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.