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"...

HEART STRINGS!!!!!

I was once told by a college associate that I was the most negative person she had ever known. Since she was from the east coast, I dismissed this as the ravings of an ignorant, self-absorbed bitch who would probably never be able to appreciate a perfectly fine and reasonably priced meal at chain restaurant. If she had been slutty, I probably wouldn’t have been so hard on her, but she wasn’t, not even a little bit. She wasn’t even a tease. And how hard is it to be a little bit of tease? Come on.

Anyway, since that time I have had many common experiences that slowly and relentlessly made me into…wait for it….the most negative person I know. This became all to real when I was sitting in my apartment eating a biscuit and wondering if I should take a walk or drink myself into a comfortable 11 am haze. And—get this—I pitied myself for it. Just a few months before I would have killed to be sitting in my apartment mulling over such options. The very fact that I didn’t have such fucking sweet options was why I would come home every night, eat a nice meal and be in bed by 9:30 hoping to dream about being some kind of spy

In short, in that moment, I came face-to-face with my own negativity. There had to a solution, a cure, for such a terrible disposition. And there was: I decided to do both. I took 6 shots and stumbled out into the autumn air for a fine two-hour walk on which I ran into the neighborhood stray 3 times. Afterwards, I came home full of postivity, watered down the bottle of whiskey, and smoked 4 cigarettes, each one raising my resolve to continue to be a positive person.

I decided to start on this noble journey by learning all about English grammar and usage so I could gently and positively correct people who don’t never speech informed right or never are elegant in they’re talking to other peoples about things they think on. Soon however I learned the error of such an endeavor. While being a member of the grammar police is certainly a noble and positive contribution to society, it became clear quickly that I had neither the intellectual ability nor stamina to join their ranks. I even remembered previous attempts at accomplishing this feat that met with similar lackluster results. So I abandoned the project. But was I negative about it? Did I think I was an idiot or lazy? My old negative self certainly would have felt this way. But my new and improved positive outlook just told me I was still good ol’ reliable Working Boy always trying to better himself.

This new positive outlook has done wonders for me. For example, Old Negative wouldn’t buy liquor because he thought it was just a coward's pathetic attempt at escape from the world. But New Positive realizes it’s just good times and nothing matters more than happiness. Old Negative used to clean the apartment and get mad when it got dirty. New Positive is usually too drunk to make it home to his apartment much less worry about whether it’s clean or not.

There was a time I thought such positive thinking was the hollow sentiment of people too doped up on video games and Spielberg films. Now I know that video games are fun and many of the characters are sexually attractive. And even “bad” movies are awesome because then you get to feel superior to everyone who had anything to do with it.

So what about YOU? Are YOU a positive person? If so, congratulations and don’t let the haters get you down with their judgementalism and/or dietary restrictions. If not, I pity you and hope this little message from my full and content heart will help your shriveled and abhorrent one. Happy Thanksgiving!

JIM's ORIGINAL

With each passing second we’re all closer to death and potential financial boon or bust. This is life. Another part of life is the birthday celebration. Take glorious-me for example. This weekend past, I’ve entered the elite ranks of post-25, which means if I ever accomplish anything in my life, it will no longer be as a youth of wonderment (in German.) But you know what? That’s okay, because, if Saturday night was any indication, I didn’t have much of a chance of pulling off refinement anyway.

The illustrious day started off like so many before: with depression and a jug of whiskey. After a few highballs, I just beginning to get over the whiskey-fear I had acquired the night before at a house warming party at which I arrived drunk and got drunker. But, as I was saying, the whiskey-fear from that event was fading into the glorious past when arrived guest the first.

By no means a successful or attractive or interesting person, guest the first nonetheless brought cigarettes and beer and, in his inimitable fashion, managed to drink 10 of “my” beers in under 30 minutes. He then stumbled around a bit. Then a second guest arrived and, since the beer was gone, he jumped right into the jug. That’s when things got complicated/foggy.

It is important to understand one thing. I had a full jug (not bottle) of whiskey. As the night went one, this jug must have been drank to the bottom because I remember seeing it empty around 2:30 in the morning and being both shocked and scared because up to that point I had thought I had comported myself as a proper gentleman which clearly could not have been the case. Looking back on it now, I realized we sure did drink that bottle and it’s pretty clear we were irresponsibly fucked up.

The bottle was only showing the first signs of wear as we reclined in the living room discussing literature and the state of modern music. During this time, the wife, who had already polished off a bottle of wine and the two beers decided to go buy snacks. She left and I remember thinking: “I hope she buys something with chocolate in it.” While she was gone the final two guests arrived and I was presented with my one and only present this year: a dvd from the dollar store across the street.

At some point, the wife must have returned because I remember eating a couple of pickles. It is my suspicion that it was during this time that the bottle received most of the substantial swigging. I am brought to this conclusion based on the number of profanities, bruises and smashed things that soon followed. As it should be clear to anyone who has had the pleasure of getting a hefty drunk on and wandering around with Working Boy, it was time to go get hot dogs.

