This is called Kid Rocking up and down the block

AP Photo

Sort of a sad commentary on the current culture.

Bobby the Kid

MOST PEOPLE don't or can't stand or even understand my affinity for Kid Rock. Women think he embodies every bad, despicable, and vile quality that men hopelessly look up to. Smoking, drinking, drugs, fucking strippers and taking them to breakfast the next morning.

Ya know, rock star.

Which is why I found it weird when many of my friends scoffed at the idea that I was so psyched about the new Kid Rock album, Rock N Roll Jesus. They probably think that he is a white, trailer trash redneck piece of shit.

And he is from Romeo, Michigan. So go figure.

But this little tale happened way back in the old west. Back when nights were dangerous and people that were claiming they were holding were strangers....

I started listening to Kid Rock when the shit was hitting the fan. My friend, who I have a hankering suspicion, is nursing a serious drug habit, introduced me to Devil Without a Cause.

And I thought it was brilliant for the time. Mix a crazy white DJ, give him a record and let him rock out with his cock out while spittin' out rhymes about nickles and dimes.

Oh those were the times.

Is he immature?

Well, let's say he's one cocky motherfucker.

And he can be.

Now, sure with iTunes, getting music is easier these days. But I was never fond of buying music. Shit, my CD collection is what one of my good friends called, "An ode to the 90s."

So I don't buy music. And the only thing that I make an effort to spend my drinking money on was always Kid Rock albums.

Fuck, everyone has a story.

Because, contrary to popular belief, I still think that Kid Rock embodies everything that Rock N Roll should stand for. The bad shit. The stuff that makes you lock your doors, drink, and yell at your typewriter, and go to strip clubs, and call assholes door knobs, and order drinks from guys named Bob.

It's rock and roll baby.

To me Kid Rock, embodies America. It sounds simple, but Pollacks have weird visions of this country. And this one is mine. This is freedom.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here?

Maybe we're not ALL doomed. Just on Mondays, you know.

And he sings about love. And as fucking sappy as that sounds, every man needs an angel to rescue him from himself.

Or put him in the gutter.

The Great American Fear and Loathing

"What the fuck am I doing?" one of my ex-Chronicle colleagues exclaims as the red cart full of visibly shaken people makes its way into the station.

There was obvious fear in his eyes. The type of fear that can only be compared to incidents such as not pulling out in time and not wanting kids, or pulling out but then realizing that you already went. And still not wanting kids.

He said something like "I can go on any coaster in the park, but the American Eagle still gives me the fear."

I shouldn't be talking. As we waited in line, a time well-spent trying to scare others and testing the waters of profanity, there was no fear. But once you realize that you are about to careen down a 147 foot (45 meters) tall first drop at a 55-degree angle at speed of up to 66 mph, that familiar "I'm all shook up" feeling comes back.


But let me start earlier.

As is usual in my line of work, the weekends tend to have a certain lushness about them. Especially when I'm hanging out with D-Rock.

The last time D-rock and I partied it was on the Fourth of July, hence such a long hiatus on this damned and doomed witless page. I guess you could say it was a bender that has emptied my ability to reason properly and has now come back.

I still wonder if it is possible to drink yourself permanently stupid. They say those brain cells don't come back. I wonder where I'm at.

"Rex Manning?"

Needless to say, we had a handle of Wild Turkey, a case of beer, a dirty dozen of cigarettes in our pockets and a bottle of Parrot Bay rum.

To a typical drinker this is called supply. To doomed creatures of the night like us, that's called the Forth of July weekend.

So we drank it all, much to the constant amazement of D-Rock who still can't figure out how we drink this much.

One word: Commitment.

And problems.

But last weekend wasn't different. After a short trip to what to me is practically church, Binny's Beverage Depot, we settled on a handle of Bushmills.

"It's not like we're going to drink it all," he said. And we got some beer.

So after just doing random shots of the low caliber, and swilling the shit with "I-want-to-drink-good beer-Samuel-Adams," we opted for higher firepower.

