....

The Good Old Days

Time to wrap up this weird little tale; this strange affliction that was the semester was over. But for some weird reason it wasn't panning out the way that I thought it would. This should be a time of celebration I thought. I should be elated. This should be a time when drinking happens. This should be a time when people throw caution to the wind.

But nothing of this sort happened.

After about 48 hours of strenuous deadline pressures, insane amounts of caffeine, sleep deprivation and four giant papers later, I was ready to check out for a bit. My eyes were puffy, and The Chordettes were playing that cheery Mr. Sandman tune. Bring me a dream, huh? Mr. Sandman is full of shit.

Still I couldn't sleep. I mean I passed out for a few hours, just to recuperate, but upon waking I was still tired. I was my own caricature of the burned out college student.

I take one glance at my disturbed bed sheets and think: "The portrait of the sleep deprived."

Damn it.

Peachy, I thought. No longer will I need to get my ass up in the morning and watch people stand on escalators. No longer will I need to ride around in crowded Blue Line trains, with people touching my ass against my will.

We are sardines on the way to work stuck in giant tin cans.

But not anymore, now I don't have to do any of that shit. Which is disturbing and I'm going to miss school. "Jesus did I say that or just think it?"

Hell yeah - I'm going to miss those crazy bastards who populate Columbia College. At least there were instances of useful and intelligent conversations. Those were conversations which mattered; shit that is really funny as opposed to slight giggles when someone farts at church.

Was this a slight case of depression I thought?

What the fuck am I doing listening to 50s radio on XM?

"It was an itsy bitsy teeny weenie yellow polka-dot bikini that she wore for the first time today."

Now I know that I've lost my mind. There was nothing else to do but drink. It wasn't a wise choice, but one that needed to be made, since if it's gotten this weird, then curiosity begged to ask how weird it would get if there was a bottle of booze mixed in.

How weird indeed?

The semester was a success I think. This is before I know how my grades turned out. I got a job at the school newspaper, The Chronicle, so I am available for children's parties. My other classes were a blast. Opinion writing comes to mind. Visiting the Chicago Tribune was cool.

"There ain't no cure for the summertime blues," the radio keeps blaring. Pretty appropriate, I think, since Chicago is buried under snow. Time to pull out with the lawn chairs. Put them in front of the Christmas tree, and watch Rudolph the drunk reindeer. He has a giant red nose.

"Rockin' Robin. Twee twee."

I find something pure about 50s rock and roll. Something that isn't diluted by whiskey and drugs, which doesn't necessarily mean that it is a good thing; it definitely shows through the music though. You get a sense of the times.

Not that I know this personally, but from what I can gather, the 50s were a more innocent time. Back when optimism was popular. Back when there were no cell phones and faded jeans. Back when being a drunkard was a shameful thing. Back when big gas guzzling cars were OK, and cigarettes were dirt cheap. I miss those days. If I could get my hands on a DeLorean I would go back to the 50s.

And raise chaos.

Be all James Dean about it.

Did you ever notice that the 50s were all about getting laid? Except that they called it romance back then. The 70s called it fucking. The 80s called it coked out sex. The 90s called it casual sex. Now we call it the eventual inevitable interaction between two members of the opposite sex. (Sometimes it's the same sex and it's OK)

Notice I skipped over the 60s because God knows what the fuck that was called?

"Sherry-Sherry baby. Come out tonight."

It dawns on me - fuck maybe what I need is love?

Plus all the songs from the 50s had some guys saying that the girl is making him lose his mind. Those guys would have been grateful for online porn. At least until they were able to convince a girl that they were worth fucking. Shit - it still takes a while for that to happen these days.

Which is a weird concept these days. You shouldn't convince a girl. In fact, there isn't much a guy can do in that department. She either wants to fuck your brains out or she doesn't. End of story. That's when you secretly turn to the online porn idea. It sounds pathetic, but the guys who want to get laid but don't, do.

But the 50s are summed up best with these fucking lyrics by The Coasters.

Take out the papers and the trash
Or you don't get no spendin' cash
If you don't scrub that kitchen floor
You ain't gonna rock and roll no more
Yakety yak (don't talk back)

Just finish cleanin' up your room
Let's see that dust fly with that broom
Get all that garbage out of sight
Or you don't go out Friday night
Yakety yak (don't talk back)

You just put on your coat and hat
And walk yourself to the laundromat
And when you finish doin' that
Bring in the dog and put out the cat
Yakety yak (don't talk back)

Don't you give me no dirty looks
Your father's hip; he knows what cooks
Just tell your hoodlum friend outside
You ain't got time to take a ride
Yakety yak (don't talk back)

Yakety yak, yakety yak
Yakety yak, yakety yak
Yakety yak, yakety yak
Yakety yak, yakety yak

We were battling communism during this time.

But it's important to note that from now on I am not responsible for anything that I write. The happy go lucky night has turned into an Old Fitzgerald night. It is wheat based bourbon rather than a rye based bourbon like Jim Beam.

This ought to be fun.



The Old Fitz - the most wonderful time of the year. There be much toilet throwing, and bad a Monday morning, it's the most wonderful time of the year.

Oh fuck it's Perry Como.

Magic moments.

Speaking of magic moments, I saw those Iraq elections taking place on CNN, and I was hopeful. A part of me went, fuck maybe this is a good thing. Maybe the people of Iraq are finally ready to join the human race. Gratned I am a cynic, and anything that deals with the war puts a sour taste in my mouth, but maybe this will do some good.

Optimism. A fucked up concept. Ya know, I dislike Bush and his decisions, but if they are happy about this shit then OK. This isn't to say that things will work out fine. They might not. But - fuck - if those people think its a good idea then it's OK. Then I think about balanced news. What about the people who think this sucks? Inked fingers aside, how long will we occupy Iraq? We have to leave at some point don't we? What then?

What scares me is the idea that President Bush might be one of those pricks that drags the war on until his term is finished. And then what - it's not his problem anymore.

"The heart grows cold and old."

This is turning out to be gonzo more than ever.

The idea that Bush doesn't need permission to put wire taps on American citizens is disturbing. So when ever I'm on the phone now, I make it my mission to be the most vulgar as I can be.

And those fuckers asking me for my phone number at Best Buy or something, I say no thanks. I'm sure I will have fun with this.

"What's your phone number?"

"I don't want to give it to you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't feel like it."

"But it's the store policy to...."

"What ever you say I won't give it to you. I think it's a ridiculous idea and I won't be part of it."

"But what about the bonuses that you can recieve?"

"Fuck the bonuses."

"But...."

"No means no."

"I don't want you to call me."

That's when Jerry Lee Lewis comes on. Great balls of fire. Indeed. Great balls.

Still Crazy

The year 2005, while furiously coming to a close, was one of those years when many great talents passed away. Which sucks, if you think about it, because it will take years for many more great talents to emerge in the future. Plus I find it doubtful that anyone will ever reach this type of greatness in the future. But the talents that died this year are not even talents anymore. They were the stuff that legends are made from. When Peter Jennings passed away, the world of journalism lost a great anchor. I think the late night news anchor's job is forever changed now. To fill Jennings shoes it will take years. Surf's up for you broadcast majors out there. But before Jennings' passing, February was one of the sadder months. Hunter S. Thompson, the gonzo king, blew himself into the final frontier, forever shattering the aspiring writer's hopes and dreams of ever reaching that level of greatness. Thompson reached martyrdom in most people's eyes. The king of unconventional journalism is gone. Many, to this day, still want to be like him. And while the harsh reality leads these aspiring writers into new territory, the notion that nobody can do what he did anymore creates a weird void in our hearts. Deal with it. 2005 is not even over and we lose another legend. For those stuck in stand-up comedy lore, and for those who can give two shits about stand-up as an art form in general, everybody knows who Richard Pryor was. That's because the man was a legend. That's because he made you laugh at the things that you probably shouldn't have been laughing at. All these comedy stars of today, from Eddie Murphy to Chris Rock, list Pryor was the single one most influential comedian of all time. Which he was, alongside Carlin, Lenny Bruce, and Bill Hicks. It was his stand-up comedy shows that threw people into laughing fits. He was honest with his audience. He was groundbreaking in pointing out race relations in America. When Comedy Central released a tribute to him two years ago entitled "I Ain't Dead Yet Motherfucker," they were poking fun of the idea that Richard would laugh sometimes when the tabloids said he was dead. Well now he's truly gone. May he R.I.P. "I hope I'm funny," he said on his 1974 That Nigger's Crazy album. This was one of those albums that helped him become mainstream. This was one of those albums that made cracker whites like me laugh at myself. I wasn't even born when that album came out. In fact the first time I listened to the album was after I found the 1974 cassette in a garbage compactor room when I worked as a maintenance man in some depraved high rise building. Who would throw this classic shit out I wondered. I guess one man's garbage is another man's joy. His bits were hilarious on that album. "Boy, don't you ever kiss no pussy," he said his uncle used to say. "I couldn't wait to kiss a pussy," Pryor shot back. He did characters on the stage, complete with voice and everything. His "Niggers with a seizure," bit is classic. About black guys starting fights when they get drunk, yet they always get their ass kicked. "Ugly motherfucker," he slurred. "Bartender, gimme my whiskey!" "Whatchu mean I'm drunk. Shit - you didn't say that an hour ago." "Sing that song you bitch!" When he gets his ass kicked he says crying "Motherfucker kicked me in the ass." "I'm going to fuck you tonight baby," followed by snoring. When he did his "Black and white lifestyles" I was rolling on the floor. "Honey can you pass the potatoes." And white folks don't make no sound when they are fucking. The Exorcist would be a 7 minute movie movie if there were black people in it. "The devil is a low motherfucker, jack." What is that funky smell? "Wash yo ass." In a devil's voice, "Hello." "Good bye," black guys would say. The movie would be over. From wino's dealing with dracula, flying saucers, and vs police bits I knew that Richard was a powerful creative force that wasn't to be messed with. Richard made me realize just how white I really was. I still have that tape. In fact I gave it a good listen after I heard that he passed. Still pure gold material. His stand-up video recordings were unmatched. With each special he made his troubles funny again. And while his personal dealings were sometimes serious, when he tried to commit suicide by dousing himself in rum and setting himself on fire during a "free basing" accident, he still made jokes about that. He lit a match on stage. What's that he asked. It's Richard Pryor running to the hospital.

