Blame

No Cure for Cancer—there really isn't...not yet.

George Carlin - Masculine Names

President Denis Leary

Robin Williams - Live At The Met

Don't know the reason

Wasted away again in Margaritaville,
Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt.
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame,
But I know it's nobody's fault.

- Jimmy Buffett


He basically said my state of mind. I just want to be on a beach somewhere, listen to the surf and watch the sun go down.

In defense of cheap bourbon

I know, this looks bad right from the start. And no amount of explanation, no amount of fear based tales about bad weeks, horrible days, cheap whiskeys and the American tradition, can cover up the fact that if you're reaching for Ten High bourbon, you're reaching for trouble.

Perhaps this is true in retrospect.

But let me start earlier.

In every professional field, be it a contractor who works physically for a living, a lawyer who finds the necessary loop holes in law, or any other profession that requires working on a project for a hefty portion of your time, there comes a time when a man gets pushed to the limit.

Now I am not talking about THE limit, but to some kind of a limit. This week was one of those weeks. It pushed the envelope, not in terms of work but in terms of stress and loathing.

That is when I reached for Ten High. Now, I don't condone drinking this, but if you feel that bravery is something to be worn on a sleeve, go right ahead. And it's not that this is a bad tasting or a low-potent whiskey. On the contrary, this thing can make a jackal crawl into a box. This is the stuff that they used to label as "XXX" on Saturday morning cartoons.

But why this? Why now? Haven't I learned this lesson before? Wasn't heaving out the insides enough the last time around?

Apparently not.

It wasn't and I'll tell you why. Not many people can understand a cheap whiskey, especially bourbon. They kick it to the side or avoid it like the plague, never even considering why. (No-the fact that you got sick is not a viable reason for this argument.)

In my opinion, a cheap whiskey is already a character all by itself in the big and bad, lets go hunting for some wild turkeys down the knob creek with our friend Jim or Jack, world of hard spirits. It's the guy who gets left behind and never makes it for the hunting trip and end up shooting off his gun in the living room.

Cheap whiskey is what it is, much like the "The Bears are who we thought they were!" as Arizona Cardinals Coach Dennis Green said. So you have to respect it, in whatever form.

Price does not make the whiskey. Ten High used to be advertised in Playboy in the mid 80s as a traditional bourbon. That didn't make it great either, but the point is, the shit will fuck you up.

And why not? Sometimes a strong kick in the groin is what you need. Just the harshness alone reminds you of the hardships that have come upon you. There is a term for this--rotgut.

Drinking rotgut bourbon means you are light years beyond drinking your sorrows away because of a woman, an insurance bill, or when your kids get into drugs. Cheap bourbon simply means you are down on your luck. Or your have no cash, because deep down nobody chooses to drink this shit. Situation forces you to battle this demon.

And it's not like you can drink Ten High by throwing caution into the wind. On the contrary, you kind of have to place caution in the fore front because those Ten High hangovers are ten times stronger, ten times harder, and ten times more memorable.

But in retrospect, here's a little play-by-play:

Monday

The shit doesn't hit the fan yet. But you know it's coming, knowing that class projects, newspaper deadlines and watching depressing news will do it to you. Bill Hicks used to say that he doesn't recommend watching the news for a lengthy period of time. "WAR, FAMINE, DEATH, AIDS, HOMELESS, RECESSION, DEPRESSION. WAR, FAMINE, DEATH, AIDS, HOMELESS" Then, you look out your window [makes cricket noises] Where's all this shit happening? Ted Turner's making this shit up!

Tuesday

You get edgy here. This is when the journalism newsroom starts to show its true face. People get cranky because their weeks aren't going that well either. There is much cussin' going on. The term "motherfucker" doesn't mean anything anymore, and "fuck" is used as a comma. Deadlines are looming and homework is kicking ass. Almost bondage.

Wednesday

You lose your shit. You have no qualms about calling your co-workers Mexicans, women in loving relationships "close-minded" and seeing the bigger picture is usually filled with the preface "It seemed like a good idea at the time." You also preface everconversationon with "Well, this Pollack thinks...," while pointing at yourself.

Thursday

It's over. You seriously reach for Ten High and chase it down with Powerade after work. In between shots, you listen to the Drifters tune, "Under the Boardwalk" like 90 times, while singing along. You say to yourself, maybe love is the answer.

Play harmonica.

Take aspirin.

Try to show for work on time.

Friday

You do your job. But you call people names, pick fights, strech the laws of obscenity, play pranks, talk dirty, and think about what it takes to be a porn photographer. You smoke two packs of cigarettes. You take a smelly shit. You argue about nothing that important. You watch Salvador with James Woods. You listen to Jimi Hendrix. You punch a couple of walls. You worry about next week. You...Just don't get it do you?

That's when the Ten High looks like Jenna Jameson, spread eagle on the bed, holding a bottle of water.

FUCK it, you say.

And fuck it is. It's over now. It doesn't matter. You've crossed the line, and ththehe only hope of coming out of this alive is by trying to eat something. The music gets louder, the harmonica sloppier. You think you could do Bozo's job.

Ten High turns you into a milder drunk. But only to a point. I bought a plastic bottle of Ten High on Monday. By being judicious, by Friday, I am able to drink the rest of 3/4 of Ten High, the smart drunk's choice.

Where is the water?

FUCK that. Where is the aspirin? And where is my mind?

"Let the eagle soar...."

13

If I would have to sum it all up, then life is a giant see saw--sometimes your sober and sometimes your over. I believe it was a Friday morning when I realized that not only will rock & roll never die, but I might die because of rock & roll.

The phone rings and I shriek like a girl who gets her first period in school during 1st period. It's Friday, and after doing that Chandler from Friends double-take, I realize that I am late for work.

Normally this isn't a problem, but it was production day. It's a process. You have to be there.

A co-worker wakes me up at 11:30 AM. He just asks how I'm doing and after a bunch of gurgling noises I later learn that apparently I said I was fine. I also was cursing a lot and sounded as if I had a furry rat in my mouth.

Must have been one of those Thursday nights again. The ones people dear to me told me to stop celebrating years ago.

But if this is a time when I am supposed to feel regret, truth be told I don't. I just wish I would have woken up on time.

However, there is a certain feeling of guilt showing up for work at 1:30 PM, knowing that most of your co-workers have been there since 9 AM. But I thread through the dreary day, drink plenty of fluids, pop a few Aspirin's, eat a couple of sugar packets, and that queasy feeling passes.

Somebody should have said:

"You look like shit," but they didn't. But I'm sure it was on their minds.

Then I realize it was Friday 13. Normally, those days are lucky for me. I find a cheap strip club, or the toast doesn't fall down on the floor butter face down. Or the relief that washes over me when I realize that I am still wearing a rubber after she says she's a working girl. That usually happens on Friday the 13th.

Not this time, however. This time things sucked. It's as if God decided to drop a collective ... on my chin.

I try not to fret about these things too much. I realize that things could have been worse. It could have look liked this:



"Tough day at the office?"

Perhaps. But things can always look better in the future.

The other cocaine

Graphic by Joshua Covarrubias/The Chronicle

Don’t blow your dough on this snow
By Cyryl Jakubowski

Once in a while there comes a story that paints a beautiful portrait of American advertising culture gone berserk. It speaks volumes about the capitalist landscape. Only in this country does a company have the balls to name an energy drink after the age-old Peruvian marching powder—cocaine.

Comedian Denis Leary once said that “the best pitch I ever heard about cocaine was back in the early ’80s when a street dealer followed me down the sidewalk going, ‘I got some great blow man. I got the stuff that killed Belushi.’”

Of course, cocaine the drug doesn’t really need a sales pitch. It sells itself. However obvious it is that energy drink companies will do anything to sell their swill, calling your product after a drug that ruined noses and lives since the ’70s is irresponsible.

Last week a Las Vegas company, Redux Beverages, announced the release of a new line of energy drinks targeted for partygoers—you know, drunks staggering in nightclubs. The energy drink, Cocaine, is 350 percent stronger than Red Bull and gives you no crash since it uses dextrose instead of cane sugar and other ingredients like vitamin B12 and other stuff found in Red Bull.

Red Bull, the benchmark to which all other energy drinks are compared, is also a key ingredient in a Jagermeister bomb. But just as you would never mix real cocaine with alcohol (because no one does that, right?), energy drinks are not intended for mixing it with booze—it just sort of happens. Call it a party favor.

“We do not technically advocate the mixing of Cocaine with alcohol, but if we did here’s what we’d try,” Drinkcocaine.com, the product’s website, wrote. Then it runs down a laundry list of possible drink mixes with names like Liquid Cocaine and Cocaine Blast.

