Random

Random Q's: Did you ever drink orange juice right after brushing your teeth? Tastes weird doesn't it. Did you ever get fooled by seedless mandarins only to realize they were chock full of seeds? How come the radio is only worth listening to in the car? Did you ever brew your own beer and went out to buy a six pack of Bud anyway? Who do garbage men give their garbage too? Did you ever eat at McDonald's only to regret it right afterwards? How come Dunkin' Donuts never gets my coffee right? What's the deal with finger cots?

How sad was this?

Debauchery at the ICPA

The hazy remnant memories from the Illinois College Press Association convention have fermented in my head until I was sober enough to think straight. What happened? This was the good and genuine question which most likely most of the editors at the Columbia Chronicle were asking themselves.

What indeed? Coming off from a long production Thursday night, with virtually no sleep, the Chicago freeze was the least of our worries on Friday. Getting to the Holiday Inn, the place where the convention was held was only half of the battle. I managed to check in with no problems-thanks to our general manager's perfect organization-so I gave them what they wanted: Name, rank and confirmation number. And then the nightmare started.

It was the type of weekend gateway that will be remembered around the newsroom for quite some time. We were all dressed like professionals, and in the beginning nobody could have suspected that this band of calm and collected individuals would throw one of the loudest and wildest parties of the evening. One thing was certain-the Chronicle meant business.

Even Greg Kot, the keynote speaker and famed rock and roll reporter at the Chicago Tribune agreed. "That's what journalists do," he said. "We put the paper to bed and then we go drink."

One of the reasons we were all dressed like dapper dan's and dames was because we had to interview with potential employers for future positions in the field. The competition was fierce - so we dealt with that pressure in any which way that we could.

But by the time all of the interviews were over, a certain unease filled the air. Edgy and thirsty, we couldn't wait to get out of our neck ties and shiny shoes. We wanted strong drink, stronger music, and more pressure relief. The sixth floor, our floor, was rowdy. The Holiday Inn staff should get most of the credit for not losing their cool when dealing with a bunch of silly drunk college newspapers reporters.

I had three gin martinis under my belt during an all-staff Italian dinner. Others had more. But at this point it didn't matter what you were drinking. What mattered was the uncontrollable laughter and infectious smiles that filled the restaurant. Everyone, at least I think, had a good time there.

The whole convention, in retrospect, felt like the carefree days of high school. Giddy and silly, stoned, stupid and loud, we made the best of the two day outing. Without a doubt we were the most fun-loving bunch of thrill seekers there that day. Either that, or others took the conventions much more seriously that we did.

The awards ceremony was looming over our heads like a thorn in our sides. Everyone needed to attend-but the question was in what shape would we get there? Would we crawl on our knees with our press passes between our teeth? Would someone pull out a used condom out of their pocket when giving a tip?

But deep in the night, roaming the halls of the hotel, I counted down the minutes before security would come knocking on doors. We were cooked up in a two bed hotel room with a dismal view. Filled to the brim with people, some sitting on the beds, others on the floor, the memories started to disappear after that.

Somebody was screaming. Somebody was crying. Somebody was surly getting laid-but who? But what happens at the ICPA stays at the ICPA, forever immortalized within the college newspaper lore.

At some point, some of us, have degenerated to the level of dumb beasts, wandering the boiler rooms of the hotel, and filling bathroom sinks with ice to cool our Old Styles and Bud Lights. We were sinking into madness and good times faster than Gary Busey.

Naturally we couldn't smoke in our hotel rooms, and the degenerates wanted nicotine to surge through their veins-so we opted for the bar downstairs. I remember the bar, but only slightly. I'm pretty sure some of the other papers thought we were out of control. But why lie. We WERE out of control. We were a train wreck heading for a formal ceremony, where prestigious awards were being given out for excellence in journalism.

So we were ready.

Looking hugover and battle hardened, I found it funny that we left the event having won first place in the general excellence category for a non-daily student newspaper. We won more awards, but the question was, were we the best paper in Illinois? Maybe yes or maybe no, but those who work hard get to party even harder. And so we did.

But back to the matter at hand. We were happy drunks, and I remember leaving the party scene trying to crash another party somewhere upstairs in the hotel. I took the elevator and as soon as I walked in into the competition circles I knew that we were dealing with hired geeks. There was no party, just a bunch of kids surfing the net and relaxing. I guess other papers have a different definiton of "party." Maybe they're more professional than we are, after all, we're hired geeks too. I left the room in a storm back downstairs.

At some vauge point people were calling each other assholes and the carpeting was soaked with beer and semen. Well maybe not semen, but testosterone was definitely at an all time high. Some couldn't keep their eyes off low cut blouses, pretty skirts and pretty faces.