When that fire hit your ass, it will sober your ass up *quick*! I saw something, I went, "Well, that's a pretty blue. You know what? That looks like *fire*!" Fire is inspirational. They should use it in the Olympics, because I ran the 100 in 4.3." he said during his Live on Sunset Strip special.

He had great things to say. One that I valued the most was when he talked about his trip to Africa.

When I was in Africa, this voice came to me and said, "Richard, what do you see?" I said, I see all types of people." The voice said, "But do you see any niggers?" I said, "No." It said, "Do you know why? 'Cause there aren't any.

He always spoke the truth. He was truly funny. He was a legend. He was, to put it simply, Richard Pryor. He died of a heart attack on Saturday. He was 65. He will be missed

What the fuck?

I guess a picture is worth a thousand words. Disturbing.

The weather outside is frightful

It's that time again. The time when Die Hard car batteries run out of juice, jump starts become a tests that illustrate how fucking selfish some of us are, and shovels, blowers, and plows are a common sight to see. This would be a good time to invest in rock salt. This would be a good time to ban eggnog.

The next time I need a jump start and the guy in the SUV starts his car right next to mine, gives me a look, and drives away I'm going to piss myself in 10 degree weather. Doesn't he see that I'm wearing the jumper cables around my neck? I look like some wrench monkey version of Mr. T with those cables dangling there ever so freely.

I know the look too - it's the why don't you have one of those self jump starters looks. Which I probably should. Those kick ass.

And it's always some drunk dude that drives a rusted up Cadillac that gives you a jump. This guy takes nips off the Beam while you hook up the cables. Or it's always some grandpa who puts himself in your shoes.

"It's freeeeeeeezin' out here," he'll say.

Just once would I want some beautiful brunette, who actually has one of those self-jumpin' jumpers to give me a jump. Literally.

But it's all good.

The winter months always put a smile on my face. That's because I like chaos for one, and two it kind of brings people together. Especially if you have to take the bus, or be outside for that matter, because it's fucking cold. And there's nothing that screams out "we're in this together" more than a glance at the morning rush hour, with thousands of people shivering, muttering under their breaths about JUST how cold it is.

In winter there are good days and bad days. On the good days, you sing along with Brenda Lee at the top of your lungs when you're in the car. On the bad days you sit at home, depressed and shit, thinking about the uncertainty in the field of journalism. Well not everybody - not everybody decides to make a career out of writing. And god bless those people because then I'd be really fucked. What is it like one job on staff for ten other assholes that all want it just as bad, and can do it just as well?

Reality is harsh when you really think about it. Reality has the tendency to stiffen up even the most laid back SOB.

The idea still fucks with me. I'd rather NOT have to wipe my ass with my college degree. I want it to be worth something other than a reminder of how fucking naive I was. I think about if I went wrong somewhere. Or if this is the path I should be on. Sometimes you get the feeling, hey wait a minute, maybe I'm lying to myself. What if I won't make it?

It was Mark Twain who said "There is no sadder sight than a young pessimist."

Good boy Clemens was onto something.

Then again pessimism is what you need in journalism. That way you'll never really be disappointed. The job prospect is fucked from the beginning so you know what you're getting yourself into.

It's usually winter that fills people with doubt. And it starts from the first get go in the morning.

"Have a holly jolly Christmas," the radio blares when it's still dark and cold outside.

And like in Bad Santa you rip that nasty contraption out of the wall, and send it flying through the room in slow motion.

"FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"

My nightstand radio looks like it has seen better days. It doesn't even have a tape deck anymore.

But one song gets me up. It's Denis Leary's Merry Fucking Christmas. It's a song all children should hear.

Old Saint Nick's got Bourbon breath
It's so cold you could catch your death
A cop sold me some crystal meth
It's a merry fuckin' Christmas

Everything's so Criss-muss-ee
The streets are twinkling with frozen pee
My priest just sat on Santa's knee
It's a merry fuckin' Christmas

All the kids go to bed each night
To dream what Santa brings 'em
Unless they're Jewish or Muslim
Or some other gyp religion

Crappy toys flyin' off the shelves
Midgets dressed up to look like elves
Spread good cheer or burn in Hell
It's a merry fuckin' Christmas

Cracklin' fires to keep me warm
And my collection of Asian porn
Cradle my bells and work my horn
It's a keep-on-truckin'
Last-year-suckin'
Midget-chuckin'
Slap-the-puckin'
How-much-wood-could-a-woodchuck-chuckin'
Merrrry fuuuuckin' Christmaaaaaas


Here's my two cents:

Christmas tree burned down the house,
the dog just killed a fucking mouse,

Folks are comin'
but no one cares!

Cuz nobody likes
uncomfortable stares

Shiny presents
Under the tree
Walmart fucks
Laugh with glee.

It's a merry fucking christmas

Eggnog drinkin'
Mother slappin'
Present suckin'
Daddy laughin'
Cops are clappin'
Wallet losin'
Button snoozin'
Bulls are loosin'
Floozie oozin'
Boozin'Christmas.

Drink up - the holidays are coming.

Diddy

"Show me the way to go home,
I'm tired and I want to go to bed.
Oh, I had a little drink about an hour ago,
and it's gone right to my head.
Wherever I may roam, on land or sea or foam.
You will always hear me singing this song,
Show me the way to go home." ~ Jaws

Floss daily

Duuuh.

Drowning in a world of projects. Now I know why they call it deadline. Duuhhh. I'm dead if I don't do it.

Post Thanksgiving Boogie

Sometimes I wonder what people think when they see me walking out of the liquor store with one of those gigantic Carlo Rossi Sangria bottles. Have you seen those things? Next to the shopping carts that's the biggest item they have in there. Granted you probably need someone to haul you around in a shopping cart the next morning, but that's beside the point.

Plus the staff at Binny's Beverage Depot doesn't do that unless you become a card carrying member. And I don't have time for that shit. I want to be in and out. Because I don't crave confrontations as there are two types of people who shop at liquor stores: those who are more happier than the Cookie monster getting their next fix, and the seethingly angry hungover fucks who can't wait to kill their hangover by drinking more. Those are the guys who clench their teeth at the check out line when granny is trying to buy a $1.99 bottle of Sherry and paying for it with her penny jar.


I'm the third guy. Little on the edge from hauling a 5 gallon jug of wine around, pissed at myself for not opting to get a shopping cart, but also slightly amused by watching alcohol take its toll on the human psyche. Now if this pissed off dude beats the lady, should I pull out with my reporter's notebook and ask him how he feels? I guess so.

Next to the MD 20/20 flavor line, the Carlo Rossi juggathon has got to be the choice for the enlightened wino. To a wino, get a couple of guys together, and it's Carlo Rossi red lips time. That's really enlightening.

Which is fine with me because I just found out that Nick and Jessica have called it quits. Oh fuck no say it ain't so.

I wonder why shit like this makes the evening news. And they tease you about it too.

"Nick and Jessica have confirmed what the magazines have been blabbing about for months."

What is it? She is secretly a card carrying member of Binny's Beverage Depot and she gets the shopping cart rides for free? (Yeah right - what rides)

That's when I turn the volume up really loud, call the whole family, honey-get-the-camera type of deal, just to hear the news.

It's over? No way! Can this be true? Should I give a shit? Wow -look at her hair. WOW - look at those tits.

What is Nick thinking some will say.

As pretentiously fake and hot she might be, and for the slew of guys who want to sleep with her, there's Nick who probably can't STAND LOOKING AT HER FUCKING FACE FOR ANOTHER FUCKING MINUTE.

Weird huh.

I saw that MTV show for like one minute, when I was desperately looking for reruns of Beavis and Butt-Head. Then I'd flip to the Animal Planet to learn something new because I've just lost a couple of hundred brain cells by watching this shit. Apparently the Brown Recluse spider can't bite through clothing. Fun Facts.

The Newlyweds make Beavis and Butt-Head look like an episode of CSI.

But then again - who pays attention to what she actually says. I don't. I pay attention to something else...wink wind nudge nudge.

Anyway - no point in getting worked over Hollywood relationships. That's why Carlo Rossi is here with me, celebrating the joys of super cheap table wine.

And speaking of something that needs to change...



...what the FUCK is going on here?

Ahh - Black Friday.

More reasons to buy the shit that we don't need.

I try to avoid the so called black Friday like the Black Plague. I know you can save a whole lot. I know this from experience. But come on. This Jingle All The Way consumer feeding frenzy has to stop.

It's the animosity and human shallowness that I can't bear.

At least fifty times you feel quite able to kill a human being standing next to you. Just because they got the last set of Hanes T-shirts. 100% Cotton.

Bastards!

But I could use a king size bottle of aspirin from CostCo.

Hmmm. Stuffed with turkey and ready to go.

Wild Turkeys

I’m never too psyched about the Thanksgiving holiday. For one, I know there will be some family dispute that will create that “daddy just hit mommy around the dinner table” atmosphere. It will probably be about something stupid anyway. Like somebody will overcook the potatoes. Or the cranberry will be that shitty cranberry that comes in a can, which ends up hibernating on a plate in the refrigerator until next year. It just stares at you whenever you want to make yourself a sandwich, and makes rude remarks.

