Bloodbook on the half shell!!

So last night I went to a rock and roll show at a “theater.” This meant I was able to sit through the entire air-conditioned performance. Hell, it could have been a Detholz! show and I still would have enjoy it. It was a good time.

While the show was great, the highlight had to be that I ran into pretty much everyone I kind-of-know within 200 miles of Chicago. This is always exciting and, luckily, I was on my A game. Peak efficiency, and so froth.

Working Boy: Hello.
One of the like 15 him or hers: What’s up, man, haven’t seen you in like 3 years. What’s new?
Working Boy: Oh not much. Do you still live three blocks away from me?
OOL15HH: Yeah. It’s weird we never hang out or see each other.
W.B.: Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that we’re not actually friends or even acquaintances.
OOL15HH: Yes, but we know each other’s name. That’s got to mean something.
W.B: Actually, I don’t know your name. I just know you were referred to as “Skeeter” in college. Do you still go by Skeeter?
OOL15HH: Oh yeah.
W.B.: Ah, excellent. So, Skeeter, what menial job do you have?
Skeeter: Non-profit.
W.B: That’s pretty lame. Isn’t non-profit work and excuse to pay you nothing and spend all the organization's money on elaborate black-tie fundraising events?
S: Um…
W.B: Actually, I take that back, non-profit work is pretty cool. Any hoo, do you want to go get drunk at one of the many bars around here? I normally wouldn’t offer but it seems my Wife has already left with her old dormitory hall lobby partner to “catch up.” I’d try and stop her, or at least tag along, but she said they were going to “hookup” for a while so I decided that would be awkward.
S: You’re married?
W.B.: Isn’t that a bit of a personal question? Listen, there’s something you should know about me if this relationship is going to work. Skeeter, old buddy, I’m a very private man. My life is like a closed book, which was lost at sea. Okay? So, moving on, what about that drunkening old college buddy?
S: Sure.
W.B: Really? Good lord, don’t any of you people realize we don’t know each other? Would you go for a drink with that hobo over there?
S: That’s not a hobo. That’s my hippie roommate who fights the system between shifts at Panera.
W.B: I see. Listen, I think I remember not liking you. You know, as a person. I don't like you as a person. Do you mind if I renege on my invitation and move about 15 feet away from you.
S: Okay. It’s pretty clear you have no friends and aren’t particularly cool.
W.B: You couldn't be more wrong. I've got lots of friends.
S: whatever

Luckily, after more or less this same conversation about 5 other times, I found some actual friends and we went to a crowded bar and yelled into each other’s ears for about 45 minutes. As it turns out, one of these friend’s had a pretty interesting week involving a car accident with a 20-somehting illegal Russian immigrant and her “husband/fiancé/friend” of a Mexican gang banger. My favorite part of the story was when—after many genuinely exciting and hilarious encounters—they finally met at gas station at 5 a.m. to exchange the cash. Both, of course, brought backup: the Mexican had another tough Mexican, and my skinny, short friend brought his tall, skinny roommate. The mental image alone is hilarious--for me, you don't know these people so it really means nothing to you. Sorry.

But all this got me thinking…When I need backup who could I possibly rely on? An Doof Ass was the first name that comes to mind. After all, you get three shots of cooking Sherry in his veins and he’ll fight anything that makes eye contact: squirrels, stray dogs, hobos, his reflection. The problem though is he lives in New York so he’s not so much around for early morning backups. The Wife? Well, she’s pretty mean and sure likes to yell and punch a certain always innocent, cool dude, but not so much strangers who want to do the same. Old high school buddies? Unfortunately, if past instances are any indicator, they don’t so much come for fights as wait until they’re over and leave a message on your phone explaining why they couldn’t get away. Imaginary bar buddies? Well, they’re obviously there for me when I need them, but they lack certain, um, ontological content. And then it hit me, the only other person I actually know is Skeeter.

