....

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