At the bar downstairs the situation was getting desperate. Numerous warnings were given out about not bringing your own booze into the place. At almost six bucks per beer we had our reasons. But I made it a point to talk with someone and explain that at least we had the right to smoke in the bar-we were registered guests. He agreed.

But we couldn't keep our cool and were 86ed out of the place shortly after last call. We didn't want to leave apparently.

I remember roaming the bowels of the hotel with curiosity overcoming my senses. One of the last standing reporters and I have found a rouge elevator that took you down to the lower levels. Having been a maintenance man before I did this, I knew every building complex has a lower level, including a boiler room.

The doors of the elevator opened and we peaked around the corner. There he was, a janitor, with his back turned, mopping the floor. We chose to go the other way, like spies, like James Bond-like lurkers. Was this tresspasing or just drunken irresponsibility? We weren't out to do any harm. In fact, the only reason for this was because everyone else was sleeping in their hotel rooms and we didn't want to wake them with our desire to drink. So more beer ensued.

We found an empty conference room, where we sat drinking beer in front of rows of empty chairs, giving mock speeches and writing horeshit notes to anyone who would visit in the morning.

I was slurring by now and thinking about the awards ceremony tomorrow gave me the fear. This is impossible I thought. No way would I look presentable the next morning. The hell with it I thought. Take the ride. When, finally, after much struggle,as I was being escorted to my floor with a beer in my hand, I knew the night was over. I talked about a tour of the lower levels since we were journalists but the men in charge obviously didn't listen. They knew better.

I slept on the floor of my room. A place which housed four people and only had two beds. With a pillow under my head and someone's bed sheets for cover I fell asleep. At least I remember that I WAS going to sleep. A first I thought.

Saturday came—the day of reckoning.

I opened my eyes and knew something was wrong. That feeling after waking where thoughts slowly come back was missing. Replaced with a pounding headache, thirst and need for aspirin, I got up and talked to my room mates. Somehow they were in better shape than I. Someone asked me for a smoke and I gave it to him. I called room service and ordered fresh towels.

By the time I was done with my single serving coffee the knocking on the door started. Fuck I thought. Hopefully last night is not catching up with me. But it didn't. It was other lost souls's past that weas catching up with them. One dude looked for his lost cell phone. Someone needed toothpaste and like a giant family everyone understood the pain we were all going through. So we helped anyone that needed help.

"Look at this kid," somone said as I pulled out an ironing board and an iron.

I took a long shower and put on a white polo shirt with the gonzo emblem on. If there was any explanation for last night I thought, I might as well explain with the choice of my attire. I left my hotel room and visited my co-horts in ... shit...603 or 602.

I was at "home" when I entered. They knew what I was thinking. I saw a couple of reporters from our paper lounging back in their chairs drinking 7&7's as the the cure for morning madness. Sure I'll have one I said as I poured a glass of Seagrams Crown 7 and 7 Up, a drink which I would carry with me to the awards ceremony. Maybe it was a mistake, since that didn't look very professional, but I thought to hell with it. Some people drink water and chew Tylenol to cure the madness. I opted for the hair of the dog.

Checking out of the hotel was no problemo, much like checking in. With my luggage and my drink in hand I made my way past the already seated college newspaper professionals. There were hundreds of them, all seated at their tables. There was something like 360 or more awards to be given out, a time of joy one would think. But the situation at the table where I was sitting was morose and getting worse.

Everyone, with the exception of a few decent and responsible individuals, was hungover and they had the look down pat. Bulging eyes, bloated faces, that smell of a night gone by, along with dirty five o'clock shadows graced the luncheon table. Someone told me I "look like hell," and they were probably right.

It was a price to pay for a night of debauchery. The awards were over two hours long and some people, those who could stomach it, had the Holiday Inn lasagna. How much of that lasagna was eventually regurgitated into the sewer system later was anyone's guess.

As rowdy and talkative as we were last night, it paled in comparison to the graveyard silence at our table the next morning. Were we guilty by association? Were we ashamed of ourselves? I hoped we weren't. No amount of wake ups next to strangers should have us this down and out. We should have worn that party badge on our sleeves. But we didn't. We wanted to go home, and sitting among other journalists, deep down, we knew we crossed the line. Some craved pills, a bed, coffee, and others craved a retry of last night, a night where some made mistakes and others kept their composure. I craved lasagna.

By the time it was all over I understood why there was a long running tradition for the Chronicle at these events. Apparently there is a history of rowdiness at these conventions. I'd like to think that we did it better, stronger and with more pride. We took some coveted awards. And we did it with our own sense of style, mischief and mayhem, and no amount of judgement from other papers can take that away from us. Fuck em. We had fun. It wasn't stiff.