Working Boy: Curses!
Friends: What’s wrong?
W.B: I damned the only person I could possibly use for backup.
F: Yeah we heard. 25 different people told us what happened within minutes of your chat with Skeeter. You seem to have problems interacting with genuinely nice people.
W.B: That’s not entirely true. You guys are nice and you like me, right?
F: I wouldn’t say we’re your friends. More like acquaintances who like having you buy us drinks. W.B: I see. Well, is there anything I can do to make our relationship more chummy?
F: You could buy us more beers.
W.B: Um, I think this is the point where I curse you to blazes.
F: Well, that’s what you should do, but, as we all know, you can’t resist trying to get some kind of reaction out of people who are indifferent to you.
W.B: Yes, that is my one weakness.
.........
W.B: Oh please, have some kind of opinion about me.
F: Yeah, I don’t think that going to happen, my man.
W.B: Well, I just want to die.
F: Whatever, guy.

In other news: Tonight we celebrate An Doof Ass in Chicago, again. Call ahead for the best tickets. It’s guranteed to be one great big mediocre show. The barbque is now officially scheduled for 3-ish at the Wilson Avenue beach on Monday. With any luck I’ll run into Skeeter.

Mercy!

Howdy. Here’s the deal. The last week has been particularly out of the ordinary, but, unlike in the past, out of the ordinary means pretty ordinary. I haven’t been partying with rock stars or making big business deals. Instead, I’ve been nursing a cold I concoted during the freezing temperatures I endured at Tad’s going away shindig/Iditarod. On top of that other circumstances (heart problems, divorce preceedings) have kept me clear of my usual vices. All that to say--I’ve been more or less straightedge for about a week and a half.

Of course, you may not believe this, but I now spend most of my free time tinkering with pie recipes and reading travel journals. And it’s not half-bad: my blueberry mango tarts are light but substantial and I’ve learned so much about Thursday Island that I can’t help but think I’ve been there. I guess you could say I’m turning into a variant of An Doof Ass with croissants taking the place of vomiting in garages and cross-stitching instead of begging in back alleys. In a word then, I’m totally, 100 percent lost.

Well, that’s all about to change because tonight I will find myself at the Skylark for a long overdue monetary fleecing. And I actually have a reason to go there and celebrate. What’s the reason? Like hell I’m going to tell you.

Any hoo, this Friday An Doof Ass will be around at the Skylark. All are welcome to attend. If past circumstances are any indication it will be a moderately good time, on par with window cleaning or shoe lace replacement. In addition, this Monday, Memorial Day, we will be having the annual Memorial Day barbeque at the beach. This is actually an above moderately acceptable time with lots of drinking and eating and Frisbee. All are also welcome to attend any or all of these events. If you want a personal invitation just give me a call and I’ll carry on an awkward and imprecise conversation about the still hazy details.

foie!!!

Northwestern University's women’s soccer team has been suspended from competition because they were exposed for "hazing" freshmen players. Now, the careful readers among you have no doubt notice my scare quotes and rightly deduced I find the whole affair not only terrifically overblown, but an affront to hazing good name. And, of course, a complete turn-on.

One of the paper's highlighted other horrendous hazing events such as the life threatening events on:

....April 2004, upperclassmen of the women's swimming team at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington were accused of forcing freshmen to wear unusual clothes to class. The freshmen later had their faces painted and participated in various activities, including a scavenger hunt in downtown Wilmington and running through an automatic car wash near campus. Team members then allegedly went to an upperclassman's off-campus residence and drank alcohol.

Now if memory serves me right, these poor abused children were then picked up by their liberal, WASP parents at the time specified on the elegantly embossed hazing invitations and taken out for frosty chocolate milkshakes!

I ask you: Whatever would we do without our society's all-seeing, myopic, monocled eye of procrustean Enlightenment secularism and prepubescent liberalism?!

Elysian Fields!

There are times in life you face genuine bummers. Like getting busted in the middle of a glorious, immaculate lie. Or discovering the money clip you stole from some burger’s bag at a party had only 5 dollars in it. And who can forget the times you’ve had to throw out a perfectly good pair of strangling gloves just because of a sloppy hit. Well, last night I had a bummer on par with any of these.