The drink will not be marketed for health nuts or workaholics, but will be sold to partygoers at nightclubs in New York this fall. That’s exactly what the Lindsay Lohan scene needs—more excuses to stay up later and fall down harder.

Even though there is no cocaine inside, the makers of the drink argue that its effects are part chemical and part psychological.

“When a person sees the name of the drink, some psychological effect happens and the person is already experiencing the energy buzz before they even open the can,” James Kirby, inventor of the drink, said in the New York Post.

The company also said that the drink gives you a “high” within five minutes, followed by a caffeine boost 15 minutes later, according to the New York Post. The website claims that “Cocaine is not just a re-hash of existing drinks: It is a completely unique new formula - it tastes like a fireball, a carbonated atomic fireball!”

What exactly is a carbonated atomic fireball? To me it sounds like a lit up fart.

“I can think of no other product except real cocaine that could have that effect on the public,” Kirby told the Post. He also said that there is an ingredient, which is being kept secret, that was added to the drink to numb the throat and simulate the effects of actual cocaine, according to the New York Post.

But before you get excited and call your friends in New York to ship you a couple of kilos of the legal alternative Cocaine, think of this as nothing more than a feeble attempt at getting college students’ money. Obviously they are trying to get you to try to mix it with booze. Red Bull and vodka is nothing new, and Redux is trying to capitalize on that idea by sparking controversy with its namesake.

While Redux has every right to call it’s product Cocaine, it just sends the wrong message to young folks. “Well, shit, if this stuff gets me high, I wonder what the real thing will do?”

Beside, cocaine the drug already has a bad enough reputation. According to the DEA, nearly 2,600 kilograms of coke were seized last year in Illinois and 120,000 kilos in the nation. Chicago is the major transportation hub and distribution center throughout the Midwest because of its location. There’s a shitload of cocaine out there on the streets and we don’t need anymore of it even though humorist and commentator P.J. O’Rourke once said, “Drugs have taught an entire generation of Americans the metric system.”

When I think of cocaine the drug, I don’t think about Eric Clapton’s song, (however catchy), “Cocaine” which glamorized its use, but about the friends I’ve seen swallowed by their addictions. When I think of Cocaine the energy drink I think of some jackass kid overdosing because nobody told him that perhaps he shouldn’t be mixing cocaine with Cocaine. But live and let live.

Let’s get serious. Naming your product Cocaine only furthers the acceptance of the drug. Red Bull is already known as “liquid crack” in the party circuit. And while some energy drinks are often viewed as health supplements, some people might get the wrong idea with a drink like Cocaine. What’s next? Branding sleeping pills Heroin or apples with a methamphetamine sticker that says “made in rural Illinois?”

Just as I wouldn’t go out of my way to score some blow off the street, I likely won’t jump on the back of the charging red bull or a Ginseng monster to the nearest dealer in order to get my can of Cocaine—unless the first fix is free. Furthering cocaine’s appeal by calling an energy drink after it is irresponsible.

...

Tough actin'

From the Jim Beam files:

Tonight I’m one of those hiccup drunks. It reminds me of those old MGM cartoons where there were a bunch of Technicolor bulldogs and cats all hugging and singing “We were traveling along….ON Bourbon Street.”

I don’t even know when a day is supposed to end and the day begin. Time is one of those commodities which I have lost, ever since the paper has been back in business. How can I live when I can’t get my fix of Bill Maher or Real Sex on Friday?

Doomed.

Bound to repeat mistakes, my mission for tonight is simple. Get it over with. Reach that alcoholic plateau, ride the sea crest until the liquor is gone and then dive into couch mode. This is where things were at.

There’s a new kid in town. His name was Captain Gonzo. He was a man without a vessel. But he made up for it in liquor.

I guess when you start getting your fill straight from the bottle, things are bound to turn grim.

Grim indeed. I got home at 3 AM. I wasn’t pissed or anything, but I did take into account the simple pleasures of watching a movie, smoking a cigarette or reading a book. I took into account taking off your shoes and socks after a long day. I took into account John Madden’s solution “tough actin’ Tinactin” even though I didn’t have a fungal problem.

Let the Devil within me ride. Take the ticket.

...

Night turns to day and again I'm waking up in strange places and stranger beds. At least the furnishings were nice. But not as nice as this.



Image courtesy of http://www.myspace.com/jennajameson

Busket

Assholes rarely win

It doesn't bother me that much that Kiefer Sutherland won the Emmy for best lead in a drama series. What DOES bother me is that I actually spent the time watching the fucking Emmy's to SEE Kiefer Sutherland win.

Now I'm not a fan of 24...but I understand that with hype come accolades. So Kiefer, congratulations, Jack Bauer is a total nut job. But for my money, you ain't shit compared to Denis Leary.

For the record, Rescue Me is by far the better show with much clever writing. Plus, Denis Leary writes for it, acts in it, and produces it.

Then again, now I can understand why Leary sat next to Kiefer during his roast on Comedy Central. As Colin Quinn put it nicely, "Dont sit with your real friends Denis, sit with Kiefer." Or something like that.

I can already see who introduced Leary to Fox, but that person shall remain nameless. It's now what you know but who you know. So it makes sense, with TV politics and all, that Sutherland would win.

That's my idea for a t-shirt: Sit with Kiefer.

Perhaps next time Denis. I voted for ya.

And for the record, fuck this year's Emmy's. The only good thing that came out of the tiresome ordeal was Stephen Colbert belting out, "I LOST TO BARRY MANILOW!"

Priceless.

Those who remember, Denis Leary was the one who said "I want to have a Barry Manilow skull keg party at my apartment."

No wonder he lost too.

Sit with Barry Manilow.

Chappelle's show

ROSEMONT, IL- The stage is bare, and unlike Elvis, I am not standing there, but rather sitting and listening to the crowds mingle its way into the Rosemont Theater. It was Saturday, as I dutifully can remember, and approximately 7:30 in the evening. These crowds, they were not what you might expect. Most of them were white, and by that I mean transparent. Some even wore colored neckties. All around, beautiful blondes with curled hair, tall heels and bigger lips, strutted their shtick down the incline that led to their seats.

They were expensive seats. I was sitting dead center. I say the crowd was unusually white because it was a show that dealt with racism, bigger cocks than mine, infidelity, masturbation, the show Cheaters, and Iceberg Slim, a Chicago pimp who is long gone.

The show in questions was a Dave Chappelle stand up comedy gig.

“This is some suburban shit,” Chappelle said when he entered the stage after much waiting.

He was right. It was right on the outskirts of the city. The type of venue, which in the past featured George Carlin (also a show I splurged cash on). But that was long ago.

This is also a part of the reason why I went to see the man perform his shtick live on the stage. Not because I am an overt Chappelle fan-boy, with a Chappelle’s Show DVD set, Comedy Central neon light and Half-baked on laser disc and VHS, but because I tend to shell out money on these live shows when I consider the artist prolific.

Much like George Carlin, who in a way is the grandfather of comedy now, Chappelle is the stuff legends are born from. It may sound silly, but in the same respect that Richard Pryor was voted the greatest stand up comedian of all time by Comedy Central, Chappelle ranks right up there with those comedians who make you question, learn, laugh and reflect on a culture, that sometimes makes you puke.

It was said that Richard Pryor gave Chappelle the torch to carry on. In some respects I would agree. Who were the other candidates? Bernie Mac? Eddie Murphy? Hey man, I enjoyed “RAW” as much as the next guy, but Chappelle showed he had character when he walked away from the $50 million Comedy Central offered him for another season of Chappelle’s show. Talk about not wanting to prostitute yourself.

But noble anecdotes aside, the motherfucker is funny.

His professional bravado, impeccably laced with quick laughs, thoughtful pauses and lightning quick responses to the handful of asshole hecklers out of the 4000 people there that night, gave new meaning to the term “professional comedian.” Fuck…you couldn’t do that shit. I couldn’t do that shit.

Somebody from the deep left balcony actually said “Fuck those white motherfuckers,” and the man recovered. Of course, Dave was doing a spiel about immigration in America, and somebody felt the need to chime in.

“Fuck those white motherfuckers? That’s the weirdest shit I’ve ever heard during a show. Speaking of white….”

You have to be quick on your feet when you do that type of work. I always admired that about standup comedians. Their ability to turn a potentially show ending atmosphere into lead in to the next bit amazing. One wrong quip from a heckler and the atmosphere can turn into that awkward silence when granny talks about cheating on grandpa. At least nobody said "I'm Rick James, bitch!"

But comedians are quick aren’t they? It takes years of practice. I wouldn’t be able to open up for Chappelle’s DJ’s drug dealing friend’s dog. I’d smoke a Marlboro on stage, sweat and talk about Bill Hicks.

