In a nutshell - I'm brain dead and I don't know what to do.

Phew. Now at least I feel better. OK. Somehow I knew that if I waited long enough something interesting would happen with the coverage of the Terri Schiavo fiasco. She died. I don't mean to sound insensitive but shit happens. So now Terri Schiavo is dead, and Fox News is playing dramatic music; there is a sense that this is a national tragedy, and that people are weeping on the streets, and wearing FEED TERRI t-shirts. That's the reality on Fox News. On other channels the news is more like this:The brain-damaged Florida lady dies - and NOW here's sports.

I love how all of a sudden Terri Schiavo became a household name in this country. Suddenly it wasn' just about her was it? She's been in that state for 15 or so years, and all of a sudden our President gets into the fray. I hope there was some passion behind the decision to pass that emergency bill, and not a "well heck - this brain dead lady will do wonders to the pro-life base of the Republican Party."

But I do like some of the opinion that has been circulating about the case. I especially raised my eyebrows when I stumbled upon this religious one.

And personally I think the courts did the right thing by not overturning the decision. It was the system of checks and balances in action. American Federalism to the rescue. And this country had many cases of such instances as the site says.

Trust me if I was in that state I'd want them to pull the plug. No seriously just pull it. Fuck it. Let me pull my own plug! Can I do that? I can't? Oh I can't do anything now can I? Shit - might as well pull the plug then.

Hopefully we can learn something from this. Not everything is the government's business. If the doctors said she can't be saved then I'd put my money on some medical knowledge and not wishful thinking. Like that saying goes - there are a few winners and a whole lot of losers.

And the longer this thing has been dragging out on the news, and the more people I've talked to, I was actually shocked by some of the responses I've received. The coldness baffled me.

"Pull the plug man!"

"Terri who?"

"She's not smiling. Those are just muscle spasms. She doesn't know where the fuck she is."

These are half the battle. The weirdest fucking thing I've seen was Terri Schiavo's Blog. Some people have a sick sense of humor. Durrrrrrrrrnhhghgh. My God this country is sick. Read the comments there too - sick people - sick country - still my kind of place. I wonder why? I must be brain dead and I don't know what to do.

The cool breeze over the mountains

"Oh Shit it's Wednesday," I think in my head as the night stand clock radio begins roaring its tune. The volume is turned up so loud that my neighbors phone in to wake me up. After the regular routine of coffee, shower, more coffee, cigarette, vitamins, more coffee, I scramble out the door to get to the campus.

The train ride takes forever and once I get out to breathe the fresh air something sparks my interest. Its not really the dude who is beginning for change, but rather, the myriad of buses out side the Harold Washington library.

"What's being filmed here?" I ask one of the security guards.

"Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock are making a movie."

"Get the fuck out of here, really? Is he going to be here?"

"Yeah in about an hour."

Not to make a big deal about it I go to class and it passes without a hitch. The class gets out early so me and my friend decide to go to this wateringhole the Oyster Bar for some beers.

The bartender informs us that Mr. Reeves is filming a movie in the building.

"When's Keanu coming in here?" I ask.

"He's never coming in here," she says.

Hours naturally pass, and a couple of beers later, a couple of "dude you missed Keanu he was just in here" references the day turned different.

About 5:30 PM - who strolls into the Oyster Bar? Keanu Fucking Reeves! There he was - standing what seemed like three feet away from me, Constantie, Neo, Johnny Menmonic, and Ted all rolled into one.

The whole bar was instantly star struck. You could see it in people's eyes. Silence. I curse out loud or something "Holly SHit! Look who it is." My friend yells something at him, probably scared him off, and the guy changes his mind and leaves the restaurant.

A bunch of older men were making constant references to the Matrix - maybe they scared him off. Maybe he thought he doesn't want to sit in a bar with a bunch of drunks. Whatever it was - as soon as it happened - it was over. He was in there for a couple of minutes.

Needless to say there was something different about this day.

Reeves is in Chicago filming "il mare."

American Feeling: Ode to Classic Rock, blinking neon lights, and why America Still Kicks Ass!!!

The late nights always bring on the most amazing thoughts. It is the most peculiar thing. The later the hour, the more incredible and out of sync thoughts come waltzing into my head. Of course by the time these special ramblings reach my head I am relaxing to the point of no return. Like La Femme Nikita. I am past the point of no return.

It was time to relax the mind. In other circles this would mean settling down with a good book, brewing good tea, watching the Animal Planet, or winding down to the tune of the Daily Show with Mr. Stewart. But relaxing the mind, especially when it comes to this wicked soul, involves more than that. For starters the music needs to be up loud. Classic Rock needs to be blasting through the speakers; right now it's the Yardbirds.

And since these blogs are supposed to be done in a pure gonzo fashion, the point is to capture the ambiance of the situation. In this case, the mellow groove of the music can calm even the wildest beast.

