The Grind

The grind was already getting to me. School hasn't even been in session for two weeks, and already I look at the horizon and think about the possibility of burning out. The morning frenzy combined with midnight restlessness, as we all ducked back into the subway trains, back in the crawl, was something that could not be described in words.

Some people live their lives in this fashion. Stuck in the life of a termite, they pedal around with their cell phones without a care in the world. I'll eventually get one of those evil and twisted inventions. To think that I've never had a pager - I guess now would be too late to start. Time to jump into the rat race.

But life has a tendency to mix the sweet and the sour. I was part of a paper now. I had business cards. I had a desk and a monitor with my name on it. I worked under managing editors and praised the copy editors.

It was a weird combination of team work, infectious laughter, and occasional raunchy fests, that probably shouldn't be printed here.

But the beast lived within. Sure - it would be easier to be guided by reason, free will, and the desire to get better. At the crossroads again, a fork in the road. Few days without booze, and already feeling skittish like a Stallion on a bad day. No more crutches?

No safety nets will shield me from the vile and the bad, the good and the nasty, the gruesome and the wholesome. I'm still waiting for a moment of clarity. In some respects I've been waiting for this moment, unconsciously, for quite some time. Years under the belt. Days and weeks wasted trying to crawl out of a bottle that never wants to end. Different times, different needs, and still I don't know if I'm crawling back in or crawling the fuck out.

Whatever. The comeback is that much sweeter. The tide was sweeping me back into the sea. For some this was a genuine place to be. Others felt lost in this muck. I felt at home, notwithstanding the bad weather.

?

Was it a full moon last night?

Beer Bongs...Classical Music...and Chuck.

I dig through my old school treasure chest; push the Daredevil comic books aside, past the Spiderman collectible card collection, past the Judge Dredd number one, past the issues of Spiderman Magazine, and I find what I am looking for. This purple plastic contraption, known to some as HeadRush, makes my day. The amounts of memories that are instilled in this little invention are innumerable. After all, this is the beer bong, which I used on numerous previous occasions, to get myself and my friends to that better place. I wash the purple piece of plastic with hot water. Then I insert the lime green tubing into an MGD beer bottle, cock my head back, let go of the carburetor, and let the full beer flow into my belly. Tastes so good when it first hits, as Will Ferrell said in Old School; but that’s enough for background.

After that, the cigarette was hanging loosely off my chapped lips and I was listening to classical music on 98.7 FM. Ahh – yes- the good radio kept me company as I worked my way through a pack of refreshing Newports. It wasn’t the type of night that screamed out self-destruction, rather, it was the type of night that whispered silent recollections and suggested possible solutions for the new days to come.

Glancing at the Sunday headlines, I wondered why I didn’t even bother with paying attention to sports today. Football has lost its flavor. Sure – we knew who was going to the Super bowl. But coming off from a Chicago Bulls win a few nights back, a rarity these days, I knew I had no more time to waste paying attention to that shit. And while paying attention to alpha males wearing giant helmets invigorated my spirit, I opted for something different. I watched a Wes Craven movie starring Christina Ricci.

It was the same type of feeling that I experienced when I watched sports. Nothing was changed. Nothing was solved. I thought about tomorrow. It would be yet another interesting day in the office tomorrow. It would be the first day of the new semester. I had no books. I had no clue as to what the future would hold.

Then I realized what I was listening to. Fuck – it was opera type of programming. They were screaming while I was yelling obscenities. How long could I maintain composure? How long before I switched to “mullet rock” as one of my friends suggested? Time would only tell, as I tried to figure out what this new semester would bring.

In all honesty I was hoping for mayhem on the streets. I was hoping for brutal and savage werewolves stalking the campus; clawing their way through prey; reading our paper, then coming after us to pick on us. Claiming grammar errors and wicked points of view, they would tear us to shreds. I hoped a medical emergency would take place, thus, canceling class. I wondered if chocolate pudding would alleviate the situation.

But I recuperated. Mozart was born 250 years ago this month, according to what I’ve read in the Sunday Sun-Times Showcase section. Sure – it was a useless fact, especially since I tuned into classical music stations on my way to work in my shitty car rather than on Sunday nights.

Why this change? How did I go from Kid Rock’s “American Badass” to Mozart’s symphonies?

