wowzers

Richard Burrell "el hombre" of Richard and Andi Burrell

An Doof Ass goes to College...!

As most of you know, An Doof Ass now resides in New York City and attends graduate school. Since Mr. Ass is a “grad student” he now passes out in the allies behind bars with English Pub sounding names. Hence he is now frequents The Jolly Tinker -From what I hear, The J.T. offers drink specials on their Imperial pints of ESB on Guy Fox Day and chaps start queueing up at daybreak. Mind yourself whilst you’re there however it can get a bit dodgy and one never knows when a row might break out.- But a bar it remains, and with his whiskey nose to the ground Mr. Ass found it. Now, it wouldn’t be a Monday at 8 o’clock if An Doof Ass wasn’t drunk, and yesterday was no exception. I was sitting in my study going over the latest issue of Informed Nobody Magazine when I got the call…

Upon picking up the phone, Mr. Ass -no doubt inspired by his acquisition of a modicum of scholarly import- took it upon himself to talk about “philosopheology.” Unfortunately, both his intoxicated state and his being constantly robbed by a large Mexican man who followed him from Chicago impeded his diatribe. Therefore I could only gather a couple of his inspiring words and phrases. They included the following…

“Heidegger’s Beginning of Time exemplifies the seminal rebuttal of the prima facie justification granted the Kantian Transcontinental Turn since the time of Einstein. “ He then paused for a moment –I assume to let the profundity of this statement sink in- and then exclaimed again “Einstein!” and fell over on what sounded like a cat or, knowing Mr. Ass, a prostitute holding a cat. He also said he now “Smokes me the Kool Extra Minty Slims” and went on in great length about the merits of “stayin’ jive” and, of course, “boobies.”

Oh how the mighty have fallen! There was a time Ol’ an Doof and I would spend an evening polishing a bottle of Evan Williams Tennessee Style Liquor Drink while discussing Mayan crop rotation techniques, 17th century Finnish ballads, and, well, boobies. But never once did we fall on a prostitute holding a cat.

Weekend Bends!

FRIDAY:
This weekend was rather uneventful. On Friday night the Mrs. and I hung out with the Richard and Andi Burrell. We ate buffalo wings and washed them down with a reasonable two pitchers at CJ’s and a couple of games of pool. Not to bore you with the details of the night, but let’s just say roughnecks are better pool players than those of us who enjoy a fruitful discussion of IPO’s and good Thai restaurants.

SATURDAY:
I decided early that morning to spend the day drinking at home with the shades drawn. In preparation I bought some beer, smokes, and checked out two movies from the library. In all honesty I can’t remember much after that. I remember sitting down on the couch, Red Dog in hand, around 2:30 to watch a History Channel documentary on a group of MIT students who used mathstuff to win at blackjack, and the next thing I know I was half-naked in a pile of bricks on 45th and Morgan with a bloody knee, a handful of hair, and a tattoo on my chest of two large breasted mermaids who seem pretty into each other. By the time I made it home, Heather was passed out on the kitchen floor with a cigarrett burning a hole in her Guns-N-Roses t-shirt and two large breasted mermen tattooed on her forearms. I’m offering a free peek at my tattoo to anyone who can provide information about that afternoon’s events.

SUNDAY:
The day was spent at BBQ in Bridgeport with some close friends. Heather wore a long sleeved shirt, I ate too much.

Journal of a Working Boy: 8-26-05: Lesbian Vampires!

The Chicago Loop can be a monster, a hobo monster. Hobo’s everywhere: White gutter punk hobos, crazy/smelly/blind hobos, Woman with child hobos, your general hobos, executive hobos, tourist hobos. Hobo’s for everyone! The worst is when you’re just trying to drop some X with your hookup and all of the sudden you get hassled.

W.B.: This is X right? It seems to taste a bit like caramel corn.
Ice EZ: Cousin, it tastes like caramel corn ‘cause it is…I mean, oh yeah Weezy it got it all up in there. It’s like laced with X and all kinds a shit. Big time shit, man. Oh yeah.
W.B.: Awesome. Oh yeah, I can totally feel it working now. Oh yeah, I’m flying.
Ice EZ: I tolds you fool. Now that shit ain’t cheap. It’s the same X I hook John Cusack wit, it hot. It be 55 dollars.
W.B.: Judging by my buzz, I’d say it is well worth it. I sincerely enjoy our get togethers. Man, I’m such a badass.