“NOBOBODY EATS TOMATOES! THEY’RE BAD FOR YOU!”

Why is it that during Thanksgiving the most peculiar shit happens? Daddy gets drunk. Granny looses her marbles. The dog eats half the turkey. They shut off the cable, so now we have to listen to the same stories that we hear during Christmas.

That’s why this year I’m cooking. Fuck it. I’ll have something to do at least. All those other years, when I was just a spectator, hinting at what herbs we should add (HERBS), are over. Now it’s my turn.

“I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan. We meet again, at last. The circle is now complete. When I met you I was but the learner. Now, I am the master.”

And strange notions of Clark Griswold cutting the turkey open and the steam flows all around penetrate my head.

I’m a decent cook I think. I’ve cooked this fucking bird before no problem.

I’m doing it the right fashion. I’m going to dress up as a fucking pilgrim. Get hell bent on Wild Turkey, and eat the meat right off the bone. Skin the dog if we have too. That no good, beggar. Do it right damn it!

Visions of meat hooks and machetes, all dancing around the campfire, wearing what Chief Illiniwek wears. Get crazy with the cheese whiz.

What a silly holiday. Are we actually celebrating genocide in this fashion?

“Can you pass the gravy?”

“Get it yourself God damn it!”

It’s all about variety anyways. The family is all there, ridiculing your choice of profession, while your mother just smiles and shrugs as if to say “well that’s what he wants to do.”

People are laughing, the bird is cooking, and nobody gets laid.

Which is why every Thanksgiving I need to tell that George Carlin joke, about why nobody gets laid on Thanksgiving: Because all the coats are on the bed.

But at least we get some time off from school and work. Fuck – my pops is going to be IN all week. I guarantee you that by Wednesday he’ll run out of shit to do and just get drunk whenever he can.

And speaking of getting drunk, the Thanksgiving holiday is the drunk’s holiday. You eat, you drink, you eat, you drink, you puke, you drink, you smoke, you puke, you drink, you eat, until finally you just say fuck it and go streaking through the neighborhood jiving about turkeys and white men stealing this land from the so called “aboriginals.”

Someone one told me recently, that the best turkey to eat is one that you hunt down yourself.

Fuck that.

For some odd reason Wild Turkey is the Thanksgiving drink. And not cause it has the word turkey in it, but because it’s the truth serum that brings out all the deep seated troubles to the forefront. Right during the actual dinner, when Billy bob and Lucy ling can’t agree on how much gravy is enough.

…


Nobody remembers what the fuck they were talking about the next morning anyway.

Must eat leftovers. Must watch the parade. Must eat leftovers. Oooooo, alright, Heartbreak Ridge is on.

We’re not in Kansas anymore.




by Cyryl Jakubowski

Politics in Cyberspace.

6:50 AM, Sunday.

My face is flushed with excitement as I frantically type myself into the next orgasm. It’s not even cyber sex that I’m so worked up over. It’s politics on AOL.

The chat-rooms bring out the vile and evil nature of what we are really like in this country. Good thing journalists have to display some level of professionalism. Good thing there is schooling for shit like this. Otherwise we are all fucked.

AOL is the true face of America. Stroll into those political chat rooms and you will experience insanity at its finest. I can’t believe that I was in those fucking rooms for so long. I guess politics divides us more than we would like to admit. And it is a fun time listening and bickering with these people.

Someone called me a communist.

Someone said Liberals are Nazis.

Someone said Republicans need to take that dick out of Uncle Sam’s ass and share it with the people. Were they talking about money?

Republican, Democrat, meat Popsicle, liberal, conservative, it doesn’t matter in these rooms. People will argue their points to their deaths. Nobody listens. People just spew out pro-Bush tirades, or anti-Bush tales, all without a point. Bush sucks. Bush rules. It’s a giant Beavis and Butt-Head show.

American the Game Show, coming to a theater near you.

And then somebody yells from downstairs: “Hey – leave some of the beer for us!”

Of course you can’t listen to political mumbo jumbo while sober. Shit – that is not an option. You might turn into one of these fucks if you do. It’s that engaging. In fact, I should be drinking coffee and eating eggs.

And fuck poultry. I am not going near a McChicken even if my life depended on it.

I recommend you try and listen yourself to the barrage of hackneyed arguments people make. It’s a funny thing. The “From the Right” chat room is hostile. I mean there is blood left on the axe in there from chopping off all the heads of chickens. It’s the Gung Ho, our boys are there, fuck the Muslims, type of people that penetrate those rooms. And it is a weird relationship these people have. The right wingers will go to the left room and vice versa. Just to pick a fight. Which makes sense – what’s the use of pushing your agenda onto someone who agrees already.

But I did notice one thing. In the left rooms there is more of a picnic, baseball game type of atmosphere going on. People talk about movies, and favorite authors, Robocop, and Jack Nicholson. In the right wing rooms people are hell bent on saying that the “Leftists are bringing this country down.” Someone even said that all the sexually deviant behavior in American is the Left’s fault.

I wasn’t trying to engage. PEOPLE ARE FUCKED when it comes to politics in there. Like HST said, if you let it, it will become an addiction. It’s interesting to be so indifferent and captivated at the same time, while reading all this nonsense that these people say.

And I'm doing it straight method - to level out the playing field.

I’m chugging down Molson Canadian and that doesn’t work since the arguments people are having get dumber and dumber. Then we move onto Rebel – some Czech beer that tastes like it was brewed in a bathtub, stirred with a dirty Wall-Mart floor mop, and siphoned into bottles by using a garden house from Bubba’s house.

“Dang it yeller, stop diggin’ granny up from harr grave!”

That didn’t help the arguments either.

In fact I didn’t even bother forming intelligent arguments at that point. I’m drinking sewer beer – how eloquent can I possibly get.

So I just started rambling about nonsense too.

I shared some of my spaghetti recipes. I informed people that the terrorists probably want their box cutters back. I made an observation about how nobody listens. I made it a point to really talk about nothing.

And nobody cared. In fact you had other people coming up with their own stupid shit too.

Apparently Butterball turkey is over rated. In fact, all the frozen turkeys, apparently, suck dick. You have to taste the buckshot in your meat to be able to talk about quality.

It was like South Park, only in South Park it gets insanely hilarious. Here it was just sad. If this is the state of American politics, where rabid mutants argue about policy and bring up old shit from the past, then we are in for a wild ride.

Personally, maybe presidents need to jerk off more, or get more blow jobs in the Oval office. It would certainly let off some of that pressure that I’m sure is thick in the White House halls. People probably scream about what kind of coffee they want.

“BLACK fucking COFFEE! NOW!”

Maybe Carlin is right. Fuck everything. Let’s see how bad things get. I hear junkies and drunks use that same philosophy. They let their life fall into million tiny needles, razor blades, and broken whiskey bottles, and then they try to crawl out of the proverbial sewer. What a nice way to get positive.

The only way to go is up.

Politics – the place where every American should have a say, even though it doesn’t bring any results anyway.

Face the Future

Live like you mean it...

Still Good

Good God. I haven't seen this shit in ages. Time to go down into the bunker and pull out the old Royal. Why the bunker? Shit - the pandemic is coming. We're all fucked.

It will be the only place to write. Anything worth doing is worth doing right.

DOOM DAYS

At a time when girls didn't count (yikes that long ago?), when the only use for a condom was to fill it with water and giggle and throw it out of a moving car, there was DOOM.

I can't believe that video games have advanced so much. DOOM used to be the shit. It used to be an obsession. But for anyone who has ever spent a part of their youth dwelling in musty basements, staying up late past midnight, sweating and cursing in front of the 486 chip computer, DOOM was the game.

Sure now the game looks silly. But like wine it gets better with age and there's something magic about it. It must be the sheer simplicity of running around like a dickhead, picking off imps, and demons, and those pixelated goons, which still brings a smile to my face.

Which is weird that I searched on the net to find the original shareware version of DOOM. I guess I wanted to revive the good old days. What spawned this craze? Maybe I have too much time on my hands.

No.

I'm a sucker when it comes to hype. I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing right. What the fuck? Nobody needs to go out and play the original DOOM in order to see the new Doom movie.

But I did and in some weird nerdy way it made that horrible movie better.

Doom with the Rock is not a good movie. In fact, you ask yourself during the showing, why on earth did I chose to see THIS SHIT.

But some of it works.

There's a whole slew of bad video game movie adaptations out there. Resident Evil comes to mind. Street Fighter does too. Fuck Jean Claude VanDamme.

For some reason that 3rd Person POV scene in the new movie makes it worthwhile. You wait for it and when it happens you can't help but to turn into that nerdy kid that played the game. For those that don't know there is a scene that gives a nod to the old game by showing everything in the 3rd person perspective.

That's when you prove to yourself that you were a computer nerd when you notice that some of the sounds used in the movie are straight from the game.

OH MAN! THAT IS THE SAME GUN SHOT SOUND THAT THEY USED IN THE GAME!

Please.

There really is no point to review DOOM. The movie wants to be on par with Predator and Aliens - but it fails. Which is a weird standard - the Predator was a great movie but it had a shitty video game. Doom was a good video game but it has a mediocre movie.

But why did we play DOOM in the first place? To kill time. To escape the harsh realities of office life. Which is the only reason to actually go out and see DOOM - to kill time before, say, the SOX game.

The Rock wants to make a good movie so bad that he can taste it. But he's an action star and should stick to that shit. Only that shit.

And playing DOOM after all these years?

Now I know why it was so addictive.

