The Great White Hope!

Well, it's official--my neighborhood is cooler than yours. Pilsen has just received status as a National Historic District. Over 90% of the buildings are eligible for historic status, making it the largest eligible area in the country. Watch the video and bask in its grandeurer.

i drank a fat tire this weekend.

My bitches, what can I say? I’ve been sucking—again—for a while now. But what do you expect? Things have been s-l-o-w around the homestead. I have never known such boredom before. I think this has a lot to do with the fact I no longer have An Doof Ass around. You see before I discovered the soft embrace of silk undergarments and the necessity of botanical face creams, I was nothing more than An Doof Ass’s roommate. But the funny thing is I was never this bored when I lived with him. Some might think that because of his rampant alcoholism all one had to do was open a bottle, stand back and enjoy the show. Well, that’s mostly true. But even watching him from the window as he stumbled around Trumbull Avenue rubbing his hairy monkey belly and trying to steal a soccer ball from young, young children got old after a while.

Okay, you’re right, it didn’t get old. But even An Doof Ass would occasionally wake up “too hungover” and swear he would never drink again. So during this hour to hour and a half when he wasn’t drinking he had to find something else to fill his time with. Usually it was drinking. Sometimes though he would try other things to get his mind of his aching skull and his swollen, red face with its hideous bulbous nose. He found great pleasure in sniffing markers, eating glue and, what he called, “the cultivation of orchids,” which, of course, was nothing of the sort: His “orchids” were empty bags of Spicy Cheetos that he’d taped to pipe cleaners and planted a rusty cooking pot filled with glass shards and bottle caps.

Sure. He was a complete dumbfuck, but he meant well. After his orchids—inexplicitly—began to wilt he spent hours carefully watering them with olive oil and covering them with tinfoil (he believed very strongly in the healing powers of shiny things.) But then the inevitable happened. A couple of days later, while Adam was passed out in the bathroom, the flowers caught fire. Boy the dumbfuck cried hard that night. Harder than usual. Harder then when he found business cards proclaiming his “skills of an assassin” didn’t make him an assassin. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself for those flowers. I don’t think he ever will.

I miss that stupid dumbfuck and his hideous bulbous nose. Who knows what kind of absolutely astounding activity I could be watching take place if he was still around.

Bellow!!

Holy mothballs my life fucking blows. Of course this is for the typical reasons. Lack of fabulous wealth and universal acclaim being the primary causes of my present torpor. I’m not usually this attuned to my utter lack of universal acclaim. Maybe it has something to do with the weather. The weather or the cosmic injustice that has allowed me to wallow in obscurity for so very long.


Working Boy: I’m so miserable.
Everyone Who Runs Into Me: Why are you miserable?
W.B: I don’t have cashmere socks.
E.W.R.I.M: ?
W.B: or a Kirman rug. Or, and I’m truly ashamed to admit it, even a Gaggenau.
E.W.R.I.M: These seem to be rather frivolous concerns. Are you kidding me?
W.B: I never kid when it comes to a Gaggenau.
E.W.R.I.M: You’ve kind of become a douche. A big, bourgeois douche.
W.B.: But I am bourgeois, an elitist liberal bourgeois, variously gifted and invariably charming. I delight in literature, landscape, architecture, the company of clever and beautiful women. Is this a crime?!
E.W.R.I.M: What are you drinking?
W.B: Turpentine. Why do you ask?

march!

This time last year An Doof Ass totaled his car, was robbed and left for dead and was twice molested by an ugly Jewish woman. All this should give you a good insight into Chicago in February: There’s very little to do---unless you’re a desperate alcoholic with no decency or class.

The Silver Bullet.

This is an update for the ex-pats in far away douche-laden places. Places like, oh let's say, the entire East Coast. Ding, ding, ding goes the trolley.

Sugar and Spice!

If you’re not watching the Olympics then you’re not a good person. At best, you are merely a hater of freedom. At worst, some kind of wine snob or Eurotrash wannabee. I, obviously, am not one of you; I have been spending 6 hours a day cheering on my U.S. compatriots and throwing empty bottles of Syrah at the television every time someone not from Utah or Colorado wins. But it’s not too late for you Francophile from Tennessee or East Coast ignoramus, you also can cheer on our US brethren, and the occasional sister, with vigour and conviction. All you have to do is believe in the beauty of the Games.

Of all the Olympic games however two are the most sweetest. Most sweetest #1.) short track speed skating. It has all the thrilling crash potential of NASCAR and all the voyeuristic delights of spandex that the faithful viewer of Star Trek has known about for years. Believe it or not, even the women’s short track is exciting.
Most sweetest #2.) Curling is absolutely awesome. It has the strategy of chess and the compounding level of excitement comparable only to a 15 pitch baseball at bat. Check it out—if you dare. Of course, it almost goes without saying, that there is an exception to this beauty.