*W.B. takes out his “roll” and begins counting off the Benjamins, and just after handing Ice EZ his money, out of nowhere, a Hobo is on him.*

Hobo: Help a brother out.
W.B.: Sorry, I don’t have any money. In addition, I’m really quite high so I’m not in my best frame-of-mind, I could go “whack” on you at any moment or possibily slip into some other drug-induced episode.
Hobo: What you mean, you ain’t got no money? You just paid 55 dollars for popcorn.
W.B.: Whoa, this stuff is strong, I’m starting to hallucinate.
Hobo: You ain’t nothing. All you got is a bag of popcorn.
W.B.: Man, I feel bad for you. I wish you could be where I am right now. I got all kinds of things happening. All the cars look like they’re um...floating and uh, there’s like this haze up high around the buildings…Oh yeah, I’m flying, definitely.
Hobo: Come on’ man all I need is a dollar for the bus.
W.B.: Oh, no. I know this scam. First you need dollar for the “bus,” then a dollar for “bus fare,” and then another dollar to “get on the bus.” Before I know it I’m out like 3 dollars. I ain’t no fool.
Hobo: OK then give me your money or else I’ll stab you with this piece of broken glass.

Hobo pulls out piece of broken glass.

W.B.: Oh no, I know this scam. First you’ll “threaten” to stab me, then you’ll “stab me” and then you’ll take all my money and “leave me for dead.” Forget it. Now go away, you're killing my mad buzz.

*Stab*

W.B.: Whoa, I’m like totally feeling this. It’s crazy…

Summer Days!

Yesterday when I got home from work I went to my homosexual Mexican barber, Christopher, for a trim. He doesn’t speak English and my Spanish doesn’t include hair-talk so I sit in silence. Every couple of minutes he holds up the mirror and says “esta bien?” and I respond, in a very nice tone, “fuck damn.” The haircut usually takes about 30 minutes, but half of that time is taken up by styling. Christopher is addicted to styling -and since I can’t tell him to stop- he just keeps on going. I left with my hair spiked throughout and in need of only a pair of Zubas to complete the transformation back into a 3rd grader.

Actually, back in 3rd grade I didn’t own a pair of Zubas or cool spiky hair. I attended school with a buzz cut and in my sister’s hand-me-down dresses and jellies. But I loved them both. The airflow was fantastic, and I didn’t even give a damn if my berets didn’t match. Sure kids made fun of me, but only the “cool” kids who had BMX bikes and French-kissing girlfriends. What did I care about them? I had my own scene; there was Vylad, who drew NASCAR vehicles and memorized track layouts, Matt Marcourt, whose legendary bad breathe not only kept bullies at bay but drew attention away from his obesity, and Lucas, who paid 15 dollars for a bag of what turned out to be oregano, and smoked it anyways.

I remember those days like they were yesterday. All of us just sitting up in Matt’s tree house smoking oregano and talking about all kinds of things: Dale Earnhart, obesity, rose fertilizer. You name it we talked about it. Of course, those were simpler times. All you needed to be happy was an open back dress in the summers and a pair of blue sparkle jellies.

Some Dirty Snitch!

The Man will not prevail! Except for sometimes, such as this time, yeah, he kinda prevailed...

*recently brought to my attention was this e-mail from ol'Mother Hen*

Dear Andrew,

It was brought to our attention by another Wheaton alumnus that you had posted some information on your Alumni Online Community that does not appear to be correct. All changes made to your online profile also update your record at Wheaton so it is important that the information you put online is correct.

Also, when you had signed up for the Online Community, you agreed to follow the Terms and Conditions found at http://www.wheatonalumni.org/olc/membersonly/WHC/memsrv/terms.html. Some of the information you posted on your profile is in violation of these terms. Sometime during the next week, could you log into your profile and change this information and provide your correct address? If these changes have not been made by Aug. 8, the information currently online will be deleted.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. Should you have any questions or if we can assist you in any way, please let us know.

Blessings,Richard Lyon '99Communications CoordinatorWheaton College Alumni Association630-752-5473

into the sunRISE!

A single tear was shed last night; I had slammed my good thumb in the backdoor. In other news, Adam Wood darkened an aforementioned (see into the sunSET) door for the last time. On Friday, he departs for New York City to pursue a degree similar to those offered by the DeVry Institute and the American Beauty America Institute of Fashion: a technical degree for specialized employment. Unlike DeVry and A.B.A.I.F however his field is far more competitive, employment is near impossible, advancement unheard of, and the office follows you home every night telling you to publish some trite, isolated paper.

