My porridge is too COLD!

You know Spring has sprung when the insane shirtless African man down the street begins sitting out so he can yell at passersby. It’s like clockwork. Temperature above bitch cold—African guy yelling incoherently. Yesterday some kids threw rocks at him and told him to “shut the fuck up.” I tried to remeber faces for the police report but the urchins were off like jack rabbits. Not only that, their insensitive comments didn’t help the situation. If anything it made him somehow more shirtless as he waved him arms about wildly.

All that to say, when ol' African Joe begins his yelling its usually time to leave the neighborhood for a while. As luck would have it I had somewhere to go last night that wasn’t the Skylark. I say luckily because the Thursday night crowd isn’t usually a good one; most hard drinking 40-somethings without a looker among 'em (An Doof Ass, of course, loved Thursday nights. It was gross.) Surprisingly enough however my plans were not totally devoid of some Skylark connections. Derek, a nonsmoker, had some band on his label playing a show in West Town at a swinging dj lounge and nightclub. Of course, this is usually my kind of bag. I love a fine Amaretto Sour, a lounge couch and wearing sunglasses inside. It’s one of my special talents to look chic and cool in almost any environment: my apartment, the alley, walking to and from the laundry mat, etc.

Be that as it may however I was skeptical. Recommended local bands can span the spectrum from “pretty great” to “aren’t my friends awesome?” Well, if you ever get the change to hear or see Killer Whales, check ‘em out. They were pretty swinging even if they insisted on playing their set in only their underwear. Probably what impressed me most though was their witty stage banter. It encompassed all range of reference to how shitty the venue was and how if the people couldn’t hear the vocals they might as well “quit this fucking shit.”

You can't write shit like that.

N~A~S~T~Y~!

This is probably the worst color choice they could have made. Honestly. Not only is it a variant on an already prominent and easily confused color (i.e. red) It's also incredibly not awesome for other reasons (i.e. pretty queer with no reference to beer (i.e. the Silver Bullet.)) From this point forward I live off the Cermak line. To hell with this!

The Great Escape!!@

There are few things as wonderful as going from a comfortable morning buzz to hungover on a bus crowed with lumpen proletariats at 7:30 in the morning. Today has all the makings of only adding to that glorious precursor. But wait! Why am I so pessimistic about today? The answer is simple: I’m currently pretty hungover and I went to bed last night around 3 am. Why, you ask? Fuck you. I don’t want to talk about it.

Moving on, last night I showed how good of a friend I really am. I was sitting at the Skylark minding my own business when who should sidle up to the bar but everyone’s favorite Jewish woman just back from across the pond. For unimaginative and the ignorant, Europe usually has a kind of beautifying affect.

Example: “Oh, you’ve lived in a economically depressed and culturally stagnant cesspool of vacuous, self-indulgent nihilism? Wow, tell me all about your amazing experiences in ‘Europe.’” Then the Euro-trash individual begins blabbering on about the ‘history’ and ‘beauty’ blah, blah and the listener thinks, “Well, this individual may be kind of not attractive, but they have been to Europe. I guess I’ll sleep with them.”

Unfortunately—though not surprisingly—this kind of aggrandizement did not stick to everyone’s favorite 40-something; she just looked older and just as desperate as she circled the bar looking for innocent young men with hairy arms and disturbingly full mustachios. And so she circled. And circled. And circled. Derek the beer jockey was keeping me up-to-date on her movements when she landed one.

Derek: That guy’s in for a shock when he wakes up in the morning.
Working Boy: Ha! What a looser. Who would ever fall for ol’Rachel? Actually, that reminds me of something. What was it? Oh yes. Did I ever tell you about An Doof Ass and his Rachel escapade?
D: Do tell.
W.B.: Well to make a long story short. She gave him a ride home and then came over the very next night.
D: An Doof Ass fucked Rachel?!