...

No Not Yet.

America gets a lot of bad press. Sure we fuck up a lot of good things. We fucked up politics, and that ought to say something since that was never our strong point. We fucked up foreign policy by giving the finger to NATO. We screwed up the presidency beyond the point of no return. But after Clinton it's not like anyone actually expects any great things from the office. It is just sort of there because it has to be.

As a nation we do a lot of things that make the rest of the world hate us with a passion greater than Dr. Doom's. And as bad as things seem to be in this country; gas prices going up, soldiers dying, Social Security under threat, the end of conflict nowhere in sight - America still kicks ass.

The world says that America is the home of the stupid. Granted that stupidity does run rampant in this country, ranging from Jackass to Adam Sandler movies, Beavis & Butthead to MTV's Spring Break, Cops to Real TV, and anything Paris Hilton does, we do deserve a little bit of credit for staying versatile.

We are the only nation in the world that actually condones this type of ignorant behavior just for the sake of good ratings. If people watch this shit then it can't be that bad. American Idol? OK. Gilmore Girls? Alright.

Freedom baby.

To all my basement dwellers, loft frolickers, college buddies, home owners, beer drinkers, girlfriends, potheads, workaholics, and mothers and fathers, I salute you. We still have an edge against the competition. We still know what it feels like to be American.

We know how long it takes to drive through McDonalds - not fast food at all. Taco Bell has nothing to do with Mexican food, KFC is not what chicken is supposed to taste like, and Wendy's is an enigma.

We know the clapper was a really good idea for its time.

Jaws: The Revenge should have never been made.

Who needs Miss Congeniality 2?

Why did Hunter S. Thompson kill himself while Michael Jackson is able to wear PJ's to court?

Who cares about Martha Stewart?

But of course this is America. We have the right to complain. That's the beauty of this country. We can bitch and we can moan; we can show our displeasure yet we can't do anything about it.

I take the pleasure in the simple things America has to offer. The traffic report. The unreliable weathermen. Biased news networks like Fox, since they make me laugh. I love the chaos. Gas prices going up. Something is always happening. Nothing is static. I take comfort in that. This country never ceases to amaze me. Every day is an adventure. Each new day tops new lows. Our unrelenting desire to NOT get better. This makes it all the worthwhile. It's Rock N Roll in its purest form. No Sympathy for the Devil. It's like Hunter Thompson once said "The American Dream really is fucked."

Who's Bad?

The more this Wacko Jacko shit keeps polluting my TV, the more I start to think about his career. Was he dropping hints? Maybe titles from songs like Dangerous, Smooth Criminal, Beat It, or even Man In the Mirror meant something. The first lyric of Bad is "Your butt is mine." It kind of puts a new meaning to these songs now doesn't it? After that testimony from James, the brother of the victim, when Michael was allegedly jerking off, with his hand in the kid's underwear I went speechless. MJ a perv? No way.

Whatever comes from the trial is anybody's guess, but that image of Michael really freaked me out. Shit - I used to wear MJ pajamas in the 80's. The ones with that "Beat It" pose on the front. That's when Michael looked normal and was cool. I'd climb in my bed, with the PJ's, and Thriller blasting on the Walkman, and would piss my pants when those scary lyrics would come on.

And whosoever shall be found
Without the soul for getting down
Must stand and face the hounds of hell
And rot inside a corpse’s shell

Kind of a harsh price man. I don't want to get down dude. Not with your Zombies Ate my Neighbors Ass.

Of course those days are over now. Throughout the years MJ had more surgery than Jack Nicholson in Batman. Yeah - they even have pictures of his various mutations. Then again - maybe it was abusive surgery.

Of course Michael Jackson was always a phenomenon. If you could do the moonwalk somewhat accurately in the 80's, then you could probably get a blowjob in the 90's no problem. The moonwalk was the shit. And then the llamas and monkeys, and Neverland, and Macaulay Culkin came into play. That was the beginning of the end.

Is he guilty? He probably is. I think Chris Rock said it best when he said something along the lines that we let the first child slide. That's how much we loved Michael. But Mike - come on. "Tell them that it's human nature." Not likely.

Robin Williams makes the best joke out of all of this. When you go to Neverland it says that "you must be this tall to ride Michael." That's on his Live on Broadway HBO special.

Despite the bullshit, the bubbles, the alleged "Jesus Juice" and the walking around naked thing, he did make some decent music in the past. I say past because that's when Michael was Michael. Now he's some Evil Dead caricature that can't really be taken seriously. As far as I'm concerned I'm waiting for the day when that scarecrow from The Wiz breaks down crying on camera begging for forgiveness. The makeup running down his face, and an aging gray-haired Bubbles brings him a napkin to wipe his tears away.

But that Smooth Criminal video - now that's a different story. Annie are you OK? Are you OK Annie?