Even now the game doesn't look THAT bad. Sure - compared to anything out there now it eats some donkey dick. The pixels, the bad animations, no jump feature, same gameplay - sure it has room to suck.

The fact that it was a pioneer game is what makes it good.

I'm an asshole when it comes to this.

Can you believe that I played Doom, Duke Nukem 3D, and Quake all in one weekend. All good games for their time.

And I like escape. FUCK - that's why I drink.

All I have to do now is get my hands on a copy of the full DOOM. Fuck it! I'm a sucker for nostalgia.

Bring on some DOOM, and fuck the Barron of Hell.

White Sox win the Pennant...White Sox fans get drunk on Sunday.

It used to be that baseball stars would drop dead from massive heart attacks because they either smoked thirty fucking Cuban cigars a day, ate meat for breakfast lunch and dinner, fucked ten whores a night, drank like fish, got cancer, enlarged their livers, and got diseases they name after you. Real men.

But now they don't. They play baseball. There's no gimmicks. Now they just spray each other with Cristal. They make good plays. And unless you're A.J. Pierzynski, you try to get involved with many call controversies. Calls that worked in Sox favor.

So Sox win the Pennant. The White Sox are doing some partying tonight. And it's a good reason.

Something very nostalgic clicks inside of guys when their home town team wins something they haven't in a while. Baseball in October in Chicago you say? No fucking way.

Now usually I have better things to do than sit at home or at the bar and watch a baseball game. I surf the net for free porn. Asia Carrera. Lilly Thai. Or brunette takes it up...nevermind. Somethings are better left unsaid. That shit is private.

But this is ridiculous.

I've been watching baseball for four days straight. My beard stubble is growing thick, my room has extra holes in the wall, and it feels like I was out drinking with Babe Ruth. Cigarettes butts are everywhere and I'm wondering why I don't have a baseball glove on, a cap on, and well of course, just to be an idiot, white socks.

It's even worse when you watch the game on TV. So you're watching, wearing out holes in the carpeting from too much stomping around in front of the TV and screaming "He's doing it on purpose!"

A couple of "fucking cocksuckers" and "tumbling tumbling dickweeds" later and there's a beer in front of you already. And this was supposed to be a nice night of baseball.

Then the commercials start. It happens during every ballgame on TV. At some point you start paying attention to the beer commercials. And it's a masterful thing to weasel me from the friendly confines of my room to the convenience store and be back at the start of the next inning. Fucking advertising.

Apparently it's okay to advertise and get you to buy a product such as beer in this country, but if you drink too much of it you're an asshole and nobody wants to look at you. All they do is shake their heads.

Listen - I started the night trying to get drunk and watch the ballgame. Mission accomplished. It's you fuckers who drink not to get drunk who are fucked up.

Sorry - baseball brings on hostility.

So I took a break and decided to watch the game from a bar stool in the neighborhood. There's something very lively about the atmosphere.

"Catch that shit."

"Fucker WAS OUT!"

"OH YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

"Fuck California!"

"Turn on the hockey game? Are you fucking retarded man?"

"Watch the game dickweed!"

"Move your elbow fuckface!"

"One more beer!"

"A shot more if they score!"

"Who is winning? What are you stupid?"

Chicago White Sox fans' hard ons were bigger than their egos. And that is a rare thing to see.

WE'RE IN THE WORLD SERIES!

Try watching a sports game and not drinking. Fucking saints. It's impossible. At least where I watch the games.

And it was a Sunday late night victory so you know a couple of assholes will call in sick on Monday claiming that they have the bird flu. Bullshit you drunken fucks. All ya drunken baseball fans hit it up full throttle when they won.

And it's okay.

I'm actually curious to see what will happen to a guy who against all odds will decide to be the needle in the haystack and wear a Cubs uniform to work after the Sox won the Pennant. Some yolk will and I know it. And those hungover White Sox fans will kick some mad ass.

Which is probably what happened after Sunday night's game.

"DUDE! Let's find a Cubs fan and beat the living shit out of him. To celebrate, ya know, and we'll dress him up in a Konerko jersey."

Good thing the next game is a few days away.

Time to join up with the human race.

Monday

I loathe Mondays. Why? It all stems from the fact that it is a post weekend holiday where anything that can go wrong will. Murphy's Law to be sure. Who the fuck is Murphy?

Geez - every Monday starts the same way. I know that you can relate in some way or form.

Think of a Monday. Yeah - it's coming up soon. Work is back again. Problems with your car are back. You need to get cigarettes AGAIN. Kids want lunch money. The dog wants to go out. The news anchors are already chipper in the morning.

And it's after the weekend - remember? Yeah me neither. Which sucks because I go to parties to have a good time. I get to the party fine. But how I get home is completely alien to me. Maybe it's time to end it with the blackouts. For health reasons that is.

Steve-O's appearance on Too Late With Adam Carolla is too funny. It also poses some interesting musings. How many times was I in that state?

Back to fucking Mondays.

The clock rings and you hit the snooze button with Hulk like strength. Then you do that every ten minutes for the next hour, because you know it's all downhill after you get out of bed.

Coffee. Coffee. Piss.

Aspirin. Aspirin. Shit.

Then the regret creeps up as you sit in your fucking car, stuck in traffic, thinking about why there is a need to consume massive amounts of alcohol, as Phil Collins' "One More Night" is playing on the radio.

One more night and I might lose a leg. Or a tooth. Or lose something. Like a wallet or keys, or a dildo, or common sense.

I might lose my mind.

But maybe it's too late.

Hecho en Mexico

When you spend most of the time in downtown Chicago, among the so-called civilized people, either by covering a story on deadline, going to school, or just meeting different people, you start to grow a human heart. Not that I might have not had such an organ before, but maybe along the cold, dark, and treacherous adventures, I lost it, or left it in some vomit stained pants. Well the city has a tendency to bring it out. It all floats the idea that maybe I didn't lose it in the first place. I just threw it up in the toilet bowl.

But maybe having a heart, and being compassionate, and asking how your day is and generally having manners is not a good thing. Maybe cynical is the only thing to be when in journalism.

Being an asshole will get you nowhere to be sure.

In fact only one asshole I know that made a career out of being an asshole is Denis Leary. He at least had heart into becoming an asshole.

Side note: Of course I have a heart. Of course I can be compassionate. (that's called covering your own ass)

But I miss the punk days. The sheer mischief days of not giving a fuck and not caring about doing jackass things, stealing and boozing. The fun days. Not that those days are over. These days the fun days have a certain amount of restraint anchored on their backs. And maybe that is what they call growing mature.

Here's to the rebels who still duke it out in the streets. To the peddlers who made it their full time job. To the kids who never learned their lesson until they were behind steel bars. To the chimps, and chumps, the rubes, the dopes, the cokeheads, the drunks, the wizards, the blizzard forming trouble makers - the punks. To the people I knew.

Punks have this tendency to recognize other punks. Granted that some punks have a short life span, and they die early, or get in trouble, but a few make it out of the game. Trust me, once you've been a punk, and you still draw the anarchy sign when the chance arises, then you can sense that same mischief feeling in others. They too may have subdued their crazed ways. They too have that spark behind their eyes; a story to tell, a glimpse to show.

Have we really been there and done that? It seems that most of us have. There is nothing original about drug stories anymore since most people have done drugs. It used be a novelty; now it's just a rite of passage into the writing world. It's still fun to listen to that shit though. Even 60-year-old hippies tell funny stories. Or the artist world, if you've done a shit load of acid, and can capture the surreal well. More power to you.

Been there and done that in journalism means something entirely different. Have you covered the Iraq war? Did you stand against ruthless winds during Rita? Did you go to Columbia and do coke? That's the next rung on the latter. Go out and cover the story and "really" be there and do that.

Shit - some of us are still the beastie boys. "Drinking and smoking on a Tuesday night."

The type of people that drink Cuervo with limes, and break guitars, and blow their amplifiers, only to wake up to the same tequila boogie as before. The folks who pre-game before the baseball game and can't find their way home, and sleep on the train.

Welcome to the neon wilderness. Nelson Algren was onto something.

Life is running at an ambulance pace now. Neon jungles follow me around in my sleep. Trains and whiskey shots, bums and paychecks, smoke and mirrors, freak shows, and steel doors - the stuff havoc is made from.

We all know how the post tequila boogie looks like. It's a lunge towards the sink. It's a crawl towards the medicine cabinet. It's caressing your temples in a circular motion. It's breathing heavily, praying for Zen. It's a cold shower.

Whatever it is, it is not the punk that threw caution into the wind long ago.

Subdued punk.

It's the "I'll only drink 10 shots...okay 16 and go to sleep and wake up in the morning and got to school or work," type of subdued punk.

Slowly but surly, our careers are driving the mischief out of our souls. They want to hire responsible adults. Business. Money. Touché

Maybe having a TV in your bedroom that's constantly spewing out news is not such a good idea. I mean having commitment to a profession is one thing, but peace of mind; that's something completely different.

Staring at a half empty bottle of Cuervo speaks volumes about peace of mind.

And watching sports for leisure? Fuck that; there is no such thing. I'm not one that watches baseball games with the type of enthusiasm that sends me jutting out of my seat, the beer spilling to the floor, a hard-on, and screaming my ass off. I only do that when I see a porno actresses I haven't seen in a while appear out of nowhere in some obscure pay-per fuck movies.

Now hockey, basketball, and football are a completely different story.

But my fellow punks, it seems the jukebox plays my song, and The Champs play that tequila song. I think of The Sandlot for some odd reason. See you in the post tequila boogie. Aspirin, I need aspiring aspirin.

Where are the fucking counting sheep?

