the battle ragethseth

Hey peeps. What be happening?...Really?...Well isn’t that wonderful!...I’m so happy to hear that. You should be proud of all those wonderful accomplishments! Your ambition is through the roof! Really. No, seriously, I’m happy for you. That’s soo great...you, you, no good dumb luck bastard. Fuck you! Who do you think you are?! You’re noth-

Muse: Hey, hey, hey. Geez, Working Boy what’s wrong?
Working Boy: Oh hi Muse. Why would anything be wrong?
M: Well, you’re cursing out your faithful douche bag readers.
W.B: Yeah so?
M: Isn’t that kind of strange and pathetic?
W.B: Um, no, because, well, they are doubche bags.
M: Do you even know what a douche bag is?
W.B: What does that matter? I’m suffering here. I’m at the bottom. The fucking bottom. Nothing is going right anymore!
M: Oh come on it can’t be that bad.
W.B: the hell it can’t. All I do is sit at home smoking and writing cuss words in permanent marker on the walls of the study/An Doof Ass’s old room.
M: And that’s my fault?
W.B: Well, it sure as hell isn’t mine. I’m just the earthen vessel. You’re what makes it snap.
M: It’s true, I am the the sweetness.
W.B: So where have you been? Ever since you left everything tastes like NutraSweet and crumbles in my hands like sandcastles made of broken alabaster dreams and-
M: Oh good heavens! Just stop! Stop talking!
W.B: You see! I’m like a baked cheezer in the rain. What can I do?
M: Listen, have you ever tried just telling people what you think about stuff. I mean, look around people are constantly spewing their guts about the most idiotic things and their eating it up. Eating it up like the slop pigs they are.
W.B: Now you’re talking! Those stupid pig bastards sitting around eating their bagels and living off cheap graduate school grants. Who do they think they are?
M: Seriously, they wouldn’t know me if I walk up and handed them a business card which clearly states my name and purpose.
W.B: Yeah, fuck everyone!
M: Now that’s awesome
W.B: Really you think so?
M: Oh yeah, it's one of those double entendres deals. Chicks love that shit.

My Porridge is too cole, EveryonE!

IF YOU ARE BORED AND BROKE AND IN THE CHICAGO AREA: COME TO THE EMPTY BOTTLE TONIGHT TO SEE THE KILLER WHALES PLAY FOR FREE. This will be an awesome show if for no other reason than that I will be there and will be drinking heavily.
In other news, the Minnesota Twins continue to kick-ass and be the greatest baseball team since the all-star break. Up yours everyone!

death becomes you

What is up? Oh boy, things have been busy for me. I’ve recently made some discoveries of free and cheap weekly events that can help my days pass with a clarity and wallet thickness heretofore unknown to my former drinking-self. I’ve also taken up jazz record collecting in an effort to score old, chain smoking hoochies.

In closing, I feel it is important to tell you that I’ve found myself to be a more pessimistic and awesome bastard than usual. This could have something to do with the fucking guard dog at the construction site next door who barks all night. I’m really not a violent person and in fact am very sensitive deep down. But I promise you now--I will kill that dog. I have some anti-freeze in the trunk of my Jaguar and the cover of darkness. And even if caught I predict a kind of hero’s defense from my neighbors who are ravaged by this fucking, fucking doberman. I hate that fucking dog so much.

All in all then things continue, which is to say life is pretty shitty. Cheers!

All my party people--stand up!

And so the great saga continues. This past weekend I was inundated with copious awesome activities that made the time fly by and kept the routine weekend paranoia and depression at bay, for the most part. I won’t bore you with the awesome details but I had to take lots of long L rides across and out of the city at various points and was wearing a sports jacket on two separate occasions. Though known for my swank attire, this weekend really hit home how great a sport jackets really is. For one thing you can fill it up with all your crap, leaving your pants free of crap. You can also take it off and put it back on at your leisure and thus double your wardrobe. This latter skill is also known to drive the ladies crazy especially if you assume different personalities whilst and whilst not wearing the jacket.

Working Boy Jacketed: I invest!
The Ladies: You’re stable and fashionable.
Working Boy Jacketed: Next week I will call you about starting a classy twice month rendevous at a downtown hotel bar. Don’t try to resist I have a small date book and I’ve already penciled you in, in pen.
The Ladies: A downtown hotel bar? Oh baby.

****************************************************8

Working Boy Unbinded: Screw investing!
The Ladies: You don’t care about anything do you? You hate the world and no one could ever change you, huh? Oh take me Working Boy Unbinded, take me!
Working Boy Unbinded: I prefer drinking! Where’s my phone I have to call an old friend (not An Doof Ass--obviously--who cares what you say to that satchmo?) and leave a mean message that I will feel bad about on Sunday!

