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!"