I was tossing and turning on my mattress for about an hour, until, finally, after many unsuccessful attempts trying to reach dreamland and get some well deserved rest I gave up. This is the mark of insanity. Insomnia never struck me this hard. Nothing helped; warm milk, glass of beer, relaxing green tea. All those remedies proved completely useless. I flipped the light switch, and frantically tried to find the bottle of Valerian root. It was nowhere to be found. On the bookcase, the dresser, under my bed, in the closets, the bathroom, the garage, the medicine cabinet, and even the dog’s cage, that pesky green bottle was gone.

What next I thought? What can I possibly do to make this lucid nightmare go away into the night, or whatever is left of it, since the sun would be getting up soon. In fact, the senior citizens of American are already up, in the middle of a second cup of coffee, getting dressed, and going to the store for the newspaper. Bastards, those bastards, how can they sleep, and I can’t?

My mind is running like a Hemi engine, thoughts thundering deep within, and my eyelids show sings of exhaustion. I try going to sleep again and I turn off the lights. The whooshing that comes from the air conditioning unit seems louder than it really is in this condition. When I turn it off it gets hot and quiet; when I turn the dial to ON, it gets cool sure, but the predicament is still the same – I can’t sleep.

Something must be on my mind, although I can’t put my finger on it. Even if I could, the thought of thinking about it now would be useless. Sleep. Try again. That Green Day song is laughing in my face; not to mention the clock. With each passing minute I realize that by the time I will fall asleep, if ever, I will sleep way past afternoon. The newspaper will cost $0.50.

Even the counting sheep, when you are trying to fall asleep, are sitting around a table, drinking and smoking.

Now wonder I can’t sleep. I have all this shit that I am thinking about. I consider this night a lost opportunity. I could curse, and fill the silence of the night with the most morbid, blasphemous, and despicable expletives that man has heard. But that would be useless.

Deadlines. That’s what is on my mind. The pressure is mounting and the roller coaster is climbing slowly, but surly, until finally it will snap, let go, and come rushing down with insane speed. This school year is going to test the mettle. Did I sign up for this kind of pressure out of free will? Could it be true?

The ink from the daily papers is seeping into my bloodstream. I wake, or in this case, barely sleep, and already crave coffee, and sugar, and smoke, and news. The news junkie. We used to be real junkies, and addicts, and alcoholics, but sooner or later, we force it out of our systems, like a bad disease; a bad habit.

Sure – we’re never really cured. The button will snap. People actually go insane by watching too much news. Plus it’s not healthy. It’s not healthy but it’s necessary for the job. The irony. On a long enough time line, everything will be bad for you.

And so sleep comes. But not for long. Pretty soon it will be back into the rush of oncoming cars, rattling trains, smokers, and wishes for better days. Days like this make me think about why I bother with sobriety in the first place. At least you can sleep.

Football Season Is Over

That's what it said, written in black marker, on the top of Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note. The rest of it said:

"No More Games. No More bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt."

Thompson drew a "happy heart," the kind found on Valentine's Day cards, at the bottom.

Where ever he went, and I've got an idea where, he is probably sitting, smoking, gambling, and writing, and laughing his ass off about the fact that it took seven months to find the note. An enigma of a man indeed.

In an ultimate joke, only serious sportswriters would take their life when "football season is over." Apparently when the games aren't on, dealing with agents, and coaches, and assistant managers can drop you into a vein popping anger.

Hunter just didn't like February.

To this day I still find myself a bit weary when I remember February 20th, 2005.

Then I remember that his death ended with a party, his remains shot into the stratosphere, with fireworks illuminating a giant Gonzo logo. Total mayhem, total chaos, and many drunks. That's when I chuckle with amusement. Crazy bastard.

FIRST DAY PRAISES…I FORGOT MY CRAYOLAS…STEVE BUSCEMI…THE RULE FOR TIPS…FUCK TACO BELL.

A hoy hoy me mates. The first one is in the books, and I’m talking about returning to the institution of higher learning after a long hiatus. The hiatus I speak of involved long nights followed by early mornings. What it also included was a total loss of priorities, dances with the devil who lives in a shot glass, loud music, deviant sails on Lake Michigan, and many attempts to regroup the mind.

Was I successful?

That’s not really the question of most importance my well scrubbed friends. It feels good to be back. Really good; we are talking euphoria here, not anything artificial you know; the type of euphoria that one has to pay for. This was different.

Rarely do I refer to the sun, except in extreme circumstances as in “FUCK it’s HOT.” The sun did its part this time. It did not give anyone cancer, but rather, it shone. And not just on me, but on all the pretty faces and choices of apparel that my fellow female colleagues decided to wear, and consequently grace the campus in great numbers.

The ladies were taking the twins out for a walk as Robin Williams said. But in all honesty, it wasn’t the tits that I missed. Any low brow, scum sucking, shit eating weasel who frequents the nudie bars can tell you that the enthusiasm one has for tits diminishes over a longer period of time. Which isn’t to say that those “things” that mollify men aren’t beautiful, in fact, those great creations can lead men towards a new nirvana. What? Whatever. I’m a happy camper.

The thing I missed the most was the people. The barrage of eccentric, crazy, thoughtful, intelligent, existential, quirky, beautiful, bombshell, tough, drunk, alcoholic, and girls with brains that grace the campus makes college, well, college. The shit that we pay for, amongst other things, is the people we meet.

But by far, the grand daddy is the conversation. Being with peers, who are intelligent, reasonable, and able to teach you a thing or two, is the main lode. The pinnacle.

I mean, working construction is one thing. Going to school and trying to use a different muscle, the brain, is something else.

I forgot my Crayola Crayons though. It seemed immature. My original plan was to bring a crayon and take notes with it on the first day. To see if anyone would notice. But the plan was doomed from the start when I realized that I haven’t owned a box of crayons for years. Only those colored pencils, which are not as good as the crayons, and frankly, for the record, fuck the colored pencils.

As far as I’m concerned, pencils come in only one number – number 2 motherfucker! HB # 2 whatever that means. Try filling out a scantron with orange mango. They will send for a restraint real fast. Or a straight jacket if you get to be the lucky boy or girl.

As a side note, anyone who doesn’t tip something like 18%, providing the service is good, is considered cheap by the people who serve you food. Yes – I KNOW. I come from the Reservoir Dogs, Steve Buscemi School of philosophy too.

“I don't tip because society says I have to. Alright, I mean I'll tip if somebody really deserves it, but I mean this tipping automatically, it's bullshit. I order coffee I want it filled six times. Jesus Christ, these ladies aren't starving to death - they make minimum wage.”

From a trusted and intelligent source I must tell you though, tip the lady or the man that is taking care of you. And if you can’t tip, the rule of etiquette suggests that you stay the fuck out of places that require tipping. Apparently it’s an unspoken rule.

I speak from experience, so tip. Whether a man or a woman, just tip the bitch, ya know he wants it. I would want a tip too. Even I could care less about what you are getting for dinner. Beer? Fine. Salad? Cool. Escargot? Good. Whatever.

Big Macs?

I don’t tip at McDonalds. Even when they suck my dick in the back of the Playplace. Apparently McDonalds takes care of the tips by making really mediocre food priced at steeper prices. Big Macs are like $4 something now. Fuck em.

Plus – I would never tip a bastard at a fast food place. Not because they don’t deserve it, but because they fuck up even the simplest of orders sometimes.

I don’t know what the hell I was doing by driving to this Taco Bell one late hour. I must have been hungry. It was a mistake from the start. I should have gone to McDonalds – they at least know how to package the food.

Taco Bell it is. I must have still been high on the Demolition Man Sylvester Stallone idea that in the future “all restaurants will be Taco Bell.”

And I love a good burrito.

And I am also not new to disappointment.

Nobody fucks up orders in this sloppy fashion. Just follow the rules.

And the general feeling I get from these “fast food workers” is that somehow, by some weird alignment of the stars, minus the GED, they think that I am the dumber one and will not come back and ask for the full order.

Granted, I should check what I get right away, but I was hungry, and Howard The Duck was on.

Needless to say I break in mid traffic, the child seat gets up front, which is weird since I don’t even own a child seat, and reverse and go back to Taco Bell.

I stretch the meaning of ½ pound beef burrito since I got two of them. Also I was ordering for a boat of starving children so I got some extra tacos and some chicken flavored bullshit for my sister. All nonexistent in my plastic bag, the first sign of a bad place to eat.

Those half pound miserable looking burritos weren’t even wrapped properly. How fucked do you have to be not to be able to wrap a cylindrical shaped object in paper that says burrito on it? Fuck – in communist Russia they were wrapping fish and cold cuts in newspapers – but at least they were able to do it properly. Everything is falling out of the wrapper, sloppy and shit – ya know WHAT! The night is ruined now.

Howard the Duck will never be the same. Lea Thompson somehow lost some of her sexiness. She even had that punk rock hair style.

FUCK THE LOCAL TACO BELL. That’s my new bumper sticker. Those people don’t know what they are doing. The fact that I even chose Taco Bell reflects badly on me and my taste buds.

Good thing you don’t have to tip those people.

PS. So I don’t leave you without a useful tidbit. When someone says they are drunk as a lord, they are in fact, shit faced. This expression comes from the reign of George III of England, the same George during the American Revolution. Apparently in those days drunkenness was the mark of a gentleman. “Two and three bottle men” were commonplace among leaders in society, and many state dinners ended with guests collapsed in a drunken stupor.

Drunken rednecks are not considered gentlemen anymore though, they are considered a nuisance and it just goes to show that times change indeed.

Back to School...

...and they said it wasn't fun anymore.

Hard to get help in this country.

Crisis worsens

"They don't have a clue what's going on down there," New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin told WWL-AM Thursday night. "Excuse my French everybody in America, but I am pissed."

