B_L_I_N_G

Hawk’s visit was a lot of fun – much class was had by all. Friday night there was a party in Lincoln Square. I talked to an intelligent, well-spoken and funny gentleman. I also got to drink free beer.
*
Saturday was quite the event. The Deatholz! played their annual “Jukebox of Death” Halloween Show at the Empty Bottle. If you’ve ever seen the Deatholz! you know they are a great bar band. And when the entire night is devoted to deconstructed covers of Van Halen, Cher, Phil Collins and the like, you’re going to have a fucking good time. So much good fucking time that you can open your wallet the next day and discover you’re short 65-ish dollars and a few memories.
**
I do remember buying Peter B. a shot of whiskey and buying beers to pass out to relative strangers. I also remember Heather being so intoxicated that she sloshed her beer on to Beth Roberts and then fell into Grady and Megan. Early into what would become an epic series of falls for Heather, she tried to steady herself by grabbing the beaded necklace I was wearing. Unfortunately the necklace snapped, sending its regal beads flying. Beads and boozem, she discovered, don’t mix. In fact, they unmix and cause you to fall frequently. We can’t go out in public together for a couple of weeks because she is covered in bruises. Oh yes, she also ripped a bitch’s wig off.
***
As for my own good time, I ate a tamale and ran into the intelligent, well-spoken and funny gentleman from the night before. I fear however that my drunken racist tirade against the Jews was not well received.
****
Sunday I slept through my hangover and then watched football with Hawk. That night I got drunk while doing the laundry and passed out in a pile of undershirts.

Studs

A short good, short Op-ed piece about why the Cubs suck and don't matter; and why the White Sox are just a baseball team.

Under Construction!!

Two points of order:

Number 1.) I had my first "didn't you get the memo" experience. The White Sox have won the World Series and today is the big confetti and band parade through the Southside and Downtown. Because of this we here at XXXXX have been given a special dispensation allowing us to “dress down” in celebration (think - An Doof Ass when he worked in the Loop and could wear his favorite stonewashed wranglers and RATT t-shirt on Fridays.) Alas, I didn't get the memo and am presently in my most greasy of ties.

Number 2.) NoononSat...is always evolving. Always changing. Always looking for the next big 5-minute trend of the blogosphere. To that end, we've granted An Doof Ass contributor status on the site (see his inagural post "Aquinas Slash," which should say "posted by Brighter Eyed..." but we're still trying to figure out how that works.) Now I know what each and every one of you is thinking, but don't worry NoononSat...still retains sole "administrative" powers over the site. We'll see what happens. Also, if anyone else wants to be a contributor to the site just let me know or posse as me. username: Blueorigami password: Wilson.

Number 3.) I didn't eat breakfast this morning.

Aquinas slash!!!

Part One: I defend myself against malignant slander -
Well that’s the last straw Andy, you unspeakably
offensive trollop, what an egregious breach of all
taste and decency! Now you’ll all have to suffer
through my hideously unfunny righteousness
sermonessayizing. You can fill me up with booze, punch
my ass out on the concrete, slop Irish Booze Flower
all over my Gore-tex and leave me for dead. You can
big-nosed Jew or Subaru me, but you can’t accuse me of
losing my edge. Not when I walk around at parties
proclaiming myself the Florence Nightengale of wounded
soldiers and clutching everyone’s half empty beers to
my chest, nor when I arbitrarily decide that any
English major I come across works for the New York
Times and loudly demand that they publish my good
friend’s very funny material. It’s true I haven’t had
a bible cigarrett in a while, but who has really?
Times change, we grow up, we smoke White Owl blunts in
the rain instead.
Part Two: In which a hideous assault on reason, truth
and beauty is defeated -
Now the Aquinas slash technique is to be employed in
such cases as when your holy contemplation of theology
and geometry is assaulted by the noxious smirking and
simpering of your ex’s Frenchy tutu bitch continental
toadies, spewing elliptical references to “the
ontically equiprimordial worldedness of Being,”
randomly inserting capital letters into their mindless
jargon, or jabbering in barbaric tongues about
“erfangnis” or “verlassenheit” or “mauvais foi.” Parry
this repulsive posturing with a rapid collection and
division, a crafty succession of syllogisms, then a
strike from above, with a righteous cry in the sacred
language of all learned men. Something like “SED
CONTRA IGITUR!” or “QUAM DIXIT PHILOSOPHUS!” will
reduce these ignorant surrender monkeys to a babbling
piss puddle of confusion.
Part Three: In which some back slapping final remarks
are adduced -
You deserve a bible fag, a handle of Jim, and a
shocking amount Tums after such vigorous exercise.
Help yourself to a rack of Pabst while you’re at it.
You know, if you crush up wild berry Tums and snort
them through a twenty, some surprising results ensue.
Exercise regularly, and eat a balanced diet of pizza,
lentils and spinach on top of this, and you’re well on
the road to beatitude. Write something insulting to
Father Jape, or snicker at his insulting someone else
- as you please. The Aquinas Slash triumphs again! Now
back to anime.

