Blame it on the sattelite that brings me home

This week has ushered in unparrelled activity within the morning commute panhandling world. The death of James Brown has created a cottage industry of hobo poets, singers, dancer and shiv yielding stabbers all working hard to make sure his memory is properly preserved.

But don’t let James Brown’s passing, or that other guy’s, get you down. After all, it’s New Year’s weekend! And you know what that means: ½ off at all Unique Thrift Stores! Oh yeah!!

Holy Fucking SHIT! : NEW JERSEY!!! :

What can I say? New Jersey is a place where some people live, and I’ve been there. Little did I know before undertaking my pilgrimage east that I would discover a land where Donald Trump and a sheep farm live only 10 minutes away from each other. Where real preppies run around in smartly worn chinos. The land of Shins and Zach Braff and Natalie Portman living in perfect horrible, horrible, horrible haramony. Of course, New Jersey is more than a terrible movie and sheep farms. As anyone who has ever been there knows there is more to New Jersey than Newark. And if you don’t know this, it will be reiterated to you by every single person who learns of your visit to New Jersey. Strangers will come up to you in the English village inspired outlet malls and say: “I hear you’ve never been to New Jersey before. As you can see there is much more to than just Newark.” Oh my yes.

Not only that but I learned New Jerseyianos either love or hate New York City. Here’s a helpful tip for dealing with the Jersian: You can easily deduce one’s opinion of the Big Apple by their sportsjacket or lack thereof. The rule is simple—if the person is wearing a sports jacket they consider themselves New Yorkers; if they’re not, they hate New York and wish it and its lack of parking would ignite in a righteous fire of poor urban planning. As you no doubt can imagine this came as a shock to my refined and glorious Chicago sensibilities as it is well known everyone within a 300 mile radius bows down to Windy City’s majesty and glory.

Taking all this into account I think it is fair that only one thing can be said about New Jersey. It is my mecca. My Calvino-esque alabaster city on the top of a crystal mountain where a thousand naked virgins recline, velvet ribbons in their hair. I mean, do I have to spell it out for you? Inferiority complexes, gentlemen sheep farmers, outlet malls, preppies…The place has it all.

As I lay DYING

I leave for the east coast in the morning. this is, um, whatever, it doesn't matter. Any hoo, if you want to hang out tonight, anybody, anybody at all. I'm down. I'll do anything, especially if it means I could possibly be arrested and, sadly, miss my flight.

WoRDS of WisdomeD!

Christmas brings out the worst in people. Take An Doof Ass for example. While usually an unpleasant and debauched individual, Christmas An Doof Ass takes on a whole new persona. That of Captain Liquor Bag. Now Captain Liquor Bag has one dominating characteristic–depravity. Yesterday, I arrived home from my prestigious vocation to find his graduate school fatness sulking around my block. Apparently he was under the impression that if he is on a holiday reprieve so must be everyone else. His plastic bag filled with tattered rags and filthy camel hair jacket signified the state of his intellectual and economic situation.

This was unwelcome.

Luckily, I know how to handle such circumstances and immediately called up a close friend and told him the situation. Within the hour, he arrvies, ready to help me put CLB on a strict schedule:

6:30: CLB arrvies. Claims he is spending the night.

6:31: Wife asks to speak to Working Boy in private. Wife accuses WB of "loving his friends more than her." Says if CLB stays in her apartment she’ll kill him. Working Boy agrees.

6:33: Close associate arrives. Says "I’ll take care of this wino bastard homewrecker."

6:34: Working Boy and Associate make a pact to keep CLB from destroying WB’s happy home. Both make a small incision on their index fingers and place them together becoming blood brothers and best friends for life. Teamwork and comradery ensue.

6:35: Whiskey purchased (by Working Boy). Cigarettes smoked.

6:42: Whiskey gone. General jolliness. Wife demands CLB out of house. Some yelling.

6:52: Arrival at local watering hole. CLB discusses lack of sexual potency with wait staff.

6:55: Working Boy and Associate enjoy mint juleps and discuss the market. CLB takes off his shirt.

7:00: CLB kicked out of bar.

7:01: CLB readmits himself through bathroom window.

7:02-12:00: Inexplicable fogginess highlighted by sobering bar tab.

12:01: CLB claims he has no money.