And so forth...

Saturday was a bit classier and without the 3am trip to a 800K condo that kind of sucked a lot and wasn’t worth it at all. Also, a bummer was the discovery that the Trebol does actually close and that closing time is 2 am. And if you get there at 2:45 in desperate need of fags and white label you will not succeed in making the rest of the 2 hours of the evening worth anything.

On Sunday I awoke early after watching Project Runway well into the rise of the sunshine. I spent the day trying to make up for watching 4 hours of reality fashion tv by doing laundry and cleaning the bathroom. After that I walked around the apartment with a lighter seeing what things looked like on fire. Grey bike pants? Mostly just smokey, flame goes out very quickly. Banana peel? Doesn’t burn. A plate of staples? Gets hot but don’t melt together into a glowing ball of molten copper which one could then fuse into a doubloon.

It wasn’t that classy.

WHERE ARE WE????!!!!

ah! it's good to be king.

Homeward BOUND!!

I feel it is important to update you on the whereabouts of An Doof Ass. While typically ensconced in a disgusting railcar apartment in the Bronx watching poorly acted sci-fi and drinking wine spritzers, he is currently on his way to the great open spaces of Alaska. I know this because it’s all he could talk about when I called him to demand he wire the 10 dollars he owes me. I also know this because he used the Alaska trip as an excuse for why he couldn’t spend any money when I went to visit him a few horrendous weeks ago: "I can’t do anything, all my money is tied up in my trip to Alaska."


But all that is behind me now, I’m back in the safety of my city. And with the wife out of town for the next week, I’m free to sit in the kitchen eating melon slices and procuetto in my underwear like a real champ. It has also given the chance to catch up on my various novels, plays, poems, internet affairs and smoking in the bathtub. It’s been good. So good that I won’t even care when the envitable news arrives that An Doof Ass was found dead at the bottom of a ravine after stomping off drunk into the forest one night. It won’t be funny. Death is never funny. Instead, it will be sad. Sad like a kite getting stuck in an Abraham Lincoln tree. Sad like an empty pickle jar. The kind of sad that doesn’t really matter to anyone at all, but is none the less "not preferred." Anyway, since I have all this free time with the wife gone and my poetry being an untamable raven of doom like the grey alabaster cliffs of my mind’s eye, I’ve decided to spend a while constructing my eulogy to An Doof Ass. To the affair I’ll wear my finest junk clothes as my D&G will be at the steamers for the next night’s lifetime achievement awards ceremony.

An Doof Ass: A Foggy, Half-formed and Unimportant Memory of a Man-child of similar Characteristics.

I first met An Doof Ass when he was drunk as a Scotchman and trying to find his way out of a dumpster that some much more handsome and cool guys had thrown him into. Naturally I took pity on the wretch and dropped him off at the local branch of the Y in hopes he would clean himself up. To my surprise his parents, wise to his thrice weekly alone drunkenings, were waiting there in hopes someone would bring him in. As it happens, that some one was me. Now typically I don’t go in for charity case losers. But at the time I was between six figure book deals and all form of daughter of international dignitary was vying for my azure eyes and sandy blond hair, and I was burnt out–burnt out on the passion, the fame, the wealth. So I decided to get to know this particular bag of rotting potatoes in the hope he would provide fresh insights into the life of degenerates. And the rest is boring, boring history.


Now I know some of you today thought it was strange it took 2 weeks to find his bloated and distended corpse at the bottom of the not very deep ravine only 16 yards from the resort. But not me. I know no one looked for his body because people just didn’t care where he was. After a week and half they began to figure he was probably dead and then they really didn’t want to know where he was. It just wasn’t worth it. In fact, if it wasn’t for the Houghington’s basset hound rambling its way into that small little valley to take a nap he might never have been found. Thank goodness after an hour on the lamb a troop of 16 people was quickly formed to make sure "Poochie" was okay. And so the body was found.


I know some of you were shocked to learn that with his last dying breaths An Doof Ass summoned the strength to scratch a note into the rock face. But not me. An Doof Ass loves nothing more than to have the last word–it was always one of his most annoying and looser-like traits. Others still I’m sure were surprised to find not a single grammatical error considering the immense pain he must have been in after falling some 7 feet into that inch of mud in which he drowned. But here also I am not surprised. An Doof Ass had nothing going for him at all but a perverse ability to appear intelligent to idiots and passers by. For this reason he honed his grammatical and vocabularical acumen in order to grab at what little respect he was capable of accruing. But I will say I was surprised at the note itself. With only minutes to live I thought he would have wanted to do more than simply say: Tell them I died saving orphaned penguins, yeah, that’s pretty noble.


And so we commit this body to the earth from which it come. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust, etc... he was lame.