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.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, September 09, 2005
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.
"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.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Friday, September 02, 2005
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.
"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.
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