12:02: Anger-filled words exchanged. Manhood questioned.

12:03: Tab paid by Working Boy and Associate. If possible, Captain Liquor Bag feels shame.

12:05: All exit bar.

12:06: CLB’s jacket and man purse thrown into street for Working Boy and Associate’s entertainment.

12:07: Liquor Bag begins to cry and requests an oath of eternal friendship be taken. Request denied. Man purse thrown back into street. General well being.

12:10: Bus arrives to take his sorry drunk ass out of sight. Bus driver not pleased.

12:20: Working Boy arrives home.

12:21: Wife awakes. Words exchanged.

7:15: Working Boy wakes up on couch, makes grits, puts on stylish yet understated tie.

8:00: Arrives at work. Swears undying hatred for Captain Liquor Bag, misses sweet, innocent An Doof Ass.

8:05: Buys Egg McMuffin.

Truckin' Holiday TRAIN OF CHEER!!!

This week’s soft and encouraging entry “To the Journey” has generated tons of response from the faithful readers of Noononsat. Our inbox is overflowing with notes and commendations thanking us for our nicety. It’s really opened our eyes to how lonely and sad everyone is and how just a few heartfelt words of encouragement can go a long way. To all of you: We’re touched that you’re touched, by us.

Not only that but the volume and conviction of responses we’ve received has caused us to reevaluate what this site is all about. And, in light of the sheer disinterest and indifference generated by pictures of An Doof Ass running a marathon and the complete lack of curiosity about how his trip to Belgium went, we’re dumping his tired ass from the site. He’s washed up, a real nobody that nobody cares about anymore. Sorry dude, you’re totally alone in the world, forever.

That said, Noononsaturday would now like to announce we’re getting into the inspirational sayings con. People love to be inspired and we love inspiring them. So to ring in this exciting, and no doubt long-term, development to the ethos, telos and logos of our site, we’d like offer some holiday cheer to you all.

Holiday Cheer Everyone! May your days of holiday goodnaturelyness be filled with joy, peace, understanding, diversity, cooperation, mosaic, culture, vibrance and love.

Always touching you,
Us.

To THE JOURNEY!!

If memory serves me correctly this is a particularly busy time of year for those of you still suckling the academic tit. And, while the said protuberance long ago lost its life-giving knowledge liquid to a death of a thousand exceptions and specializations, you no doubt hold out hope for the curdled career giving yogurt now sitting in the back of the refrigerator of academic hopes and dreams. This is sad. Nevertheless, I wish you the best during your final, desperate sucks and tugs for your intellectually empty belly and physically bulbous graduate school waistline.

Made of A hundred gutters!

Well, as it turns out my powder blue sweater was wasted on the insurance man. He just took some pictures of the damage and said they’ll be in touch. In other news, I’ve been baking a lot recently as I am a well rounded and refined 21st century man. I made some buttermilk cookies which are basically fantastic and my recent batch of breakfast biscuits compliment my delicious dinner biscuits I made on Monday. I’m pretty much the most caring, selfless, sweet guy there is and somebody should appreciate me a lot more. Of course, I’m a big enough man not to name names, but I let’s just say I’m talking about the An Doof Ass’s nemesis (it's a she, and she lives with me).

In more other news, while we humble employees don’t get a Christmas party, well most of us anyway, my wife does get one and it’s happening tonight at some Gold Coast swinging scene. Unfortunately, my only experience with office type Christmas parties comes from An Doof Ass’s rather gregarious involvement in one a few years ago during his venerable career as a file clerk (Did he get horribly and embarrasingly drunk? Oh yes. Was he passed out and smelling of garlic and Hennessey when you got back to the apartment at 3 in the afternoon? Most assuredly. Did you wake him up and sit at his feet while he told the tale of two hours of glorious open bar and all you can eat Italian buffet? You know it.) Of course one major difference between An Doof Ass’s party and the one I shall attend tonight is the demographic. You see, while An Doof Ass worked with middle-aged women from Bridgeport and Englewood, I will spend the evening interacting with young female teachers from Roscoe Village and Lakeview. And not only that, but I’ll be wearing only my finest corduroy blazer with a copy of Franny and Zooey prominently protruding from one of its patch pockets. I can’t fail.