"Now is a good time for 'on the rocks,' D-Rock said and I shook my head up and down like a lapdog.

But then madness kicked in, and after a stint watching Bob "Faggot" Saget, and Bill Maher, only God knows what happened.

Then morning came and we went to get breakfast.

Sheila the waitress was there. The Shiela with the two kids Shiela? Yeah. I'm still a classy dude trying to bang career waitresses. Hey she does it for me.

However even the knuckle-bitting horny feeling of seeing Sheila in an apron couldn't overcome the Himalayan hangover I was having.

This was bad. D-Rock said he felt great.

Which is why when we did get to Six Flags Great America in Gurnee, IL, that bitter feeling came over me.

What the FUCK happened to this place?

The last time I was here, which was about 1,654,376,504, bottles of booze or ten years earlier, this place was magical. Almost like Disneyland. To a young, Polish, and inexperienced mind, anything better that Toys R' US must be magic. And there were rides. Big giant rides and Bugs Bunny and Daffy and Batman and funnel cakes and laughs and games and thrills and water rides and old friends that have since died.

Not now, however. At least not at the beginning of the trip. This time I saw it differently. What a scummy, practically non-smoking, money grabbing, kid infested, cluster fuck this place has turned out to be.

There they were. The true caricature of America. Spawning like rabbits, only to go to a place where you can buy panties with rabbits on them. All dragging their kids in unison towards fear and fast food. But you can't be a hypocrite. There's a reason people come here. It's supposed to be fun.

However, you can't even curse in line since this is all supposed to be kid friendly. It actually said "No Profanity" on one of the signs before the lines.

So a short well versed litany of profanity later, we waited for like 20 minutes to get beer. And there were like 3 people in front of us. I guess they were brewing Miller Lite in Rosie Donnell's bath tub---but then again that's probably where Miller actually does brew Miller Lite.

"Fascists!" I hollered when it came time to smoke. I just couldn't get it. Micheal Jackson was now playing, people were giving us dirty looks when I told the "What's the difference between normal blood and period blood? "What" "You can't pick up normal blood with a fork" joke.

It was a mess.

But the only salvation WERE the rides. And then the magic came back.

Normally a tale of raging bulls and American eagles ends up on the Discovery channel, but I have to say, my love for coasters came back. To use the cliche like a kid again would be too much, but I definitely did, like D-Rock said, lose the fear of coasters.

Not that I was ever afraid of them, since the last time I was here, I went front row on all the rides, but there was always that element of "When will this be over," type of thing.

Not now. I fucking enjoyed myself.

Oh yeah...and then there was the Eagle.

So the gates open up and my hands star trembling.

"Don't lose it on me now!" D-Rock says as I fumble with the seat belt. Now this is a ride of all the scarier rides the park has to offer and they give you a fucking orange seat belt before they put the metal bar over you. I guess that is what Tyler Durden was talking about when he said "The illusion of safety."

But I maintained. And soon the rickety cart, and I stress the word rickety, began tooling up the incline. My eyes were open, my heart was beating fast and I was already holding on to the almost bare now railing on the way UP. Millions of people have clutched this thing while holding in their shit.

So the cart makes that classic pause before jutting down the track and me and D-Rock both think "Fuck" and he says "This is going to suck"

And then you go.

And its a feeling you can't describe. Partly because of all the screaming. I let out the most honest fear induced scream as I plunged down that fucking drop.

D-Rock said he felt the coaster leave the track and I wouldn't disagree.

But God bless the irresponsible nature of Great America. Not that because they have wooden coasters because there's nothing wrong with that, but because that after 25 years of hardcore ridership on the American Eagle--a ride that was originally a racing coaster since it had two coasters side by side racing down to the finish line, which of course is not recommended anymore since the coasters crashed when going into the station once--it still operates before it claims one more or two more people before they shut this thing down for good.

So I was glad I rode the classic again.

Now D-Rock and I will probably want to ride something that shoots from 0 to 128 in 3.5 seconds using a hydraulic launch. They have something like that in Jersey.