Then the riots would start.

Not really, of course, but one could sense the belly of the beast. But Dave controlled his environment, his people mind you, with the tenacity of a bobcat. Wild and collected, his poetry became music.

His spiels about the word “vagina” made people gyrate in their seats. He only said that it was too formal. Vagina is apparently a “pussy with a bowtie.”

“Hello white people,” he said. He mentioned that he was not referring to the whites in the audience but the other “white people.” The ones there that night, were, apparently, cool enough to hang out with him.

A barrel of laughs as always, Dave closed the show with an anecdote about Iceberg Slim, a Chicago pimp, who basically made a trick of the century, by pimping his “bottom bitch” into many more financial endeavors, to say the least.

While this show might not live in infamy, as say, Pryor’s did elsewhere, he is really the prime candidate of our generation to take over the crown of the man who once came out with an album called “That Nigger’s Crazy!”

Hiatus

Deep out there, somewhere in the stratosphere, an idea is brewing. It's an idea without a name yet. It's a left turn on a red light. It's a "righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by an 'orrible cunt... me."

But until that idea comes, here's Jenna.

Bloody Horseshoe Pit

Here's a nice story that will have you quoting Brodie Bruce from Mallrats. "You face forward, or you face the possibility of shock and damage." On that note, a Northampton, Pa man survived a horseshoe pit stake impaling after he allegedly was backing up with a sprinkler and fell onto the said rusty stake.

Thank God the man survived.

But this casualty breeds an interesting point. Why are we still playing horseshoes? You know we have cell phones, cheese whiz and computers under a $1000 but we still mange to engage in this "fun" activity. We don't even USE horses, unless your a stubborn police officer, as an important means of metropolitan transportation (Notice I refrained from Amish, farmer and lovebirds-who-want-a carriage-ride jokes).

A game of horseshoes anyone? Hell no! Besides such violent accidents as this, perhaps the only way to summarize a game of horseshoes is to quote Dave Attell from his Skanks for the Memories album:

That must have been invented before fun, because it's not. There's only two ways for that game to end. Either this sucks, let's do something else, or OWW you hit me with the horseshoe.

Sticker

Here's a couple of things I'd want to see on a bumper sticker:

1. "Honk, if you're mom is born again Christian."

2. "My other ride is a rickshaw."

3. "I became an alcoholic because my daughter didn't make the honor roll."

4. "I should have bought stock in Exxon-Mobil."

5. "You think that's coffee?"

6. "That's not my girlfriend down there."

7. "Or my boyfriend."

8. "I have an alibi."

9. "His shoe size was a nine or a ten."

10. "I don't tip during mass."

Hunter S. Thompson on David Letterman 1983

"sugar tits"

I can only imagine that Mel Gibson jokes will be with us for awhile. While his anti-Semitic remarks were definitely a No-No, I still have a growing suspicion that that won't stop people from saying things like "Let's party like Mel Gibson." You know, with a bottle of tequila in the back seat and calling female officers "sugar tits."

Speaking of sugar tits...

Shotgun Blues

Showing visiting tourists from the Old Country how to shotgun a beer is a lesson in cultural assimilation. This goes far beyond heartfelt qualms about immigrants taking American jobs; oh no...remember they are tourists and it's not like they are overstaying their visas. It's about showing the dumb, depraved and above all, entertaining aspects of American culture to others. Tourists don't understand the concept of shotgunning a beer, at least I don't think many do. But I may be wrong.

"What for?" they ask.

"Why?"

Why? Since when has there been a reason to engage in complete stupidity in America? That's the beauty of it. There is no need for reason. There doesn't have to be a "reason." Just do it...and stop wearing Nike's. I hate Nike's, despite what the commercials say.

To us, punching a hole, preferably with a knife in the bottom of the beer can, then tilting your head back, snapping it open and sucking down the libations as fast as you can is normal. It goes without saying, it's one of the few things we learn in American high schools that has no virtual application in the job world.

But we do it. Or at least used to. This goes way beyond those strap-on beer bottle contraptions and way past industrial sized beer bongs. This is simple.

Sometimes you create a monster if you are an adept teacher of the arts of beer pounding.

"Let's do another one."

Geez--I haven't shotgunned a beer in so long. It was a nice re-visit. One has to remember that American culture is founded on getting things done bigger, better and faster.

Go, go, go!

Times change...now only $3.99

Hustler Humor

Here's a couple of old favorites from the pages of Hustler magazine during the 80s. These come from the February 1981 issue. Fun bar jokes if you ask me.

1. Question: What's green and yellow and eats nuts?

Answer: Gonorrhea.

2. The HUSTLER dictionary defines a cotton-picker as: a girl who lost the string to her tampon.

And I own that issue.

Aww-Shucks

Shoot, el presidente said "shit." I wonder where he learned such bad language? Listen, out of all the things that Americans should be concerned about...Noting the barrage of other slightly more worrisome things our president has done, him uttering the word "shit" is the least our worries. I would start worrying if he got taped on the mic saying something along the lines of: That's bull-fucking-shit, we gotta go over there and fuck some shit up. Hezbol...some bullshit, fuck it!

Hypothetically speaking of course, as sometimes the need to clarify is necessary.

That's what would worry me. Any "Party of God" that has an AK-47 on its flag/emblem scares me. But that's just me. Besides, Bush said it right, and I find that nothing shows more respect than proper pronunciation. Say it with me now kids, Hezbollah.

Besides, the word shit is a strong word. It's the All-American word. It's the football player that "won't take shit from anybody," it's the cowboy chopping down trees "watch out now, that shit is falling," and like it or not, it's our president saying he means business. As opposed to other times, when he's just shooting the shit.

I say get this shit off the news.

Bush shooting the shit with Bono

Why is the rum gone?

Setting sail to see the new Pirates movie wasn't difficult. Of course, I opted for the matinee because no one in their right mind should pay full price for a movie ticket. It's either a pack of cigarettes or the "privilege" to see what Hollywood has to offer. And those buggers are rich enough. Bloody pirates.

And like most American theater experiences, an adventure in and of itself, this one was no different.

I tend to sit at the wings of a movie theater. My local cineplex serves the type of people that would rather crowd in the center than take a left and lounge on the seats, balls out (if it were that type of a theater).

Which leads me to a few grievances I have. Now I know that I am not perfect when it comes to watching movies. But I do try to be courteous. I reserve my judgement for better occasions, such as this one.

Finding a seat is never easy. Especially when all the lights go off and one has to do that sleepwalk, hopefully no one will kick me in the shins thing. It's also amusing to me to watch fellow man battle the conventions that are imposed on us by the movie house.

Indecision, I find, is the number one problem when it comes to finding a seat. I've seen at least dozen people, ranging from kids to seniors, standing in the aisles like lost children, popcorn falling on the carpet, soda straw chewed into strange contortions, looking where to sit, while aisles to the left are fucking empty.

Sit DOWN! I'm watching the previews. I know they suck too, but come on.

Look...the screen is fairly large, so it's not necessary to sit dead in the middle. Live a little and sit where the empty seats are. So you can yell at your kids in the corner.

But live and let live I guess.

And you would think the cell phone problem was eliminated. Now the ringers are off, but if one takes a bird's eye view of the theater it looks like an Aerosmith concert--except the lighter it's the fucking BRIGHT phones, all shimmering in the dark, like a disorganized runway.

But I know that mostly everyone has some fits about the movie experience. Ranging from this "popcorn tastes like someone jizzed all over it", to "We're NOT FUCKING BUYING POPCORN," past the "Dude, those nachos reek like shit," to the "I gotta piss after 2 liters of soda."

Sometimes I am guilty of this. I find myself thinking, if there is a huge line, fuck it, I am not going. But then I think about the humanity aspect of it. I swear, sometimes you feel hostility in the air at the movies. Like as if we're not in this together, although we will laugh together. What happened? Perhaps it's the everything is about the money when it comes to movies these days.

What the fuck am I talking about...everything IS about the money...hence Pirates 2. Save the legacy speech for the children. And despite the whooping 135.6 million opening weekend, Disney will cut it's film slate from 18 to eight. Not only that, but Disney is yet to announce as to how many jobs will get slashed. Isn't that the same technique people use to teach dogs not to shit on the carpet? RUB his face in it.

But let's get back to the actual film. The movie is essentially the equivalent of Empire Strikes Back. It's the dark second act. Those pirates in Hollywood know how to sink a line and have you wait for next year. There, I must say, they got me. And like a fucktard, I will line up next year to see the final act. I have to. If you've seen the movie then you know what I mean. I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.



For this specific purpose, I chose not to watch the original before hand. I felt too much pirates is not healthy. I've even indulged in a bit of Myer's Original Dark rum to get in a pirate mood. I left the eye-patch at home.