Working Boy: Oh this? Just my favorite book in the history of the world.
Helpless Teacher: Me too!
W.B: Really? I would never have guess a young, vivacious woman would have read Franny and Zooey! Now we have something classy and sexy to talk about long into the night over peach martinis.
H.T.: Your wife must be so lucky to have such a refined, nonalcholic husband who bakes all the time.
W.B: You’d think so but she pretty intolerant of my refinement. She says I’m conceited and selfish.
H.T: She couldn’t be more wrong.
W.B: Did I meniton I bake.
H.T: You’re everything a Buena Park girl could ever want.
W.B: Have another peach martini, on me.
H.T: Aren’t they free.
W.B: Sshh let’s just enjoy this moment.
H.T: Um, what are you doing?
W.B: What? You don’t like this?
H.T: Um, your stealing coasters.
W.B: Well, you know how it is, Christmas, not wanting to spend money on anyone but yourself, etc. etc.
H.T: I think that’s-
W.B: Um, I mean, what does Franny tell Zooey in the epilogue again? I’ll always love your bannafish or something. I think that’s pretty hot, don’t you.
H.T: Um, I think I have to go, away, now.
W.B: You’re loss baby, I’m just getting started.
H.T: You know rhe party ended an hour ago and your wife left with Spanish teacher right?
W.B: you mean the one she always talks about at home while I’m looking at myself in the mirror?
H.T: I think so.
W.B: Huh, well that's inconvenient. Do you want to take shots of Silver Wolf and go look for some hobos to fight.
H.T: Maybe some other time.
W.B: Your loss man

the insurance man!

Today I leave work early to meet with the insurance man at the auto body shop. In anticipation I have selected an intimadating wardrobe: a powder blue sweater, pink shirt and Scottish wool tie and houndstooth trousers with a subtle blue and red windowpane pattern. When I role up to Elston Auto Body and Glass in my cherry red jetta with my green cashmere scarf and driving gloves, I will say without speaking a word, "Thusly has arrived one tough motherfucker."


Stay tuned...

Tuesday night FEVER!!

Last night = Car crash while coming home from auto shop. That is l-a-m-e. Airbags deployed, but got him way worse than he got me. Small blessings.

And Girls in Miniskirts II !!

The horrible, horibble weather that has unjustly set upon Chicago this weekend has caused me lack of heartburn. In fact, last night, as I was sucking down a cigarette in the sub-zero weather, I began reassessing my life and where it is heading. As it stands I have a fulfilling and upwardly mobile career in the quintessential American city. I have two Hermes ties, a seersucker suit and a couple of sweater made from wool. Of course for you this would probably be all you could ever hope for in life (I mean let’s face it, you’re probably in graduate school and will graduate to nothing but a life of constant cluster fucks) but for me there must be more. Must be something, um, not cluster fuckable.

That said, I feel it is important for you to know I am now done with civilization. It’s all coddlewop anyway. The ridiculous taxes, government corruption, the refusal of metaphysics, the nanny staterism, it has become too much for my poetic and well-bred soul. Therefore, it’s only fair to tell you that I am leaving.

To this end, I’ve begun looking at homes to purchase in the south. While the south has it problems, like southerners, trout streams, non-chill Southern Baptists and carpetbaggers, it also has not totally horrible weather. And while not a southerner by birth, I feel I have both the drive and determination necessary to be the forested recluse every southern scene needs to give a town that authentic charm the no good Yankee tourists demands. I have begun my quest in the outskirts of town all across Tennessee and Arkansas. While part of me wishes to live in the great wonders that are Alabama or Mississippi, I find myself hopelessly terrified to seriously consider it. Also, Georgia is out of the question because of I knew some Georgians in college and they left me, well, underwhelmed. Louisiana is also a possibility so long as a I can be guaranteed not to receive bug bites while living there as I prefer not to be bitten by things.

But enough about the technical aspects of this great migration. Can’t you just see me? A totally good looking and dapperly dressed recluse sitting on his porch drinking mint julips with the mayor and sherriff while enjoying a rousing conversation about seersucker before engaging in a round of trout fishing or gun shooting? Oh baby. Also, thanks the feeble rural economy I can work only part time as some kind of gas station attendant or bank executive to cover my modest mortage and buy bread from the charming local peasant children.