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.