For reasons unimportant and uninteresting I had to get rid of half a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of wine. I had options. I could drink them. Dredge them. Give them to hobos. Drink some and then throw the wounded soldiers at children, etc... I went with drink them.

Now, the fact that the booze had to be gone by midnight made the experience feel like that of an open bar. There were no internal battles over decency, grace or economic stewardship. No. It was simply drinking. And it was simply fantastic--even the subsequent heartburn.

I made it through the half bottle in little over an hour. I then passed out for a refreshing nap of 3 hours and woke up refreshed and ready to begin the week—a week marked by no indulgence whatsoever.

“No smoking or drinking for week?!, “ I thought to myself, “Whatever will happen to me? Perhaps I will become some kind of god.”

I scratched my throbbing head and wondered if this is what deification was supposed to feel like.

bitchin'!

The Chicagoarea’s flame burns a bit dimmer and colder today. For Tad Lindsay, agent provocateur, gentleman and scholar, has left the fertile fields of the suburbs for the salmon filled fields Alaska. *single tear*

Luckily for Tad, he was not sent off without a proper farewell. Fresh from New York, An Doof Ass returned in all his glory to the womb of his parent’s house and I, leaving my bustling, city-swinger lifestyle of which I have grown accustomed, returned to Wheaton, Il to bid Tad farewell and get drunk. Rendezvousing around 7 we enjoyed fine steaks and ice cream. We then retired to Tad’s garage were we sat in deck chairs smoking cigars, while drinking a bottle of Early Times and not a few from a 30 rack of Icehouse.

Witty banter abounded. An Doof Ass had his sexuality questioned frequently. Tad described fine gourmet mushrooms. And I didn’t break two antique highball glasses. I didn’t. I do have one rather strong memory from the garage involving smoking two cigarettes and my fine cigar all at the same time. It ruled.

With the bottle gone, An Doof Ass stuffed his bag with 9 Icehouses (3 each) for the 10 minute walk to the local Whisky station. He then vomited all over the garage floor.
The walk had all the makings of a fine sobering experience. Unfortunately, An Doof Ass, full of bile both yellow and black, attacked Tad. Being awesome, I took this opportunity to put about 25 feet between the fracas and me. Before long, I heard a great splash as Adam was thrown into a mud puddle. He then wallowed in the puddle for a few moments questioning his general depravity.

At the whiskey station, An Doof Ass continued to challenge Tad to fights while the two of us enjoyed pizza and whiskeys. An Doof Ass then, for whatever reason, just wandered off into the night. After about 20 minutes of wandering around trying to find each other we met up at Yahoo’s, a whiskey station just down the road. It was there An Doof Ass was thrown into a ditch. Unfortunately, a third fight completely instigated by a now bloody and mud-caked An Doof Ass broke out at the steps of Yahoo’s. Growing tired I retired inside to have a drink only to find the place had closed quite some time ago.

After this final fight we wandered around for another hour drinking and looking for a place to eat. Unfortunately, Wheaton isn’t much for late night activity, so we went back to Tad’s had some drinks and went to bed, gentlemen to the end.

In the morning we ate donuts and went around Wheaton College looking for free shit the students had thrown out. I got a mixing bowl and a TNIV. Tad found himself a lacross stick and some pots. An Doof Ass just sat in the truck smoking.

Red Hots!!

This weekend I went to the Maxwell Street market. It’s basically a flea market that happens every Sunday where you can go to get DVDs that won’t work in US dvd players, knock-off Mach 3 razor blades, produce and all things rusty. But you have to be careful at the market. It’s easy to get there and loose yourself amongst the various power drills and posters of girls in bikinis and completely forget that you came for off-brand laundry detergent and sunglasses. Luckily I knew the wilds of Maxwell before leaving and wrote a note to myself on my forearm as a constant reminder of my mission: Tired of pinching the corporate bum of the CTA–find refined, understated finely-crafted bicycle. Buy carton of “Maverick’s Choice II” cigarettes, if time permits.