Jersey. Figures.

Rest in peace and Happy Fourth I guess...

...

This is why I initally said 9/11 looked like something out of Die Hard.

Butt in any time

IT IS ABOUT THE SAVAGE JOURNEY INTO THE LONG AND COLD, HARD AND DESPERATE, VILE AND DECADENT, SEARCH FOR THE MEANING OF THE TRIP OF A LIFETIME…HOW PASSION AND PERSEVERANCE CAN BE TURNED INTO A VALUABLE SKILL…AND WHY FORMING A YOUTHFUL POSSE IS THE KEY TO HAPPINESS.

PROLOGUE
Stranger days were behind me. I sipped on a strong Bloody Mary and couldn’t figure out the purpose of this cocktail other than to cure a hangover in the morning. It’s the type of a drink that only works when you’re having a meal, like eggs and bacon for example. Otherwise the whole thing doesn’t work very well. Sure, you can tip the waitress all you want, whisper sweet nothings into her ear even and talk about her wonderful children, but in the end a Bloody Mary is only meant to be served in the morning.

But it was 4:23 a.m. and those of us who were up all night were in no mood for coffee and donuts. We needed strong drink, as good ol’ Doctor Thompson once said. And this particular Mary was very bloody and very strong. This bloody Mary was menstruating.

And then rain started to fall during the foreplay known as the beginning of summer. Whatever cleansing this was supposed to accomplish obviously wasn’t working. People still drank. People still smoked. People still beat their kids. Most likely after they were drunk.

It takes a special type of person to drink at 4:42 a.m. This isn’t even breakfast hour. And God only knows that these are mere recollections.
Either way, I was stuck in a reflective mood. It was really late, or extremely early, and sleep wasn’t an option.

From the start, I knew that there would be no right combination of words, wisdom, or memories that would capture the essence of the last days of my college career. I knew this. This is probably why journalists often travel in packs when they go out to drink and act unprofessional. And that’s also probably why journalists, usually, but not always, make sure that a photographer is there to capture the moment. God bless the photojournalists.

It is hard to write when one has trouble merely standing. It is even harder to remember, accurately mind you, the events and the places that one puts oneself in.

“What? I took a dump in your tuba?” as Robin Williams once said.

That’s why it is strange trying to piece together the last few days before graduation, especially since the rivers of alcohol that swam through our veins have, at this point, been flushed down the sewers along with the well-deserved hangovers.

That’s what writers and journalists do. They piece together facts and experiences; they try to bring reason into incoherent situations—they try to make sense out of a nonsensical world, long after the events have transpired.

But the only question, at this point, that boggled me was who covers the journalists? Who chronicles their lives?

The answer was nobody.

A journalist’s life remains behind the scenes. Short of a stint in rehab, that is if you’re a famed columnist in Chicago, journalists go about their business each day, taking flak here and accepting kudos and accolades for a job well done there. But this also means that the life that happened in-between the stories journalists wrote and reported on doesn’t matter. Journalists’ lives and good times tend to be forgotten and are only remembered within the journalism lore.

Melancholy aside, the last days of The Chronicle college newspaper won’t be forgotten. Not on my watch. What we need here was to drum it up on our own and use pure gonzo journalism as a tool to remember and do the event justice.

A Prelude to a Goat

For many graduating seniors from The Chronicle, a student publication of Columbia College, finals week was the last draw. It was like in John Wayne movies. This was it. Get through these bastard parts of classes and then you could belly up to the bar and order a celebratory drink.

I’ve been in school for a long time, so I think I am qualified to say that in many colleges across the nation, (sure there are nightmare stories), senior finals week is a week straight out of Animal House. Yes, everyone has major papers to finish, tests to take and presentations to make, but behind the “I have to do this or I will shit bricks” mentality there is that other sphere that penetrates seniors’ minds during that time: Let’s party.