But that time is not yet and last night he was in top form. Nursing a mere 9 beers over 45 minutes, he proclaimed himself “Champion of the Worlds,” and within five minutes had become “intellectually remise” and “a terrible nobody characterized by failure.” Oh sure, he hits women, kicks puppies, and gentrifies neighborhoods, but he’ll be missed. Chicago’s bars will be a little quieter, jokes less frequent and funny, and street corners less bloody, passed out, and robbed.

Goodbye Adem, I mean Adam. Whatever.

Into the sunSET!

If things go according to plan, Adam Wood will darken the door of the Skylark one last time before heading off to New York tonight around 10:30. All are, of course, invited to attend.*

At this evening’s event, we will shower him with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh which he no doubt will sell for cigarrett money upon his arrival in New York. This cannot be avoided. However, we can put that aside for now and allow him to bask in his last few moments of quasi-novelty and nostalgia before heading off to be simply another Medievalist lamenting everything.

And now to eulogize the Adam that will soon be forever gone…

Nine to Five:
for adam wood

He drank of the juniper far beyond its ripening
The smell of pine.
-fin

Thanks for the memories. Godspeed. Sentence fragment.

*just fyi, I’m not bumming anyone any cigarretts.

Journal of a Working Boy: 8-19-05:*The Righteous Rage of the Rage-filled!*

This Working Boy was on the bus this morning going east on Washington when all of the sudden he saw someone running beside the bus carrying a backpack and briefcase. W.B. recognized this figure as a fellow ’04 alum of Wheaton College (Il)


(*quick aside* the US News and World Reports college rankings just came out. On Wheaton’s website they have their yearly rant, "Why Wheaton is Never in the Top 50," and in typical Wheaton fashion the administration's reasoning is completely deceptive. Wheaton is #73 in alumni giving and, according to them, this is what drops us in the rankings. This is deceptive for two reasons. First, while it is true Wheaton's endowment is no Amherst or Carlton, Wheaton is the mother fucking Amherst and Carleton and Harvard and Yale of Christian College endowments all rolled into one! Guilt tripping alumni by comparing Wheaton to secular ivy league and elite institutions is unfair and ridiculous. But more to the point, the US News and World Reports system places the largest emphasis (25% of the final score, nothing else is above 5%) on “peer review” which asks universities to rank on another. Wheaton's reputation is consistently ranked in the basement on this score. In fact, when Wheaton made the top 50 in 2001 it had THE LOWEST reputation score in Tier 1 (by almost an entire point out of a five point scale) and one of THe LOWEST (I believe the third lowest) reputation score out of the the Tier 2 schools! Wheaton's endowment and giving is "good" (73 out of 250 ain't bad!) for a liberal arts college, and it is fucking amazing for a "Chrsitian" liberal arts college. Its reputation is just far too low to be a US. News first tier liberal arts institution. Don't deceive us Wheaton; stand up and say "we are not a highly enough respected institution to warant the marks needed to be a consistenly ranked Tier 1 institutions." My prayers go out out to the faculty and staff that have to deal with this idiotic administrative bullshit every day.)


Upon seeing this old chum, W.B. thinks, "He looks like he knows what’s up to. I’ll go chat with him…”

*and with that W.B. pulls the emergency brake and bus squeals to a stop hurling strollers over drunks and drunks over foxy 20-something Loopers. He exits quickly. Just the, Wheatonite blows right by him in his hurry to get wherever he’s going.

W.B. (while performing secret alumni hand guestures and singing toward Wheatonite) With heart and soul and brain, I worship you Mother Wheaton pride of all mankind! (he stops, watching the figure fade in the distance)
W.B. Hey Wheatonite! Where you going in such a hurry, it’s me, W.B., an old school yard chum!

With that Wheatonite turns around and yells, “I know it’s you W.B. but I’m late for work. Let’s do lunch sometime.” Then, like a shot of paint thinner before an Doof Ass, he’s gone.

W.B. Late for work?, W.B. says to himself, What does that mean? Oh that silly old bastard.

And with that W.B. begins to sprint after Wheatonite. He catches up to him at Michigan Aveue, just as Wheatonite plows into a hobo.

W.B.: Look out for the hobo!