On the way to the hot dog stand we found a clarinet, a bowling ball, percolator and something made of glass that smashed real good. Guest the first insisted on holding the bowling ball but eventually tossed it at a car, which was awesome, and met by much running, giggling and talk of other feats of bravery.

When we got to the hot dog place I had already smashed the percaltor and the glass thing and so decided to smash the clarinet also. While the other two destructions were met with approving nods, this one apparently frustrated the musically inclined in the group and I had to use my one birthday dispensation to restore good humor.

Having finished the hot dogs. We started back to the apartment. On the way the two fellow whiskey-drinking guests climbed a giant pile of construction rubble. At the top, one pushed the other one down and he fell pretty good and fast. Not to be outdone however, I yelled a lot of profanities at some guys on bikes who seemed like douche bags.

Back at the apartment, I thought the party was just getting started but the empty whiskey bottle and two passed out guests said otherwise. The two sober guests excused themselves gracefully and when I returned upstairs after seeing them out, one of the remaining guest’s was vomiting all over and the other was, I think, watching, which was kind of creepy. I decided it was time for bed.

In the morning, I woke, a bit drunker than I had the morning before, to find both guests had left. I looked at myself in the mirror and at the dried vomit on the floor (which, to his credit, had been given a drunkards best efforts at being cleaned up) and then realized I had a rather substantial bruise in the middle of my chest. I don’t who punched me. Or what I had done to deserve it. But what I do know is that I can still pull a good two-day drunk.

BatteryPARK!

Renaissance Urban Sportsman: Good lord what are you doing?
Working Boy: I’m going through my stuff looking for things to sell.
R.U.S: Sell? Are you mad?! This stuff is priceless.
W.B: I hope not. I hope it's full of prices.
R.U.S: This is madness. Wait, you can’t be serious. This?
W.B: What good is it to me now?
R.U.S: Good? Tortoise shell cigarette holders aren’t for good! They’re for waving around in private as you talk to yourself in a mirror and for hiding in sock drawers so your friends don’t find out about them!
W.B: Oh man, that’s good times. All right, it stays.
R.U.S: And this? You can’t sell your sterling silver dime dispensing key chain! What if you forgot your wallet and have to take the trolley from Battery Park to the Polo Grounds? What will you do then?
W.B: I haven’t been the Polo Grounds in years. How did the Giants do yesterday anyway?
R.U.S: Oh you should have seen Mickey Welch. That dirty, drunk mick bastard can really hurl.
W.B: You were at the game? Why didn’t you invite me?!
R.U.S: I had the operator ring you up but nobody answered.
W.B: What time did you call?
R.U.S: Noon-ish.
W.B: Oh, I was probably taking my Epsom salt bath. Damn its noisy, curative bubbles!
R.U.S: So are you going to keep it?
W.B: Yeah, I guess. You said you were going to the game next week right?
R.U.S: Oh most assuredly.
W.B: And besides were would I be able to store my dimes if I got rid of it?
R.U.S: Probably in your pocket like common whore.
W.B: And I am no common whore.
R.U.S: Oh no. Not really I suppose.
W.B: What about these ties and ascots? Surely one or two.
R.U.S: Oh my no. They all match your silk shirts.
W.B: Yeah, about those…
R.U.S: You can’t be serious?! A man is nothing without his silk shirts. He might as well wallow around with swine and eat broken glass from hubcaps!
W.B: But what about all the doubles? Surely I don’t need two of the same shirt and tie.
R.U.S: No? And what are you to do if you spill baby seal soup on a set? Just go one living without? Preposterous. Say, what about this?
W.B: Oh that’s the wife’s.
R.U.S: Your point being?
W.B: Hey, now you’re onto something! Look at all this excess! Three pairs of shoes! A jewelry box full of paper clips.
R.U.S: You know that jewelry box could fetch a pretty good sum.
W.B: Impossible. It was a gift to the Mayor from the Thai Financial Minister. I had to destroy a substantial paper trail and bring in my extra big “stealing” briefcase to sneak that one out. It has too many memories.
R.U.S: You’re probably right. But surely she doesn’t need all these pink socks.
W.B: Those are mine.
R.U.S: Pink? Really?
W.B: And I suppose you wear your seersucker with flip flops and the backwards cap of one of those baseballer teams out west!?
R.U.S: Of course, you’re right, I’m sorry.
W.B: Thank you. But really I must find something to sell.
R.U.S: What about etiquette lessons? You could sell class. All you’d have to do is shower, shave, lose those 15 cupcake pounds and bleach the hell out of your horribly yellow teeth. Why with only a 1,500 dollar investment I could have you up and charging 5/hr. etiquette lessons in under 7 months!

W.B: Hot damn, just let me find my checkbook. Someone hid it last week when I was at the spa.