The Exception: Snowboarding is absolutely idiotic and boring. Any “sport” where the gold goes to a bunch of 19 year olds who listen to their ipods while “shredding it up” is not worth the cheep nylon string the exceptionally ugly Torino medal is hung from. Now, the fact that they are young isn’t the problem. After all, female figure skating stars are usually on the tween-side. But the figure skaters are young because the sport is so perverted and ridiculous (two hallmarks of any good Olympic sport) that only tween bodies can pull off it. The young however dominate snowboarding because it ranks in maturity alongside Cheeto binges after some “dank bud” and hot makeout parties in Johnny’s basement while his parents are in the city on their monthly mommy/daddy date. Screw snowboarding.

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

In other news, I emasculated myself yesterday in rush hour traffic to take the car to the car vet. It wasn’t so cool when it started to smoke. And it wasn’t so cool when I pulled over to the side of Western Avenue at North and had 15 people swearing and honking at me and bus full of angry school children stuck behind the car, now virtually swimming in hot, smelly oil. I cried; I’m not ashamed to admit that. I am, however, ashamed to admit that I took off running and left the thing there to heaven knows what kind of vandals and angry, angry commuters. Don’t worry though, I took the plates, scratched the serial off the block and told H*ath*r I made it safely to the auto shop. Of course if we don’t hear from them we can only assume the worst.

Ohno blew it big time: short track speed skating is--by far--the most exciting thing I've seen in a while.

Every once and a while, a weekend comes along that makes you reassess everything: your life, poptarts, loaded questions. This past weekend was in no way, whatsoever, one of these. Regardless, I do have a couple notable, if foggy, memories to impart.

First of all, Friday night ushered in the last 4 episodes of Arrested Development which was a good time. Unfortunately, it also ushered in a massive car breakdown. Like a penguin or seagull in Prince William Sound circa 1989, the cheetos bags and empty 40’s of 16th street are now covered in large, ominous pools of 10W30. To some this would be a big deal—a massive investment of money and divestment of pride. I, however, am not one of those people; I am the greatest mechanicalismerizer there is.

Now it’s true: I’ve always fashioned myself an urban sophisticate—cashmere, tin ceilings, martini bars, gum on sidewalks, these are my lifeblood, my raise d’etre. But even so, I’ve never lost sight of my rural upbringing and its utilitarian, can-do know-how attitude. When we ran out of Rosé at a recent gathering of urban go getters and celebrities, I was right there in the kitchen mixing just the right amount of tomato paste into the white wine. When the maid called in sick because she has to work two part-time jobs on top of her fulltime position for us, I drove right up to the entrance of the temp agency looking for a pair of sturdy hands and keen eyes. So, when H*ath*r’s car began spitting oil all over the place, I didn’t need to fear the terrible wrath of the emasculating Joe Oilrag and Jim Chewingtobacco.

The beauty of my plan is that it saves me money. After all, how hard is it to drop the oil pan, clean it out and slap some JB Meld over the crack? There’s even a parking lot next to our place where I can work safely away from 16th street and the various cars fleeing crime scenes or off to create them. I would probably even get to know local handymen who will, no doubt, come to watch me in action. Me: bib overalls, sensible work gloves, safety goggles and whatever wrench or squeezing tool the handyman is known to use. Them: admiring my smooth wrench-workmanship, my casual know how and furrowed brow. It was going to be great.

But no. Apparently, I’m not “knowledgeable” enough. I’m too “lazy to do anything more than buy some wrenches and bib overalls and sit on the deck drinking Tang and talk about how awesome the repair job is going to be.” Well to that nameless naysayer and dream-destroyer I say: Probably!

In other news, I also spent some time this weekend wandering around unknown parts of Chicago with an old acquaintance trying to find my bus stop and not get arrested. In the end, not only was the bus found, but I actually made it home and into bed without vomiting. Okay, I didn’t make it all the way home and into bed without vomiting. But I almost did. Like three quarters of the way. Half way. Just off the bus. On the bus, in the back.

But before you judge me know this: The bus was rocking back and forth and was really hot and the windows were covered in giant fluorescent pink caterpillars that were crying rainbows and chanting over and over again: Don't open the door to the Eternal Stairway. Don't open the door to the Eternal Stairway.

In a way, I was a victim. An awesome, innocent victim.

Daily G-R-I-N-D!

I've been getting a lot of flack about my excitement over the release of Steve Martin's new movie, The Pink Panther. Sure, its release has been postponed for over a year; and yes, it's being released in February—the month of dog-faced movies; and yes, it has Beyonce in it (how is this a problem?); and yes, I know you're not supposed to use a semicolon in conjunction with a, um ... conjunction; but I am still looking forward to it.

In fact, I'm looking forward to it so much that, to make the matinee, I will, unfortunately, have to miss this week's marriage counseling session, again. I can hear it now: The completely baseless accusations against a completely innocent, unselfish, good-looking Working Boy.

