Journal of a Traveling Working Boy....

Saturday was champagne in the garden. I danced amongst the bones of pharaohs and gazed into the largest crystal ball in the entire world. In other words, a typical weekend for the likes of us. Of course, I’m sure your weekend was not as full of excitement, unless you were one of the elect, select, in-the-know, wit-mongering and dispensing few hip enough to spend a weekend in the exceptionally exclusive city of Philadelphia. Good times, in spite of almost everything that occurred and was done to me.

To begin, Friday started off rather badly. Especially the beginning when I was picked up at the airport by a gaggle of giggling women. One of whom not only introduced herself as a resident of “New York City” but as a “Singer-songwriter.” In most cases, one of these predicates would be enough for any thoughtful, decent, God-fearing human being to begin vomiting uncontrollably. Thankfully, I hadn’t eaten in about 48 hours and only dry heaved a couple of times. Though it was not the most awful 20 minute ride in my life, I did have to endure the most pointless stories and incomplete sentences of my life. You’d think a New York songwriter at least would spice up her tales of last Thursday’s dinner at the creperie with a couple of motherfucking adjectives. But you’d be wrong in that assumption.

The day progressed in a haze of Parliament smoke. All I remember about most of the day was that I was wearing my sky blue linen pants, which is worth remembering because a.) the pants rule. b.) I was wearing them.

And then there was Friday night. The night of large Icelandic men, an Englishman and some God-fearing Americans.

Most of the evening was spent at Delilah’s—a respectable and elegant Philadelphia jazz club where the mostly female staff performed a kind of improvisational jazz with their jazz club uniforms. It wasn’t the best jazz club in the world but it had its charms. For example, you can smoke in jazz clubs in Philadelphia and since I’m no elitist I managed to maintain both good taste, decency and grace throughout the evening. I’m not the biggest jazz fan though but there was one truly exalting point involving the Englishman.

Now, consistent readers know that we here at Noononsat hate the English. Be it their offensive hairlines, accidental educational system or lack of a sustainable, attractive female population there is almost nothing to recommend them. This particular English man however almost singlehandedly changed this singlehandedly. In the course of one night of jazz music, he managed to pull off three fabulously rare and important human virtues:

-Elitism: He asked the bartender to fetch him a stripper accordingly to his exacting physical desires.

-Sexual incompetence: After learning he would have to find the girl for himself, he spent a good 20 minutes chasing a jazz waitress around.

-Financial recklessness: He spent beyond his means and demanded money from relative strangers after getting 150 dollars in waitress fees from a single waitress.

All around a decent weekend. I had my a few ennui headaches but when you’ve experienced as much as we have, it’s kind of a given no matter how many mummies you manage to defile with water rings from your G&T.

We'll see....

Luckily for you, I'm an artist. I crave not the sour kudos of a spoon fed public nor the voluptuous praise of the bobbed and bouncing literati. Instead, I only crave what little attention I can get at whatever the cost. And unfortunately it seems the few flecks of adulation that peppered the morning eggs of my self-esteem came only from this dry well. So, well, I have returned. Returned with a divining rod, a ladle and a mighty truckload of vicious slander and gossip in the hope that through some mystical combination of these elements I shall have my pepper once more.

After all, during my sabbatical I no doubt had many adventures in the wide world from which to draw sweet succoring words. So stay tuned!

Teasers are bullshit arent' they? Who comes back just to say, "I'm coming back?" Well, we don't know, but it sure as hell isn't us. In fact, we've got so much stuff in our inboxes that we just don't know where to start. Hm....where to start?, where to start? Oh yes, how about this....

On Monday I received a call from An Doof Ass. This was not totally unexpected. For a few days I had heard rumors that he was back in town. These turned out to be true. There were also rumors that he had gained substantial weight and was seen about town in a moo moo all the while fending off the curious pokes of children at his abundant flesh with a broken umbrella. Not being one to gossip or spread vicious lies for my advantage, I had my doubts about the veracity of the latter tale and kept these whispers to myself. Thankfully, I can now tell you that the latter if far from accurate. Although he does indeed carry around a broken umbrella, it is not for defense but an ambulatory aid that his incredible weight now requires. And as for the moo moo...

An Doof Ass: It's not a moo moo. It's a toga. As a scholar of ancient wisdom I thought it fitting sartorial flare. In fact, I've created quite a buzz around campus with it.
Working Boy: But why is your toga covered with a daisy print?
An Doof Ass: I like to think of them as hemlock.
Working Boy: I see. And the large gold necklace?
An Doof Ass: Oh that has my identification on it.
Working Boy: Your identification?
An Doof Ass: Yes, unfortunately, togas don't have pockets so I have to carry my information around my neck now. See? I just punched a hole through my drivers license and credit card and strung them through.
Working Boy: And what's that other card?
An Doof Ass: Oh that's just my medical information in case I have an episode.
Working Boy: An episode?
An Doof Ass: Yes, unfortunately I seem to have contracted type 2 diabetes. I suspect from one of the homeless people at the soup kitchen.
Working Boy: Soup kitchen?
An Doof Ass: Hm?
Working Boy: You said soup kitchen.
An Doof Ass: Oh that, yes, well, I, um, volunteer. Yes. I volunteer at a soup kitchen and because of my generous spirit contracted type 2 diabetes. Rotten luck isn't it?
Working Boy: I see.
An Doof Ass: Anyway I'm absolutely famished from my trek to get here, you wouldn't happen to have a tub of ice cream and a serving spoon I might see for a moment?

The night wore on in typical fashion and after a few hours I barely even noticed the heavy breathing or the smell. Bless his soul, he really is a trooper though. He kept talking about various illustrious fellowships and grants he's receiving and even claimed to be going on a globe trekking adventure for the next couple of months. Of course, none of that could be further from the truth. You see, I heard a rumor that his fellowships are really just a loan from his parents. And the globe trekking? Well, if you call a fat camp in South Dakota "globe trekking"...