Now, I’ve always been very careful to take good care of my friendships. I don’t go around telling people embarrassing stories about stupid old roommates, or make up silly nonsense to make myself feel better about my current situation. In a word, I build relationships on the solid foundations of trust and altruism. And even though I have like a million awesome friends with lots of money and jet skis, I still enjoy the occasional company of old standbys like An Doof Ass. So when Derek asked if An Doof Ass had had sexual relations with the bar’s most notorious middle-aged Jew, I had to take pause and ask some questions: What will make me look the coolest in this situation? Also, is there any way to finagle a free drink out of this story?

W.B: I’ll tell you for a shot of Bushmills.
D: You know, I don’t actually care, don’t you? I’m just trying to make it less awkward as I wait for customers to come in.
W.B: Hey, I didn’t ask for your life story beer jockey. But all is forgiven for a rum and coke.
D: Why do always sit down at this end of the bar even though you never have anything to talk about and just make people feel uncomfortable?
W.B: Anyways, An Doof Ass slept with her like a million times in a row.
D: Please just go away.

Since I was running low on money and Derek was being lame, it was time for drastic measures. So I started talking to the artists sitting next to me, Sarah and Carson. Carson is from Egypt and Sarah is from Chicago or Italy, I forget which one. Any hoo, I wowed them with my fashion sense and philosophical distinctions. So Carson bought me two whiskeys. I was on top of the world looking down on creation and the only explanation that I found was getting drunk with nice strangers. Around midnight we went back to their huge 3-tiered loft on 19th and Halsted and fed me cheesecake and lots of tea in a tiny little cup. I committed myself to reading some science fiction book Sarah enjoyed and intended to tell Carson he should marry Sarah because it was obvious she resented the six-years of dating thing. I also intended to command that he find Christianity. But I’m pretty sure I mostly just agreed about movies I pretended to have seen. We then exchanged MySpace information and promised to text each other via celluarphone at least once a week.

Good gravy, it’s only 9:30.

have you ever even rented a room?

One of my largest regrets in life is not scalping more tickets to shows. I've seen some bands that are great, but the show blew because the venue blows. So much depends on the venue. Metro=fucking terrible, never worth it no matter what the band. Empty Bottle = pretty much always a good time. Snotty but hot waitresses who never bring you your drink make you feel awesome. The Hideout= the BEST bar/venue ever. Holy fuck; The Hideout rules.

Any hoo, the sold-out Silver Jews show is at the Double Door. The Double Door is an okay venue. I've seen a handful of bands there and had a pretty good time. If the show blows you can always go down the road to Rodan for an Appletini and as many free matchbooks as you can fit in your pocket. Regardless of the Double Doors charms and the matchbook potential of Rodan, I’m scalping my tickets to that midnight execution. Yeah! Screw being honest when no one is looking. I’m selling the fuckers. Besides Tanglewood Numbers really is an alarmingly shitty album. That song, Goshen? Unbelievably bad.

In other news, tonight I learn how to purchase tickets for a certain late night variety show that will be filming a few episodes here in May. I will sell those tickets as well.

Tuesday! Tuesday! Tuesday!

Over the years I’ve made a few mistakes. Of course I don’t like to dwell on the past; be it the odd money laundering ring of three years ago or yesterday’s unforeseeable–almost spontaneous!–combustion of the living room couch. I said it to the cops and I’ll say it to you: I was trying to throw the Molotov cocktail at some kids playing stickball in the street and thought the living room window was open. Geesh.

Any hoo, like that first sweet huff of spray paint in the morning, mistakes are life’s little splash of Tobassco that make the toast of the everyday routine exciting. I’ll never forget the time I was just minding my own business going through my neighbors trash looking for checks to washout when I was arrested on the completely baseless charge of sponsoring underground gerbil fights. I mean, come on! Who would pay the paltry sum of 5 greenbacks to see two ferocious gerbils battle to death in a glorious to scale mockup of a Roman Coliseum with the exhilarating sounds of Wagner filling the cedar scented air? Sure there’s probably no rush like one you get seeing two furry warriors waddle into the ring in authentic Roman garb. And yes, they would no doubt serve only the best Manhattans AND tacos at these so called “cruel and inhuman events.” But who would want to go to them? Say they were held, and possibly are still being held, at a certain abandoned warehouse on Cermak and Racine every Tuesday night and all one has to do is knock three times and say some kind of password like, oh I don’t know, “It rains in Shanghai while the children play mahjong” and they would be instantly transported into a world of nonstop thrills. Anyway, supposing all this true–I wouldn’t know anything about it. It was simply a mistake!