I guess I was looking into the quieting of my soul. My soul, of late, has been crying and screaming at the same time. Screaming about Alito and crying about privacy invasion. The soul wanted more action. It wanted me to do something interesting; something that would reawaken the senses and make sweat a new part of my vocabulary.

But I wasn’t talking about a night in the brothel, where sweating and panting came together. I was talking about ideas that were worth mentioning by the water cooler to my colleagues at work. But I knew that none of that would happen. A good book would surely save me – but a night with Moby Dick was not what I had in mind.

On that note, Charles Bukowski called; he wanted me to finish reading The Post Office. He said that drinking has its place. He said that we need to be more vigilant when it comes to opportunities.

But then amid the classical bullshit something changed. And it was all different.

“I’m hot blooded! Check it to see! I have a fever of a 103,” came blaring through the speakers. I’ve had enough. 97.1 FM was just a few clicks away. And then all the hell broke loose.

In the middle of my beer, a giant, sweaty, musty, gray and old werewolf came crashing through the kitchen window.

“Fuck!” I screamed, while taking a drag of my cigarette. Apparently he wanted my soul. He wanted blood. He wanted to eat porterhouse steak tonight, and I was the steak. I told him I cooked already but he didn’t listen. He just sort of growled at me and sent my casserole flying through the air.

“That took me two hours to cook!” I exclaimed. But the dumb beast just stood there, trying his best Wes Craven tricks on me. I told him to go fuck himself and then we drank beer. He pulled up a chair and like that one smart gremlin from Gremlins 2: A new batch, he started speaking very eloquently to me.

“This house gets drafty doesn’t it?” he said. “You must pay a lot of money for the gas bill.”

I agreed; what else can I do. We all pay mad money for heating in Illinois. That mangy mutt told me to chill the fuck out, can you believe that. He told me to let the arena greats of the 70s play louder.

I thought about Teen Wolf, when Fox says something along the lines of give me a barrel of beer. Or was it a keggar? I thought about Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band.

His name was Chuck the werewolf. He was an asshole. He was one of those guys who drank your beer but never threw out the bottles into the trash. That type of asshole. He just left it all around, shedding his fur. I told him to grab more beer; he complied.

He disappeared for ten minutes, and after he came back he told me he robbed the nearest liquor store.

“Which one?” I asked.

“The one across the street.”

“The Hindus?” I protested. “That’s where I shop you dumb shit!”

“Relax – I only scored the beer. I didn’t eat anybody.”

I had enough. I took a long drag off my beer. The idea of talking to some immoral werewolf was too much. Then he began quoting Confucius:

“Everything has its beauty but not everyone sees it.”

Then he told me to get my shit together in the upcoming semester. Then he told me that talking to a werewolf is not normal behavior. He suggested Zoloft but I declined his offer. The pills just started to bounce off the white tile.

He said something about knowing the truth. I told him to watch CNN or BBC.

Chuck went into a long spiel about Keno and that it is not a good idea for Illinois. But when I told him that I don’t gamble, he scoffed, and went out of the same window that he came crashing in through. I told him I don’t have a cell phone – but he didn’t care. He said he would call me on the payphone. My type of beast.

And he was gone. He was an intelligent beast that preyed upon the weak; a brutal force that slashed at your neck, hoping to slit the jugular, only to come back and eat your remains. Good thing I had beer.

Surprisingly Bob Seger came on the radio. Strange how the night moves. Strange indeed. Night moves – yeah right. Chuck left a mess in the kitchen but I didn’t care. He shot gunned a few beers, even though they were bottles. I taught him how to get a head rush. He loved it. After he left, I howled at the moon. Then I told my dog, Zuza, to shut up. No room for that nonsense now; we had enough of it already.

Then the Rolling Stones came on and I knew that I too, was born in a cross-fire hurricane. Jumping Jack Flash indeed.

Ponies

The day went by like every Sunday should. And by that I mean that every Sunday should begin with a shower, aspirin ingestion, a Sunday beef stew followed by a heavy dose of Wild Turley to complete the ordeal. Fuck – I made the stew myself so that took a healthy part of the day. I have stew recipes floating around in the back of my head, but this time I decided to try something new. In fact, it wasn’t a stew per see, but a skillet steak with gravy, with scrumptious potatoes to add to the mix. Ya know what I’m talking about – heart attack central.