"I need reinforcements, I need troops, man. I need 500 buses," Nagin said in a television interview Friday morning. "Get every dog-gone Greyhound bus line in the country and get that [expletive] moving to New Orleans ... This is a major, major, major deal. I can't emphasize that enough."

Pretty much everyone in the country watches with horror and that undeniable look of disbelief about what is happening in New Orleans. That’s if you want to be nice about it. I would like to think that Americans are fucking pissed off about the lack of help. THIS IS AMERICA FOR FUCKS SAKE. Remember? Home of the free, the greatest nation, as we like to think, in the world, does that ring any bells?

It’s appalling to me that it is taking this long. Even in a number 2 nation it wouldn't take this long.

In a matter of days a 21st century city has been turned into a third world country cousin.

Stay tuned for this brief commercial message.

Now that we’re back and Jose Cuervo is being advertised on TV, and remember drink responsibly, followed by a lady opening the door and a heinous hurricane is ravaging the streets – Western Union is here to help. I kind of doubt it that the people stuck at the Superdome need Western Union; they are in basic survival mode. Or as I call it; the GET US THE FUCK OUT OF HERE mood.

Anger is sweeping the national sentiment. And it’s about time I think, since only through anger anything ever gets done. We have to remember that history is made through pissed off people. The people of New Orleans will never look at President Bush and think of him as a leader. Come on – five days to help. Or is it six? Fuck lost track, and ya know why – because it’s taking so damn long that’s why.

Too long.

Geez – people have built houses from ground up in less than that. Granted – it would have to be a pretty organized construction crew – but fuck it can be done.

As you can see I am not a happy camper about all of this. Here we are trying to bring democracy back into some far away third world country, while we can’t even help the people who supposedly live in a democracy. We can’t help ourselves, what are we doing helping others?

The answer must be an enigma buried underneath political language that few understand.

Although now Americans are really in trouble and we can just sit and watch. I’m not telling anybody how to run a country, but a few well placed obscenities aimed at the right people in the Oval Office would probably get things done.

Shit. EVEN a “HELP THOSE PEOPLE OR YOUR FUCKING FIRED!” might do the trick.

“We’re doing the best we can.” Well our best ought to get a whole lot better fast!

Of course the other news story, gas prices, has fallen into the number two spot that pisses people off. But I think, with what is happening now, gas is the least of our problems.

Which kind of leads me to look in retrospect at what Bush had to deal with during his presidency: 9/11, the dubious war, ousting Saddam Hussein, gas going up and now this.

Nobody said it would be easy Mr. President.

I guess now is the time to show the American people if the President is really the strong leader and really holds the interest of the American people.

Word of note – pissed off people do unreasonable things. How else does one explain the looting? It’s either – MAN – fuck everything I’m going to steal everything insight, or the idea that a bargain on clothes has presented itself. Then again, I digress, if that would happen to me, I would steal anything to survive. I mean anything. Pez dispensers, Nikes, bottles of water.

Dude, Walmart has those inflatable rafts. Fuck I bet you that went like hot cakes. That and paddles.

But shooting at rescue choppers? That one baffles me. Why? They're only trying to help.

I just hope the National Guard doesn’t start shooting into the crowds.

People need hope. Or in this case, hope, soap, clean water, food and get them the hell out of there for fucks sake. Come ON! Help!

But the mayor of New Orleans still said it the best.

Self Explanatory

This one is from Black Dog

Here's to beauty

...and whatever comes next.

Red Stripe. Hooray Beer.

This one is all about celebration. Yeah – the world is not going in the right direction. The war is making us look bad. The gas makes us look bad and we're pissed. Natalee Holloway is nowhere to be found. I don't have the winning lottery numbers. Where is my loan?

But, since there is only one week left before school forces us to shift our priorities and look for meaning some place else, there is one more thing to do. And of course, we come back to alcohol, since that is the staple of “having fun” in this day and age. Everybody is doing it; from friends who throw television sets down the alley from a rooftop, to people who have a hard time getting through the day without visiting the local watering hole before facing their wives; this one is all about careless fun.

And fun it is.

Now – I am not one who gets sucked into advertising hype often. True – there was that one time when I thought the Daredevil movie would be the greatest superhero movie ever and Affleck would kick ass, and I bought the Frank Miller Daredevils. This is different. I get passionate about things that I think are my worth while.

Case in point – so I’m watching Comedy Central like I always do. And this weird commercial comes on. It’s beer. Hooray beer. Red Stripe and reggae, helping white people dance. Naturally – like an idiot, I went out and bought two six-packs of Red Stripe.

Twist and shout. Come on babe.

It comes in a short and stubby bottle.

The beer isn’t that bad. In fact it’s actually good. Red Stripe. Jamaica.

Whatever.

I kill almost ten of those fuckers and now it’s time to write.

My mind is watered by the Jamaican brew, and I realize that the dog wasn’t out for his late night walk. Fuck the dog. I crack one more open. The Beatles are on for some odd reason. Apparently there is a new member of the family. A frog.

We got a frog. Got the whole set up too, but for what reason eludes me. I hope it’s one of those frogs that you can lick and trip. I haven’t tried yet. I might not. That’s disgusting.

Partying before school starts is a weird experience. You probably shouldn’t be doing it. You probably should be reading books and catching up on clarity and objectivity. You probably should re-read Moby Dick and some of Marcel Proust’s works. You probably should read Graham Greene.

But there are more important things to do.

Ok fella sing with me.

We were sailing along
(twist and shout!)
On Moonlight Bay,
(ooh)
We could hear the voices singing,
(I like it!)
They seemed to say,
"You have broken my heart,
(oh, twist and shout!)
So don't go away
(are the Beatles gone?)
(No, they're here)
With your short, fat, hairy legs
On Moonlight Bay,
On Moonlight Bay."

Ooh!
Yeah!

The drunken anthem, which is followed by “Can’t buy me love.”

I guess you can’t buy love.

Unless you take the lady out to dinner, and pay for the limo, the condoms, the roses, the food, the hotel room, the ball of coke, the beer, and breakfast eggs and bacon. Fuck – I treat hookers like royalty. I heard Manheim road is where it’s at. I’m a sucker for love.

Anyway.

It’s been a hard day’s night.

Nozzle Guzzler - sounds like a porno flick.

It used to be that bigger was better in this country. Bigger cars, bigger TV's, bigger tits, bigger budget movies, bigger moneyshots for those that like that shit, and bigger sized wallets.

Now the wallets are not that big anymore. Probably because I get muscle twitches when I pull out a couple of twenties to pay for gas. Now I don't want a bigger car, or a bigger TV. I wait for the matinee show. Now big tits...That's something completely different.

I really don't feel at all comfortable with this fucking economy going into the shitter. I don't find that exactly cheerful so I am not chipper in the morning anymore. Bush can't do anything to lower the prices of gas? Anything? Bullshit.

Every time I pull into the gas station I think I hear a voice come off from the speaker that screams "Sucker!" as I lift the nozzle. Followed by maniac jester's laughter. Seriously - if I'm going to get fucked this way - they might as well buy me a beer or as that saying goes "kiss me before you fuck me."

People already are stealing gas. Good - fuck em. Steal more gas. This is INSANE to be paying this much for gas. Just don't steal from other people's tanks. Steal from the pump.

For the record - Citgo, Texaco, Mobil, Shell - they can shove those nozzles right up their asses. And I know it's not their fault. But nobody likes the messenger. I mean I look at these prices and a feeling of disgust overcomes me. I mean a sickening type of feeling that I haven't felt since after a certain keg party.

And then I look away at some hot blonde walking down the street and it all goes away. Shit - almost crashed into a parked car.

Then I see the prices again. Back to disgust.

And then rage. Like screaming at the abyss rage. LIKE FUCKKKKKKK! MOTHERFUCKER! COCKSUCKING SHIT!

Then another blonde passes...there's a recurring motif here as you can see.

Ya know it's really a dumb move to have gas this expensive. America loves cars and driving. That's why there's a traffic report for fucks sake. So we can avoid all the other assholes on the road and get where we want faster. Unless you are stuck in the traffic, so the guy in front of you is the asshole and it's all his fault. It's all hypothetical here.

You want to see some fucking psychotic angry Americans then take their cars away by raising the prices even higher. There will be slaughter on the fucking streets. War for gas in a deserted wasteland...wait wasn't there a movie like that? Oh yeah...MAD MAX...ya know why he was mad - not because they killed his wife and child...because there was no fucking GAS!!!

But that's all we can do is throw a tantrum. What else can we do? Walk? I know seems like a lot right. It's healthy too. I mean the 7-11 is right across the street anyway. Fuck that - gotta drive.

It's all about time. If I get to the 7-11 and jump the curb like the Dukes of Hazzard General Lee, I can be in and out and back home watching the baseball game and having a brew.

Take our gas away and let's see what happens.

Ooh big tits are on TV.

By Cyryl Jakubowski

iBooks, CHAOS, barking men, and porterhouse steak.

I marvel sometimes at the various feats of unreasonable behavior humans engage in. Case in point - In Richmond, Virginia people got trampled, beaten with folding chairs, and some even urinated on themselves. But why? Were they selling the Paris Hilton tape? Did somebody get a hold of some moonshine? Was there any celebrities there?

Nope.

All the chaos erupted because 1000 used 4-year-old Apple ibooks went for sale dirt cheap. I know $50 bucks is a bargain - but come on. SOMEONE in a car tried to drive his way through the fucking crowd for fucks sake. A mob scene erupted with people pushing and shoving. Total chaos. Havoc even.

Technology does weird things to us. And it's not even cutting edge technology - the iBooks were four years old. That's like auctioning off a 93 Ford Tempo in 2005 and trying to make some money.