Wheatonite: (while looking at a torn pant leg) Oh dear, I shall be late to work.
W.B.: Don’t you have someone who will clock you in so you don’t have to show up on time?
Wheatonite: What?
W.B. Come on, let’s go get some coffee. Hey, did I tell you I just got a raise?

*W.B. leans down and picks a couple bucks out of the collapsed Hobo’s cup and off they go. At the Jamba Juice Wheatonite begins to tell him all about his life since college.*

W.B.: Regale me with tales!
Wheatonite: Well W.B., since leaving dear ol'Wheaton and moving to Carol Stream I've devoted myself to glorifying God in all I do. Also, I have become and investment banker.
W.B. Well that is something! I myself am a creative writer, I score all kinds of babes.
Wheatonite: (obviouly not listening) Praise God!
W.B.: (obviously not listening) and so forth.
Wheatonite: What church are you going to? I myself have a bi-weekly bible study that really fulfills me and there are lots of godly women involved in the ministry. They are a blessing.
W.B. I agree completely as long as by goldy you mean "hot" and by blessing you mean "easy." I myself have yet to find a fulfilling church that nourishes my soul. Please pray for me.
Wheatonite: I certainly will.
W.B.: Listen, I know this drug dealer, do you want to go score some X and have the day fly by?
Wheatonite: I’ve missed your jokes! I praise God for you sense of humor.
W.B.: Right on!
Wheatonite: How’s your prayer life, W.B.?
W.B.:….
Wheatonite: How’s your sexual purity life?
W.B.:…..
Wheatonite: How’s your life in general? Do you have any aspirations, goals, loves, etc…
W.B.:.....
Wheatonite:…
W.B.: Oh shit! I’m late for work.

Dragonfly Chalice!

It takes a lot to get me out of Pilsen. The reason is simple: I know Pilsen and its got everything I need or want. That is until I found out about the Goose Bar in North Center, which is about two blocks from Heather’s job. This bar has $1 dollar burgers and drink specials on Wednesay. Beings as the fridge is empty and all the dishes dirty, I called the Mrs. and told her I was coming up for dinner (plus, the Twins game was on). Since the wife has yet to get me my pewter wedding band depicting two intertwined snakes (with crystals for eyes) eating the other’s tail, I looked as single as the next sleazy guy. With a book of bitch-scoring poetry in hand, I boarded the Blue line bound for the land of power suits and sundresses that is the Northside.


The Brown Line was a lot of fun. It has the nicest commuters in the city, also the hottest, also the most annoying. With all the cell phones and sexinessities, I felt like I was in New York City going to some bar that sells Carlsburg. It sent chills down my spine.

Sore Loser!

Longest baseball game ever, but nonetheless a lot of fun. During the game, I ate enough sunflower seeds to kill a hypertensive wo/man. My cheeks are shriveled like old leather and my tongue can only discerne the subtle nuiansces between sunflower seed, sunflower shell, and salt. The baseballers played an excellent couple of rounds and a couple quite poorly. The Twins won, which doesn't mean much.

But enough of that the big news of the day is two fold. Firstly, Adam Wood has returned to the Middle West for one short week before leaving next Friday for New York City. I for one welcome his return and wish him the best of luck on his upcoming fishing trip.
Secondly, this weekend ushers in the the arrival of Chicago's newest swingers, the Lawndale Crowd. Shunning suburban ambivalence, pipedreams, and mom's cooking, these ambitious travelers will set down camp this Saturday the 19th. I’m excited for the “getting away from the wife” potential they offer cloistered cool guys and their proximity to Don Urbano.

*Update Headlines*
Hoods stole my one ripening tomato, their lust for the tomatillo knows no bounds.

You can buy drugs in front of the Trebol.

I do dishes everyday but there's always dirty dishes.

I'm really tired.

Adam Wood owes me money.

<<<-KICK IT->>>

Monday's are always bummers; but Tuesday's are a cup (or Nalgene depending on one's scene) full of sunshine. Twins/Sox tonight, oh yes. The O'Connell boys, the Burrell's, and nice weather will all kick it tonight. It will be blast; unless we are attacked by The Bridgeport Irish. We stand out at "The Joan" because of our clean fingernails, healthy gums, and penny loafers.

Moving on, I am under the impression Adam Wood is back in the United States. If anyone can verify or negatify this I would be greatly appreciative. In other words, I need to know if I should change the locks on my door.