Andre Dawson

Hawk, everyone's favorite 'walnuts in the salad' neo-hippie, is coming to visit this weekend. He is also bringing me and, I guess, her a wedding present. What a mother fucking novel idea(!): a wedding present for recently married, though currently estranged, friends. You terrible, cheap an asses and asses, let the neo-hippie's selfless gesture of fraternity be a lesson for you all!

An Doof Ass: REVISiTED

Some of you may have noticed that the exploits of An Doof Ass have taken recently a backseat on the site. The reason for this is simple and mildly tragic: An Doof Ass has quit drinking and smoking. And if he’s not drinking and smoking he's not hitting on old, ugly Jewish women, getting robbed, crashing his Subaru, confessing undying love for Jennifer Garner or making a consistent An Ass of himself. And when he’s not making a complete and total drunk/smoking ass of himself there’s really not much else to the bastard.

But it doesn’t end there. [If it did, I could at least hold out hope that on major holidays, and funerals, An Doof Ass might take a couple puffs, diddle the bottle and start hitting on the coat rack.] Oh no, it gets much more mildly tragic. He’s now not only straightedge, he’s just plum fucking weird. In a word, the douche has turned lame. And when a douche turns lame slander just isn’t any fun.

Who wants to hear about his jogging route? Or his Kashi breakfast with low-fat, non-dairy soygurt? Or his conversion to “Enlightenment Goddessism” and subsequent “self quest” for his previous incarnation as, you guessed it, a bag lady. And who wants to know about how his search for his pet cat “from a previous life empowerment” led him to start a cat walking service called, you guessed it, Bag Lady Cat Walking Service? And I don’t even want to get into the reasons why he picked up cross-stitching and started a Bitch-n-Stitch circle for “non-recovering methheads.” In all honesty, I still don’t why he’s devoted himself to the study of the great flutist of early modern “Britanica.”

I mean, fuck, An Doof Ass, what the hell are you doing to yourself? Look in the mirror! You’ve changed from a super suave awesome gin hound to a complete lame ass. For starters, you can’t open a trust fund for the families of all the insects you killed before you learned they had a “life crystal” like all other “energy rays.” And you can’t, you can’t, keep telling women you want to touch their energy rays. I mean, Jesus, it’s creepy, and confusing.

People need the old An Doof Ass back. The one who spent three days on the couch drinking nail polish remover and eating Kraft Singles. They deserve the guy who once said “Fuck it” when asked if he would like a lemon wedge in his ice tea. Besides, it’s not like your old ways took that much effort. All you ever did was scrounge up a couple bucks from the streets, buy a handle and go out in the woods to “shoot ghosts.”

F.Why.I.?

Yesterday, An Doof Ass called me in the middle of the night.

He was as drunk as a Norwegian on holiday and just as cheery.

DESTROYERED

I “love” my wife as much as any reasonable individual can be expected to. In fact, it’s because of my volitional act towards and acceptance of our current social agreement that I, occasionally, have to go out of my way to accommodate her outlandish desires. Case in point: tonight we’re going to the sold out New Pornographers/Destroyer show - without tickets - because she wants to try and get in.

Yes, that’s right, it’s high school all over again. Little ol’ Andy, with his WiteOut painted nails, a Winston from the bowling alley’s garbage and freshly tightened braces, standing in the freezing cold hitting up idiots for tickets to “the show.” I thought I was done with that part of my life; I thought I was free. Free to spend a Thursday night going over my portfolio while enjoying a well rested 98 Chianti; free to watch Simpson’s reruns because the scene had “change” and was therefore “lame;” free to lament sitting at home doing nothing then taking a nap, waking up, brushing my teeth and going to bed.

The worst part is the show is at the Metro. This means I’ll be surrounded by kids with WiteOut painted nails, Winston cigarettes and freshly tightened braces. It will be creepy. Especially when one of the little creatures comes up to me and says: Hey dude, can you spare a fag? It's like going back in time: there I am in all my porous denim glory using Briticisms like so much loose change. Oh god.