By the time students reach their senior year, they’ve usually had it with the institution that is providing them with a degree in their field. I have no facts for this, but let’s just say I have a hunch. Students have dealt with the administrators of their respective schools for far too long, cursed at the financial aide office and stood in long lines to pay for books that they will have a hard time selling. And it’s not hate toward the institution that has hopefully catered to their needs that fills seniors’ hearts when the time to graduate comes. Oh no, it’s the Danny Glover, I’m-getting-too-old-for-this-shit principle.

Because you see, everyone gets “too old” for this shit. And it doesn’t matter what kind of shit you do. It doesn’t matter if you’re a 4-year college student ready to tackle the world or a ten-year-past-her-prime stripper at the Beaver Strip Club. At some point, let’s face it, you do get “too old for this shit.”

So I was too old for this shit. I’ve been in college for seven years. Yes, seven, count them. Let’s see, four years here, trying to do my general education credits and studying pre-pharmacy—obviously that didn’t work out—and three at Columbia studying journalism—that apparently worked out.

The Chronicle

The award-winning Chronicle newspaper was my home away from home for as long as I can remember. I’ve formed more friendships with brilliant future reporters, sex columnists, editors and general whack-a-loons than I can count on my fingers. I know these people are the absolute cream of the crop, the absolute spunk. Their orgasms, I’m sure, last longer than expected. These are my people. And they’ve all worked for The Chronicle.

I was the Commentary Editor there, so I had something to say, all the time, each week. I was also the voice of the paper, since, beside a handful of people, nobody bothered to write the representative staff editorials. But, as it was once explained to me, it was my job. So I did it.

But fuck it.

School was over.

And the party at the Billy Goat was tradition around these here parts.

Billy Goat

As I can gather, not many people hold the honor of being forever prohibited from drinking Wild Turkey at the Billy Goat tavern. And I’m talking about the original tavern here, so don’t fuck with me. Nick the bartender, his formal title, to this day refuses to serve me shots of Wild Turkey 101 proof bourbon whenever I’m there warming a bar stool.

I guess it was something I did when I covered the tenth anniversary of Mike Royko’s death, a remembrance of the man type of shindig that was concluded at the Goat. I can’t remember my behavior then so I can’t apologize for it now. I have a feeling that it had something to do with Wild Turkey.

But anyway, as tradition dictates, The Chronicle newspaper had an end-of-the-year party at the Billy Goat.

Everyone, with the exception of few, was there. And I mean everyone. Old editor-in-chiefs, previous campus news reporters and seasoned photographers showed up to join the celebration with the graduating crew. We were the meat of the newspaper and now we were leaving. Just like the old guard did the year before. Now we were going to be the old guard.

Touché.

Who was paying for all of this? Well, that's a secret of the trade.

Nonetheless, the “party” started at 9:30 p.m. Many existentialists at the paper decided to walk, instead of hitching a cab, to the tavern, which is located below Michigan Ave., across the street from the Chicago Tribune building.

A lonely stairwell leads you there, giving you enough time to count how much money you have and are willing to spend, count the cigarettes for the night and how many of those you are willing to “bum” to the other drunks. Before you reach the door, you can make a formal, albeit brief, check for chewing gum by patting all of your sport jacket’s pockets. This makes you look conscious and presents to the public the idea that you are not there to drink yourself completely stupid and unrecognizable.

“Enter at your own risk,” the door says.

The warning is meant as a joke, but those familiar with the Billy Goat know that this is a legality that prevents the owner, Mr. Sianis, from any responsibility for the drunken time you are just about to have and what might you do in the future. At least I think.

They don’t even bother to scream “Cheezborger! Cheezborger! No fries! Chips!” once they recognize a familiar face, in this case, a bunch of familiar faces including mine. They remember me and this is a problem.

The Billy Goat Inn tavern is the place where many of Chicago’s legends have drank in, smoked in, talked in, laughed in, cursed in and I wouldn’t be surprised if “fucked in” also made the list. The Billy Goat is where the late Chicago columnist Mike Royko drank away his hard day of work. It is the birthplace of the Chicago Cubs curse. It is also the place where Rick Kogan, hard drinker and Tribune’s reporter, frequently visits.