Charcoal-n-black turtleneck

When you live near a swingin’ artist community, things get a little crazy sometimes. This weekend, for example, was the second Friday of the month, which is also known as get your drunkening for free compliments of the open galleries along south Halsted. Between exquisite plastic cups full of Bernard Shaw Sav Blanc and Jim Beam white label, I had myself a fine evening.

-I now will regale you with my sexual and social conquests of the night.-

With a couple of highballs inside of me, we (me and mrs.) hit the galleries with some friends who actually enjoy art. Their camaraderie proves indispensable. While they walked around enjoying the works, I was able to hit the wine and whiskey stations without raising too much suspicion. After all, I was with appreciators.

With my head spinning, I was ready to start making my moves. With the wife busy entertaining, I began to prowl.

Scene: Black bobbed hair, cat eye glasses, brown denim skirt, and black turtleneck and female. Working Boy in grey pant’s with beer stains on them from the night of An Doof Ass’s return to America and blue flannel shirt with cigarrett burns.

W.B.: This one sucks and is terrible.
Bobbed hair: My boyfriend “composed” this piece. What do you know!?.
W.B.: shut up!
*Aside:* The key to prowling is to always control the conversation and know when a scene has turned lame. With deft agility and savoir faire, I say…
W.B.: Whatever. I have to go, my hot girlfriends want to leave. Laterz.

And with that I'm off to another gallery to break some more hearts. Before making the trip, however, I get some fresh air outside the gallery to look super cool and such. Upon getting up from my cigarrett, I realize my drunkening has progressed and smoking has ceased to be swingin' or a wise decision.

I vomit at the corner of 19th Place and Halsted.

This unpleasantness forces me to forgo breaking hearts at the next couple galleries, but that's cool since they look totally lame anyways. I hit the side streets to get away from the crowds

After a few minutes of relaxing in an alley off 21st street, I regain my bearings, and begin planning my next plan of attack. -as luck would have it, there’s a big Mexican guy passed out in the alley nursing a bottle of Old Irish Rose. With cat like reflexes, I swipe it from him and keep on moving through the dark Chicago mist- While walking, I contemplate how to be a bit more swingin’ during my next encounter. I’m about done composing the perfect pickup line when I hear someone calling in the distance.

Scene: W.B. curled up next to a dumpster sipping on the creature. Rats and mice run over his feet. He doesn't make sound.

Weirdo: W.B.? Where are you are? W.B.? This is your concerned wife, W.B.?
W.B. (thinking): Oh no! old Lady LubanskyGarrett is onto me. This scene will soon turn complicated unless I turn a quick score. I best find a mark.

With new determination, I head down the back alley to the corner of 21st and Halsted for one last grift. I enter the gallery through the back door and smoothly scope the scene. It’s all clear; there’s nothing but sexy guys in tight girl jeans and girls in tight girl jeans. I make my move to the cocktail table. With a swingin’ Canadian Scotch and soda in hand, I swagger/start hiccuping.

As luck would have it I stumble into a swinger, literally.

Scene: She has bobbed hair and is wearing a black denim skirt, cat eye glasses, and a brown turtleneck. I’ve never scene anything like her. I trip on a crack in the vintage hardwood and spill half my drink. It kind of splashs a little bit.

Bobbed hair: Did you just spill your swill on the back of my legs?
W.B.: This is Canadian scotch, the finest. You should be so damned lucky!
Bobbed hair: What? Listen, you stink.
W.B.: shut up! Listen, I’m really rich and successful, but in an “indie” sort of way. I’ve got this crazy lady following me around and I need a place to lay low. Also, I’m an assassin.
Bobbed hair: You’re talking like An Doof Ass.
W.B.: How do you know An Doof Ass?
Bobbed hair: Stop being an idiot W.B.
W.B.: ....
Bobbed hair: ...
W.B.: I’ve made a terrible mistake.

-*My memory is a bit foggy after this point. I remember saying something like “you were supposed to not be you” and then her saying something like “find your own way home, you idiotic perverted drunk.” And then I said something really cool and like went home with four of five sexy female artists. *-

Gabby!