I'm not sure what some critics want from a movie. I guess they want the movie to make them feel special or someshit. To quote Reservoir Dogs, what's special, taking you out back and sucking your dick?

Dead Man's Chest is on par. It's bigger, better and faster!

Then I came home, drank Mount Gay Rum by the barrel and watched the original.



Then mood changed and I understood.

I understand why certain movie critics didn't light up about Pirates. Compared to the first one, Depp doesn't seem to be having as much fun as he did before. Sure he is still Jack Sparrow. He is still hilarious, looney, perfectly exaggerated and still the main reason to go see Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, but a certain spark is missing. Perhaps the world was just a happier place when Hunter was around. Perhaps since the stakes are bigger, the Captain has to be a morose motherfucker. Perhaps, the pirate is destined to become the hero. Or perhaps the rum is gone.

Nonetheless, drink up me hearties yoho.

Bust

After an incident like this, what happens next? Who smokes it, snorts it or shots it? Err...I mean flushes it down the toilet or burns it.

Apparently, it's the most remarkable product.

Can you kick it?

Boy, somebody in Berlin sure has a twisted sense of humor. Last Wednesday, Berlin police arrested cement soccer ball pranksters. I guess somebody wasn't happy with certain game results. While soccer fever hasn't hit the U.S. in the numbers that most would hope, cement-filled soccer balls might be the answer when dealing with unruly soccer practice kids. It might catch on. Those kids have no decency when it comes to caring for clothes. Do you realize how hard it is to get grass stains out of white uniforms? Tide all you want, but only bleach has that stain removing power to get rid of blood out of white socks.

All joking aside, how fucked up and generally malicious toward humanity does one have to be to invite people to kick cement-filled soccer balls? Only in Berlin apparently. Pranksters.

The American Way

Time to ponder the American Way. Only on the Fourth of July does reflection about the things we take for granted in this beautiful country of ours apply. Yet as I stood in front of the charcoal grill, white smoke getting into my eyes, I thought about this "American Way." In truth, the American Way defies reason. It's completely illogical, hazardous to your health, and most like will have you dying before your time. Which is why most people, preferably from other countries, can't understand why we love (or loved) gas guzzling cars, twenty inch steaks slathered with A.1, light beer, fireworks and the Simpsons.

Because we can. We love to flaunt that idea of freedom in front of the whole world. As it should be. The thing the American Way taught us is that it is as much mine as it is yours. So we drive drunk in tin cans, eat high cholesterol foods, drop down from massive heart attacks and smoke two packs a day. Then we die. Of course we do. Then we learn not do drive drunk in tin cans, eat bad foods and smoke. But we learn or go sober. Because you have to feel a little bit guilty when you think about when it is your turn to quit all the bad vices. But quitting is also a part of the American Way. And if the world hates us because of our illogical arrogance...then so be it! We'll sing the Star Spangled banner drunk if we have to. Blurt that bad boy out and at the end of the first verse when it's time to ask if the flag still stands...You know what we'll say? FUCK YEAH it still stands and it's going to stand for a really long time.

So much for the American Way rant.

In the end the American Way defies reason because it is something that has to be experienced and felt and not written about. As today's Sun-Times editorial stated:

Americans recognize their country is something special; this is not hubris or arrogance, but an appreciation that the freedoms experienced by those who emigrated here from countries fraught by war, tyranny or terrible poverty are a beneficence that can be given nowhere else.

Perhaps the American Way is, much like cigarettes, a nail in our coffins. But we will die fighting for the right and the privilege to die righteously. (From clogged arteries, malignant tumors or diabetes reactions)

To me the American way is pretty much still the 70s version. The one that wasn't health conscious, but strung with brawn and brutality and above all, illogical macho. To me the American way had balls to say what we wanted, do what we wanted,smoke what we wanted,fuck who we wanted and die how we wanted. Just like now. It's still here. So wave THE flag.

Voices in My Head

Pooh Bear

This story is too awesome.

Photo from AP

I want fries with that

This is what we in America call progress. No wonder life isn't peachy. Fuck the minimum wage. Those fuckers don't need it. It's nice to see we're doing our job. Next up...immigration.

OK

We used to run after ice cream trucks.

F-Day

I don’t know when I started referring to my old man as Papa Koala. One guess is that I was riding some kind of a Vulcan mind melt high a couple of years ago and it seemed like a funny thing to say. I mean, koala bears tend to be very lethargic, plump and mind wise, fucked up on eucalyptus leaves. Kind of like my dad, except the last time he dipped into the eucalyptus stash was when he had a cold.

Papa Koala, or whatever clever moniker I try to slap on him, the man is after all my father. Daddy Man is knee deep into the FIFA World Cup this month, so there is no way of wringing the remote control out of his hands. That is if you can find the remote control, which as always, lodged in the bowels of the couch.

We call it soccer; the rest of the world calls it futbol. But since Father’s day is kind of a big deal in this country, the day went pretty much like I expected. While there was no “shrimp on the barbie,” there were many great porterhouse steaks; corn, potatoes, hamburger and brats, and anything else that clogs up your arteries and makes you regret those Father’s Day cookouts.

Then there was beer. Perhaps bliss is eating, drinking and then sleeping mid-afternoon out in the backyard. My pops has been sticking to that mentality for eons.

Then slowly but surely, the evening degenerated into what we in the household call, conversation. Sure, to others it may seem like angry shouting and poor choice of words. But I gotta tell you, there are only so many words that can illustrate love hate and need at the same time. “Tell your mother to stop smoking cigarettes and cook something!” Somehow, dad you just ate doesn’t cover the bases.

Here’s to Papa Koala anyway. Love that crazy coot.

Coffee

Good news for drinkers. And on this thirteenth day, of the sixth month, in the year of our lord, 2006, drinking coffee proved to be a more serious engagement that previously thought. I'd say more, but I'm ready to remodel the house after two pots of coffee.

Belated Bender Post

Editor's Note: Here's an account of the final days of the semester Chronicle style. It happened a few weeks ago, but I said I would eventually write this up. It's long and most likely not many will reach the end. But fuck it.

Renegades

At this point maybe Little Richard was right. All I need now is a long tall Sally. Have me some fun tonight.

It was time to ponder this rotten assignment. The week was a full blown booze fest, with people falling down and unable to get up. The thing to remember about a final week of the semester is that anything goes. The odds are against you and nothing is sacred; there are no barriers, and with this crazed, depraved outfit known as the Columbia Chronicle there were no borders left to cross.

At some point my mind had snapped and I was consuming large amounts of liquor and cigarettes. Not larger than usual, but usual enough that would make many suburban alcoholics proud. There was a purpose for this debauchery and it was all for a good cause. The cause for celebration came quickly and unanimously. Some can argue that a student newspaper has no place hanging around a place like the Billy Goat Tavern, a Chicago media hubbub. But I'd like to think otherwise--we've earned it.

Many hours later and I still have difficulties trying to piece together that Thursday, let alone a whole week. Good God I thought, is it possible to drink for that long? But that didn't matter anymore. What mattered was piecing together an accurate enough account of what transpired. With the help of others, mainly fellow editor D. Rock, debauchery of that magnitude would not be forgotten.



Thursday night. The staff of The Chronicle is celebrating a good semester by going out drinking at The Billy Goat. Since there is no paper to put out anymore everybody was supposed to meet at the office at 9:30 PM. I get there a little earlier, to gauge the scene and how it will change. High hopes, to be sure.

The office is buzzing with a savage hornet nest quality. There's an unusual amount of activity, people clutching brown paper bags filled with cheap malt liquor--that's how we roll. This pre-game ritual is only the tip of the iceberg. It all went downhill from there.

By a unanimous decision, the staff of the paper concluded that it would be cheaper to get to our den of iniquity via a fleet of taxi cabs. Our general manager was sponsoring this bash so everyone's hearts were dead set on one thing: Alcohol, and lots of it.

Most of the staff went first in the order the cabs arrived. We, apparently, were the last rung of the ladder. Some have taken to the streets, not wanting to sit and lie in wait; they hailed their own cabs to the tavern. Of course the remaining editors and I chose the same route. We hailed a cab, there were five of us, and managed to cram into a cab like sardines being shipped off to Bangladesh. I remember very little from the cab ride, other than the fact that raunchy behavior was at an all time high. The cab driver seemed displeased the fare was a five minute ride down Michigan Ave.

The Billy Goat is the world famous tavern made popular by a slew of celebrities, most notably SNL cast member John Belushi, as well as nationally syndicated Chicago Tribune columnist Mike Royko.