Accusation: You care about a movie that you know is going to be bad more than our relationship.
Witty response: Let's drink until one of passes out and forget about this silliness. You go first.

Accusation: You've made up some lame excuse to miss every session this month. It doesn't do any good if I have to go alone.
Witty response: That's not true.

Accusation: You don't love me anymore.
Witty response: That's only half true.

Accusation: I'm having a physical affair with your best friend.
Witty Response: First of all, that's not an accusation. Second of all, you and I both know I don't have any friends. And if I did they would be too gross and self-centered and anal for you to even think about having an affair with them.

Accusation: Are you having an affair?
Witty Response: Only a series of empty emotional ones with characters in the new Chris Ware comic.

Accusation: What?
Witty Response: Oh, like you’ve never thought what it would be like to be with a minimalistically drawn cosmonaut who sits on a park bench all day watching leaves fall off a tree!

Accusation: What?
Witty Response: I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.

When Slick Rick had the sh*t to pop

Just think...if I still lived on 23rd and Trumbull, I could have called in sick and hit up the hottest ticket in town.

From the AP: CHICAGO -- Scheduled motion hearing for singer R. Kelly on child pornography charges. Judge Vincent Gaughan presides. 10 a.m. Criminal courthouse, 26th and California.

AN UPDATE: LIFE BORING!

Cheers! to a classic bull tripe update: Number 1.) Going to a free Devin Davis show tonight at terrible bar, The Hideout, to network with lowest rung of hipster establishment. Must start somewhere, prefer the top. Number 2.) Lack of life-excitement makes Silver Jews show over 2 months away news. In town on, inappropriately, Good Friday. First tour ever. Tickets bought. Will show up drunk. Will be "that guy." Concert will, undoubtably, blow---Berman acting like he’s still above touring even though he is slutting-it-up through Ticketmaster on a money muff dive. Actual Air?; well, he’s no August Kleinzahler. Very much looking forward to a goode tyme. Number 3.) Chocolate Fest this weekend at the Garfield Park Conservatory. A welcome February retreat, for queers and douches. Will be attending. All welcome.

THE CLASH OF SWORDS---THE KLINKLE OF ARMOR

I like to get roaring drunk at home on Thursday nights to save money. That way, when Friday night barhopping I a go, I spend less money because I am congested and hung over. While this system is more or less foolproof, it can get a little dull. You can only drink away so many Thursdays on Coors Light before a little voice inside says: Is this really what you want to be doing? Thankfully, a louder, angrier voice is quick to answer: Might as well, I guess, whatever. Shut up.

Sometimes boredom is the least of your fears. The weather can also play a huge role in how and if one goes about it. In the summer, it’s hardly fitting on a beautiful cool evening to sit in the kitchen drinking whiskey---you’ve got to mix it with something fruity, like Pear Juice, and open a window. Similarly, in the winter, you can’t sit in the living room drinking Coronas---unless it’s with hot chocolate or something.

It’s a constant battle. You should try it sometime. I give you a month, two months tops, before you just can’t do it for whatever reason: relatives in town, a concert, decency, etc. I, however, am proud to say that I have been pickled every Thursday and terribly hung over every Friday for the last 2 and 1/3 years. And that’s because of one thing and one thing only: having no friends. But last night all the blood, sweat and tears that have made the last 2 and 1/3 years of my life exceptionally blurry went down the drain, sort of.

I pride myself on my well-stocked liquor cabinet/cardboard box. Whiskey, whisky, rye whisky, Canadian whiskey and Rum are never in short supply. Before The Unhinging, I made a light din’. The usual: a piece of toast and box of Junior Mints---to settle the stomach for the upcoming assault. But I opened the liquor box to discover only Augusto Bitters, Crème de Menthe and 6 different kinds of sweet and dry vermouth. I had forgotten. Forgotten that I had spent all my booze on the pajama and tickle party I had hosted two nights previous---it had been a huge sucess, and the cheese platter was out of this world. But I digress. Since it was after 9 the liquor store was closed. And I haven’t been back to the Treble since one of the regular bums said he’s going to stick a piece of glass in my side if he ever sees me outside after 7:30. And since my "Out after 7:30 disguise"---which consists of 2 Mexican flags and dew rag---was at the cleaners. I was a prisoner in my own apartment. I was screwed. Or was I?

As it turns out I was. You just can’t get drunk on bitters shots and dry vermouth chasers. Or Triple Sec and Kahula cocktails. Or, surprisingly, injections of Isopropyl Alcohol. Luckily, however, you can still feel remarkably terrible the next morning even without a drunkening! One of the great mysteries of the human body, I guess.

So, tonight while barstool hopping I’ll have a Diet Coke in one hand and a soy protein bar in the other---the picture of health.