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." I finally understood the good Doctor's message.

Quail Season

When I heard Dick Cheney "accidentally" shot his hunting partner I nearly pissed myself. I'd hate to be the guy who got sprayed in the face and the neck, but, honestly, this bit of news alone had me rolling in laughter, choking on my quail eggs in the morning. The look on Cheney's face must have been priceless. Like a startled deer in headlights. "Ima sowwy"

There's probably one piece of news that we will never hear. When you get a couple of these good ol' boys out hunting with buckshot you know they aren't sober. Wild Turkey Bourbon makes its money from that shit, talking about "that wild turkey bourbon." You know those guys had fun—they named their 101 bourbon after a wild turkey hunting trip, which probably was more drinking and less hunting anyway. Just pulling off a few round into thin air, and letting Pongo bring back a pair of dirty galoshes.

But I rejoice when things like this happen. Granted hunting is dangerous and if you know what you're doing it can also be fun, but the fact that it happened during the illustrious elite quail hunt is what makes it funny to me. Sounds like a holiday. Besides I love it when politicians end up hurting others with their guns. Hunting is okay I guess, but this upper class hunting horsehit is ridiculous. It just shows the Vice President has nothing to do. Obviously he doesn't want to spend time at home....

But history doesn't teach us anything. How many accidents occur in the US when guns and booze come into play? Even if Cheney wasn't drinking, that alone, sends a more frightening message. This guy can't shoot for shit sober.

Like in one of those South Park episodes—"They're heading right for us!" Start blasting.

I bet you that guy won't go hunting with Dick again.

Now hunting for sharks with Quint—there's a fantasy that's becoming a bit creepy even as I type this.

You're going to need a bigger boat

It was a weird feeling. I never read Jaws by Peter Benchley, so when I picked it up a few days ago, I threw myself into it like a freed convict's first night with a hooker. There I was again back on the boat with Quint,Brody and Hooper. Having seen the movie I was surprised at how different the book is. The characters feel seedier, Quint more crazier. But I did like I said, and decided to spend the better part of Sunday in bed, watching the news, reading the paper, and reading Jaws.

And then I realized that Peter Benchley died. On the last day of his death, someone was still reading the work he is most famous four. I took another glance at the cover and thought—shit—no better way than to remember the man than this.

So I kept reading. But journalistic duties got me out of bed and I had to put the book down. Weird.

I guess all authors should die knowing that someone is reading their books on the day of their death. Coincidence, though.

Wet

Shrugging off my coat, lay my bag down, I head for downstairs, still having my shoes on. Geez. Coming home when Conan starts hissing at the camera must have some positives. At least it was home, and not some bus station in the middle of nowhere in the night, shivering, smoking crunched up Parliaments, and swaying to my own groove. Fun time comes to an end.

In journalism you get hit with a barrage of information; a wave of things to read and phone calls to make, water cups to drink, cereal bowls to swallow, smoke and ponder the softness of our leather swivel chairs while proclaiming The Wall Street Journal is "rather dry." Indeed it is.

Sitting in classes, adjusting my glasses, I think about the greater picture. Where will I be in a couple of years. And the trickster within says the gutter, or some other inappropriate response, like on a corner, or on the Never Land Ranch.

But I don't want to think about this now. I'm just tired. I take a swig of a gleaming silver flask and read Peter Benchley's Jaws. I fall asleep and get eaten by a shark. Our shark.

"Here's to swimmin' with bow-legged women." - Quint.

...and a diet coke.

What is always enjoyable is listening to other people describe their dreams. Don't get me wrong, sometimes weird shit happens in a dream, and you have to tell someone. Naturally dream "talks" are two part conversations, meaning that once they're done, I get to go. Eventually, after many bad episodes, I now have the standard answer when I describe a dream.

"So I'm spinning on this ceiling fan while a dog is eating my asshole, and then I realize that I have to file my taxes. But then I don't know if the dog will be an exemption. So suddenly a McDonald's employee comes out and pelts cheeseburgers at me, and I get a Louisville slugger and start swinging them back, while the dog plays fetch. But then the McDonald's employee takes off the visor and turns out it's a fantastic looking chick. So I order a number one, a tossed salad with no dressing, I remember this vividly, a triple thick shake, a cookie, a nookie, a number two, tangy honey mustard sauce and a defibrillator. Then I jam my pinky on the way out, and as I'm coming down the mountain, riding on a donkey, spanking a monkey, my alarm clock goes off and covers me with battery juice."

Twisted evil. Fuck-you get the point. No matter how weird they get, they never sound as exciting when spoken out loud. In fact, I wonder, if they should be spoken at all.

Weird.

Nasty McDonald's cheeseburgers. Disgusting and vile. Nightmares.