Out of the primal goop: AN DOOF ASS!!!

As should be painfully obvious An Doof Ass has gone missing in action. This is not uncommon. Two years ago he wandered off drunk into the catacombs of our elite east coast prep school and was not seen for several weeks. Everyone hoped for the best, but he eventually turned up alive and seemingly no worse for wear. This morning however it came to my attention that his current absence is no laughing matter. For it seems he has recently broken both his hips and is in the hospital with little hope of making a full recovery. The details of how he was injured are not important. Who reading this hasn’t almost broken both their hips hundreds of times over doing something reckless? Personally, I think it would be a pointless endevour to go over the minute details of the events that led to his crippling. Because, as we all know, hindsight is 20/20.

Okay fine. Maybe he had had too many sugary snacks that day. Maybe his desire to impress college sophomores was a bit misguided and creepy. And maybe if he hadn’t bragged about his penchants of “feats of strength” things would have turned out differently. What if he hadn’t demanded to go to that party in a toga? What if he hadn’t shown up already wasted on sherry and cheap cigars. What if that chubs hadn’t encouraged him to perform “massive keg stands.” What if he hadn’t demanded to do prove his bravery by doing his keg stands at the top of the stairs. What if he hadn’t tripped on his toga after finishing his third one. What if he hadn’t grabbed the keg hose for support on his way down the stairs. What if that keg hadn’t landed on top of him before bouncing off and maiming three innocent designated drivers who where discussing tithing over Ginger beers.

But as An Doof Ass now knows all to well: multiple shattered bones and lawsuits can’t be healed with “what ifs.” No. It takes screws and chisels and files and lawyers. And it takes money.

Most perhaps all would say he deserved it. He was out of control that fateful Wednesday morning at 11 am. He was too drunk on the power and prestige that comes with being a published author. But not me. Well, maybe me, I still haven’t decided yet.

what an age we live in...

it's like looking into the future.

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This weekend past was a mixed bag of blessings and curses. Let’s start with the blessings. Somehow I found myself taking a train out to the old stomping grounds of suburban Chicago for Friday night of backgammon and fruit punch. Unfotunately it turned out no one knew how to play backgammon and in biblical fashion the fruit punch was magically turned into cheap disgusting beer. This lead to a general fogginess of conscious but I those memories I have retained point to smashing good time.

The evening began just like any Friday/Tuesday collegiate evening circa 2003. An associate and I arrived at what was to be our first stop to discover a fiftieth birthday party already in progress. We enjoyed complimentary peach jello shots and the smokey the glances of many, many old women. This boded well for the evening.

After the initial awkwardness of realizing we had little in common on which to pontificate, we decided to purchase some draft beers on tap and await the arrival of what turned out to be two other associates. Upon their arrival the festivities truly began as the stories of sexual conquest, fiscal foresight and general “not sweating it” were exchanged with great gusto and various gesticulations. One particular hightlight from the evenings early throws was a particularly well time and delivered joke by one of the poorly groomed in attedance.

Gentleman 1: This alchohol is like having sexual congress in a canoe.
Gentleman 2: How’s that possibly the case?
Gentleman 1: It’s fucking close to water.
All laugh as do various bearded individuals sitting near them.

True life altering events most likely occurred after this point as all parties were tipsy, not blind drunk, and heartfelt sentiments of undying chummery where no doubt exchanged willy-nilly. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of this period and can only remember leaving the birthday part in search of rumored 1 dollar pitchers courtesy of a recently acquired VFW membership.

Unfortunately that particular mecca turned out to be closed and we were forced to drown our sorrows in 6 dollar pictures of canoe intercourse while engaging in the charming banter of the blue collar masses and the occasional game of darts. At this point various phone calls to An Doof Ass were committed with varying degrees of success and coherence. All signs pointed to an evening of undying delight until it became evident that my designated driver was drinking more than the rest combined. This did not inspire confidence and I took it upon myself to begin drinking his beers as well as my own whenever he left to throw darts. This caused him much confusion and consternation the eventually lead to his desire to call it an evening.

I awoke the next morning to a collegiate style hangover and spent all of Saturday in bed drinking Tom Collins and smoking Dunhills in an attempt to somehow salvage the day.

EAU DUE MAREVELLES!!!!!

I know many of you turn to these hallowed entries for guidance in all matters of life, love and luxury. It’s a big burden we face to keep you informed on the most cutting-edge fashions as explained to us by old man internet-based fashion forums, but we like to feel like we’re up to the task. Well, no task is greater than the one now before us all. Valentines Day. Oh sure, some will question the veracity of amorous overtures based on planetary cycles and social expectations. But we must always remember that these such people are either cheap asses, lazy, uncreative, uncaring, unloving or possibly all these things combined.