It is just a place that has a soul and a rich history.

That’s why The Chronicle chooses it regularly as the place that holds our legendary drinking bouts. And in truth, there couldn’t be a better place.

There are no words to describe the various characters that populated the offices of The Chronicle newspaper over the years. That’s because those people are too special for words. Sure, there were many deviants, perverts and drunks, but that’s just describing myself and a handful of other writers who worked at the paper. There were also a few prima donnas, yuppies, columnists, gossip queens, cock teasers, Cubs fans and health freaks. But all of them were geniuses in their own right and they don’t deserve to be labeled. So for that I apologize.

All of them were brilliant writers and reporters with wicked senses of humor, but they also knew and understood journalism the way it was supposed to be understood. They knew what was newsworthy and what wasn’t. They could smell bullshit from a mile away, but they could also uncover and sniff out a story from the proverbial muck. They were the type of people that were going places. This was the future of journalism, as scary as it may sound. I knew that they would get the jobs they wanted.

But to me, they were my friends.

This is why we all drank like a family. First we started with beers. Some chose the Billy Goat lagers while others opted for low calorie beers. Eventually, later in the night, the drink of choice became hard liquor, with beer serving as a chaser. Some ladies were drinking Horny Goats—the house specialty—a concoction of Bacardi Limon, 7-Up and a splash of cranberry juice served over ice in a tall glass as if it was going out of style.

I can’t say that I remember every moment of the night because I don’t. What I do remember is that people were having a genuinely good time. It was a time of peace and a remembrance of good times, a time of letting bygones be bygones, a time of farewell and a time to rebel.

And rebel we did. We gave the finger to the establishment. It was an ultimate “Fuck You” to power authorities, cops, politicians and the President of the United States.

We were harsh and we could talk the talk, but we could also walk the walk.

After many double-burgers and “You have to eat” warnings, the effects of the booze became apparent. People started to hug, cry and pay for other’s drinks. Good vibes were hitting from every side and they were feeding us booze.

The worse we got the sharper my instincts became.

I knew at that point that the dynasty was ending.

So I slumped over the bar, raised my shot of Wild Turkey, which I bought after Nick’s shift was over, paused and captured the moment in my mind and downed that vile golden son of a bitch.

The moment looked like this: Chaos was around me. People were beginning to gravitate toward clicks and other groups of people, strangers most likely, that were as drunk as we were. I remember fending off a persistent female coworker from trying to literally get into my wallet.

Naturally I bought her a drink, a Horny Goat, of course.

Moments later I was laughing and smoking cigarettes like a fiend. Someone took my picture and I told a female coworker that she was a slut.

In a jovial and sarcastic tone I said “You are such a slut.” The emphasis was on the word “such.” Then I explained to her in a charming fashion that that was a compliment. She seemed to understand where I was coming from. However, to this day, I don’t know how that can be used as a form of compliment. But she is a cool and hip lady with a twisted sense of humor. She interns at The Onion. She can take a joke.

Afterward

Then I jumped into a cab with a bunch of girls. We were going to the former editor-in-chief’s apartment for a little post-bash bash. I got the beer and the whiskey—a pint of Jack Daniels—which turned into a mistake the next morning.

The party went into overtime--until the wee hours. I tried to learn how to correctly use a boxing speed bag—apparently I had trouble figuring out the 1-2-3 rhythm.

To top off my night, I slept with a very attractive girl, in the same bed and we drunkenly discussed our problems. By “slept” I mean literally sleeping next to a person. I ended up spooning with a girl who had to say her peace. I would like to call it a friendly, non-sexual spoon session.

I am officially a bitch. Then again, maybe I’m a good listener.

Morning

The girls were envious next morning. As responsible members of The Chronicle they had to wake up in the morning and tend the newspaper booth for Manifest, a college wide celebration of all things Columbia, while I was clothed and sprawled out spread eagle on a pull-out sofa, sleeping the night off.

And then I came to.