Royko would spend his nights at the Goat, often after work, shooting the shit with the other journalists of the time. To this day, the interior of the place is filled with a plethora of yellowed press clippings, along with photographs of other famous writers that made the Goat their home away from home.

Aside from this little history lesson, by the time we entered the place, most of the staffers were already there. Some were sitting down at the tables, chewing down enormous cheeseburgers and chasing them down with Old Style beers.

The mood was festive, to say the least and it is safe to say that The Chronicle began to take over the main floor. We were right smack in the middle of the action and other patrons were wise to finish their beers and relocate.

Yet despite the general ambiance, the real story was with the people. These were my cohorts, my people and while you have to give it to them that they work hard, they partied even harder.

There was the problem.

The main trouble with a story such as this is that it is difficult to take careful notes during such a depraved event. Most of us have lost their wits by now, from either too much pre-gaming or from the free booze that was flowing, what seemed like, out of a bottomless cup.

The Billy Goat staff couldn't keep up. As soon as I made myself comfortable one of the good boys brought me Old Style, which during the course of the night, would turn into servings of MGD, my personal favorite of the big three breweries. An immediate call for shots was issued and the poison of choice, a round of Wild Turkey's for those who could stomach it, appeared in front of the brave.

One of our advisers at the paper lives by one rule: Don't drink anything brown. It was great advice, considering that many were not following it. Still, he's been there and done that and he knew what he was talking about.

At first fear began to manifest itself. My first worry was how I would get home. I knew, right as the harsh brown poison burned its way down my throat, that driving was out of the question. From that point on, the progression of the night was documented on our faces. As our cheeks got redder, the conversations began to downgrade in quality, almost to the point where previous parties became the topic of debate.

As that old Budweiser commercial, we all loved each other, man. Grand toasts were made and many more were what seemed like at the time, issued as if they were edicts concerning the last great group of student journalists that ever sharpened their skills at the Chronicle. Most of that was true; even the master of ceremonies, the GM said many times over that in all his years there he's never worked with such a tight knit group of crazy fuckers.

Eventually the night disintegrated into many broken beer bottles and flashes of scenes. Two guys making out, one with the intention of making $10, which he did. While loopy people, drunken photographers and cute girls who obviously had their fill, staggered and swayed from one conversation to the next, I was trying to asses the situation, which proved difficult since I was having trouble lighting a match.

Who was I kidding, I was blitzed. By the time everyone began to call it a night (the GM eventually had to close the bar tab) we sprawled out into the night waving peace signs and giving out hugs, to each other mind you and not wasted winos.

Speaking of winos, I caught up with a few other equally hammered individuals who were spending the night at the editor-in-chief's new pad.

Then it began to rain and when we reached the pad, a nice place that he shared with two other roommates, he brought out a bottle of freshly opened Jim Beam. We did shots and he went to sleep.

As for the photographer and I, well that's a different drunken story. We tried to go to sleep, but the decision to press on and reach new lows manifested itself with the first shot. Needless to say, the man who let us crash at his place deserves a fresh bottle of Beam. Degenerates.



Wicked things happened early next morning. I had to attend the last class of the semester. Smelling like what I can imagine Nick Nolte did during his DUI bust, the photographer and I went to get breakfast.

"What do you mean I can't smoke here?" It's probably not nice to scream at a nice waitress.

"Oh YEAH!" That was the obnoxious sound (like in the Kool Aid commercial) that rush hour commuters got to hear repeadetly as we made our way back to school. Looking back at it now, perhaps we were out of control, but a new day was upon us and we had to attend Manifest, a graduation celebration.

Some binges end with the puke hitting the toilet, some binges end while sobering up in the can, while other binges deserve to be continued. So we pressed on. After class, this is a new day mind you; I went home, showered, changed clothes and returned for more, hangover like a motherfucker.

This was Friday, Manifest was in full swing and I had to hurry because Richard Roeper was having a journalism department sponsored conversation. I attended, naturally, but I knew that things would turn celebratory when the free wine showed up.

It was on like Donkey Kong. Roeper, always the cool guy, talked to future hopefuls. After it was over, I asked him if gonzo journalism was dead. He mentioned during the event that at the beginning of his career his literary voice was in emulating HST amongst others. Whether he was joking or not, when I posed the question to him afterward, he suggested that times are different and you just can't do what Hunter did anymore.

I smoked some cigarettes and poured through a bottle of wine after that. Then the Colt 45's came out. Then the memory got blurry. It's true what they say about malt liquor--it will fuck you up quicker.

Like before, there are instances of me turning into full blown Pollack battle mode and trying to con certain organizers into giving me more free beer. At the end of Manifest, which if I didn't mention it before, was a college sponsored celebration for graduating seniors that included live band performances as well as a "party under the tent" sort of thing, organizers gave out three free beers to every student who was of drinking age.

I immediately saw a loophole and scored Miller Lite's, which I shoved greedily into my bag, like a Polish kid who was predicting some sort of an alcohol draught. But they were onto me during my third attempt at scoring free beer.

Then D. Rock was, according to the photographer, "in bad shape." Perhaps the good Rock doesn't remember what happened during that night, but it involved him drunk as a skunk. We tried to help, the photographer and I, by pilfering nasty food from the tent. Like the true Polish crusader I made several rounds gathering up sandwiches for the man in bad shape. Apparently he woke up next morning, searched his bag and found a neat Ziplock filled to the brim with stale sandwiches.

We had to carry him to the train station. And he was a dangerous drunk, running into on-coming traffic, flipping people off while graciously screaming "Fuck You! Fuck You! You too, Fuck You!" But you can't blame or judge the poor bastard. He had one too many and considering that he was a newborn college graduate; I can safely vouch for him and say that he was justified in his actions. As for the photographer and I, carrying the poor drunken sap on our shoulders, getting a bit lost on the way due to listening to drunken directions sobered us up really quick.

"Don't give that to him," the photog said, referring to the 7-11 taquitos I bought. He was right; in that state he would puke probably all over us. Eventually D. Rock jumped into a cab, a fare he didn't pay since they didn't take credit cards, that took him to his rightful destination--the train station. Apparently Rock was on a much bigger binge than we were, but that is a story that he can document.

Graduating college happens once and while it wasn't my turn yet, I got to tag along for the celebratory part of the end of their journey. As far as accurately trying to document the trip, the real documentation showed up in the mirror following those two reckless days. It was a figure with unkempt hair, bulging eyes, bloated face; a real American hero of the drunken gentry. There was no point in continuing. A time of healing ensued.

Star

RAMBLINGS OF THE HIGHEST CALIBER….

Ever since school has ended my life has been taking a steady, albeit surly, slowdown into the realm of procrastination and just flat out laziness. It’s the worst possible condition to be in when you are an up-and-coming journalist. As one of my teachers and mentors used to say, “Journalism is not sedentary.” Yeah – you learn journalism by doing it. This is not journalism.

In fact, I would go as far as to say that what I am doing with my life is rather pretty sedentary. That word alone sends shivers down my already crooked spine. The reason it’s crooked is from lying in a prone position while reading the newspaper every morning. I used to call this the horizontal boogie but now I call it plain hideousness. I could be hooked up to an IV is what this feels like and it would be the same.

That whole philosophy that everything happens for a reason is for the birds. Yeah, perhaps, in some utopia fantasy land where people get the jobs they go after, everything does happen for a reason, but in the real world the whole argument is for the birds. Where is the clause that states that sometimes good people make bad decisions? Because not EVERYTHING happens for a reason, sometimes shit happens because, well, shit happens. Listen, everything-happens-for-a-reason-enthusiasts are positive and optimistic people who believe that in every bad there is a good.

Really? Fuck them.

So when I get pulled over to perform the sobriety test it’s kind of a dance for my freedom. And I dance. It happens for a reason right?

Here is something that happens for a reason.

To end this little asshole trifle here’s an ode about my old ex-girlfriend. She deserves every minute of it. I dedicate this to her. She did me wrong. Here is Bill Hicks from his Love, Laughter and Truth album:


“I’m driven by the fantasy that one day this girl whom I love in the world who she said she loved me and left; one day she is going to be living someday in a trailer park, somewhere in Alabama, living with this ex-welder, six hundred pounds, fur all over his back, drinks warm beer, farts, belches, beats one of the kids, watches the Dukes of Hazzard every fucking night and has to have it explained to him. She is going to have nine naked little kids with rickets that bring home dead animals from the side of the road to eat at night, burrows on their face, mud on their face, rats lying babies in their ears at night; one night that welder is going to be making love to her and he is going to be on top and suddenly his heart is going to explode and she is going to be trapped under 600 pounds of flaccid fish-belly cellulite, shifting like the tides of the ocean, as blood, phlegm and bile pours out of his mouth and nose into her face and just before she drowns in that tepid puddle of afterbirth, she’s going to turn to the Tonight Show and I’m going to be on it. So you see folks I am not bitter,” said Bill Hicks in that performance.

