Saturday, April 29, 2006
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Honk
Captain's Log: Production night.
Friday, April 21, 2006
They come out in waves. Fuck. The white shirts combined with black stripes all surround the platform. There's hundreds of them. It's a different world. They are all drunk to pieces. Going to pieces. The type of bastards that find a place to sit on the subway and make it their own. White Sox fans. They pour out of the gateways on a Friday-must have been game night. Living in Chicago during the White Sox reign is a particular experience.
It's not like the Bulls winning anything. This is baseball. A game that is filled with drunken monsters, all wearing white and black, caps totting their flags, all ready for a fight. They pour out of every crevice on a Friday when there is a game in Chicago. And then they take the train to the suburbs to pick up their cars. These fuckers don't even live on the South side.
But the train is filled to the brim with characters. And I observe what is happening. The rumble of the train itself is subdued by the wave of noise that comes after a winner of a baseball game. It doesn't matter what they are saying. They are all talking about the same thing-the Sox have one.
But these are dangerous drunks with malice in their eyes. You can see it if you look closely. The train cart is filled with black and white jersey's. All pledging allegiance to Konerko or Pierzynski or Mark B. Dangerous fucks, who have the ability and the potential to skin your monkey ass raw. The type of people that do not get swayed by the idea that getting a haircut from a photogenic blonde is a good idea.
Oh A.J. (I've seen the pictures)
But let me start over.
The alarm clock goes off at 6:45AM. Fuck, I think, as I reach for the snooze button. I can't. I can't. I can't lounge in bed today. Get up, you fucker! I drag my ass off the bed and hit the showers, as my non-existent high school coach instructed.
Thoughts flow slowly.
Coffee I think. That's the cure. I drink 7-Up instead to cure the thirst. It doesn't help. The newspaper doesn't make sense, even though I picked it up wearing my boxers in the morning. Do I have cream? I do and a wave of relief washes over me in a hypnotic way.
By the time I reach the L-train I am sweating and cursing. It's always a ripe condition to become bitter. This is how the day goes on from here. Bitter. For no reason really, except for the fact that it all will go to shit.
I can't even read in this environment! These bastard souls are taking a toll on me. But why? I love reading "Pearls Before Swine" strips at this hour. They make it easier to handle.
By the time I actually get into the office, sans class, I am filled with panic. It's a cluster fuck I exclaim and call my Commentary editor. He's out doing an interview of sorts--he won't be in until past noon. ONE PERHAPS.
You have to understand that it is production day at the Chronicle. The day when all the week's shit gets put together. A day of reckoning. By the time the copyeditors leave, it's a free for all; a fuckathon that involves patience and perseverance. Deal with it. Eat it. Snort it. Do it.
Hours go by in a newsroom slower than they usually should.
Cut to me going home.
Fuckers on the White Sox train.
All drunk. People trying to get home in their worried states.
So are we. Done. UR DONE. SEE YA!
The question remains. Do you honk it into the toilet bowl?
Friday, April 21, 2006
They come out in waves. Fuck. The white shirts combined with black stripes all surround the platform. There's hundreds of them. It's a different world. They are all drunk to pieces. Going to pieces. The type of bastards that find a place to sit on the subway and make it their own. White Sox fans. They pour out of the gateways on a Friday-must have been game night. Living in Chicago during the White Sox reign is a particular experience.
It's not like the Bulls winning anything. This is baseball. A game that is filled with drunken monsters, all wearing white and black, caps totting their flags, all ready for a fight. They pour out of every crevice on a Friday when there is a game in Chicago. And then they take the train to the suburbs to pick up their cars. These fuckers don't even live on the South side.
But the train is filled to the brim with characters. And I observe what is happening. The rumble of the train itself is subdued by the wave of noise that comes after a winner of a baseball game. It doesn't matter what they are saying. They are all talking about the same thing-the Sox have one.
But these are dangerous drunks with malice in their eyes. You can see it if you look closely. The train cart is filled with black and white jersey's. All pledging allegiance to Konerko or Pierzynski or Mark B. Dangerous fucks, who have the ability and the potential to skin your monkey ass raw. The type of people that do not get swayed by the idea that getting a haircut from a photogenic blonde is a good idea.
Oh A.J. (I've seen the pictures)
But let me start over.
The alarm clock goes off at 6:45AM. Fuck, I think, as I reach for the snooze button. I can't. I can't. I can't lounge in bed today. Get up, you fucker! I drag my ass off the bed and hit the showers, as my non-existent high school coach instructed.
