dashing!

Some of the nay-sayers out there may not believe this, but I volunteered this weekend past. Yup, v-o-l-u-n-t-e-e-r-ed. You see, some of my associates in the area don’t know the necessity of extravagance and have shacked up in a Westside ghetto “to do good.” One of these bohemians unfortunately signed away 2 years of his life to watch them be wasted trying to enforce genuinely pointless tasks on children with much more pressing concerns than cloud formations and times tables. One can only hope that someday we wake up the great scourge that is public education and the racial and economic segregation it openly promotes and propagates. But I digress....Anyhoo, this old pal asked me to work on his initiative with him and in a fit of sobriety I said, "Yes."

Awaking early on Saturday, my muscles twitching with excitement, I arrived at the westside school that functioned as the meeting point. My first inkling that this would blow came when I saw a large crowd of white people hanging out, happy as clams, outside the school. And, judging from the speed of passing traffic, so where the neiborhood residents. Anxious to get out of that scene I went inside in search of food.

Working Boy: I understand you are going to serve us breakfast.
America Corper: yes.
W.B.: Excellent, I’ll have 3 momosas, a V8 Splash and a melon ball. Honeydew if you have it.
A.C.: We got something even better than all that stuff! How about some dayold artesian bread from a hippy bakery and TANG.
W.B: I think I’ll just have coffee then.
A.C: Naturally decafinated, shade grown coffee?
W.B: Oh good lord.

Sufficiently screwed on the breakfast front I wandered around looking for some cleaning product to drink when I stumbled across the orientation for the day’s events. There I heard enough liberal hooey, granola munching propaganda and secular humanism to kill an organically grown horse. Did you know, at least according to one of the short-haired old lady hippy leaders, that community gardens pretty much solve everyone’s problem? It’s true. Starvation, gentrification, illiteracy, power hungry evangelicals, whitey. There's nothing conservative, sacred or different that a community garden can't stop! Thoroughly rallied we were assigned to our groups. This is when things took a drastic turn.

Without so much as a segment of cantaloupe to settle my stomach, I watched in horror as I was placed in the worst clean up crew of them all. You see hippies are very, very bad people. Like idealists and east coasters, they are worthless grant grubbing scoundrels that waste poor people's time and energy on their myriad of year-long pet projects while they're “finding themselves” in their 20’s. But, and here's the rub, the hippy is not without her draws and, oh let’s say, liberalities. One could even say, perhaps, it was these very liberalities that brought me to this futile endevour that very morning. And it was there, between two folding tables, that I watched in pure horror as I was placed in “group” consisting of 3 other male members two of whom were idealists.

Standing there amongst the poseurs, I watched bushel, after bushel of sandal wearing ponytails skip and giggle their way to far off, remote community gardens filled with hot springs, steam showers and those anything goes hippy dress codes. I’ll never volunteer again.

Poverty!

And so another weekend has sprung. Sweet. I mean, what’s not to love about the weekend? No work, sunshine, sleeping in. But unfortunately all these things are false idols—weekends blow. Think about it. Friday nights are used up “celebrating” the weekend by eating big steaks. Saturday you wake up groggy and try to remember what you were going to accomplish. Having forgotten, you watch TV until about 6 and then, in an effort to salvage the day, you go “out.” Out however usually means spending lots of money to try to fight off the reality that you will eventually have to return to your small, shitty apartment. Then Sunday. The day of absolute despair. Not because you have to go back to work, but because you threw away another weekend. Well, that’s not going to be this weekend! I’ve got plans, you bastards! I’ve got a system! A fucking to-do list in my pocket!
To do list:
FRIDAY
1.) laundry.
2.) Buy sharp casual pants.
3.) Talk a lot about my previous, exciting bachelorhood to while she’s making me dinner.
SATURDAY
1.) Go to the Velvet Lounge rummage sale and buy an erotic painting.
2.) Hang up the painting in the kitchen.
3.) Refuse to take it down.
4.) Take it down.
5.) Remark on sad state of modern WASP culture.
6.) Throw stuff.
7.) Go to the Late Night Late Show. Drink without regard to exorbitant cost.
8.) Come home around 2.
9.) Hang painting in bedroom.
SUNDAY
1.) Go to the Twins game on Sunday. Drink without regard to exorbitant cost.
2.) Call An Doof Ass and tell him he sucks.
3.) Go to the O.T.B
4.) Learn lingo
5.) Put a Jackson on the slinker in the 4th.
6.) Sell painting to hide losses from slavedriver/self-actualizer denier.
7.) But something cashmere.

RecoverY!