In the name of the Devil

So this is it huh folks? 6-6-6 rolls around and we go bonkers. Mothers don't want to give birth on this day (I guess there are times when the term "suck it up" applies)my cable goes out, the Omen is released and generally there is a lot of screaming about the Devil when there shouldn't be. I've met the guy. He's got some good ideas although he gest carried away sometimes. Fixation with fire and brimstone. Good dental plan though. Not a very nice guy.

But I made sure I made it through the day in order to comment. Just in case you know. In the words of Richard Pryor, the Devil a cold motherfucker jack. I could always die in a pool or some shit, choke on a pretzel, or get a bad case of DT's and jump out of a moving El Train.

By far though, while reading the Sun-Times this morning, I found this piece of news the most disturbing. And they wait for Devil day to tell us this shit.

So all this time waiting for not having kids is kind of a bad idea apparently. Fuck, if somebody would only tell me sooner. I should start spreading the seed when I can now. Otherwise my children might be dwarfs! And I love Snow White as much as the next guy, but can you imagine watching that shit with your dwarf offspring? And I stand corrected that I love midgets. And balloons.

The conversation would go like this when Dopey would do something well, dopey.

"See son, this is a work of fiction. You don't look like that. You're a beautiful baby boy. The Disney company is completely full of shit. They don't know shit about dwarfs. Hey what's with all the sneezing?"



So much for the Devil-may-care attitude.

And while Richard Roeper has something to add on the 6-6-6 fiasco, I'd like to think that it's ridiculous people would actually buy into this let's go see a movie today type of shit. He does piss on Ann Coulter in a sense and that is never a bad thing.

Yet when I step back and look at this anti-Christ sort of day, it doesn't matter that studios are trying to make money even today, Christmas is still the champion--nothing like blowing a wad (of cash that is) on useless shit in the name of the holiday spirit.

I am in a good mood after 6-6-6 because,apparently, a new study found the reasons for my nightly screams into the abyss, as I pour cheap after shave on my shaved face and get into a shouting match with my neighbors.


Explosive disorder?

"People with IED reported having an average of 43 outbursts in their lifetimes, resulting in an average of $1,359 in property damage. But only 29 percent had been treated for IED. And 82 percent had at least one other disorder, such as depression, anxiety and drug or alcohol abuse."

What kind of outburst are we talking about here? I'm still covering up the holes in the walls with patriotic flags.

There is more to be said about genuine rage but that will get documented after my next outburst:The kill-that-motherfucker's-loud-stereo-day. The Hulk ain't got shit one me.


*Editor's note: The Hulk, apparently, only gets his news from the Sun-Times

"Call Cobra"

My first introduction to the American culture happened in Poland. My grandma (she is dead now God rest her soul) was loaded with money. This was the 80s. She worked here for a while and made ample amounts of money doing what to this day is a mystery. Then she came back to Poland and lived frugally off the heap of green she made in the States. They called her Jewish for her frugality.

I was a bastard kid who beat up other 3rd graders if they started talking shit. This was pre-Compton; this was Polack land. But my grandmother bought a VCR back then. And my father, her son, used to borrow the NEC VCR from her on any occasion that he could. At that time, Poland was overwrought with VCR piracy. The uncontrolled piracy led to mass markets on Saturday’s where you could buy any movie that America carried for pennies. Listen, nobody is going to make a political stink if they can get their hand on a copy of RoboCop.

I still have the tape. Granted now it has a Denis Leary special recorded over it, but the first American movie I’ve ever seen was Cobra with Sylvester Stallone and Commando with the California Governor. Back to back, two action movies sparked my imagination of what life in America was like. I was naïve and I was perhaps 7 or 8.


Looking back at it now, since I now own Cobra on DVD, there was much to say about the American culture in that movie. America to me, at the time, was a place where supermarkets had everything and crime was rampant. But something was still alluring about the place. When that junkie criminal starts blowing up the place and Stallone takes a swig off the Coors beer can I knew that this was a place for me. I knew nothing about the “movies are bullshit” theology.

In the 80s when they showed you a supermarket on TV you had a hard-on bigger than Peter North starring in the North Pole, a volume series that would grow exponentially. The aisles were filled with beautifully wrapped products, ranging from Keebler’s cookies to marshmallows. And when you were a kid, you ate that shit up. This was the seed of the American Dream—Cobra.

Sounds pathetic now, but when I was growing up this was what America looked like to me. A place where seagulls flew by or hung loosely on the light posts and people lost their wallets when they were returning shopping carts. Toys R Us was king and Christmas was synonymous with the store. It was a place where pizza had a sense of novelty. It was a place when NBA basketball was KING and baseball was somehow second even though it’s not like that now. It was a place when 16-year-olds drove their daddies 76 Plymouths and made out at the drive-ins.

It’s a shame that all that innocence went away.

What is America now? We are slaves to gadget cell-phones. We wear and pay for faded jeans yet really old faded jeans are out of style. We talk and listen to music on our phones while our lives revolve around the e-mail address. Are we really better than anyone else? We’re a superpower that is struggling with being a superpower. America, with its excesses, is almost like Rome. And we all know that history lesson.

It’s hilarious watching a movie like “Air Force One” these days. The terrorists actually have a better point than we do in the movie. Gary Oldman’s character veers into a speech toward the end of the movie about murder. He says something along the lines of: Murder? Don’t talk to me about murder. You kill so many people around the world in the name of freedom that it is laughable. Murder? Who’s the hypocrite?

Now we know how far we go to be the next American psycho a song once said.

Perhaps the media is not doing enough. The media is supposed to be the watchdog of the government. But these days it seems like it’s not enough for the public to know what injustices are happening. We need to act. The truth is, the government knows how helpless the public is. In truth, the public can’t do shit. We can’t create change no matter how hard we try. Elections, write your congressman and all that shit is just bullshit posturing. Welcome to politics. Sure as a journalist I need proof right here for what I say. But this is a blog. A blog is a place that has gained negative connotations in the eyes of the media. No self respecting news service trusts blogs. It doesn’t matter what we say here, even though sometimes blogs are quoted by the AP. We in the blogosphere can say what we want, but in all honesty, we don’t count. It’s a shame. We’ve got something to say. We’re not useless.

Pick up these balls

You'll be sitting around the house, perhaps a beer in hand watching those housewife programs (Nanny, Roseanne or worse, The View) and that loathsome commercial will come on. At the time, seeing a vacuum cleaner pick up a 16 pound bowling ball yields only a slight chuckle.

Only later the sheer idiocy or rather, the essence of the commercial makes me re-think my TV programming. Granted, perhaps, should I ever be in a situation that will involve me trying to pick up my Woody Harrelson Kingpin bowling ball out of a bowling pin system and the power goes out, I must say I would yell "Get the Oreck!"

Since we're on the topic of absurdity, does it have to be a bowling ball? Can it be, say a 16 pound severed human head? What about a case of Moosehead, the beer, not the actual head (unless you saw off the antlers with a rusty saw)?

Yeah everybody bitches about the stupidity of commercials, so here are some things to have fun with.

If the commercial starts with a question, always say No. It defeats the WHOLE purpose of what follows. They assume you say "Yes" to shit like are you hungry or would you like to suck her tits? Shit, now that I think of it that might be a yes.

This one is from my pops who is a balding man. When he sees commercials about those fucking get your hair back commercials he switches that shit off real quick. Not cause he's bald, but because apparently he doesn't want THOSE assholes selling him this shit.

Luxury cars that apparently make you a better person. ONLY $49,999. Because when I AM crunching through a bag of Doritos, I look at the $0.99 on the bag and think "Fuck my life sucks, I'm eating Doritos, I could be driving one of these new babies." I'd like to drive one of those pussy-mobiles (read: Chick magnet), but not to a strip club but INTO a strip club. Just to see what happens.

My ideal car is from the 70s. Big two-door gas guzzling mother that peels out and has racing tires and those dual dices hanging off the mirror like a pair of cojones.

No wait a minute. I'll have an Oreck hanging off the mirror sucking one of those 16 pound bowling balls. These days you have to make a statement.

Jet Lag

Here's an interesting news item:

Apr 27, 2006: PRESS: Mexico's Navy plans to buy Russian SU-27 fighter aircraft


"The Mexican Navy plans to set up an air defense unit using SU-27 aircraft," the article says.

Here's the Flanker.



In fact, Mexico is actually ready to get these bad boys in order to form "the first strategic air control element in the country." Translation: Pinche Gringos.

