JUST FYI!!!

this is the man who has many times told An Doof Ass to put his pants back on. a fine gentleman.

THe Kitten from Great Brittian!!!

This weekend was filled with various highs and lows each more sweet than the last. The most totally sweet development over the last three days has been the refinement of my pie making techniques.

Like all great men in history, I enjoy the art of making pies with my own two hands while the wife sits in the living room eating Cheez-its and reading about all inclusive Sandals vacations. Last night I experimented with some new ingredients and the resulting baked good lacked a certain something that would make it, well, edible. Ever the optimist however, I put the pie-type object outside with a strong conviction the neighborhood cats won’t find it so repulsive. As of this morning a good bit of it had been eaten by various wild animalia and I expect everything else, including the pie dish, to be gone by the time I get home this evening.

I also purchased myself a sewing machine on Saturday and feel rather strongly that I will be able to figure it out and soon begin making fine garments for fun and profit. As it happens I purchased this device against the advice of two associates who accompanied me on my weekly Saturday pilgrimage for various thrift store treasures. Here are their arguments against the purchase.

Their arguments
1.) When you plugged it in to test it, it did not work.
2.) Not only did it not work but it started to produce smoke.
3.) You’ve never fixed anything including your old turntable that you just
had to replace.
4.) It costs 15 dollars.

I told. them to fuck off and not expect a fine Neopolitan-inspired dinner coat from me anytime soon. As of Saturday afternoon at 3. I have spent 15 additional dollars and countless hours on various buses and trains trying to track down stuff the internet tells me I need to make my 1978 Singer Specialist 476 Zig-Zag swing.

On a sad note, my favorite wooden spoon broke this Sunday past. I was stirring a bouillabaisse while intoxicated and tripped on my apron strings sending the spoon and some bouillabaisse to an untimely demise.

THE BEST DAMN PETSHOP THERE IS!!!..

It’s been an important week for me. A week of nervous anticipation that was finally relieved last night with the arrival of my new turntable. For those of you who don’t know I’ve been really into jazz records for like 2 weeks now. My collection boasts a wide assortment of easy listening titles and cool covers of black men standing over a piano smoking cigarettes. Like all collectors of jazz records I now have status and respect in the eyes of my elders, and the envy of my peers. Not only that but these records impart instant cool and sophistamacation. And up until last night, the only thing missing was a record player to play them on. Well, with the arrival of my musica-technica PL50 SLP XTII Mach 3, I can die a relatively happy man and leave a beautiful corpse that has experienced the finest in stereophonica surround sound not to mention an illustrious collection of 4 hot jazz records.

In fact, I was so happy with my new groove I sat down and wrote out a last will and testament and taped it to the cover of the record player so there won’t be any unnecessary bloodshed or tears over my valuable and vast collection.

The 2 moldy records with lame white guys on the jackets go to An Doof Ass: He’ll think they’re cool because the guys look like him. Sure they’re 45 years old and wearing flannel shirts and baggy chinos, but, as we all know, so is An Doof Ass as he’s reading this. And sure the set lists include “A Christman Medley” and “Take 5, 5 different ways,” but An Doof Ass loves annoying repetitive drivel, it relaxes him, much like rubbing alcohol and whittling things out of soap.

The one from ‘82 with the drawing of a hot pink topless women drowning in a sea of hyper-color: That I leave to my wife who loves the record so much she keeps trying to hide it so only she can enjoy its pastiche of smooth vibes and synth.

The one with the black guys standing around a piano smoking: That goes with me to the grave.

thoughts? opinions? accolades?

Recently I’ve begun work on the great american novel for our time. It’s all about a misunderstood individual with casual good looks and a penchants for sloth and falling asleep in the bath tub. He also enjoys sulking around the campus of his alma matter and hanging out with the old folks at a local retirement home. Yet all this changes after he awakes one morning to find his literary perusals stuffed with various articles each more puzzling than the last. Consumed by this mystery, he begins a journey of self-discovery that leads him through a dreamworld inhabited by talking cows and a stark reality filled with indifferent femme fatales and various turncoats (you know who you are.) Ultimately, these two worlds are reconciled when our protagonist wins the lottery and moves to Buenos Aires where he passes the time throwing half-empty whiskey bottles at poor people from his 5th floor balcony. Finally at peace, he enjoys the company of women of the night that allow him to indulge in his habit of talking to various domesticated phantasms.

Is this the end?!>>>

Unfortunately the job has called quickly to me this fine day and I have no time to tell you all about my weekend packed full of urban experiences. That said, now is the perfect time to introduce a new feature: An Doof Ass Predilections. While An Doof Ass has made himself rather scarce as a bosom chum and doesn’t much care to engage in rollicking hijinks since becoming a turtleneck wearing east coast twiddler that doesn’t mean we can’t remember the good old days and make predictions based on those fond memories.