Mistakes–they come, they go, your wife never lets you hear the end of it about a couple of them–are the spice of life. And I’m not too big of an awesome, cool, well-defined, charming dude to admit when I’ve made something that maybe a couple of lesser intellects might call potentially maleficent.

With that in mind, maybe I was too harsh on our bearded brethren.

So I gotta did. What I gotta did. Instead of Blue and White.

Oh baby.

The Razor's E-D_G-_E__!-!-!-!

It has come to my attention that, today, a certain young man reaches the glorious heights of heartburn and neck pain that is 24. Ah, 24. What a fucking awesome age. The way I see it: Life is rollercoaster and 24 is the that part of that middle part between 21 and 65 where life pretty much blows all the time. Obviously, it’s better than being 25 because, as we all know, 25 signals the beginning of night terrors and everything tasting like an foam. So with that in mind enjoy the great clusterfuck that is the big 2-4 and all its glorious shrapnel.

But 24 isn’t all lacerations and week long heart episodes, it’s also an opportunity to deaden the blow of bodily dysfunction and degradation with a few simple birthday trinkets. So the question becomes: What do get for the almost emancipated 24 year old chum of Chicago’s North shore suburbs? At first glace he has just about everything a man or large monkey could ever want. For example, a luxurious, full neck beard that any high school D-n-D’er would be happy to sport at the next Wizards Council or candle lit reading of the new Magic deck. Sure. There’s always the obvious gifts: a razor, shaving cream, a picture of the many, many well-knowing serial killers who sported neck beards, a mirror, etc.. But what if you want to be creative? You know, really blow the neck beard’s mind away (Here I’m ruling out the many, many gifts available to the very large—almost universal—association of homosexual men who broadcast their sexual preference through the use of a neck beard.)

So what say you? Any suggestions? My spending limit is 45 cents and that has to include the cost of the stamp to mail it.

A Southern Bell!

Well, An Doof Ass has left the building: A dilapidated building infested with rats and overrun with not-hot women of the night. But such is to be expected wherever he lays his head for any extended amount of time; be it his apartment in the Bronx, a back alley in Aurora or his parents house. He’s a dirty man. And from 5:30 pm Friday March 17, 2006 to 5:00 am Saturday, March 18, 2006, he brought his aura of depravity and self-debasement back to the Chi. Why was he back? Because he has no friends in all of the world and his utter financial destitution required he pay homage to the patron Saint of Mom and Dad. There were also rumors that a bounty had been put on his head by a band of Irish Bare knuckle Boxers, from whom he unsuccessfully attempted to steal 40 dollars during a poker game (you can’t make this stuff up.)

Any hoo, having hid the silverware and cutting the power to the apartment, we invited An Doof Ass into our home with open arms and 9-1-1 already punched into the keypad with our thumb on “Send.” In an effort to keep his fascinating aroma of peanut
butter sandwiches and Captain Black Superior Pipe Tobacco from permeating our place, we lit our Orange and Patchouli (for centering) Archipelago Candles and quickly hustled him out the door.