Thoughts flow slowly.
Coffee I think. That's the cure. I drink 7-Up instead to cure the thirst. It doesn't help. The newspaper doesn't make sense, even though I picked it up wearing my boxers in the morning. Do I have cream? I do and a wave of relief washes over me in a hypnotic way.
By the time I reach the L-train I am sweating and cursing. It's always a ripe condition to become bitter. This is how the day goes on from here. Bitter. For no reason really, except for the fact that it all will go to shit.
I can't even read in this environment! These bastard souls are taking a toll on me. But why? I love reading "Pearls Before Swine" strips at this hour. They make it easier to handle.
By the time I actually get into the office, sans class, I am filled with panic. It's a cluster fuck I exclaim and call my Commentary editor. He's out doing an interview of sorts--he won't be in until past noon. ONE PERHAPS.
You have to understand that it is production day at the Chronicle. The day when all the week's shit gets put together. A day of reckoning. By the time the copyeditors leave, it's a free for all; a fuckathon that involves patience and perseverance. Deal with it. Eat it. Snort it. Do it.
Hours go by in a newsroom slower than they usually should.
Cut to me going home.
Fuckers on the White Sox train.
All drunk. People trying to get home in their worried states.
So are we. Done. UR DONE. SEE YA!
The question remains. Do you honk it into the toilet bowl?
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Under the pretext of alcohol
Sometimes there is the pint glass full of Chivas. It’s always there, but you have to save up for that shit. And then you go buy it, like a kid in Toys R US, wandering the aisles. You see other lost souls too. All confused, looking for their toy. Silver box—a box—it’s a present. And what a present it is. This is what adults give each other during the holidays. Socks are one thing, but a bottle of booze? That’s something else.
By the time you reach the cashier, you’re holding that thing up under your arm, filled with Scotland yore. You repeat the “since” date. Two hundred years ago sounds about right. Did you ever see those Chivas commercials? On some Safari, taking photographs, drinking Chivas. Not a bad idea. Hemingway it up, he’s no rummy.
The myth. The journalist. The Writer. Those film noir films surly did fuck with our heads. The blinds closed shut, smoke out of the ashtray; usually blue in smoke too. The bottle of Rye resting half-empty in the editor’s desk, or the image of basement dwellers, note scribblers, face watchers, writers, still manage to captivate don’t they.
Think the Chicago Elevated Line and think of Nelson Algren.
Think of Chicago and think of the Bulls.
Even if you’re covering sports, Bulls basketball is still a crucial part of Chicago. It has to be. Town of the legend. While all the talk is rooted in baseball and the Chicago White Sox, the Bulls are still in the 8th playoff spot. Who gives a shit?
Watching Bulls basketball is, if one is up for it, is one of the most surprising and unfulfilling experiences there are. If you need that sort of quick hope, the Bulls will give it to you. But it’s a hardon without the ending, though. It’s a form of emotional torture. You want them to win. But the battle is so ripe, so good, yet the climax is absent.
But you have to believe. The fact that they might get into the top eight doesn’t matter. Against Detroit? As one photog said “they will get dick-slapped by Detroit.” Of course. It’s a graphic term. But at this heightened emotional well-being, it fits. Yet it’s the rebuilding of the team that intrigues me. Past the Eddie Curry’s, the Bullies got in the playoffs last year. They didn’t go very far. They were there though.
As my pops says, the type of man that on a good basketball day, will wear a Subway Restaurant Bulls horned red hat, the Bulls need a leader. Heinrich and Gordon can’t carry this team alone. After a loss, my old man says he won’t wear the Bulls jacket to work. Which is a Starter jacket, to begin with?
But the Chivas penetrated the brain matter. The rhythmic swoosh of the alcoholic surf, as it washed over the day, which by the way was wrought with misfortunes, eased all anxieties. Denis Leary said that you see those old guys with the permanent whiskey face. “How you guys doing? The fucking Giants! Jesus Christ! See you guys later.”
Sometimes in journalism you hit this weird information overload. You know what’s going on. You read the paper, religiously. But the words don’t make sense. They do…but in the long run they don’t.
Myspace is in the news. Myspace! The place where some people care about where they are on the top eight friend list. It’s junior high all the same. The stuff of bubble gum and baseball cards. But we’re addicted. Like virtual crack.
