CREST FALLEN!

Hello Holiday revelers! Wow, what a great time of year. Spending hours shopping for gifts that you won’t even see opened. Watching your car breakdown after a long road trip. It’s enough to make a man pick up drinking again. Of course, that man isn’t me as I am neither a man nor a much of a drinker these days. You see, after a few unfortunate run-ins with horrible sickness and horrible drunks my pallette has turned towards the more refined distillations such as ginko biblo and various color-coded teas. All which taste like garabage and make me twitchy and crabby. But I think that’s just a natural-side effect to a healthy lifestyle. I love it!

In other news, I hope An Doof Ass is back from Belgium and full of tales of oysters and Goulios smoking Euro-trash sex kittens. After all, he owes it to his vast and devoted readership.

Serious Profession!

Last night, I was forced to stay up well past my preferred bedtime of 8:15. Why? Because I had, in an opium hazed, agreed to not only pick up a Jew from the train stop but then allow that Jew to sleep in my home where my mountain of valuables was in plain view. Luckily, I’m not a racist so this didn’t bother me. What did bother me however was the call I received around 10:30 from a certain Anglo-centric man/beast on the Easterly Seaboard. Of course, I don’t have to tell you who this was. As surprising as it seems our international culture leach is filled with trepidation and angst (and not the good philosophical kind, but the unsexy no bathing kind) about his upcoming speaking engagement at the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Trangender "life conference" in Belgium. Apparently, he was calling everyone he knows (me, twice) in order to make amends in case disaster should strike him while he is in the lions den that is the decrepitude of modern-European culture. This was a wise precaution not only because all of Western Europe is a cesspool of indignity and gracelessness, but because he has pretty much screwed up every relationship be it the most casual to the few horrifically intimate.

An Doof Ass; Hey, Working Boy what’s up?
Working Boy: Oh nothing, I’m just reading some contemporary Analytic American philosophy to keep sharp.
A.D.A: Boy, you’re really a renaissance man.
W.B: It’s true. So why are you bothering me?
A.D.A: Oh, I just wanted to call an say if anything should happen while I’m away I want you to come pick up my stuff in New York and bring it back to Chicago and bury under an oak tree in Douglas Park.
Working Boy: The hell I’m going to do that. Fuck you.
A.D.A: Now I understand I haven’t been the best friend over the years. By my count I owe you well over 250 dollars and, from what I understand, you still haven’t been able to get my distinctive garlic-type odor out of your couch from the last time I slept on it.
W.B: All true.
A.D.A: But I want to put this all behind me as I may well die or become a douche as I will be in Europe for 4 days.
W.B: That makes perfect sense.
A.D.A: Anyway do you think you could find it in your heart to wire me about 300 dollars so I can impress those silly European ladies.
W.B: No.
A.D.A: That’s cool. But do you think you could do it anyway. I kind of need that money.
W.B: I have a better idea. I’ll pay you 50 cents a day to keep a journal of your Belgium adventure with pictures and then we’ll post your adventure on that venerable blog "Noononsat..." That way I don’t have to write anything for a while and you can actually have something to put on your resume.
A.D.A: You still write that stupid thing? I thought everyone stopped doing that sometime last year.
W.B: Anyway, getting back to our conversation, you could have something to put on your nasty, brutish and, most importantly, short resume.
A.D.A: Oh yeah. And what would that be?
W.B: International Correspondent.
A.D.A: Oh I like that.
W.B: Of course that would mean I would have to be the Editor-in-Chief of an international style publication for that to work.
A.D.A: I think you’d be a great Editor-in-Chief, Chief.
W.B: Nobody likes a suck up.

Koldyke

It’s only a matter of time before An Doof Ass ships off to Belgium for his philosophical dandyism. We all wish him luck. And can only guess the kind of fool he will appear as when he tries to speak with any kind of authority on matters not monopolized by bald, elderly, chaste men. Nevertheless, we’re all quite sure he will have a rollicking time and, if recent A.D.A rumors are any indication, he is already gearing up for the big show.

Fly Fishing Guide: So do you want to hear a funny story about our mutual acquaintance?
Working Boy: I live for very little else.
F.F.G: As do I. So the story then?
W.B: Proceed.
F.F.G: Well, when An Doof Ass was in town for Halloween, we spent an evening drinking hot toddies with a member of the fairer sex. After our little get together I heard so interesting tale about An Doof Ass’s social graces....

(Flashback)

Attractive Girl: So, what do you do?
An Doof Ass: What does do mean? eh? eh? That’s the question. Volition. There’s a quagmire if a quagmire I’ve ever seen. You know, man?
A.G: Um, okay. So F.F.G tells me you are in graduate school. Do you like it there.
A.D.A: I don’t know, do I like it there?
A.G: That’s what I asked you.
A.D.A: I know.
A.G: So why don’t you just answer the question?
A.D.A: (laughing) I would if I could. But you see I’d have to have an identifiable singular, particularity identity in order to even begin to understand how to possibly go about answer that question of "other." And we all know we can’t show that to be the case in our Post-Zizeck milieu. Don’t we now?
A.G: Listen I’m just trying to make conversation while the person I know, and whose company I enjoy, is in the bathroom writing your cell phone number in the stalls.
A.D.A: I love you, marry me. Let’s have babies. We’ll raise them to be cruchy-cons just like us.
...........
A.G: Are you crying?