Also – the Chicago Bears played a disappointing football game; a game that I wasn’t too thrilled about, despite Chicago media’s futile attempts. But there was nothing else to watch on a Sunday afternoon. It was either the Bears game or a repeat viewing of the movie Red Eye, which by the way wasn’t that bad. That chick, Rachel McAdams is great. Not even that she is hot, but because she is a decent actress. She looks like my ex-girlfriend. That’s probably why I watch her damn movies. Just to be able to say that stupid shit.

But the media hype began last week, with the pages of Sun Times being overridden by various columnists saying that this year’s Chicago Bears would end up in the Super bowl. Defense, the Chicago defense, they screamed. So when I kicked my way out of the plethora of bed sheets under which I sleep, and took a piss, the only thing on my mind was the fucking game.

3:30 PM – the Kick Off. The Bears. I had to get ready. I had to look semi decent for the game. Nothing special you see, but I find it to be bad luck to watch a playoff game in one’s boxers, hair unkempt, a wino stubble, maybe a robe on, cheering a professional team on, with hordes of broadcast journalists doing their jobs, while I sit on my fat ass commenting about how chubby Troy Aikman has become.

So I picked up the Sunday Sun Times from my door in my boxers. The condom version, since I have the subscription, so I have to pull that orange plastic rubber off it whenever I read the paper.

But when I opened up the Sunday Sun Times I knew that the Bears would lose. The front page was jizzed on with various sport analyses. This apparently was a big deal for Chicago. Granted, I’m not an avid football fan, but I do enjoy many drunken people cheering for a Chicago team. Plus this was the playoffs.

But this was different. The game, while not spectacular, did have me cursing at the TV, while checking on my stew, and making fun of the barrage of commercials that played. In few instances, I thought we had a chance. But these faithless hopes were quickly diminished when Carolina scored another touchdown.

At one point in the game I chose to worry myself with the so-called stew that I was brewing rather than following what Rex Grossman was doing.

But the game is over now. And the Chicago Bears only proved what I thought of them from the beginning. That they are one of those teams that give people giant sweaty hardons, without jerking us off to the climax. I wanted to blow one on Carolina Panther’s helmets, but alas, to no avail. There I sat with a giant rubbery one, hoping something would happen, only to be disappointed, with blue balls, thinking that I should have bet against the fucking Bears. Some cash would have blown my wad. Surely it would.

But this is professional football. And as Thompson used to say, you never bet based on your emotions. Which made me think about the idea that the Bears have won all those games during the season using Kyle Orton, but all of a sudden Grossman became the better pick, and that the Bears were better off using him.

After the game a friend of mine called, told me the exact same thing. Which only reinforced my ideology; why use Grossman when with Orton we won all those games?

But fuck it – it’s over.

Shit – the stew is on fire.

The only good thing that came out of the Sunday was that I missed church and made some good ass steak. It wasn’t even a stew, since I was using some alien recipe from the internet, which I pilfered during half-time. The recipe called for simmering the beef for two hours in water, but I knew better, so I used beef broth instead. Cooking is like writing – you have to take risks.

I pilfered a bottle of Wild Turkey from the supermarket. I knew I would need it eventually. And after the Bears lost, I knew that the only way to deal with this media induced nightmare was to drink.

After all, the Martin Luther King holiday was almost upon us. No work, no school, and no nothing, except the valuable time needed to recover from a Sunday gone bad.

After the meal, which was delectable by the way, I decided to retire to my room. Lock myself up with a bottle of Wild Turkey, some classical music, and some of Charles Bukowski’s works. I’ve been reading Bukowski avidly lately, and him talking about going to the race track made me think about my ventures into the track.

The fact was that I’ve never been to a race track. There’s one right by my house, maybe a five minute drive, but I’ve never bet on the ponies. This would need to change, I thought, as I looked into my wallet.

That’s it. I will go to the race track. Probably lose what ever I come in with, but that’s not the point. I want to experience the ordeal. The odds can’t be that bad. If I manage to get there a few days a week, bet on the same odd, sooner or later, there will be a winner.

Plus it’s all about the atmosphere. According to Bukowski, you meet some strange characters there. That’s what I need. Maywood here I come you filthy bastard. The ponies. I need to bet on the ponies. The smell of horse shit in the air – the place must be magic. Live like you mean it. See you there.