Moxie

“Oh yeah - life goes on. Long after the thrill of living is gone.” It is amazing that even Mellencamp doesn’t cure the midnight disease; the wretched insomnia. And we find ourselves in the never ending circle. That same vicious circle that turned our parents into burned out caricatures of yesteryear still had enough spunk to take us for a wild ride.

One minute you’re riding your shiny red Huffy, smiling and humming that despicable Bonanza tune, and the next you’re picking up the diploma, hoping you don’t make an idiot out of yourself in front of the whole high school. Okay shake his hand, pick up the diploma. Shake hands. Diploma. Hands. Diploma. Oh for FUCK’s Sake!

Flash forward a couple of forgettable parties, a couple of girlies, a couple of fights later , and you’re running from pay check to pay check, from one test to the next, from one night of heavy drinking to the inevitable morning of recovery the day after. We live the lives of stubborn people. Some do. I think termites live like this. We know by now that this life produces few winners. Yet we still persevere.

And as probable and inevitable as things might seem; no matter how downtrodden and spit on we’ll get, we will still wade through the sewage of editorial rejections and try to find that one gem that will turn those jerkwater jeans into hip boots. Yeah…that’s all we have. That’s all we are left with: Hope, perseverance, bad craziness, and a mix of moxie, moonshine, smokes, chewing gum, and those ramen noodles that sell dirt cheap.

And that’s probably a good thing about this generation; our generation. Not the noodles, but the perseverance; the will and the uncanny strength to go on, no matter how badly we know we will get beat up in the end.

We are fighting some serious Vegas odds here. They say it’s a brutal world out there. They always say that. Then like Bill Hicks said, you look out the window and hear birds chirping. “Where is all this shit happening?”

Then one day that mirror calls from the back wall and the caricature is us. We’ve turned into the same burnout versions of high hopes and lofty aspirations that our parents did. Only this time; we played it on our own terms. So we break that mirror and say “Fuck you and your ticket too!”

But I think it’s a good thing that we still have this fighting spirit about us you know. We just won’t quit – and that is awesome. In the Bill & Ted sense of the word - Whoa.

...give me something full of Wild Turkey.

The week beginning with February 20th, 2005 was a week that to some will have a different meaning than all the other dead end weeks in a year. It wasn’t the type of week that concentrated on school studies, finding a job, trying to get sober, kicking the habit, trying to find love, or even writing a novel. It was the type of week that began with the dropping of an atom bomb on the literary world. It was the week when Hunter S. Thompson died.

All across America people came together to reach a unison in terms of emotion. Hunter committed suicide. Much to the shock of everybody, his death planted a seed of change. No longer were we able to refer to him in the present tense. That was over. It was the type of event that deserved diving deeper. The good doctor was gone.

People decided to take the message to the streets. All across; there were people burning joints, snorting lines, raising glasses, playing harmonicas, reading his books, pouring beer on his deathbed, and for the most part, giving condolences to a man than shouldn’t have died yet.

He was “too weird to live and too rare to die.” He was Hunter Stockton Thompson. A man that defied the laws, pushed the limits, and wrote stuff no one else will be able to reproduce. He was a gonzo journalist. A term he coined himself to a movement that spawned a million of fans; thousands of imitators, and a whole flock of people who viewed him as inspiration.

So now - a new generation has to live with the fact that during their life time, HST blew his fucking head off. Not many get to add words to the dicitonary - in Hunter's case, gonzo will forever be associated with him. He pissed on the American Dream. He flirted with doom. He tried to change this place. In the end he didn't need to put himself in the story. He became the story.

To some this was a tragedy in the history of journalism. To me it was a sad day.

Now where the hell is that Wild Turkey?

The Dream Is Not Dead

In the original blueprint he was supposed to be a pharmacist. He was supposed to have a 9 to 5 job, a house, wife, two kids, a red lawnmower and a white picket fence. With this plan in mind, Cyryl enrolled in the pre-pharmacy program at the University of Illinois at Chicago. It took him three long years to change his mind and follow his heart.

Like most immigrants who come to America to chase the American Dream, his family moved to Chicago from Krakow, Poland in 1993. They were pioneers. Their mission was to give the kids the opportunities that they didn’t have. Cyryl was supposed to be the son who finally had it easy in life.

While at UIC he wrote for the UIC Today, an independent student paper. He had his own column – Ranting and Raving. In this rag of a publication he raved about the culture, the American Dream, and his observations on daily life. That’s when journalism became his focus.

The idea of becoming a reporter and following the footsteps of Hunter S. Thompson or P.J. O’Rourke excites Cyryl until this day. His passion for writing, movies, and language still wakes him in his sleep. That’s when he drags his sleepy body towards the typewriter and begins to write.

Whether chasing a story, talking about journalism at the local pub, or trying to survive journalism school, Cyryl’s mind is dead set on achieving his goals. The American Dream is not dead after all.