And with that I was off.

Now I’ll be the first to admit I have, in the far past, made some pretty outstandingly bad impulse purchases: a dime bag of Oregano, drinks for An Doof Ass without explicit written consent of a retributory draft on him, organic produce, etc...So I was not unaware of the dangers of the smooth talking salesmen and his crafty wares. In preparation for the big event I re-read the sections of Oliver Twist the night before and got a solid 15 hours of sleep. In the morning I moved my wallet to my left fron pocket, put razor blades in each of my back ones, and ate a sensible breakfast composed of a honeydew and lemon amuse-bouchée, Smithfield ham and Brie crochets, quail eggs and pomegranate juice. No urchin or his petty crime boss was taking me for a ride. ...

After purchasing a couple bundles of socks, 18 comic books, a refrigerator motor-still sealed in its original box!-and a 4 pairs of vintage pliers, I stumbled across a dealer of bicycle-styled machines.

Bike Dealer: Tired of aching feet and smelly hobos like me on the bus? Tire of the outrageous El fares? Tired of pinching the corporate bum? Then buy here one of these finely crafted American-made-inspired designed bicycles! You there!
Working Boy: Me?
B.D: Yes, you with the 8 pounds of baby formula.
W.B: You mean Margarita mix?
B.D: Um, yes. Anyway, how are getting that fine powdery Margarita mix home this hot afternoon?
W.B: By pinching the corporate bum of the CTA. How else?
B.D: How else? How else! I’ll tell you how else! What you need is a genuine authentic bicycle inspired machine! This model here got’s it multi-gear possibilities, advanced hand braking technology upgrade potential and a genuine metal-type frame.
W.B: I don’t know, I just came to buy some old records based on how funny the covers are and start my vintage plier collection. I’m not looking to get anything not on my forearm. Say is that big pliers for sale?
B.D: Pliers? Hell, son them’s heavy duty wire cutters. You use them for, um, cutting twine to wrap presents for orphans.
W.B: How marvelous!
B.D: Now how ‘bout a bicycle inspired machine?
W.B: Well, do you offer any guarantee it's road worthy.
B.D: I promise so or else my name isn’t....John...Johnson.
W.B: that’s it? Just the word of John Johnson?
B.D: No, no. You didn’t let me finish...Or else my name isn’t John Johnson theXII!
W.B: Now that's more like it! How much for the red one with those fancy shaped wheels, Mr. Johnson the XII?
B.D: That one? Well, you surely got an eye for quality. That’s got there the revolutionary elliptical wheel-frame technology. Only 100 were made before they were made illegal for offering too much comfort and rideability.
W.B: Wow. But how can afford such an awesome bicycle-inspired machine? I’ve only got 200 dollars with me.
B.D: Well, I wasn’t going to even think about selling it for less than 500 but you seem like such an nice young man...
W.B: Oh I am. I really, really am.
B.D: Tell you what you pay 200 now and I’ll go back to your place with you to get the rest?
W.B: you’d do that for me?
B.D: Sure will. I’ll even through in this high grade wire authentic bike lock absolutely free.
W.B: Surely you are some kind of Saint from bicycle-inspired machine heaven. So long pinching of the coporate bum!

Cinco de Mayo

It's Cinco de Mayo! The day Mexicans celebrate the birth of the sun god, Tenochtitlan,by hanging Guy Fox in effigy from the Bastille. It's a pagan holiday, yes, but it also the day you can get half-price fancy Margaritas at the fancy pants Mexican place on Halsted and 16th. They are to die for. They start with fresh Mango and Lime juice and then add a tequila made from a kind of agave that can only grow in the soil of a recently bulldozed village. The agave is then aged in Redwood casks for 20 years before being ladled out by orphans into commemorative bottles made from the prescription lenses of only the most feeble old widows.