Our first stop was the artesian tobacconist on Milwaukee Avenue. There those assembled enjoyed a fine African Malawi blend, Karmellettas (clearly the most homosexual cigarette available) and a robust blend of Virginian leafs. Oh the classiness that we would have accrued if An Doof Ass didn’t smoke cigarettes like a 94 year old Frenchman sitting on the front porch of an Alabama plantation! Leaning back in his chair and flaying his obscenely hairy appendages about in an effort to get comfortable, he would take drags from a cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger. Somehow he managed to inhale the fumes from each match he used on each cigarrette causing him to double over in coughing spasms. After this little show, he would flail about again and proceed to miss the ashtray when he tapped his mushy, half-lit smoke. Thank Heaven there was at least one individual along who was able to carry on a conversation on fine French silk and German ovens so I didn’t have to watch An Doof Ass constantly swearing under his breath as he dropped his cigarrette in his coffee. What a douche.

After that we went for Bar-b-que. He was surprisingly dignified at this point in the evening.

Then we went to the Skylark for café au lait and carrot cake. As it so happens the coffee was spiked with whiskey and the coffee cake was round after round of swill beer. Being St. Patrick’s Day the bar was packed. Luckily, I was along and used my urban savior faire and substantial personal pull to get us the V.I.P. table with its Pratesi upholstered couches, 19th century gueridon and Shagreen lamps. It was passable.

An Doof Assery I can remember: hitting on a lesbian couple. Taking a shot, somehow missing his mouth and sending it all over his face and two girls at the bar (It was the first time I’ve ever seen someone have to wipe liquor out of his eyes. The girls were not impressed.) His latent homosexuality coming out after only 2 Mike’s Hard Lemonades. And finally, blatantly staring at the terrible waitress’s obscenely large rack while she counted out his change.

After shutting down the bar we went home and drank whiskey until five in the morning when out of the goodness of our hearts we drove his bumbling bones to the train stop. For those who spent the night, they awoke to orange glazed french toast with overnighted Vermont Maple Syrup, fresh squeezed organic pomegranate juice, Strawberries and creme fraise, an assortment of melons, back massages and mimosas. An Doof Ass enjoyed none of this.

Advancement!!!

Chicago is full of Pollacks. In fact, Chicago has the highest population of said people group outside of Warsaw. If you’re a regular reader of this seminal blog you already knew this because we have already plumed the depth of Chicago’s Eastern European brethren and hot, hot sisteren here. In fact through our sexy, savvy roving reporters and promiscuous and hot fact checkers, Noononsat has brought you the very finest in subtle and in your face journalistic titillation, brilliance and nuance on all manner of international happening. In other words: We’re a think piece publication. And all this for your self-betterment and enlightenment because you probably need it and we are pretty much at the pinnacle of everything awesome so we can help. You’re Welcome.

Any hoo, sometimes even the best get scooped. Sometimes we’re too busy at coke parties with the anchors from the local new broadcasts to get you the latest international hot potato. Sometimes we don’t even know where we are because we’ve had such a crazy night of anonymous activity with only hot girls and are lucky to make it back to our Calatrava designed loft in the South Loop in time to make a live via video interview with Good Morning America on international stuff. And sometime while we’re lounging on our Egyptian cotton sheets in our Lomanve Robe while our Piaget wristwatch counts down the minutes to the arrival of like 15 important movie stars who are begging us to be their friends, some other publication picks up a international hot potato about the passionate Pollack people right here in The Chi just before we were totally going to run it.

Lenten obligations

This Friday we are sending An Doof Ass back to New York with a proper Chicago get together at the Skylark. All are welcome.

649699607

Well, it’s Friday and you know what that means...the collection agency finally tracked me down for a little face-to-face encounter. How did they find me? Arrgh! I’ve been fighting the great injustice that is the GAP credit card–foisted on unsuspecting sexy college students just trying to get an extra 10% off his jeans. After two years of threatening letters I thought they had given up. I was wrong.

The really scary part is how much they know about you: address, ssn, eye color, shoe size. Damn the man and his comfortable, comfortable pants, which have now cost me almost 200 dollars.

Whatever you do, don't tell certain people about this unfortunate affair. She knows nothing about the collection agency that’s been on my tail for about a year now. Or, for that matter, about the 300 dollars I lost last week playing stand up poker over the phone with a notorious liar. I still can’t believe some of the cards he said he was throwing down.