And they always get that poor sap that went too far with Myspace. Setting up meetings and shit. You know, I learned that lesson a long time ago…chats on the internet are worthless. Especially with strangers. The internet chat-room, a public one, is a place where Godot actually shows up. It’s that insane. That cliché about the fat bastard posing as a girl…probably true. Remember computers were invented by crazed brainy weirdoes—smart motherfuckers—but they weren’t getting laid.
Anything in front of a keyboard and a monitor at two in the morning can’t be good. It’s burning the midnight oil, or burning up Midnight’s oil, or it’s a drive to Wallgreens or Binny’s, or a stop at the cigarette shop, or an X-Box vendor or Best Buy.
Dude you can buy happiness. It might plug into a wall someday. You still might have to deal with a shelf full of leaky batteries, but shit, it’s worth it. Plug it in man.
When I plugged it in, it was in Poland. Technology gets to you when you are a little kid. The new generation of kids, they can’t speak our language. Different worlds. We played River Raid on Commodore 64, with the spool of tape, loading for thirty minutes, making those old modems sound good. It’s was communicating with Mars. Did anyone see the pictures from Mars?
Genesis was the genesis, Super Nintendo was the boilermaker and Playstation was the push in a different direction. Now we need a Blockbuster card instead of the Hawaiian Blue, or the memory card instead of condoms. Or the hand lotion instead of the blow job.
WHAT THE FUCK? Men. Where Have All the Macho Men gone?
Drowned in the cascading waterfall of harsh realties. We were hiding, in some weird time, in this foul year of Our Lord, 2006.
By the time you reach the cashier, you’re holding that thing up under your arm, filled with Scotland yore. You repeat the “since” date. Two hundred years ago sounds about right. Did you ever see those Chivas commercials? On some Safari, taking photographs, drinking Chivas. Not a bad idea. Hemingway it up, he’s no rummy.
The myth. The journalist. The Writer. Those film noir films surly did fuck with our heads. The blinds closed shut, smoke out of the ashtray; usually blue in smoke too. The bottle of Rye resting half-empty in the editor’s desk, or the image of basement dwellers, note scribblers, face watchers, writers, still manage to captivate don’t they.
Think the Chicago Elevated Line and think of Nelson Algren.
Think of Chicago and think of the Bulls.
Even if you’re covering sports, Bulls basketball is still a crucial part of Chicago. It has to be. Town of the legend. While all the talk is rooted in baseball and the Chicago White Sox, the Bulls are still in the 8th playoff spot. Who gives a shit?
Watching Bulls basketball is, if one is up for it, is one of the most surprising and unfulfilling experiences there are. If you need that sort of quick hope, the Bulls will give it to you. But it’s a hardon without the ending, though. It’s a form of emotional torture. You want them to win. But the battle is so ripe, so good, yet the climax is absent.
But you have to believe. The fact that they might get into the top eight doesn’t matter. Against Detroit? As one photog said “they will get dick-slapped by Detroit.” Of course. It’s a graphic term. But at this heightened emotional well-being, it fits. Yet it’s the rebuilding of the team that intrigues me. Past the Eddie Curry’s, the Bullies got in the playoffs last year. They didn’t go very far. They were there though.
As my pops says, the type of man that on a good basketball day, will wear a Subway Restaurant Bulls horned red hat, the Bulls need a leader. Heinrich and Gordon can’t carry this team alone. After a loss, my old man says he won’t wear the Bulls jacket to work. Which is a Starter jacket, to begin with?
But the Chivas penetrated the brain matter. The rhythmic swoosh of the alcoholic surf, as it washed over the day, which by the way was wrought with misfortunes, eased all anxieties. Denis Leary said that you see those old guys with the permanent whiskey face. “How you guys doing? The fucking Giants! Jesus Christ! See you guys later.”
Sometimes in journalism you hit this weird information overload. You know what’s going on. You read the paper, religiously. But the words don’t make sense. They do…but in the long run they don’t.
Myspace is in the news. Myspace! The place where some people care about where they are on the top eight friend list. It’s junior high all the same. The stuff of bubble gum and baseball cards. But we’re addicted. Like virtual crack.
And they always get that poor sap that went too far with Myspace. Setting up meetings and shit. You know, I learned that lesson a long time ago…chats on the internet are worthless. Especially with strangers. The internet chat-room, a public one, is a place where Godot actually shows up. It’s that insane. That cliché about the fat bastard posing as a girl…probably true. Remember computers were invented by crazed brainy weirdoes—smart motherfuckers—but they weren’t getting laid.
Anything in front of a keyboard and a monitor at two in the morning can’t be good. It’s burning the midnight oil, or burning up Midnight’s oil, or it’s a drive to Wallgreens or Binny’s, or a stop at the cigarette shop, or an X-Box vendor or Best Buy.