There are few truly beautiful things in life: the birth of a child, winning the lottery, cutting stuff, etc... And when such an event occurs it is something to be savored—something to put in that little spot in the back of your brain unblemished by alcohol, pornography and reruns of The Simpsons. And there it stays with all the other truly beautiful things. Things like: pornography, Simpsons reruns and benders.

As luck would have it, such a truly beautiful thing has happened to me this very day. Something almost ethereal. You see, this weekend I hung out with some friends. We had adequate times and then everyone went back to their more decent, respectable professions: student, barista-librarian, nanny/slave driver. For my part I went back to being just your average Captain Toughguy with all the universal acclaim it entails. As luck would have it, most of the time this doesn't require the use of pants. During the work day though I make an exception for the sake of my 401K, but even then I still manage to pull off some sweet moves: lying about my workload, looking at pictures of designer handbags on the internet, making up jokes involving crippled orphans. After work though I am able to fully embrace a Captain's raison d'etre: I sit in front of the TV in my underwear swearing at the advertisements and demanding absolute silence during Smallville. All this is great. And even if it is not one of life's truly beautiful things, neither is it something to shake a stick at it. No matter how possibly cool that stick may be or how hot the person shaking it.

But even this basic great scene is occasionally shaken up. For example, just 2 days ago, the bottle of whiskey is suddenly empty and I have to physically leave the couch during a particularly horrible advertisement to get the emergency gin. But yesterday I had to interrupt everything. It seems my “mailbox” is so full of junk mail that the landlord told me either to clear it out or clear myself out of the apartment. Juvenile. Any hoo, this required putting on pants because of some complaints from the yuppies living next door. Well, I put on the pants, pants I had worn this weekend past only to discover a crumpled up 5-dollar bill inside one of the pockets. Oh baby.

And now, and for all the now’s to follow, Today: whatever day it is, 2006, I, Captain Toughguy whose never sweating it, had a truly beautiful moment. The only downside was that I had to forget a previously stored moment to make room for it. I’m sorry memory of night I drank a bottle of tequila and tried to fight 3 strangers just trying to get some sleep in their apartment.

To the Journey!!

When An Doof Ass was last in the Chi-city we had what might have been the classiest and most enjoyable evening of social drinking ever experienced in human history. After that evening was over I felt refreshed and ready to go out into the world to seek my stake my claim. Such however was not the case this weekend past. For that I blame the fabulous wealth we accrued early in the evening. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Al/l/a/e/n arrived on a flight from his tree lined Georgetown streets around 3:30. We met up for Champagne and escargot at the Sky Line Tap on Van Buren and LaSalle. Surprisingly, the Sky Line was fresh out of both. So we settled for Miller Lights and dry, crumbly cigarettes. After a few rounds of backgammon and mancala we retrieved our jackets from the coat check and left to catch our bus. The bus however was filled with crying infants and a man systematically eating a handful of candy. Our nerves unbearable frazzled by this unpleasantness our only recourse was screwdrivers before dinner. After networking with neighborhood artists on the way to the Skylark, we enjoy the Friday fish fry and a raspberry reduction with homade pecan ice cream for dessert. With elegant sufficiency’s in place, we returned to bustling south Halsted street to enjoy cheap wine and finger food while we awaited our ride up to Wicker Park for the Silver Jews show.

Throwing empty wine encrusted plastic cups from the car’s open windows as we sipped lukewarm vodka from a thoughtful birthday present, we arrived at the venue in time to meet none other than An Doof Ass’s old, old Jewish flame. After unsuccessfully trying to buy a ticket for Al/l/a/e/n we sold our tickets to his very friendly acquaintance and devoted the rest of the evening to spending our newly acquired wealth.

Drunk of benjamins and now warmer than lukewarm vodka, we bought two packs of gourmet cigarettes and a couple of rounds of drinks at a neighborhood lounge. After closing that place down we went across the street, bought some tacos and watched the Jews encore through the backdoor. At this point, Al/l/a/en and Peter snuck into the show and were rudely turned out soon after. Peter then decided to give it another go but quickly rejoined us after encountering some unpleasantness.

With our elegant sufficiency’s replenished on outstandingly bad tacos, we found ourselves at Rodan. After checking the status of funds, we decided on hard liquors and cigarettes. While Peter enjoyed a bit of cat nap in the booth, A/l/l/a/en and I retired to the out of doors to score hookers and blow. Seeing both in their natural element, we decided instead to engage in what, in sober hindsight, was an entirely too revealing conversation. Heather and Peter then joined us and we attempted an ill-advised and unsuccessful liquor run.