Adam Wood. Pull yourself out of whatever gutter you have "mysteriously" found yourself in and pay me my money.

titilating and niggardly wrought

Sometimes working boys get carried away. Sometimes working boys think Thursday’s are Friday’s and drink accordingly. This working boy is exhausted…


In a moment or two you will know
exactly where you are
on which side the door,
your wallet, your shoes,
and what today you’ll have to do.
Cities each have a kind of light
a color even,
or set of undertones
determined by the river or hills
as well as by the stone
of their countless buildings.
I cannot yet recall what city this is I’m in.

-August Kleinzahler.

Fuck you guys, I’m tired. I was up till all damn hours drinkin’ and thinkin’ for Eric’s impromptu birthday party. When such things occur, the next day is all ready cashed in. I’m cashed in.

Everyone!

Last night, A. Bemius put on a little banjo/guitar concert at the Hen House. It was a lot of fun. The highlight is always the O’Connell’s who have basically adopted me over the course of the last year. We spent the night embroiled in debates about neighborhood barriers and the Great Bridgeport Possibility (the O’Connell family exodus of ’05? stay tuned....)

Tonight ushers in the birthday of Eric Singley. At 25, Eric has nothing to show for his life and therefore elected to retreat to the technical college that is Notre Dame Law School. There he will, no doubt, enjoy two years of philosophically vacuous indoctrination and emerge highly employable. He is making the best decision of his life.

As fall approaches and winter looms, I begin my yearly cycle into self-hatred and loathing. Like a squirrel preparing for winter's doom, I will soon begin lashing out randomly at shadows, gain 15 pounds, and drink Turpentine as I pour over classified ads and plan my escape.

I will purchase a pipe out of which to smoke tobacco and pine needles. I will wear my tattered yellow cardigan, sweatpants, and slippers and mope about the apartment lamenting these troubled times. Occasionally, I will peek out the window to the street below and complain about the freezing winds and the shockingly large number of ethnic individuals in the neighborhood.

Come February, convinced hundreds of thousands of dollars line the walls of my garbage-infested apartment, I will begin tearing them down between mumbled grumblings about long dead friends and Mexican conspiracies.

Fighting Off the Juggernaut!

Apparently Peter B. knows an Doof Ass's future N.Y. roomy. They are going out for drinks tonight and, no doubt, it will be quite an affair. Hanging out with a 23 year old who lives with his parents and works at a bookstores coffee counter, grad baby will have the unique opportunity to actually look into his own future. The only difference being he'll have himself a degree that opens about as many doors as a banana peel. Poor bastard.

But that is neither here nor there. The purpose of this post is to impart some helpful advice to grad baby, advice that will aid him in his interaction with An Doof Ass: The Roommate.
:
1.) You must constantly tell him to turn off lights when exiting a room. *Revelation:* He doesn’t turn off lights because he’s selfish and extravagant.

2.) Carry a spray bottle with you. An Doof Ass constantly tries to climb up on the furniture. Spraying him with the water bottle helps him learn where he is not allowed. Make sure you spray him only when you catch him in the act; spraying him after the fact only confuses him. *Helpful Tip:* For an even more effective spray, put a little Tabasco sauce in the water and aim for the eyes. Remember this phrase: Bad An Doof Ass! NO! NO!

3.) He walks around in his underwear.

4.) He’s a bad drunk. An Doof Ass prides himself on his tolerance for spirits. This is his downfall. He often decides to “test” his limits. In my experience this leads to one to three possibly outcomes. Outcome possibility uno: he punches you in the guts without provocation. He then justifies this by saying “I had to do that. You understand right?” Possibility tois: He vomits all over your room, the living room, the kitchen or all three, and then goes to sleep in your bed. Possibility six: He starts crying for no reason.

5.) He’s a smoker. If you can roll it up in the Bible’s concordance, he’ll smoke it. greasy rags, oregano, pine needles, hair, styrophoam, you name it he’s smoked it.

There are more things that come to mind, such as his poor hygiene, lack of coolness, haphazard sleeping schedule, panic attacks, anti-panic attacks, smack habit, love of sardines and smelly cheese, basic thievery, advanced thievery, leaves cap off the toothpaste, steals your toothpaste, doesn’t brush his teeth, lack of cultivation, snobbery, and so forth. I wish you luck future coffee monkey. You’re neither in my thoughts nor prayers because not even God can save you now. An Doof Ass is coming….

Get at It

So there is a bit of controversy that sprung up on a chicago blog site. Chicagoist is accused of being a shitty reporter, I think frank's comments where really on the mark. Check it out! Also, everyone but frank, whoever the handsome devil may be, is lame.