Journal of A Working Boy: )))) 10-18-05 )))))))

Office work isn’t all sitting in front of a high-speed internet connection for 8 hours trying to distract yourself. It’s also about keeping people out of your money. Every time I turn around someone is asking me to pitch in a few bucks for Tina’s baby shower or Joe’s birthday cake. It’s a scam if ever a scam there was and I’m tired of it. I’ve been on the job for a little over a year now (oh good lord) and I’m no office sucker anymore; I’ve learned a few things, a few things about everything.

Why just yesterday I found out LaQueesha had died, orphaning a 3 and 1 year old in the process. And wouldn’t you know it, a collection was started. And not only that, but Co-Worker is going around the office publicly soliciting donations. Now some might say you should donate 3 to 5 dollars to orphaned children, but those people aren’t really thinking about the situation. For one, 3 to 5 dollars makes you look cheap, but anything more than that and you might have to cut PopTarts out of your all ready tight budget. Also, where do you draw the line?! First you’re giving money to orphans and all of the sudden they start hitting you up for an animal shelter donation! I've learned you must take up an array of defenses in order to defend both your good name and your pocket book.

Hiding is the first and best defense. When you hear Co-Workers coming hide under your desk or go the restroom for a couple of hours. This defense is usually all you need. In fact, it’s gotten me out of 2 birthday cakes and a baby shower. But it turns out soliciting money for orphans makes Co-Workers even more emphatic and pushy. A second level of defense is required - constant subterfuge.

Co-Worker: Hi W.B. I’ve been looking for you did you get my e-mail?
W.B.: E-mail? You mean the one about leftover donuts and cold coffee being available in Conference Room B for anyone willing to sacrifice taste and decency for table scraps?
Co-Worker: No, the one about LaQueesha dying from cancer, orphaning 2 children in the West Garfield Park ghetto.
W.B: Oh yes. Terrible shame, really. Terrible. But what can you do, circle of life and all that. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to use um…and so forth.
Co-Worker: Actually, there is something you can do. We’re starting a fund for the orphaned children so that they can live. I’m collecting donations right now, would you like to contribute? These children have no one.
W.B.: Um..I’d love to help but I’ve got my own set of financial obligations. You see I’m supporting like 14 kids in Africa. I send a check every month for like 13K dollars and it buys them all kinds of stuff. They send me pictures every once in a while. You should see them, so much life and energy, really an inspiring country and a beautiful people, really great stuff. I’m even thinking about supporting a child born into poverty in my own country. I’ve been praying very seriously about it for about 2 years now. Suffice it to say therefore that I’m in dire financial straights due to my overly generous spirit.
Co-Worker: That’s great that you support children. How long have you been involved and where exactly in Africa?
W.B.: Let’s see, I’m going on 20 years of giving and they’re all over the country: the north, south, middle, deserts, all over. I’m a giver. I give to people all the time. Africa.
Co-Worker: yeah, well, um, can you spare just a few bucks for the orphaned children. With energy costs increasing 70% this winter many people -such as these orphans- simply won’t be able to stay warm.
W.B.: Actually, it’s funny you should mention it. I’m out of money. You know how it is, the City doesn’t pay us near enough for all the work we do etc…Slaves are we and what not.
CO-Worker: Well, it’s true we don’t make lots of money, but how many expenses do you have? You never eat out for lunch, have 2 ties and you gentrify a poor neighborhoods just to save 50 dollars a month in rent. Can’t you give just a few bucks? Anything helps.
W.B.: I drink. I’m an alcoholic and need help. Sweet Jesus I need help (start crying here)! The creature has me! Backslidin’ am I towards myself! cry-cry-cry-cry-cry-cry-cry-cry-cry-cry-cry-cry-cry
*Success*

Sure it’s a bit of a stretch, but we’re talking about money: Money I could spend on movies and PopTarts. And besides how do I know my “Co-Worker” is actually “giving” the money to the “orphans?” I don’t, really. Plus, I’ve already pulled in like 300 for rehab.

WeekEnded

Well, another weekend has come and gone, but not before adventure was had by all. Allan was in town for a visit and the classiness of my hosting abilities cannot be emphasized enough.
For starters, there’s a wonderful little bike messenger bar in the Loop over on *** South We**s Street that is the perfect little place for cheap beer on a Friday after a hard two days at the office. The weather was perfect so we sat outside catching up on old times while bike messengers and hobos inundated us with their jocular talk and general unpleasantness. One hobo accidently spilled his free beer on Allen. It was a glancing blow, and the hobo really got the rawer end of the deal.