Final Frontier

Resolutions

Oooooohhhhh yeah. You can smell the righteousness in the air. 2005 left with a bang, and for some of us, those that like to partake in libations until early morning, the bang could have been a drunken fall, a crazed and undiluted New Year's Eve party; complete with fog machines and strobe lights and gallons of champagne. For others, the bang was literally sex with a drunk person, of the same or different sex, name your preference, that most likely turned into the first new year resolution.

Welcome to 2006. It's kind of late to be screaming about the New Year now, especially that we are well into it, but I always considered myself a late riser. Plus, you know how long it takes to get your shit together after the holidays? Too long. First of all you have to mentally prepare yourself for the coming year. You have to think about what mistakes you don't want to make, which bar tabs you won't pay, and what 80s t-shirt has really gone out of style. You have to get rid of the Christmas ornaments, without breaking them nonetheless, and tie the tree lights in such a mess, such intricate patterns, that come next Christmas you'll be cursing the asshole that put the lights away. As you do every year.

"WHAT KIND OF AN ASSHOLE PUTS AWAY CHRISTMAS LIGHTS IN THIS FASHION!?! IT'S A GIANT BALL OF GREEN. FUCK!"

And then the resolutions come.

This year I didn't bother with resolutions. Sure - some of us are attached to that idea like a drunk to a half empty whiskey bottle. But others feel that making resolutions is useless. A resolution, to me, suggests that a change in behavior is necessary. This to me carries with it a certain sense of guilt for one's actions. Hence statements such as "My New Year's resolution is to quit drinking." Bullshit. I have on numerous occasions slurred those words as the clock struck twelve, only to be drinking the very next day. It doesn't work. It needs to be rethought.

So now I just pose suggestions for myself, albeit, I may or may not choose to follow them. My first personal suggestion is to try to cut down on the various belligerent and depraved behaviors and off color ideas that result after the consumption of alcohol.

Those dumbfounded ideas usually carry a great deal of consequences. Never get into any conversation that ends with "I dare you." Those sad conversations should be over by now. Otherwise you end up jumping through glass windows, play hockey in the rain, skateboard to the liquor store, hit on girls out of your league, and generally embarrass yourself when you hear about the events the next morning.

No more blackouts.

No more writing specifically about drinking. And when I say that I essentially mean that posts shouldn't start with:

"My eyes were feeling droopy, and a cigarette, a Marlboro, was hanging off my lips. I remember saying something to myself that I couldn't even understand. A bottle of Jim Beam was sitting next to me, and it whispered the term "shot" so I poured myself one. It tasted like rank water now, with just a hint of that aged in oak barrels taste. Who is going to save me now?"

There is no need for that sort of writing. Although it worked for Bukowski.

Some other suggestions to keep in mind. Pay parking tickets. Meet sexy beasts. Chase more stories worth chasing. Generally chase more skirt. Invest in a stock portfolio. Start a fight club. Ride with the Hell's Angels. Read items worth reading. Engage in stimulating conversation that doesn't end with "I dare you." Become a better asshole that asks a lot of questions - i.e journalist.

But as I've mentioned before this isn't a 5-year-plan, merely a few suggestions that should guide me on my evolving trek through the neon wilderness. They may, and most likely, will be broken.

And any reporter should equip himself in the necessary tools. Pens. Lots of them. Notepad and press badge. Leather shoes - fuck why do they call it leather shoe journalism? A tie, so you can quote Arnold Swarzenegger from the Predator and say stupid shit like, "What is this fucking tie business?"

And a tape recorder. Now remember - no digital. We're shooting for that fedora wearing, bourbon smelling, press card in the hat type of shit here. Cell phones are optional, unless you want to be all old skool about it and use pay phones.

Condoms, although I rarely hear about journalists getting to use those on the job to get the story. Fuck it - use them as a calling card. Say you're with the Trojan bureau, and you need to examine the situation immediately.

Get a monkey suit.

Hence my New Year's resolution deals with being more press oriented, less soused, and more respectable, even though that idea was swallowed by a different resolution from a few years back that screamed "have even more fun."

I'm beginning to reach an age in which new resolutions are used to cancel out the old ones.

But as Graham Chapman said from the Monty Python movie "And now for something completely different," this tirade is getting silly. Silly and meaningless. We all know we don't keep our resolutions anyway. You know how much hard work goes into changing a behavior?

That would mean we would have to think before we did things. Silly indeed. Time to move on.