Performance!

Eric's ice-cream cake is melting...
I guess it is his birthday this week. We should get something together for the weekend to celebrate, not for Eric but for ourselves.

Party possibilities.?!@#$*^#@

Also, where is that Doof Ass Adam? and when is he getting back. We will play glorious poker on his return!

Journal of A Working Boy: *8-5-05* Boompa!

This week has been almost completely uneventful. The boss is gone, and I have not had a lick of work to do for the past two days. Yet I have to spend 8 hours a day here at the office. How does one fill such a time gap?....It's as easy as 1-2-3!

1.) get to work an hour before anyone else has arrived. Click your way through security, punch in, and then fall asleep under your desk. Set your cell phone to wake you at 8:45, that way when the first co-worker arrives at 8:50, you sound awake and busy. *For bonus points, print off a couple nonsense letters right as they are sitting down.*

Possible Scenario:
"Boy Working Boy, you sure are busy. It's not even 9 o'clock and your printing off serious important Mayor stuff."
"Well, you know me. I'm not called Working Boy for nothing."
"No indeed. You are surely the coolest person in all of the Mayor's Office, as a young nubile intern I wouldn't mind getting to know you in a more intimate setting. What are you doing during lunch?"
"Well, I was going to work through it, but...."

2.) Spend about 4 hours surfing the internet. This is a by far the most important activity of the day because you've got to find interesting stuff to keep the time moving. But you have to be careful. Internet surfing is a tricky species, it involves mostly mouse clicking and not typing.

Possible Scenario:
"Working Boy? Why are you clicking your mouse so much, aren't you writing important Mayor stuff?"
*working Boy thinks to himself* "Oh no! I am to be fired!"
*Working Boy says* "I'm simply organizing and updating my many many important Mayor letters into a new computer filing system. My high volume of valuable valuable letters requires constant maintenance."
Oh Working Boy! You are so sexy!

Then, to avoid further prying, click quietly and every five minutes or so just run your hands over the keypad so it sounds like things are being typed! To avoid actually typing unplug the keyboard from the CPU. You won't need it anyways.

3.) By now it is lunch time and you are free to leave the office. We are only supposed to take an hour for lunch, but we don't clock out so there are no worries. Just step out around 1 and come back around 3:30. Spend that time getting to know the city. Start off by walking down alleys looking for drug dealers (on "the streets" I am known as Weezy. This is an unfortunate result of a miscommunication between myself and "Ice EZ" my "hookup." I have found it to be the case that appropriate enunciation is lost on these street hooligans. I contend W.B., when spoken with the appropriate emphasis, simply doesn't sound like Weezy.)

Possible Scenario:
Weezy, yo' down?
What?
You straight? or whack?
I believe so.
A'ight.
*an exchange*

If one "scores" return to work immediately, that way you can use the buzz for the rest of the workday. If no drug dealers can be found just go eat and read in a sunny park. Or steal a couple bucks from a blind beggar and treat yourself to an ice cream. Or just don't do anything; spend the time recovering from the day had thus far.

When you get back, all you have to do is kill about 30 minutes before you can leave. Spend this time sounding really busy. Open and close your printer's manual feed. Take some papers and shuffle them. Or put all your pens in a row and then drop them on the floor and try to pick them up with your eyes closed. All these are perfectly acceptable time killers.

Well, it's lunchtime for this Working Boy, I'll see you back here in two hours....

Suburban Minneapolis!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes things go your way. Such is the case on October 28, 2005, at Logan Square Auditorium because on that Friday night we will partake of both THE HOLD STEADY and the CONSTANTINES....two super super-kick-ass bands. Unfortunately, if you live in New York City you won't be able to go to this show.

I also like Poetry and Papaya

I just realized I am only intersted in things that start with the letter "P."

Here are my most recent examples....

1.) Ping-Pong
2.) Poker
3.) Philosophy

I consider my defieciency in these three to be the root of my discontent. Ergo, I have taken it upon myself to remedy this through the installation of a club, The PingPokPhilo Club of the United American Genisus Europe Sucks Club of Eternal Brilliance.

A recent E-Mail to A Friend.....