Sulking home to lick our wounds and refresh ourselves with clean, cool vodka, we enjoyed impassioned conversation and general excitement and commotion not always common at 4 in the morning.

In the morning we had omelets, as prophesied.

This is a pretty lame move but this article has become the highlight of my week.

In another illustration of hard-fought (even, here, arguably hard-hearted) selfness, Terri Minsky describes having a demanding TV career that could put her in L.A. for months at a time, while her family remained in Manhattan. At one point, her two woeful children ask, "Mommy, do you love your television show more than us?" When she says "no," they counter with, "Mommy, then why are you with the show and not with us?" And what she thinks, but poignantly cannot say, is, "I want to do this. I need to do this. This is who I am, and it's taken a lot of therapy not to apologize for that." She then tells a roomful of network executives that her son eventually supported her need to self-actualize, and the moms among them burst out crying.

Old Pluteneyse!!

Hey bitches.

For some reason I’ve been busy lately. And, since I can’t exactly place my activities or where I had them, this leads me to believe they involved barbiturates. I trust I was awesome.

Of course there are some things I know for sure. For example, you may remember my ambitious plans to make a meagerly great profit off my Silver Jews tickets. This has turned out to be a bitch goddess. Just FYI: the skin flint ol’bastard's warmhearted fanbase does nothing to live up to the band’s name.

In other news, a visitor from the East may appear on Friday. Thankfully, it’s not that one. Who by the way is trying to cultivate a palate for, of all things, scotch. What the hell?! You put some honky known for wearing around shower sandals on the East Coast and, in no time, he starts telling you about a “surprisingly smokey finish, mellower than the 12 yr, with a hint of sage and strong undertones of stone ground pumpernickel.” Do I even have to say it? ---Douche Chill---! That son-of-a-bitch should begin with a consistent flossing schedule before he starts spouting off about “spicy caramel!”

Susan Berman ~ Michael Bondanze ~ Doris Panos ~ Henry Dunay ~ Marlene Stowe!!

People who know me know I appreciate quality goods. I wouldn’t be caught dead forking over my preeminent scratch for kitsch from whatever middlebrow PierOne or Crate and Barrel-type store is popular this week. Good Heavens, no.

I drink Evian from a vintage Riedel. Store Kate Spade knickknacks in a Birkin. Custom Sansappelle p.j's between Pratesi sheets? Is there any other way?

Of course, I don’t flash my “bling.” I keep it classy. It’s all part of being sophisticated, cultured, and better than everyone else. Because of this however there have been times that I've found myself at George Greene or Morris & Sons without receiving the awe due to me. It’s as though my greatness—nay, immortality—are lost on these lumpen bastards.

Lumpen poser: You know that’s Brioni.
Working Boy: I love Brioni! I have 4 back at the luxury condo.
L.P.: Right. Where was that again?
W.B. Gold Coast. It’s the van de Rohe.
L.P. I thought you said you lived in a loft on Printers Row.
W.B: Um. No…that’s, where, uh, I work on my successful internet business—that I can’t talk about because I’m in secret buyout negotiations with Amazon and Google. Don’t you listen to anything I say, you stupid tool? Or can’t your studio apartment mind distinguish between a work/play office loft--with hot secretaries--from a Modernist masterpiece on Chestnut? Your kind disgusts me.
L.P: Oh really? And what is my kind?
W.B: I wouldn’t know. Being Italian royalty myself, I’m not familiar with plebian blood.
L.P: So you’re royalty too?
W.B: Does that surprise you?
L.P: Just a little. I would have thought, being Italian royalty, you would have known how to pronounce Isaia.
W.B: Like I said at the time, my Swiss boarding school destroyed my pronunciation.
L.P: That’s right. Now was that before or after you won the Croix de Chevalier des Arts et Lettres.
W.B: For a personal fashion slave, you have a rather brash tone.
L.P: Terribly sorry. So would you like to purchase the Lutanzi’s?
W.B: Um, would you happen to take homemade coupons?
L.P: Sorry, no.
W.B: I see. Well, since I seem to have left the gold bars in my hummer-limo, I’ll just take my coat and go back to my castle in Scotland.
L.P: Right away, sir. Yours was the GAP “windbreaker,” correct?

All that to say: Last night I went to the liquor to buy light bulbs, and some hooch. Being a high-class joint, all the booze is behind the register. I went up to the lady smoking a cigarette and said:

W.B: Whiskey!
Smoking Lady: Which one? half pint or pint?
W.B: Neither! I’ll take the 750.
S.M.: (obviously impressed) Right away, sir!

Now that’s customer service, and appreciation.