Take me for example. While in the past I’ve been known to shirk romantic interludes due to better personal options afforded me, I’ve never passed up Valentine’s Day. Why? Because you blow it to the moon one day a year and Christmas, Birthdays, Anniversaries, Girlfriends birthdays and St. Patrick’s Day can all fall by the wayside and they can’t say a damn thing about it.

Of course, the really hard part is always outdoing what was done the year previous. After all, since this is all you’re going to have to do all year, it’s important not to not mess it up as this gives them an opening to nag, hit, swear and commit adultery. None of which will impress your old college buddies. So the pressure really is on. And, if I do say so myself, last year I came through big time. If I remember correctly, I bought 7 bottles of Cook’s and she got to watch me play backgammon at the library until I had to leave to go watch the sporting match with my Fraternity brothers at John Barleycorn. And how do you top that? Well until last night, I didn’t think I could and I was worried. But then it came out of nowhere, like an Episcopal who believes in missions. There I was sitting on the couch trying to remember if Plato or Aristotle forwarded the concept of monads when the answer hit me like a weightless ton of said metaphysically simple objects...wait for it...get her something for me.

Think about it. What does one hope to accomplish by giving a gift? Quite simply, a la Derrida, the giver wants to see the receiver enjoy the gift and thus receive pleasure from a successful economic exchange. Good, pure gift giving is all about an economy of concrete exchange. After all, what’s worse than getting someone a gift and discovering they don’t like it? Answer? Nuclear Holocaust–but a close second is Nothing. And how can we eliminate such a disaster? Engagement with the international community or, more simply, get them a gift for them to give you. What’s better than her seeing the joy in my eyes when she opens her gift and sees how excited I am to put on that new cashmere sweater? Or try out the marble backgammon board with some old man down at the library? Or that sewing machine accessory you’ve been wanting for like the last 3 days.

And so go forth and buy yourself stuff for your significant other to give you and the year is yours.

THE SIMPLE LIFE!!!

These are troubling days. Astronauts are having wanton sexual relations and brandishing pellet guns. Graduate students are discovering the full cream Danish. The lower classes are draping themselves in cheap Chinese cashmere, ruining it for the rest of us.

Luckily, every once in a while you can get away from this hubbub and so forth and enjoy a refined respite in the frozen tundra of the upper middle west. This past few days I had the distinct pleasure of visiting friends in the Twin Cities of Minnesota. It's always a pleasure to return to my common roots of Minnesota/North Dakota as it affords me the opportunity to take things easy and just enjoy the company of old friends.

On Friday night I arrived by helicopter and was immediately ushered off to an undisclosed elite residence to discuss the Asian markets over scotches and pigeon. Conversation however quickly turned to a our most decadent recent trenchermen conquests. My personal favorite was learning the proper way to eat a condor’s egg that has been poached in an orphans’s tears. The answer? Break the yoke with the horn of a juvenile white rhinos then set it all one fire with Blue label scotch before hurling it at the somelier. Simple in it’s own way.

This discussion began a weekend of classic extravagance and one upmanship. No act was too much nor too good for us. We put water in Seagrams gin bottles and handed them out to hobos. We paid children to run away from home. And even bought martinis for our puggles. But like a candle burning at both ends over an active volcano, our indulgence had to give way eventually. About half way through our fittings for bespoke driving gloves made from emperor penguin and lined with the eyelashes of giraffes, we felt a strange emptiness and futility that no amount of home foreclosures could satisfy. It was then I knew it was time to return home.

Perhaps someday I will return to that simple life....

9

These are troubling days. Astronauts are having wanton sexual relations and brandishing pellet guns. Graduate students are discovering the full cream Danish. The lower classes are draping themselves in cheap Chinese cashmere, ruining it for the rest of us. Everyone’s having really awesome, secret parties and not inviting me–and don’t think I don’t know who you are! But seriously, I do know who you are. And are you’re not going to get away with it. Not this time.

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Ah there’s nothing quite like the dark, dark days of winter. I woke up this morning to an apartment that was 40 fucking degrees. That’s bullshit.

Compounding this bull hooey is the further horse spit that there’s no excuse for putting up with this hogwash. After all, it’s not as though we live in some European city state filled with second and third cousins all living off the fumes of 19th century glory. We can do something about it. Us: the refined gentlemen of the Middle West and our husky fertile women could easily take over the greener climes of this country.

What can the Southerners do? Intoxicate us with refined spirits and try to bribe us with countless southern belles? I saw: do your worst!

And the southwest? I’ll put our weakest man up against any one of your snowbunnies

And the northwest? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. We’ll push your hippies into the mud before you can color in the first letter of protest sign.

Here’s the plan....

We’ll send in the Iowans first because no one cares what happens to anyone living in that godforsaken hell hole.

Then the North Dakotans can go take care of the post-war unpleasantness as they are good at cleaning even though this means their pretty much douches most of the time to their neighbors.

And then the rest of us will move in and not tell the Minnesotans, South Dakotans, or suriving Iowans while making the North Dakotans into some kind of servant class. It’ll be great.