People are fucking nuts. In Louisiana, a barking man ran out of his house and bit the mailman. That's not even the kicker - he said it was a joke. So he bit him on the shoulder.

Every few months or so I go out on a limb to reiterate the following statement. "Something is happening to this country." I won't even say it anymore. We know things are fucked up. In fact, every generation has been saying "things are fucked up." For the record - things were fucked up, will be fucked up, and our children will use the same foul language about their condition in the future. Things are fucked up.

So much for being optimistic.

At least Jon Stewart keeps telling us that things are fucked up. Last night he said something about that no matter how fucked up and bad things get with the war, the government will always say they planned it that way.

So what do we do? Should we wallow in our present condition, with nowhere to go and nowhere to turn to for answers? I guess the liquor industry will never run out of business. Philip Morris is actually begging people to stop smoking. Once in a while even they tell you that it's bad for you by putting anti-smoking pamphlets on the back of the cigarette packs.

"Hey listen, Bob is it, you should probably quit."

"Why?"

"Just do it. Trust me."

I don't have the answers. I guess it's time to turn the TV off. I can sense the brainwashing at work. These are just television programs that have us running our lives around them.

Like that show Rescue Me on FX. When Tuesday rolls around, no matter what I'm doing, who I'm with, like an idiot I have to be home by nine to catch the show. The house could be burning and I could care less. Cindy Crawford could be standing there with a bottle of A.1. Steak Sauce, a porterhouse cooked to perfection, ready to serve me dinner then fuck my brains out, and I would still consider going back hom....Ok well let's be real here. That's probably the main reason why they invented reruns. Honey - could you pass the salt.

It's time to read some books. (yeah - with Cindy in the room - gimme a break)

Of course for any writer reading is like breathing air. I'm one of those assholes that has a few started at the same time. It's hard to finish. Sometimes even the plot lines get mixed up.

So wait Tom Sawyer is NOT the one who had the Excalibur and rubbed the magic lamp and got caught getting a blowjob in the Oval office while molesting a child at the Neverland ranch, all while trying to whitewash a fence, and made the seas part, and compared thee to a summer's day, and and......Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Fucking head explodes!

That's it.

Over.

Hmmmm - porterhouse.

Whatever came to my mind in the morning.

The blinds are closed shut and my eyes begin to open to the sound of someone yelling. It is past noon and I already know that I am reinventing the meaning of “sleeping late.” Technically no one is yelling – that’s just the way people talk in this house. The real suspicion should arise when people are whispering and talking with a sense of tranquility in their voice. Then you know something is up. Either A someone is plotting against you, or B the dog ate the rat poison, or C this isn’t really happening. And then I wake up – for real this time, and it IS past noon and I AM sleeping late. Except no one is screaming this time, in fact, no body is home, except me and the reflection in the mirror. The reflection lets out a quiet “pssst” and for a while I think I am hearing things, but then I notice my reflection waving me closer.

So there I am, having a conversation with myself.

“This has to stop.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You look like shit.”

“That’s odd – I didn’t even drink last night.”

“You still look like shit.”

“Yeah – you don’t look better yourself.”

“Hey at least I have a shirt on.”

It then dawns on me that I don’t have a shirt on. And the reflection does. At this point the fact that I’m talking to my own reflection doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that the reflection is wearing a shirt that I’ve lost a long time ago. That fucking bastard! What a thief. That was my favorite T-shirt. It was all black and it said “Asshole” in all white letters.

“That’s my shirt.”

“Yeah it was your shirt until you puked on it a few years ago and threw it away. I just washed it you dumbass.”

This is pathetic. My own reflection in the mirror is smarter than me. And it has an attitude. I think nothing of it. I go get dressed on this lazy Saturday afternoon, and proceed to make coffee. I think about eggs and bacon, but I settle on a Parliament instead.

I go outside and it rained a few hours ago, so the air is very thick, and the clouds look like they are not done washing the world of all the filth and scum.

I light up a smoke and sip on my coffee.

“Pssst!”

I look around. And at this point I’m thinking about a visit to a shrink or maybe popping some pills. Maybe Valium or Prozac. The idea that my shadow is talking shit is really disconcerting.

“Yeah smoke that cancer stick. All the smart people would realize by now that smoking is bad for you. Lung cancer, Peter Jennings rings any bells?”

He has a point, or rather I have a point? It gets confusing now. Pretty soon my shadow, my reflection in the mirror, the dream me, and my subconscious me will hold an intervention for the real me. Might as well invite the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause, and Batman, and Spiderman, and other people that don’t fucking exist. They all say:

“Get your shit together.”

“Stop that!”

“This is pathetic your talking to yourself.”

Ok everybody shut the fuck up! You too Kermit! It’s not easy being green my ass.

Hey wait a minute – is this some kind of a joke?

Maybe it’s Delirium Tremens?

Fuck, if it was the DT’s then I’d say this is quite understandable.

Of course whenever things get this weird, I do open my eyes.

I’m still in bed still past noon still sleeping late. Except now – Stranglehold is on the radio and I didn’t drink last night. I walk over to the mirror – just checking. Hey at least I have a shirt on. Where are those Parliaments?

The day goes on pretty much tame. I hate those dreams that fuck with your reality. You’re sleeping while you are sleeping while sleeping. Then it takes three tries to really wake up. Then you listen to the news and you know that you are home. Even in the dream land thing don’t get this bad.

Look at the gas prices.

Wow the economy is really fucked.

I rest my case.

I look around to check if there are any remains of the night before. This comes as a force of habit. I check if there is any broken furniture, or if the ashtray is on the floor, or if there is an empty bottle of whatever on the nightstand. There isn’t. Phew. I’ve been a good boy.

But it is Saturday.

So things might change quickly – force of habit.

At least I have my shirt on. And pants.

Peter Jennings 1938-2005

First Hunter, then Rather, then Deepthroat comes out, well from within the depths of secrecy, and now Peter Jennings dies. Certainly a weird year for the press. This really is a sad thing to hear, especially if you want to be a member of the press, since Jennings was the only guy that I actually still gave a shit about. To me he was the anchorman. (Ron Burgundy eat your heart out)

And granted that sometimes I'd watch World News Tonight from the confines of a smoke filled bar, with a few cold mugs already behind me, one thing always astounded me. No matter how loud and ridiculous the place was, when Jennings came one, the volume on the TV went up - and every one listened. Did they have a choice? Apparently not.

He was the only anchor that I considered cool and suave.

Above all he was a reporter's reporter.

High standards. Ethics. Balls to ask the tough questions. Stickler for details. Hard worker.

I remember when the election was on Jennings was still the only one on the air, burning the midnight oil, until the votes were all counted. (Not like it mattered anyway - as Jon Stewart said recently - look how good Bush looks now compared to his first term.)


During 9/11 - Jennings stayed on the air for something like 60 logged hours.

Secretary of the State Condoleezza Rice said "Peter Jennings represented all that was best in journalism and public service. A man of conscience and integrity, his reporting was a guide to all of us who aspire to better the world around us. I learned from him and was inspired by him,"


I doubt I could say it better. Rest in Peace.

The Pursuit of Infinite Happiness

by Cyryl Jakubowski
UIC Today
Ranting and Raving
October 23, 2002

Walk into your psychologist's office one day and say "Do you want to be my stripper?" Or try "What the hell is wrong with me?" "I can't take it anymore" "Life has lost its positive meaning - you guys have a pill for that?" Welcome to our couch seated, problem solving, sharing and venting culture. Are we happy? Is Valium something you take with your cereal? Our culture is obsessed with this constant pursuit of happiness. But nowadays a little happiness isn't enough. Now we want constant happiness. We want to be happy twenty four hours a day.

We fill our vacant souls with empty things. We actually DO buy happiness. And in whatever form necessary. Whether its in a bottle, comes in a big box and hooks up to your house, found on the street, bought in the store, happiness is everywhere. Some people think shopping at K-mart is an experience. Then again some people think prostitution should be legal. We love the things that make us happy.

That's what's wrong now. We are so pumped up about "me, me, me" and "mine, mine, mine," like a drunken Daffy Duck on the prowl. NRA, DEA, IHOP, KKK, "GTA" - happiness has many short cuts. We go to extremes when we search for happiness.

Let's see, what am I going to wear today? Let me kick these Gap bags to the side...no not Skechers today...nah this is too pale, this too green. Ahh...Viva la Banana Republic. Hey, happiness comes in small doses right? Did you know I can play Mario Brothers on my Verizon Ear Muff? "Dude you're getting a Dell?"

We got to watch out. We better watch for Performance Fleece not fleeing with our wallet, and sharing the dough with rugby style shirts, Plumber jeans, and that tie dyed shirt you still haven't bought. We need to look slick. We have to. We love to. I need to have music pounding in my head because listening to the world "bums" me out. Doesn't anybody just take a fricking walk anymore? I'm thinking about installing a micro radio in my left ear; I have trouble turning left on crowded intersections.

I have my cigarettes of course. I never leave home without them. I have my slick hair comb, breath mints, contacts, Visine, and the current lottery numbers. In the words of Patrick Bateman, "Sometimes when my face feels a little puffy, I put on an ice mask while I finish my stomach crunches."

Welcome to the universal lampoon of our times. We were no longer trained by babysitters. MTV is winning this social war. Who doesn't want to be flashy? But there was a point to all of this: MTV sold sexy, or at least it showed you how you could be. I'm sure someone one is sitting in a messy house, clothes on the floor, watching Springer. Or maybe the news, your woman's on the bed and you're looking at your portfolio online. This was the advent of technology.