In this era of mass marketing and shoddy craftsmanship, it’s nice to know there are still those who take pride in the details. Enjoy!

^^^^!!!!

I’ve been a fool. A giant chump. I’ve been flittering away my mountain of money needlessly. I have only everyone to blame. From their lack of imagination to base instincts, I’ve been reared a financial stable individual amongst ravenous wolves of retribution. Suckling the shriveled tit of indie-music and bars with their tickets costs and exorbitant alcohol prices. Well…No More! I’ve seen the light—the light of highbrow culture and nonprofit benefits.

It all started when I decided to RSVP to a poetry reading. Having never gone to such a petty bourgeois affair my expectations were low: uninspired suits; white coffee in carafes on a folding table covered by a low thread count cotton cloth; petty, liberal political assumptions; students. In my experience nothing brings out the worst kind of people like poetry. Because poetry is mostly lame most of the time. So I didn’t wear anything nice. Just some smart Abboud trousers, Campers and skin tight t-shirt with “Bitch” written across the chest.

Arriving sensibly late I was surprised to find highly polished parquet floors and sensible oak paneling. The room had a respectable cheese plate, an olive tray, various melted things stuffed into warm things and an open bar. I did a quick scan of the room and found only 3 hobos who somehow managed to RSVP for the event stuffing Amstel Lights into their knapsacks. Not wanting to be undone by the rough sleepers I quickly got in line behind and old woman dressed in gold and a couple of tools from DePauls English Department. I don’t know what it is exactly about English majors and their professors that make them so essentially atrocious. Maybe its the fact that they are fucking idiots or their basic tool nature. I’m not sure. But for whatever reason I was surrounded by dipshits. In a desperate attempt at self-preservation, I gave a bum “backs” so as to place some kind of barrier between myself and conversation about “Turkey” and how “he didn’t know a damn blah, blah” and various things that were “marvelous.” Even the hobo got sick of it and walked off in a huff claiming no amount of skunky European Budweiser was worth this.

I tended to agree. I drank Amstel Lights and enjoyed the poetry alright but the Brie was a bit dry and the tools got all pissed whenever I threw my empties at the trash can, but the poetry was okay—as far as poetry goes.

Anyways, after getting my chest signed by the poet I stumbled out into the Gold Coast evening looking for a taxi to take me to a silent art auction up on the Westside. Cool artists who think I’m awesome were having a fundraiser for illiterate children and rumor had it there were free cold-cuts.

Arriving sensibly late, I entered the lounge and perused the art while nibbling on croissants and an assortment of melons. Not surprisingly, there were lots of tools at this event as well. But unlike the previous affair these tools were an easier bag to handle. Say what you will about English and Poetry tools they enjoy the to one up each other on stuff you can’t learn about on VH1. This puts swingers like me at a distinct disadvantage and forces us to be the center of attention through flamboyant escapades. But this event was all young people placing extravagant 5 dollar bids on B&W photos of a eggs placed on naked backs and collages of old Dewey decimal library cards. These were my people.

Having a keen eye for the next big thing I placed a 3 dollar bid on a two canvas series depicting toothpaste. Seeing me throw up such an amount wantonly I was quickly inundated with girls interested in my profession. I am, of course, a writer.

W.B.: Freelance mostly. Indie mags. The occasional ‘zine. I just did a piece for a weekly in Oakland about how the world can be saved by everyone riding bikes, eating moss and “not getting in each other’s face.” I enjoy protest rallies and pointless social “movements” and “events” that involved inconveniencing myself for upwards of 12 hours.
Girl: Wow, me too!
W.B; I try to stay relevant. Would you care for a segment of cantaloupe?
Girl: You eat melons at night? You’re so classy.
W.B: All my clothes have to be dry-cleaned.
Girl: Oh mi gosh. Take me now.
W.B; Yes, quite.

After schmoozing, my ever-increasing cadre of friends went to Humboldt Park and drank beers while discussing the need for sustainable development.