A remeberance...

An Doof Ass has for most of his life been seen as an “intelligent young man.” Growing up in a refined home he was able to cultivate some of the finer pursuits: effeminate Englishman authors and their dykish female counterparts, obscure enunciations, and predictable classical music are his calling cards. To this day it is not uncommon for him, after a couple of vodka martinis, to approach a dykish woman at a bar and recite exerts from Middlemarch to the tune of Debussy's String Quartet in G. Not only is this horrifically odd it is--surprisingly–vulgar and perverted.

A prediction...

This weekend will find An Doof Ass swollen eyed and stumbling through various subway platforms singing the Notre Dame Irish fight song to any who will listen. He will then Sunday morning repenting of sins to the fashionable beats of Native American drums, hammered dulcimers, and didgeridoos at the local parish before spending the evening trying to borrow money from his roommates for “laundry.”

moderate comments!!

As a refined man of letters, I often find myself in search of timeless truths in the written form. Over the years, I have discovered many inspiring and exalted works of literature, history, and sci-fi erotica. I will never forget the day I opened American po-mo visionary Tim Jackson’s Choking Bones or discovered the refined English faggery of Lord Huffington Wharburton’s 1875 classic, Manour Bournee. I find these outstanding articulations shed much intellectual and chick-scoring light into the great glory hole of our modern predicament. I can safely say, I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it wasn’t for Euginas Intergalactic Sex Slavery.

But for every cutting-edge book about the unforeseeable friendship and star-crossed love affair between a Jewish idiot savant and a Palestinian artist tormented by her fundamentalist father, there is always some pedestrian, non-cutting edge claptrap. This unfortunately leads to an overabundance of books and, if one is married to a philistine, a demand that some of them are sold to the book purveyors of north Clark Street.

Book Purveryor: You’re going to have to check your bag.
Working Boy: Actually, I’m her to sell you some really awesome books.
B.P: Are they history and philosophy? We only deal in history and philosophy.
W.B: Is that code for old Hustlers and nudie pulps from the 50's?
B.P: Yes.
W.B: Well, then I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

(B.P. peers into moldy CMRS canvas bag)

B.P: What is this crap? (Pulls out first book)
W.B: That just came out on FC2 this year. It’s all the rage in graduate seminars taught by the author.
B.P: I’ll give you ten cents for it.
W.B: Sold!
B.P: Hey Mooney (throws book to Mooeny) file it in Po-Mo.
Mooney: You got it.
W.B: You have a Po-Mo section?
B.P: No, (takes out another book). Nobody reads this guy anymore.
W.B: Well, it’s their loss, his “Tick Monologues” was powerful stuff. Really visceral. In fact, I don’t think I can really part-
B.P: I’ll give 15 cents.
W.B: Sold!
B.P: Mooney, here’s one for wildlife.
M: Wildlife. You got it.
W.B: But the book’s about a hypnotized, lesbian vampire’s battle for self-discovery. Its comma usage is revolutionary.
B.P: Hypnotized lesbian vampire?! Why didn’t you say so?! Mooney, put that one in the glass, bullet proof case in the window with a post-it saying: Blood Curdling Tale of Insatiable Lesbo-Vampire Salaciousness!!
W.P: Hey, these books are important to me and you’re trying to pass them off as base titillaters.
B.P: Hey Mooney, we got a real expert in our midst today. Says we shouldn’t sell his books likes their nudie pulps?
M: What an idiot.
B.P: That’s what I said. Hey let’s close early and go get oil massages down on Archer.
M: You got it boss.
.............
W.B: Can I come?
B.P: No.

Panda! Panda! Panda! II:Mei Lan

While my previous posts about a newborn panda caused quite a comment ruckus (and much embarrassment for An Doof Ass.) I stand by my promotion of child pandas; if for no other reason than they are the most decadent animal on earth. How much money does it cost to get these guys to reproduce? not to mention feed and house them and keep them from dying from stuffy noses and ear aches. All in all, these little fuckers must be the most decadent animal on the planet. And that is pretty damn cool...And let's not forget the ridiculous Chinese names. Where are the Ralphs, Puffys, and SugarPlums?!

Through THE LooKIng glAss!

