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.