I must warn you that I am very very bored at my job. My day consists of trying to do absolutely nothing as slowly as possible. To help break up the monotony, I have become an internet fiend of sorts. For example, I now have a blog devoted entirely to nonsense. I started it in hopes of creating a space for creative brainstorming and self-aggrandizing proclamations; however, it quickly became a forum for self-hatred and blind rage. The transformation was neither welcome nor, I am sad to say, gradual. It is now dominated by comments from friends asking what an entry is supposed to mean or why I “never said this before.” While it has marked a sad turn in my life, I am reluctant to give it up because, well, it is all I’ve got between the hours of 9 and 5 Monday through Friday.

A second result of this boredom is that I write e-mails profusely. There are, in fact, people who no longer write to me precisely because I have become a “high maintenance” correspondent. As an example, I have been known to send e-mails with ridiculous questions like: What is your opinion on the current situation in Iraq? Not only are such questions uninteresting, they are so hopelessly vague that one can’t even begin to answer them. What I should be asking is What’s up?-or even more generally-Hey. Yet, I find the responses to these queries far too short and, in my boredom, extrapolate from their curtness to either the conclusion that they are too busy with exciting parties to write or simply don’t care. Both conclusions, of course, lead me right back to posting on the blog.

Boredom, however, is not a concern for many in City Hall right now. Living up to its reputation, the City of Chicago is experiencing a FBI “shakedown” (I consider it one of the unique joys of my position to be able to talk about the “damn Feds” with our department’s secretary) that has put many bigwigs and fat-cats in Federal prisons. Two people I used to say “Good Morning” to are now behind bars and the Mayor currently fires about two department heads a day. Of course, Correspondence is safe because we do a whole lot of nothing.

The dog days of summer have reached those of us still inhabiting the Western Hemisphere, and my free broken down A/C unit constantly pumps smelly/smoggy air into my dinning room/ bedroom. During this heat wave, I have devoted myself to the temperature moderating activity of studying the thought of William James. One of my major complaints, and secret suspicions, about mother Wheaton’s philosophy department was that good ol’ American Pragmatism didn’t get much a shake and was feared for its brilliance. After reading Jame’s Varieties of Religious Experience before my senior year, I became convinced of the veracity of my suspicions and have not been able to read Platingna or Heidegger without rolling my eyes since. I am currently reading a biography on James by Gerald Meyers and have begun a steady transformation into a Jamesian armchair philosopher. In light of this, I hope to begin spending much of my time with horrible backaches, headaches, panic attacks and a large inheritance. If any of these things occur you can be sure I will let you know about them, via e-mail.

Take care,
Andy

That right ain't shit

What the fuck? Listen, shit needs to get done and that’s what I intend to see happen. For one, An Doof Ass owes me some serious scratch. Lord knows he probably doesn't have anything to his name but liquor stench and yellow fingertips, but I won't let that stop me from collecting. If anyone sees him make sure he knows I know that he knows that he owes me money. He's a real skinflint that Liquor Stench.

Moving on...I remember a real swingin' cat from my college days, let's call him...Jackson..Now Jackson was a real jackson and was big in the noise punk scene back in the day. Yet, after college was over, he all but disappeared. The reason? He moved back into his parent's place in suburban Chicago (this is not Number 5, 5 being the lowest, Bredemeier, but the similarities are striking). To make a long story short, we ran into each other at an after-party a couple of days ago and caught up (he's now doing the graduate school thing). During that time I found out he was out of his parent's place. The major reason? It had nothing to do with now being financially secure or even having his life together. Instead, his only reason for moving out was simple….He said: I was becoming creepy….Why? because he had been living with his parents for too long. I understood.

Postmetaphorical importance

So Fiesta Del Sol was a great time. On the way down to Cermak on Friday night, Richard, Heather and I stopped to watch a kids ball game in Dvorak Park. It was a good time, but somekind of gang related activity occurred and everyone started running out of the stands, and the kids ran to infield and got in a big pile on the ground covering their heads. So we decided to leave that scene and get down to the party. The fiesta was really great for a couple of reasons.

1.) I was giant amongst the Mexicans
2.) Lots of carnies
3.) loosing seven dollars trying to break beer bottles
4.) Mexican music
5.) free bubble gum

Then to the Lark where a certain Tipwhore cow was our "service." she conitnued to earn her reputation as worst waitress in the Skylark [I don't know why she continues to wait on us, we never leave her good money.] She really is a cow [interstingly, that terrible waitress cow, is one of An Doof Ass's major sweatie pies. An Doof Ass has terrible taste in women, as evidenced by the grazing bovine of his affection. Doof Ass you need to get your life together...].