Exhibiting my urban savoy faire, we then took a cab to a favorite Italian restaurant for an elegant sufficiency of food stuffs. Hoping the 8 bus after dinner, we made it to Spectrum Bar in Greektown just in time to see the Sox take a commanding lead in game 4 of the ALCS. Satisfied that victory was immanent, we hoped back on the bus and went to the Skylark to toast a successful evening of all around class, gentile behavior beyond our years, and, if we played our cards right, the possible scoring of babes.

At the Skylark, Heather drank her John Collins pretty quickly and lost classiness points by falling asleep in the lap of the guy sitting next to her. Allan was engrossed in conversation about the frailty of youth with the old crabby cook; I sat between them looking into the mirror behind the bar trying to see if I looked cool smoking my cigarette. Before leaving, Heather woke up just long enough to take a free shot with some sleazy guy (This individual had bought the shots from himself and some girls he was trying to get with - they declined his offer; the married woman sitting next to her husband did not. The defacing effect this had upon my masculinity was only compounded when Allan, using his plus nine agility, stole the remaining shots from under the eye of the man/boy.) If Heather had any class left after her little foray into adultery she lost it when she turned to me, tried to focus eyes and slurred: I showed those girls how to take a shot like a woman, huh?!...

On the walk home Allanand Heather created gentrifying street art. We then broke into the abandoned box factory next door and admired, under cell phone light, the exposed brick and bracings before setting off the alarm system and running back to the safety of 1623.

Saturday we tooled around the neighborhood, drank coffee and went to Millennium Park with Andie and Richard. Later that day we watched Serenity; it ruled.

Silicon Valley!**

I forgot my toothbrush. This was the first indication I was not adequately prepared for the weekend in Palos Heights.

Arriving at O’Hare with a belly full of air and stars in my eyes, I was greeted by a significant flight delay. After unsuccessfully trying to muster up the courage to use the airport bathroom during that time, I was greet, upon entering the plane, with the news we would be delayed another hour on the tarmac. Apparently the weather in New York was bad and flights were backed up. The New York weather did not cross my mind, at this point, of being a problem.Four fucking hours later, I landed at La Guardia –or as I now call it “Shittier Midway-” and learned the bus only takes metra cards or coins. No bills. So I had to go back into the airport and find a metra card machine. Of course, being an airport where thousands of people arrive from out of town every hour, the airport doesn’t have a metra card machine. So I had to get quarters from the change machine which, of course, was out of quarters. So I had to walk to the other side of the airport just to get 2 dollars in quarters.

When all was said and done I got into Manhattan around 1-ish in the morning, I mean 1-ish in the fucking morning.Upon exiting the subway I learned why my flight was delayed: it was pouring fucking rain and not only did I not have an umbrella, I didn’t even bring a change of clothes. It rained for the next 2 of my 3 days there.

When I finally met up with The Wife and An Doof Ass, we went out and drank away a large wad of cash and caught up on each others latest suicide attempts. We left that bar around 4 am and Heather went back to her Midtown –next to the Empire State building- digs and I bought a half rack of Coors Lights and An Doof and I headed to his Bronx –next to parking lot and a chain link fence- digs. That night turned out classy: An Doof and I sat on the couch talking current affairs over Coors and, though I was soaking wet, I was happy to see his vaguely familiar face.

After getting up with a splitting headache and spending the next 9 hours in Manhattan trying to stay out of the fucking rain –unsuccessfully-, An Doof and I went to Penn Station with freshly purchased handles of bourbon to pick up Peter from England. As luck would have it Peter, having recently finished a master’s degree in All of Philosophy, was on his way to a job interview and decided to catch up with fellow Keble Collegians for the weekend. Within minutes of his arrival the weekend become pretty blurry and genuinely debauched, vacuous and distasteful. I would say more but how does one weaves together: attempted abduction, vandalism, death, false arrest and a Mexican birthday party, just to name a few, into a coherent story? i have no fucking clue.

Hey Bitches!!

I got back from Palos Heights late on Columbas Day night. My plane was delayed for 6 hours in LAX, I sat next to a crying infant.

When I got home at 2 in the morning, I decided to call in sick and spend Tuesday in bed drinking Maalox. But you don’t want to hear about that, you want to hear about the exciting world of rural California! The silicon valley, lettuce farms, not rain, and the like. Unfortunately, like so many places, Palos Heights is such a place that you can’t just write about it. First, you’ve got to step back and take a big breathe of not writing about it. In addition, I am far too traumatized by the whole experiences. I have taken 7 showers in the last 24 hrs just trying to get clean.

******************************************************

24 hr fruit stands and street vendors are really "cool."

Manhattan parks and the library are pretty "fucking" awesome.

Manhattan is bullshit wrapped in a cashmere "fedora" of lies.

The Bronx is "cool" but kind of lame.