Dude you can buy happiness. It might plug into a wall someday. You still might have to deal with a shelf full of leaky batteries, but shit, it’s worth it. Plug it in man.
When I plugged it in, it was in Poland. Technology gets to you when you are a little kid. The new generation of kids, they can’t speak our language. Different worlds. We played River Raid on Commodore 64, with the spool of tape, loading for thirty minutes, making those old modems sound good. It’s was communicating with Mars. Did anyone see the pictures from Mars?
Genesis was the genesis, Super Nintendo was the boilermaker and Playstation was the push in a different direction. Now we need a Blockbuster card instead of the Hawaiian Blue, or the memory card instead of condoms. Or the hand lotion instead of the blow job.
WHAT THE FUCK? Men. Where Have All the Macho Men gone?
Drowned in the cascading waterfall of harsh realties. We were hiding, in some weird time, in this foul year of Our Lord, 2006.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
?
Randomness:
In lesbian pornos, what is the point of someone sucking off a strap-on? Seriously.
Technically, the term motherfucker, is kind of a compliment, especially if it is aimed at your own father.
Isn't it ironic that in certain McDonald's restaurants there are pictures of very thin and athletic people like Michael Jordan or Grant Hill, while the sea otter in front of you has a large potato bag full of chicken nuggets.
Tequila is only good for headaches - big giant ones that make you smell like gasoline. Yet we keep drinking it in large volumes.
Idle hands are a Devil's playground but an idle mind suggests that even the Devil can't help you.
In lesbian pornos, what is the point of someone sucking off a strap-on? Seriously.
Technically, the term motherfucker, is kind of a compliment, especially if it is aimed at your own father.
Isn't it ironic that in certain McDonald's restaurants there are pictures of very thin and athletic people like Michael Jordan or Grant Hill, while the sea otter in front of you has a large potato bag full of chicken nuggets.
Tequila is only good for headaches - big giant ones that make you smell like gasoline. Yet we keep drinking it in large volumes.
Idle hands are a Devil's playground but an idle mind suggests that even the Devil can't help you.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Age of Noise
"Call me Snake."
We work in front of computer screens. We play in front of computer screens. We learn and read from brightly illuminated monitors. Noise. Restless noise filling every facet of the culture. Sometimes I wake up and hear the quiet hum of the PC before it is even on. Governed by e-mail and the iPod, the cell phone and the blogspot, we live and thrive but to what purpose? Noise. Talking and jabbering. Sometimes we talk because we can't deal with silence.
Silence is scary. Our thoughts keep some of us up late, tossing and turning and re-reading the newspapers, trying to find things that aren't there. We're a generation of slackers that grew up with the night light on. Now we're afraid of our own shadows.
Sometimes you can catch yourself living in the noise. There is no music, just simple clicks and clatter of the keyboard. The sound of the duster cleaning out debris-all those lessons about not eating junk food in front of the computer went by unnoticed.
Even sleep doesn't have the allure that it once had. Worried about tomorrow we rarely stop and think of what's left of today.
Who knew humanity would find a common language in the form of 0's and 1's. Life v. 2006. The beta test had begun. The bugs and patches are coming soon. As Kurt Russell said when he shut down the planet: "Welcome to the Human Race."
We work in front of computer screens. We play in front of computer screens. We learn and read from brightly illuminated monitors. Noise. Restless noise filling every facet of the culture. Sometimes I wake up and hear the quiet hum of the PC before it is even on. Governed by e-mail and the iPod, the cell phone and the blogspot, we live and thrive but to what purpose? Noise. Talking and jabbering. Sometimes we talk because we can't deal with silence.
Silence is scary. Our thoughts keep some of us up late, tossing and turning and re-reading the newspapers, trying to find things that aren't there. We're a generation of slackers that grew up with the night light on. Now we're afraid of our own shadows.
Sometimes you can catch yourself living in the noise. There is no music, just simple clicks and clatter of the keyboard. The sound of the duster cleaning out debris-all those lessons about not eating junk food in front of the computer went by unnoticed.
Even sleep doesn't have the allure that it once had. Worried about tomorrow we rarely stop and think of what's left of today.
Who knew humanity would find a common language in the form of 0's and 1's. Life v. 2006. The beta test had begun. The bugs and patches are coming soon. As Kurt Russell said when he shut down the planet: "Welcome to the Human Race."
Sunday, April 02, 2006
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