I found this bit of news a bit interesting consideringg that Bush plans to build a fence around America. I guess world politics are always in the state of upheaval. What the hell does Mexico need air cavalry for? In the same vein we do, to protect their shit. They got oil fields too. Oh and you can party in Mexico. Cocaine is OK, to a certain extent.

That's my next vacation spot.

Oh YEAH!

"No man, this is grass."

This is what lazy people do.

Sleep. Lots and lots of sleep, all fueled by lots and lots of irresponsible behavior. Sure we can all get jobs, work a cocksucker shift and then go home and bitch to our loved ones about “how hard work was.” But the asshole thing to do is to stay home. Lazy people, the people who just finished their semesters, awaiting bigger and better things, somehow just spend their lives living in some sort of a bullshit infused fantasy.

But if there is anyone to talk about being lazy, especially since as Alice Copper said, school is out for summer, then it would have to be me. And I’m not the first one to claim that those couple of weeks after school lets out belongs to entirely to me. Many have said it to me. Some say they will major in “taking it easy.” Others say that the first two weeks will be dedicated entirely to the consumption of bourbon and other unmentionables. While those two are very noble exercises in the important, albeit health costly, search for the inner self, there is one more area that lazy people usually excel in. The topic of course is watching movies. And lots of them, I’m talking about 12 hour blocks of Blockbuster sponsored movie marathons, where the only exhaustion possible is a) eye exhaustion and b) the necessary function of going to take a piss, smoke, and sometimes shit.

So I went to that evil movie whorehouse known as Blockbuster and rented a few things. You know you have a problem with laziness when you call ahead to book a copy of Johnny Knoxville’s latest opus, The Ringer.

I do that. I call ahead. Because countless times I went to the video store and came out with the likes of Chronicles of Narnia or Rob Schneider’s Deuce Bigelow part 2. I’m lying; I would never succumb to Deuce Bigelow part 2. Now Jenny McCarthy in Got Dumped—pure gold—that’s a different story. I’m kidding of course, but the nights when you borrow shit turn out to be shit as well.

Jesus, let me tell you, I hate bad movies. That’s because you pay to watch them and they are unbelievable shit.

So I rented The Ringer.



You know, Johnny Knoxville was enjoyable when he was being, well, Johnny fucking Knoxville. Shit—I will come out and say that I enjoyed Jackass to its fullest stupidity. I loved those guys. Fuck, I bought CKY videos staring Bam Margera and Jackass season 2, but The Ringer is bad. Not entirely bad, seeing Knoxville act like a retard gets some chuckles, but in the end, I felt I was better off with watching re-runs of Jackass on MTV.

I admire Knoxville for one reason and one reason only. He was able to turn downright stupid shit into a paycheck. I respect him for that. I would love to hangout with the Jackass crew. Are you serious? Those fuckers are crazy and they know how to party.

On to round two. Hostel.

Now Hostel is the type of a movie that signals your mental imbalance just because you rented it. Granted it’s gory, twisted and it’s fucking sick, but it’s a well made movie. It’s a good movie, considering that Eli Roth, the writer and director, is in production of Hostel 2 right as we speak. Hostel is nice.

There is a surprise in my little lazy bundle and it is called Grandma’s Boy. Now hear me out. Happy Madison, Adam Sandler’s company, produced this little title for a miniscule box office success, but the movie is funny. It stars Allen Covert, the same guy you can see in virtually every Sandler movie. He was the caddie in Happy Gilmore and was featured in most of Sandler’s work.

Now he has his movie. And a lot of faces make cameos. Rob Schneider, no surprise there, makes it as well as Kevin Nealon.

But I liked it because it spoke to my generation. It’s a movie about game designers, no wait, stoner geeks who are game designers. It’s fucking hilarious. Comedian Nick Swardson steals every scene he is in. You gotta love the guy. Go get stoned with your buds and watch it. It’s a stoner movie.

And Munich will make you shit your pants. If you haven’t seen Spielberg’s Munich then you are missing out.

Munich is such a good movie that it makes Capote stumble on its speech patterns. The movie works and hits your “thinking caps” about the way Israeli Mossad has been taking revenge after the Munich massacre. It will knock your cocks off. Eric Bana is now a major actor. Daniel Craig proves why he should be the next Bond, that blue-eyed fuck.

In the end though, lazy people get to do what others don’t do. Jerk off to “Taboo,” watch stoner movies and drink large quantities of liquor. It’s not a lively life, but all lazy motherfuckers can relate to just chilling in front of the TV.

Why is IT talking?

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “This isn’t going to work.”

I mutter something vulgar under my breath and realize that my clothes are still on. I try to free myself from the plethora of crumbled up bed sheets but it’s all useless. I am helpless and this fucking headache is not helping. Remnants of a night gone by flash behind my eyelids like a dream that went nowhere. The phone is ringing and the machine gets it since I’m in no shape to walk, let alone talk.

Something awful is happening to me. How long has this nightmare been going on? A week? A couple of years? I sit up on the bed and fish my glasses from under the pillow. Perfect place, now that I think of it.

Reality is beginning to slowly hit me and The Bottle starts talking in gibberish, making rude gestures and flimsy accusations.

“Geez, what the hell do you want!” I scream.

Great work, keep talking to The Bottle, I’m sure it will answer. The Bottle in question is Wild Turkey and I realize at that point that maybe things are getting a little too hectic. Hey it started it.

“Maybe it’s time to start giving a shit,” The Bottle says. “Maybe enough is enough.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing man, just trying to say that you’re lousy company.”

“I’m lousy company? Fuck you Bottle! I’m hanging out with you!”

“Why are you screaming, am I screaming?” The Bottle says.

So what’s the drunkard wisdom today, I ask, almost sure that the thought of me having a conversation with an almost empty bottle of bourbon, in some states, is certified mental illness.

“Nobody likes a quitter unless they’re a sperm eater,” The Bottle says.

“What?”

“Nothing, just trying to get you out of bed to read the newspaper,” it says.

You know, waking up used to be good. The birds would chirp, the sun would shine through the blinds, right on your eyelids most of the time, and you would be happy. It was always fun having a warm body next to you. It’s the flip side when it’s a cold body.



I scratch my head and check messages. Then check e-mail. Then MySpace. Then visit CNN.com. Then turn on the news. Then take a piss. Then shake. Then watch Looney Tunes. Yosemite Sam is on. Sam was always the most stressed out of all the WB characters. Some would argue that Wiley E. Coyote was, but Wiley knew his position in life. Whenever he would take a plunge down a canyon he would have that “so what else is new” shrug, or a sign. Not Sam, you could see pure agony in that man (if you can call him that) as he was tricked into falling down or getting blown up. That’s because Sam is a human character, he knows what will happen. Varmints.

“Don’t eat the eggs,” The Bottle says.

I must be sleeping. If I would be a cartoon I’d be me.

I eat the eggs and I puke.

“Told you. I don’t go well with eggs in the morning,” The Bottle says.

I make coffee. I watch porn and comment on the bad acting. I actually try to dispute what they are saying. “I want you to cum in my mouth,” is blaring on the TV and I’m screaming “LIAR!” as I skim over the newspaper.

“You know you should be jerking off,” The Bottle says. And at that point I had enough. I pour a shot and like Wiley Coyote I shrug. The post semester celebrations will eventually turn to pure inbred alcoholism. I should have woken up quoting Thompson. “The possibility of a total mental collapse is very real now.”

I go back to sleep, playing it safe. This never really happened. But if it did, it would be something out of a cartoon. Anvil drops on my head.

“I don’t go well with anvil’s either,” The Bottle says.

Just because

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, unless you're wasted and you don't mind.

Brings back bad memories

So I could ramble on about the various parties I went to last week. Beginning with Monday at a bar called Monday's in Chicago, or Tuesday's decadence of my own, Wednesday at Spin, which unbeknownst to me at the time was a gay nightclub, or shit the culmination of events on Thursday which was the end of the semester party at the Billy Goat. Who knows—that Goat party was so crazy it deserves a post of its own.

But on a more somber note, a Chronicle photographer and I went to see United 93. Now before we get at the heart of this matter, the weather was in the 60s in Chicago that day. The sun was shining, kids were running into traffic (as kids do) and me and the photographer hailed a cab to catch a showing of this flick. From this day, he will always ask me why we went there. It's not that anything bad happened at the screening. No booze was involved and nobody got punched in the face. It was the sheer power of the movie that turned the rest of the afternoon into a farce, something Eugene Ionesco would call absurd.