Agent: You know you really didn’t milk the New Year like you could have.
Working Boy: What do you mean?
A: Well, you didn’t publish any of the salacious details of your New Year’s Eve parties or do a "best of 2006" or even one of those top 10 resolutions or something.
W.B.: Those are all pretty lame ideas.
A: But guaranteed crowd pleasers.
W.B.: Haven’t had one of those in a while.
A: It’s true. Why is that?
W.B: I guess because I built my reputation on being an outsider. You know, the rakish gentleman who does what he wants, consequences be damned.
A: You were a real bad ass.
W.B: Indeed. But after the fame, drugs and various sexy scandals I lost my edge, my ‘street cred.’
A: You can get it back, it’s time to get back on top. Make it your New Year’s resolution.
W.B: But I already have a resolution.
A: What is it?
W.B: To eat more oysters.
A: That’s a damn good one, you’re a king among men.
W.B: Really?
A: You’re tops, a real winner.
W.B: Thanks my man. You know there are few things as wonderful as a yes man.
A: You couldn’t be more right.
W.B: You’re worth every penny.
A: Yeah, and speaking of that...
W.B: Yup, every penny.
A: I need to get paid.
W.B: What are you talking about?
A: I need you to pay me my fees.
W.B: But why should I pay you? You’re just a G.I. Joe that I talk to when I’m feeling down. I even give you your funny faux-French voice.
A: Pay me or-
W.B: Or what?! You don’t even have a gun.
A: Well, I would if some hadn’t flushed it down the toilet during that aquatic rescue of Princes Hot -n-Sexy last week.
W.B: Hey, you were lucky to make it out of there alive. You should thank me.
A: Yeah, well there’s one thing you’re forgetting.
W.B: Oh yeah, what’s that?
A: My many grenades sensibly located right here on my cargo pants! And don’t think I won’t use ‘em!
W.B: You wouldn’t dare.
A: Watch me. (moves toward grenades)
W.B: Hey, man, stay cool, don’t do anything crazy.
A: Yeah, I wouldn’t want to do anything crazy. (makes crazy)
W.B: Shit put it down, put it down.

Wife: What’s going on in there?!

A: Say "nothing" or else
W.B: Um, nothing dear, nothing at all.

W: There better not be and quit talking in that stupid voice of yours, it’s getting out of hand.

A: Okay now slowly reach for your wallet.

W: Yup, that’s the one. Now shut up! My soaps are on.

W.B: How much do you want?
A: All of it.
W.B: I’ve only got four dollars.
A: That’s it? What’s wrong with you.
W.B: Yeah, well, you know with fuel prices and all.
A: Just hand it over.
W.B: Okay, here you go.
A: That’s better, you know you’re really not so bad.
W.B: Thanks, my man.
A: A real player, that’s what you are.

W: I said shut up!

A Refinement!!

There are few joys as regal and refined as the dinner party. Take the one I hosted last night at the country estate for example. It had it all: every kind of shell based fish you can imagine many of which are frightfully endangered thus deliciously decadent. I found the seahorse cocktail stirrers particularly profound and recommend them highly.

Nothing stirs like a seahorse.

In attendance was a select group of my closet work confidants and fellow urban playboys. Together our glorious cashmeres, glen plaids burnished leathers and hint of orange make any event, the event. Especially those events that we host for ourselves.

Discussion topics ran the gambit from the state of third world currencies to John Lobbs. The brandy and cigar hour culminated in a robust discussion of ladies in waiting and the state of the modern cock fight.

Working Boy: Terrible stuff really, the modern cock fight.
A Gentleman: It’s enough to make one stop raising cocks with which to fight other cocks.
A Scholar: The gentlemanly arts have really take a blow in recent times.
Working Boy: Indeed. Why just the other day I got a rather bothersome message via telephone. Terrible instrument.
A Gentleman: Terrible.
A Scholar: Give me a writing desk and a man to do the writing for me any day.
A Gentleman: I like to mist my envelopes with one of those intoxicating scents
recently brought back for the West Indies.
A Scholar: An elegant touch, from an elegant man.
A Gentleman: Oh stop you’re embarrassing me in front of my lady in waiting.
Working Boy: I grow weary. Let us get intoxicated and make our stable boys fight for loose change.

Telluride

The icy cold hand of reality has returned to our post-holiday world. Chestnuts, roasted on a whim, are thrown into the trash where all they belong. Clown noses are mercifully removed from the various four legged “family members.” And slovenly, blotted graduate students roll over on their soiled mattresses to reach their grimy, clammy hands towards the various refined sugars and pots of frosting they have stolen from their parents pantry. While all this occurs, the noble everyman with his sensible hair loss and penetrating blue/green eyes pulls himself up after a simple Christmas vacation to return to the real world. A world of cold, hard facts about grocery bills, mortgage payments and angry vengeful wives. It’s not especially totally sweet but it has its moments.

What moments you ask? Oh, you know, lots of ‘em....