East Coast people are unattractive and have icky accents and stab people at random.

BEAN TOWN! WHAT?!

Yesterday’s big event was seeing a guy bleeding to death at the UIC Halsted stop on the Blue Line - so much blood and general unpleasantness. When the ambulance arrived he was pretty much passed out from blood loss. To the credit of those of us trying to help him, he was at least able to hold some napkins to his blooded face while he passed out. No one knew what had happened to him and, considering the situation, I felt bad asking. But now that I’ve had sometime to go back over the event I’m going with a junk deal gone awry in the midst of a carjacking/kidnapping.

In other news, for some God-unknown reason I’ve decided to slum it this coming weekend in a far off douche filled city. Apparently a certain individual with rather hairy features lives there, and I foolishly entrusted my getting around to his mushy gin brain. Interestingly, I’ve heard rumors that in anticipation of this weekend he’s actually given up drinking rum for breakfast in the hope that he’ll be able to form short-term memories again. I have my doubts about this though, when I talked to him last night he was pleasantly surprised to realize he owned a cell phone and asked me to find out who’s paying the bill so he can “give them a high five.”

My biggest regret about leaving Chicago this weekend is that I’m missing the Chicago Marathon, which is running down my street. If things had worked out differently, I would have invited my cadre of bikini girlfriends over for mimosas and strawberries while we watched the race from the comfort of my heart shaped king-sized bed. I guess there’s always next year and next year’s cadre of bikini babes.

people

buy me stuff.

^^^^^^^^^^ Out on the TOWN ^^^^^^^^^^

I’ve been trying to sober up. I've found the trick is to fill your time with things besides drinking. Recently I’ve taken up cross-stitch, eating shortening, and –most importantly- composing pickup moves. Not to brag but I’ve gotten pretty good. For example, if a swinging lady comes up to me and asks if I have change for a five I say: Yes, and I will give it to you in exchange for a brief flirtation. And if a guy tries to make a move on the girl I fend him off by looking at the ceiling while repeatedly cracking my neck and reciting last weeks football scores as quickly as possible - *crack* Vikings 10 Redskins 24!, *crack* Oilers 15, Packers 17!. *Crack* Chargers 15, Browns 13!. You know, cool guy stuff.

Anyway last night was the perfect opportunity to try out my new moves. You see, The Wife I’m technically married often keeps me from doing cool stuff, but she fell asleep at 8:30 so I was free put on my ironically dirty shirt, blue sneakers and cargo shorts and head to the bar. The walk over was uneventful for the most part, a couple of times I was mistaken for An Doof Ass and consequentially robbed and left for dead on 18th, but that's nothing new.

Upon my arrival the sounds of the Smokin’ Bones (serious chick scoring music) filled the air. The stage was set. I sat down next to a guy and girl swinger in conversation. The guy had flipped up hair, a pierced tongue and a lot of Papa Smurf patches on his shoulder bag. The girl was wearing large framed sunglasses inside: a seriously hot fashion statement.

W.B.: Anyone need any money broken?
Girl: What? Are you being indie and ironic?
W.B.: Yes on both accounts.
Girl: prove it.
W.B.: All right. Um…Lumpen has become so politically preshrunk these days. Can they get anymore Rick Moody on us?.
Girl: Not bad. Now do ironic.
W.B.: Um…I dig the ARMY and Bright Eyes?
Girl: Oh baby, you’re the whole package. Take me now!
Guy: Sandy! You’re like totally falling for him! He’s like Greg Louganis and Brian Boitano wrapped up in the body of Kieran Culken! I could just eat him up!

*Crack*

W.B.: Redskins 14, Giants 4!, Knickerbockers 45, Browns 2!, Warren Moon! Screen Pass! Salary Cap!
Girl: What they hell are you doing?
Guy: Um…sweetie?

*Crack*

W.B.: Screen pass! Take a knee! Intentional Grounding!

I realized my mistake later. The Knickerbockers are a fucking basketball team not a football team. Damnit! She was as good as in the bag.

Damnit! fuck!

You have to love it when you go out to the car on a sunny Saturday afternoon and find 270 dollars in parking tickets on the window.

-The wife had parked the car.-


W.B: Stupid Wife what the hell is this?
Wife: Fuck!
W.B.: Fucking right!
Wife: Shit!
W.B.: Fucking Shit!
Wife: live and learn?
W.B.: Divorce!
Wife: All you care about is money!
W.B.: I love money so much.


After this little incident we didn’t talk for about 6 hours. When we finally did she apologized for "marrying such a prick" and I apologized for putting thumbtacks inside her shoes.