(Flashback concludes)

F.F.G: So she told me all about how he couldn’t carry on a normal conversation but instead tried to best in her a game of wits and then started crying before stripping naked and running around outside yelling "I am the Existential reality."
W.B: that poor old bastard is way out of his league this time.
F..F.G: What with women or philosophy?
W.B: Oh, I suppose those. I was just thinking about the basic taste and decency of which he falls dreadfully short.
F.F.G: well obviously.

Like the narrator of some Hawthornian sex-romp

Like the narrator of some Hawthornian sex-romp, I was rummaging through my attic last night when I came across a piece of fine vanilla-hued, cotton blended stationary with "From the Mahogany and Gold Inlaid Desk of Mr. G-" embossed in a deep crimson and black ink that one can only be derived from the shells of virgin betels crushed in an alabaster pestle. I recognized the note immediately. It was in my own jewel encrusted and Mount Blanc wielding hand. Innocent in a way, the scrawls of a young man, in their simplicity.

The note was addressed to myself on the occasion of my 25th birthday. At the time I was living under the financial umbrella of strong portfolio drawing heavily on what seemed a surefire investment strategy. But within a few years I would find myself banished from my Goldcoast penthouse and forced to pull myself up by my cordovan leather boot straps and make a new way in the world. I have since been in dire straights and no doubt disposed of this letter with the belief it would only bring about painful memories of my silver spoon past. Because I just finished my third bottle of rubbing alcohol at the time I did not realize any of this at the time.

Dear Future and No Doubt Wealthier A- G- the IV,

Below you will find the 4 keys to your great financial and social success. While you will be reading this years into the future, I am quite confident you enjoy the same, if not more, riches and sexy, hot pants wearing babes that I do at present here in 1984. You’re a real winner. And so, without further interuption, the keys to the success you enjoy today!

1.) The perm is and will remain timeless.

2.) Keep on investing more and more money into arcades. Diversify into pinball for
stability.

3.) Continue to intimidate those long-haired Japanese hippies. Neo Geo? wtf?!

4.) Invest even more into copper wire. Everything needs copper
wire.

Well so long. I have to go eat a bunch of red meat and drink lots of
scotch as I am on a diet.

Yours ever,
A-

That said, Friday, Skylark, 8-9-ish. all failures welcome.

weekender

My weekend was pretty, pretty dull. That’s cool though because it gave me a chance to finish a book and start another one. It also gave me the opportunity to discover the great joy that is drinking whiskies from a highball glass instead of a tumbler. What is this advantage you ask? Well, it is two fold. Fold the first: the smaller mouth and elongated body of the highball glass greatly concentrates the bouquet, giving the brown sugar, smoke or peat a stronger nose and more stable mouth. Fold the second: the glass allows the physical act of drinking to be extended over a longer period. As the liquid travels the great expanse of fine crystal basque in anticipation while enjoying the viscosity and cornicopia of hues. Taste and see the difference.

On Saturday I worked off a pernicious hangover with the accompanying paranoia and depression and by 9 was in bed with a pretty good case of the night terrors.

On Sunday, I ate pizza and accidentally broke someone’s glasses.

Hobo Chronicles!

The cold weather brings together two segments of society that otherwise don’t often mix in close quarters. I’m talking about me, and my fellow big time swinging city swingers, and the hobo. One of the most common points of rendevous for these encounters is the old Chicago Library. What attracts classiness such as myself is the world’s largest Tiffany glass dome, the mosaics and European cafe. What attracts the hobo is free heat, free seats and the European café patrons. You have to hand it tothe, they know how to make the most of their time in there.

Bum: Mind if I sit next to you. Screwdriver! Horse buggy!
.Working Boy: I don’t have a choice do I?
B: Thanks. You know I was the President of Rwanda once. Cow planet!
W.B: Please I’m trying to eat my avocado and sprouts in peace and quiet.
B: Yup, President of Rwanda. Nerf hearder! Yellow Oxygen! Course that was before the black bile outbreak of ‘02. Black bile everywhere: ears, under fingernails.
W.B: Please stop. I’m so hungry
B: Jazzercising American White Demon! What was I saying? Oh yeah, the Feast of a thousand Scorpion bites on your tongue. Now that was a holiday. Lots of puss though. Lots of puss. What’s wrong?
W.B: Oh nothing it’s just this avocado looks a bit, um, overripe.
B: You going to finish that?
W.B: I suppose not.
B: Rwanda will rise again! Cop lazer!

So I usually leave the library hungrier and poorer than when I enter while the turrets bum leaves richer and full of wheat germ. Now, I know people who would see this as a case of poetic justice. Of course, these are the same people who pretend to spend their lives suffering through white, liberal guilt, so I don’t have much time for that and usually kick whatever sleeping/passed out bum I may come across on my way back to work.
Of course it’s not all gross out scams and general turrets. There’s always a chance for a good old fashioned hobo fight. Like the one today between a different turrets hobo and the one I affectionally refer to as: "Token White Bum of Scholarly Reputation." He wears glasses.

Stay tuned....