will come to this event with 5 dollars and be utterly shocked and repentant when he finds it is not enough for the night’s activities. He will then shift into poverty mode and talk about how poor he is and how he shouldn’t even BE drinking (much less a roaring wino). All the while he will be scanning the assembled body looking for just one person who will find it in his heart to buy Mr. Wood a beverage. While tiresome, his antics entertain much like the hobo I pay 4 cents to dance to Baby Elephant Steps as I wait for the bus that takes this working boy home.

Whoa! it's so happening!

What it is I don't know, when it will occur, it's hard to say. Are we safe to leave our homes? Obviously No. Meet me at the Hop and see you when you get there. watch the bouncing eyes .

Back in Black!

Dear Fitful Reader,

I have returned safely from the hospitality of the chigger biter, tick and mosquitoariam prickupus. While I am definitely worse for wear the trip was a nice break from the high stress city life to which I have grown accustomed. My trip was filled with all form of excitement, including, but not limited to, bathtub races (I didn’t attend due to sleepiness, I heard they were a let down, but I very much doubt that any form of bathtub being pushed down Main Street is a letdown), roping exhibition (my extended family were the said exhibitionarians and wore matching American flag shirts and did an outstanding job), cutting a trail through poisonous weeds (Though I did over 90% of the trail, Danny, my stronger flashier brother, did the last 10% in front of adoring family members (who were only able to see him clean the already blazed trail because I blazed it) and was hailed as some kind of super human)) and saying "it's a hot one t'day, yes suh." All in all it was a good time.

There are a couple things though that really stood out during my little adventure, and I would like to share them with you. Number 1, the new Batman movie is terribly good and everyone should see it. Number 2, Gridley Kansas has 200 people who all know each other and there is a man from Gates Center who makes his own jelly. Number 3, I ate Spam and it was good. Number 4, I didn't catch any catfish although it was not for lack of trying to catch the sly muddweller. Number 5, Grandma's neibor cannot get a drivers license so he just drives his tractor in and out of town.

I would like to extend warmest greetings to friend Desanen for his safe return from the South. And say hello to Joe and Slangdddffer both of whom will be coming to Intonation this week off. I am excited for their arrival and promise them a weekend of mediocrity or possible nonstop excitement. I haven't bought either of you tickets.

Underneath a Kansas Sky

Faithful Reader:

I write to you now at this 2:30 in the a.m. to inform you of my whereabouts. I am currently in the godforsaken world that is Kansas. Under the watchful eye of my grandmothers polyester tiger print blanket, I dash off this note to say fear not, while I now enter the world of cowpies and toothless mandibles filled with grease, I shall return on the 5th of July.

JOURNAL OF A WORKING BOY #1

Dear Faithful Reader:

Since this will be the first in a series of existing exploits we must begin with introductions. Below contains a list of my coworkers extraordinar.

Boss Man: My immediate overlord the Boss Man wields an iron fist of authority. Unblinking in his swift judgments, yours truly risks death and unemployment at the hands of this tyrannical fascist. He openly quotes Ayn Rand while putting out half smoked cigars on my polyester ties and steals my lunch when I fill my water cup. He's a good man and loves his family.

Bridge Troll: With only a foam cubicle wall separating me from this chatterbox, things can get a bit ugly. With a masters degree in Ancient Languages this medieval nuisance blabbers on about etymology well beyond the realms decency and taste. His comments and tyrads can be easily met with a exclamation of "Right On!" This makes him feel good about himself and his terribly miserable sexually ambigious existence.

The Italian: Recently married, she is a solid worker. She makes very few appearance because unlike the rest of us she has work to do.

South of the Border: She is the secretary and local frat girl. While over 40 years of age she takes her time and embarrasses the rest of us with her weekend exploits on both water and land.

The Interns: These sultry vixens of the freshman and sophomore year of college, flaunt their promising futures and calculated career moves by constantly showing those of us with name plates attached to our walls that children can actually do our jobs.

The Snickers Bar: Perhaps my greatest enemy and friend. Downtown prices make this sweet indulgence quite the expensive little fix. I have been known to eat upwards of 2 a day. I eat because I'm sad and I'm sad because I hate my job.