United 93, the documentary style big budget drama, is the type of a movie that can suck the beauty out of everyday things—things like the playoffs or chasing skirt, or fuck, even chasing the story. And I say that and I mean that as a compliment because United 93 is such a powerful film that everyday things mar in comparison to the memory of that day. Prada Shoes, Virgin record stores, Millennium Park and Chipotle can all go fuck themselves when compared to something that actually means something. Granted, we all know the story of that flight. But the way that the film is made, with hand-held camera angles and real people who experienced it acting out what happened that day, mixed in with the confusion, despair and the harrowing climax is what will probably make this the best 9/11 film out there.

Originally when United 93 came out, I wanted to see it. That was it and that being three weeks ago; I faulted on that promise, hence the Billy Goat and the debauchery. But somehow I got a copy of the television drama Flight 93 and my 9/11 curiosity was sparked again. But I won't go into the details and I can say that both have its merits and high points, Flight 93 playing the emotional cues (read me crying like a bitch) and United 93—well that's a different story.

United 93 is disturbing.

Having seen it I must say that the movie resonates far after you leave the theater. I won't spoil it, but the ending serves as no payoff; it just makes you sit there, as the lights come on, forcing you to deal with the reality of what fucking happened that day.

Too Early? That whole argument that it is too early to have movies about 9/11 is horseshit. We have to watch, despite what a USA Today poll says. Families of those who lost their loved ones will obviously not be happy with big budget portrayals of those tragedies and they deserve all the respect they can get. But it's the public that needs to be reminded.

Even though we say "We will never forget" I have a hankering suspicion that a lot of us did. I have a hard time believing that a movie such as United 93 is being used as a way to make money. Sure it will. But it's probably Oliver Stone's WTC that will take that honor. United 93 is meant to show you the horrors on that plane that movies made for television can't. That's the point. You pay to get disturbed.

Sure even the cynics will say that 9/11 is so five years ago and we should get over it. Bullshit. Letting time heal wounds is one thing—a privilege reserved for the families who suffered—but for the rest of us, we need this.

There is no glory in watching this film. As my cohort put it, this movie makes you feel like shit. Indeed. And it's not what you see on the screen that does so, it's what you see when you leave the theaters, on the street that does.

People are living this weird safety laden life now, some even sick of thinking about 9/11. Does the movie reinforce our hate of terrorists? Possibly it does, but not in its portrayal, since the film does a good job in not dehumanizing the hijackers, but in reinvigorating our previous hatreds—mainly we hated being attacked then and we would hate to be attacked now. I have no sympathy for the devil as much as I have no sympathy for the fuckers who crashed planes into our buildings. But the movie suggests that they had their religious agenda, albeit faulty by some of our religious standards (by my standards is another story, a story filled with violence and no remorse), and the heroes of the flight had theirs: Survival. That's what makes the movie powerful. We can listen to the phone calls over and over again. We know they, as one passenger puts it, did not want to be there, but it's the experience that counts.

The movie makes you feel like shit because you see yourself in others on the street. You yourself have forgotten. You did. Life goes on as usual on the streets. It's not like that for the families of the tragedy. Life is not the same. But I'm getting preachy.

Walking past yuppie stores and fancy diners down Michigan Ave. helped to reinforce that idea. We have no clue where we are, we read what's on the news with a grain of salt and then talk about it over drinks. We are far away from the day that changed everything. We are so far away that we ourselves have been changed, blinded by technology and gadgets, we are just sort of there, experiencing it all like a fly on the wall—not a good shape to be as citizens—that's a journalist's job.

My 9/11 experience lacked any drama but all tears and rage. I was on a subway train when some commuters talked of a plane hitting the WTC. Then more commuters came in, talking the same shit. Then a bum came on begging for change. And when you saw it live on TV, that second plane smashing into the second tower you were like: WHAT THE FUCK! And then there was silence. Complete silence. Nobody said a word. You knew this was different.

Everybody knows where they were and what they did. 9/11 is my generation's Kennedy Assassination. No shit we can't forget it. Our futures are based on this single event and the political mess that spawned on from it . Was it revenge that made the administration do what it did? Perhaps. Was it the sudden need to act? Who knows?

Politics are different issues though. We can skewer and squander, talk and compromise, issue rebuttals and commentaries and so what? What happened afterward—a giant political mess, a war, and no hopes for the future?

But we, as Americans, are still collecting on the chain of events that started it all on that faithless morning in September. Is it too early to be reminded? No. Listen; if we are keeping count of Mickey fucking Mouse's birthday, then we deserve to be reminded of 9/11 from time to time. And I live in Chicago, the home of the Cubs, so don't talk to me about hope. Hope is all we have here. Let's stop talking and bullshit and God, as silly as it sounds try to fix something. Next stop immigration debate. Then the bus veers of the turnpike into the unknown.

We're a long way off from the moment where Will Smith lights up a cigar and calls it a "Victory Dance" as he did in Independence Day. We're doomed.

Hotline

Disorder Hotline

Brother Grim

Sometimes sitting there in the Bunker, beating away at the old Royal, brings weird questions into your head. You wonder why we’re slaves to technology. You think about writing on an old typewriter. But most of the time you’re thinking about getting head from some cutie you met in a nightclub last night.

Besides, the reason why I was pulled to the typewriter like a carriage horse is because the computer ate shit and died, in my head at least. It’s not that computers can’t be fixed, but because I always try to do the fixing myself. I’m sure there is a way to resuscitate this broken beast. Fix it up. Do something that yields a Beavis and Butt-Head style “Ugh.” I fuck around with the computer registry. Big mistake. But eventually you learn what is what and thanks to geeky advice that you pilfer from your friend’s internet connection you manage to get it working.

And then you think about death and how fragile life is. Then you die. No matter what career we will eventually embark on, there is a definite end to all of this. Cheerful, isn’t it. Death, that grim brother is always waiting in the shadows. Which is funny to think about because that means Death hangs around with everybody. On the toilet, at a party, in the bathroom, on the couch watching Real Time—Death is always there. You’ll be eating cereal on a Saturday and you’ll feel a tingle on the back of your spine and it’s just Death farting.

Plus you know Death, yes the Grim Reaper, parties. I once saw Death do a beer bong. And not just a regular beer bong. I’m talking about a big plastic contraption, PVC tube, dual carburetors—lots of fun.

Because what is there to do for Death but to wait for your sorry ass to get to “that time.” But while she/he waits, I say quit staring it in the face and have dinner with it. Why not? Could you imagine? Try eating a steak dinner with Death.

“That’s not beef, Bob. It’s actually Steve.”

You could be roomies with Death. Of course, you would have to have rules.

“How many times did I tell you to keep your scythe away from the razor blades?”

“You know if you weren’t such a motherfucking Chewbacca lookin’ nigga then you would learn something,” Death would say. “I have a scythe to work with. It needs to be cleaned and sharpened often. Your ass will fall thanks to this scythe. I’m Death motherfucker! Wash my cloak you bastard. Always bitching about razor blades.”

Living with Death, come on now, could be fun. You know rent is covered. Insurance? Death has no liabilities.

Now does Death take syrup on her/his pancakes? Like Travis Bickle perhaps?

That would be the irony; you chewing on a bloody stake while Death is eating croutons telling you might die from a clogged artery or that your cholesterol is way up.

Remember Wisconsin Dells? That Noah’s Ark Theme park? White water rafting with Death would be a hairy experience. Him and his scythe, that hood. Here’s a ride…plunge to your death. Come to think of it there was a ride called The Plunge. It works for the kids.

Must be this tall to smoke cigarettes. This tall to drink beer. This tall to sleep with a supermodel. This tall to get midget benefits.

Hanging with Death could be fun.

Drinking with Death would be a trip. He’d tell you, eventually, when you will die. And then you would begin to live.

Down with CC

Tuesday night at the Chronicle.

Dead silence. No real surprise there since there is no more paper to put out this semester. The place feels like a cold dead morgue. Complete with cadavers and white sheet. No more drunken talk over martinis, which if we really think about it, were pints of Steel Reserve High Gravity Lagers. No more worry about deadlines. Oh yes the deadline is a crucial part of any journalist. Without it not many are able to function. With it many go crazy trying to get by. But it is a necessary part of any journalists’ genetic make up. It’s so crucial, really, that many of my colleagues would not be able to put their socks on without it—which is why some leave a clean pair at the office, preferably on the window sill.

The deadline is what made old school journalists have a bottle of rye in their wooden desks. Now it would be Zima and gladly that's not the case. It's still Rye.

I was done with deadlines also. An event that made me cream my pants, lose all control of other bodily functions and crave large quantities of cheap malt liquor—not necessarily in that order.

Much will be missed about this particular brand of journalists that The Chronicle has produced. For one these people are maniacs. Not one of them can be certified as sane. Mostly everyone is crazy in their own way—which is the way it should be.

More needs to be said on this matter. But I need to save up for booze.

PS. Bulls lost. Chicago still is the same.