In closing, some people would get mad that a little fiscal impropriety has cost them about 2K over the past couple months. That person is not me. The way I see it—if you can’t put half your money into a secret bank account to use on bookies and a harmless addiction to painkillers and gourmet gummy bears, what’s the point in living?

Lime Ricky

Wife: What are you doing?
Working Boy: I’m preparing the fatted calf for the upcoming celebration.
W: We don’t have a calf.
W.B: Then what do you call this?
W: A 5 pound bag of potatoes.
W.B: Ha! And I suppose you’d call these silk sheets I’m laying out for our guests the burlap sacks that recently housed these so-called “potatoes.”
W: I regret marrying you.
W.B: Well what about these bottles of libations?
W: For starters, it’s A bottle. Also, it’s Sweet Vermouth. And, it’s empty.
W.B: I had to use it for the flan I made for the opening festivities.
W: You mean that pile of crushed up jellybeans out on the deck?
W.B: No that’s the salmon rolls. The flan is still in the oven. It took a while for the plastic to melt and seal in the flavor of the broken glass but it’s coming along nicely now.
W: Your “friends” aren’t going to have a fun time visiting you.
W.B: Yes they will.
W: Did they have fun last time when you rammed the car into a pothole, popping the front tires and breaking your glasses on the steering wheel.
W.B: We were going to get cigarettes.
W: Did they have fun when it was 100 degrees outside and you refused to turn on the A/C or give them ice for their waters?
W.B: I was saving it for Orange Juliuses.
W: Did you ever make them?
W.B: of course not. It was a passing fancy—like my commitment to my friends or my desire to see them have a good time. They are all pretty much douches anyways.
W: I know only one douche.
W.B: I see. Is it yourself?
W: No. It’s not myself.
W.B: Is it An Doof Ass.
W: No.
W.B: But you hate that guy.

dropkick!

So my neighborhood is an American Classic, big whoop, that doesn’t mean it has everything my fine taste requires. Yes, I can now purchase fabulous boutique beers at the Amador Liquor store. And yes, a gelato shop is opening just on the other side of the tracks. And yes, I pay local urchins to go around to the shops to pick up my groceries and shovel my walk. But Pilsen isn’t just puggles and marble veneer countertops. Oh no. It still has it’s edge—its je ne sais quoi de gangster violence. But we’re working on that last little part: a little racial profiling and some trumped up drug charges have been doing wonders and really brought Pilsen into its own.

Of course, even though Pilsen is ‘moving on up,’ there’s still some things I just can’t get around the homestead. A haircut for instance. Now I used to be able to get a hell of a haircut just around the corner. At Voltar Hair Salon, Christopher, my flaming Mexican barber who had lived in the States for 10 years and didn’t speak a word of English, could really cut him some hair. I would go in after a long day at work and he would make up a nice pot of tea and we would sit on the beanbags talk about all kinds of things: where to get a good crab cake, where to get personal massages, US Magazine. And then, after we were all tuckered out from gossip, I would slide into the seat and he would give me a glorious haircut with his soft, well manicured hands. He even personally applied products to my hair and twisted it into some outstanding little spikes. It ruled.

Well the other day I went in only to discover Christopher is no longer. Apparently the whole gay, illegal immigrant thing didn’t pan out so well down at the station. But enough about Christopher—what about me? I was stuck. I was at the mercy of the non-gay lady barberess. Now this may not seem like a big deal. After all, lots of guys get haircuts from non-gay Mexican woman. But it’s not that easy. You see one peculiar things about the culture of Pilsen is that all the men under, oh, about 50 have one of three haircuts: the shaved, the buzzed or the buzzed with a little patch of non-buzzed on top. These haircuts work if you have, say, full black hair and a relatively round skull. If however you have—and this purely hypothetical—rapidly thinning, pukish colored hair and head shaped more less like a bullet, you come out of the hair salon 15 dollars poorer and looking like Spud. FUCK!