In these times, Spiderman shooting his webs isn't enough. Our constant desire to see better eye-candy in videogames and movies is going to reach LSD proportions. Only this time around, we're going to hook ourselves up to the internet via needle and a cable. Just like H-train riders. Everybody is waiting for the advent of real virtual sex. I'm sure good Tommy and Jeremy Navy Guy already have big plans for using their programming degrees. "Let's see what's on the agenda. Cancer simulator - nah, it's too grotesque. Ahh...Ms. Jameson, step right in."

"We're all wired into a survival trip now." But no matter how downtrodden we seemed, this dirt rock we call our home, always reminded us of who we were stepping on. The sun usually came out, you avoided stepping in dog crap, you beat the Meter Maid by peeling away, you got free Nokia minutes, and the lab quiz was postponed until tomorrow. We knew what winter meant. It meant higher gas and electricity bills for heating. And in the summer, high bills for the A/C. We scared the cable guy off the roof when he tried to take off our satellite dish.

As drivers, we were heading into pure happiness. Our human skills as drivers will keep on getting more reckless. Let's see, if they show a brand new car ad on TV, the car is doing 0-60 in 2 seconds, who doesn't buy that car for the adrenaline rush? We have people going way past the speed limit, and then suddenly slamming on their brakes when the cop radar goes off, causing a twelve car pileup. "Officer, I wasn't drunk." One of these days, I'm going to find myself in the glove compartment of my neatly compacted KIA, hit by a semi who "didn't know what was going on."

Yes, the pursuit of happiness is our folly. Not that there's anything wrong with happiness, mind you. I better cancel my Waikiki Maxim edition, and my Mai Tai Taster Club membership because sooner or later, "There's no such thing as too much fun" will be a slogan on the ten dollar bill.

Ya know what, we need a bit more excitement don't you think? Ride this technology devil to the fullest, goddamn it! Ride it! We should push this stuff to the maximum limit--come on, we need something to be proud of. I want to be scared by computer viruses.

As with all things, if we keep up this wander rant any further, we're going to run out and get a second pack of smokes. So happiness here we go. Let me slide onto the merry go around. Riva! Mambo ladies and gents. Where's the flying car!? What about neurotransmitter stimulants? Happiness, folks!

I don't even want to get into the orgasms. Say no more. Our culture is dancing the hula with the devil, and God went out to buy condoms. "We are the middle children of history, with no power or place." Our depression was our lives. Sleep tight folks, we'll see each other in the obituaries. We'll probably be found under the epitaph "Didn't find constant happiness, but sure as hell tried."

Love ain't what it seems.....

Some days go really fucking bad. I mean everything is falling apart; the dog shits all over the yard, and I mean you have to hop from place to place to get to the car type of bad. The toast comes out burned and then it falls on the floor butter side down; you run out of toothpaste on the day of the job interview, so you have to squeeze that fucking tube as if it was the last Hamburger Helper tube on the space shuttle. And that’s before you even leave the house. The car is staining the street like the Exxon Valdez due to a transmission leak; that polyurethane stain is never coming off you favorite pants; the last cigarette breaks in half while you light it; you get the copy of the Sun Times with half the pages missing; the toilet clogs after you “GO” as you watch the water rise.

At this point you should calm down and recollect yourself. Breathe. That’s right. Keep it together. Fuck – chew some Orbit or something. Wipe that bird shit off your car window. It will be OK. At least I think it will. The trick is to be an optimist at the worst possible time. That’s the only real purpose of optimism – to make yourself feel better about the miserable fucking hand you’ve been dealt. Otherwise you start thinking about if you have rope in the garage and if it’s long enough. And what you can anchor it over.

Then the pop ups, while reading e-mail, start filling your aging computer screen, and amidst all the cursing and convulsions, you realize you’ve had enough. You snap. To quote BioDome – “All Hell is breaking loose.” And then Pauley Shore comes waltzing in. “No oooo – I’m a weasel.”

Then you go do – whatever it is people do while having a fucked up day. You go to work, stain some decks, do the work against Tom Sawyer’s whitewashing principles (have someone else do the work for you), curse and spit, and smoke someone’s cigarettes, and then you go home.

Oh yeah.

Fuck it.

That’s the only real thought that means anything now. Fuck it! Suddenly you find a pack of cigarettes; you find a bottle of the “lost whiskey” that you’ve been searching for since breaking up with your long lost girlfriend; someone else (preferably a family member) buys a second copy of the Sun Times and you can finally enjoy it. Life is good. Grand.

I go straight to the “Pearls Before Swine” comic strip. I know – I should read the news first since that will be my trade in the future, but fuck it. I chuckle. It makes my day. I love Pearls Before Swine – it’s the only comic strip that makes that Love Is… comic strip look fucking soft and unrealistic. I stopped liking Love Is… after my ex got married. There was no love left there. And, granted, I used to love the “Love is…” strip. I would cut them out and give them to my ex-love. I thought they were cute.

Fuck Love Is.

Ya know what love is…?

Love is… it’s sucking dick for crack so your boyfriend can get off.

It’s making sure that you can pay alimony.

Love is…leaving you with a “gift” car, only to collect the money “when things get hard.”

Love is…coming up with new lows to insult your husband.

Love is…being able to make every conversation uncomfortable

Love is…making it all about the bills.

Love is… blaming it all on “her” parents.

Love is…sleeping in separate bedrooms.

Love is…getting drunk to solve problems.

Love is… being able to pay the lawyer.

Love is… postponing the dog’s death.

Love is… trying to make things work.

Love is… to make it all into a Circus.

Love is… making it about the dog.

Love is… making it all about the children.

Love is…making it about the children who can’t afford college.

Love is…not giving a fuck about someone else’s health.

Love is…hiding all the aspirin.

Love is…hiding his/her cigarettes.

Love is…not giving a fuck about anything.

Love is…telling her all the “blond” jokes – especially if she is a blond.

Love is…calling her every 15 minutes to “check in.”

Love is…husband on the couch/wife getting drunk.

Love is…wife on the couch/husband getting drunk.

Love is…telling him to tell her to tell the daughter to tell the son.

Love is…not giving a fuck about what is going on.

Love is…having a yard sale.

Love is…calling her “baby” all the time. (As in “Hey Baby.”)

Love is…telling your son/daughter to turn the volume down.

Love is…asking permission to get a haircut.

Love is…trying to get the cable back on.

Love is…trying to scrape enough money to buy food.

Love is…asking how much “condoms go for these days?”

Love is…hell. Which is funny because there was an actual Love Is… that got things right for the first time in ages. "Love is...sometimes hell!"

It was a failed mission statement from the start.

Time passes and we slowly become what we weren’t. We change, and as times change, our soul takes on a different form. With every pitfall, every sunken boat, every last kiss, every last drink, every car crash, every last phone call, we turn towards maturity at a full force. We don’t know where we will end up – but we are one hundred percent sure that somehow, someway, we will get there. Where ever it is that we think we are going. We will get there.

Fear comes with every theory, with every worry, with every decision, and with every fall. They say that we fear what we don’t know. Well isn’t that the truth? We learn that fact only when fear gets up in our faces and forces us to deal with it.

Our lives weren’t as clear cut as the slew of armies that passed before. They knew what they wanted. They knew about the ramifications, and the various ills that had to be overcome. We knew nothing of that sort. We were out there, out in the streets, on the campuses, working jobs we hated, looking forward toward a future that was, from the beginning, uncertain. We were the knights of this generation, trying desperately to make our mark on the world, in order not to be forgotten, not to be wiped clean by the winds of ever-present change.

Our mission was simple. To prove the American Dream wrong. To solidify our existence in the time that we were given was our task. We wanted to prove that the American Dream was not just a dream. That it was not just an illusion. Not an ideal that was never meant to be achieved. We wanted to make it a reality. The dream was not dead. The dream was on a hiatus; we would take it from its shambles and overcome various obstacles. We wanted it to be real. This was our dream. There was no room to talk about American, when in truth, this was the everyman dream. Everyone can work hard, and through hard work, can turn nothing into something. We were on the everyman path. We knew it deep; and we knew it heartfelt.

We were full of optimism. But it wasn’t the type of optimism that you saw in Partridge Family, or Beaver Cleaver, or fuck – even Mork and Mindy – it was a cynical type of optimism that turned into pessimism whenever chance arose. It was turncoat behavior. We wanted it all. We wanted fame and fortune. Everybody said that they “wanted to be a movie star.” Especially the people in California; they said it the most. Don’t even mention Hollywood.

That was a different world. It was a world that I haven’t experienced yet.

It is a slippery slope to talk about the American Dream without talking about the feeling of Rock N Roll. Truth be told, that some of us, have genuinely tried to live the life. Many have failed, only to wake up to a twenty year old marriage, and bills, and a serious drinking habit – but many didn’t. We fought that wave like a surfer trying to get his last rites. We knew that it would lead us nowhere – yet we tried anyway. We saw what it did to our parents, our uncles, our siblings, our nobodies. This was Rock N Roll. We had to have a tiny taste. And a taste we did. With all the guilty pleasures – we did.

And what a pleasure it was. Through out America there are, and there can be, numerous accounts of where Rock N Roll went right. It isn’t only in the supermarket rags that people hear about what you do or did. The real truth is, and as much as we’d like to admit that it isn’t, Rock N Roll has turned this country into what we are today. Yes it is true. The Budweiser drinking, beer-bong chugging, Marlboro smoking, John Deere hat wearing, reefer maniacs of America can vouch for that.

Well then who are we?

Are we the same as the previous generation?

The truth is that we differ through technology – but we don’t differ that much through ideology. We want the same shit.

To completely discredit this little trifle – I’d like to think that this was a rant written by a man who had to much Rock N Roll in his veins to complete the job. To much of everything I have to say. Until we are sober – keep your units on you. And as George Thorogood said “I want bourbon, one scotch and one beer.” Give me a triple shot of that juice.