My eyelids began to move slowly. I opened my eyes, a soon-to-be college graduate, and I stared blankly at the concrete ceiling. I turned my head right and saw the kitchen, the same kitchen that I used as the smoking area in a non-smoker’s apartment. I turned my head left and saw the window.

It was a beautiful day and I felt like dog shit. I found myself in a strange bed and in a strange apartment, nursing a pretty vicious hangover. When there was nothing left to do I decided to make some eggs since the owner of the apartment was a vegetarian.

“Where’s the cheese?” I shouted into the phone. There was no need for shouting but my senses and motor skills were battle ravaged from all the drinking.

“Where is the skillet?” I asked only to be informed that I would have to use a wok to cook my eggs.

So I had scrambled eggs, no toast, no meat, in a strange apartment.

“Don’t smoke,” a voice on the other line said while I was having a cigarette under the kitchen fan.

And then I felt like shit again, only this time it wasn’t physical, but mental. I needed to clean up this place. You know, make the bed, arrange the remote controllers and throw some puffed up pillows on the bed spread.

But as I nursed myself back to health I couldn’t stop thinking about the concept of an ending and a beginning. Ultimately, I knew what I was doing, what we all were doing. We were really waving goodbye to each other, all of us, in the only way we could—trashing ourselves beyond the point of recognition.

Deep in our hearts and souls we knew that the future wouldn’t provide us with such a close knit band of individuals again. We were characters beginning a lifelong battle. We were a band of merry men and women.

We were The Chronicle.

A gig at Nadig

I COULDN'T BELIEVE my college administrators would do something so irresponsible, so poorly thought out, and, above all so dangerous. They were actually giving me a degree in journalism. Were these people crazy? I mean, yes, liberal education is one thing, but from all the years spent on the proverbial decadence highway,there is one thing you learn and you learn fast: You do not give a weapon to a man who, by many people's standards, is a daft prick.

But they did and chaos ensued, which was expected, as usual.

Graduation from college itself is lost to me forever in the annals of the John Belushi, Animal House, history book. What didn't we do?

But mum's the word, as the saying goes in Vegas, since I am actually a working professional now.

I got a gig at Nadig Newspapers.

Holy shit, people were actually paying me now. To show up on time, sure, but that was always a jagged pill that I was willing to swallow when faced with entering the real world. But this other shit they expect from me, you know, accuracy, is ridiculous. Who on Earth would ask a gonzo journalism fan to let go of things such as the miraculous hyperbole, the love of the extended metaphor and above all, the affinity for detail and of course coarse language?

Nadig, ya dig.

But deep at heart I knew that these people meant business. Many a times over my editor would come over to my desk telling me that I did not not give a shit and that that had to change. Maybe he was establishing that age old hierarchy of power? "You do and you do right" or else.

But at this point I didn't want to know what "or else" meant so naturally I followed suit. Yes, I tried to learn from my mistakes and did the job accurately. Or at least I tried to. Hey nobody said experience is easily attainable.

It was a strange predicament. I wanted to give a shit. After all, after many years spent in Davy Jones' locker, I now wanted to truly "give a shit."

But Nadig is a different type of a beast. It is an old school whore, that, by any modern standard, understands that money is what is driving this world, and that the paper must be put to bed no matter what the cost is and whose feelings are hurt in the process.

So fuck me and horse I rode in on.

So I guess it is like Thompson once said. Fuck it. Do it now.

And now, three weeks into the job, I am still doing it now.

Nadig is a newspaper that respects old values and above all, old journalism. The type of journalism that only "gives a shit" about the facts and nothing else.

And attention to detail.

So I still have a lot to learn. But if there is any good aspect to be seen here, then it is this. There is no better way to learn old school journalism than from an old school cranky editor who doesn't give a shit about anything else, except getting the paper done on time, and doing it accurately and righteously.

I guess all true and serious editors are like that. I just never knew that before. Hey, I used to be a slave to college media, for Christ's sake. And even though I loved every minute of college, and I know that the Chronicle has showed me the ropes and I am Chronicle for life, you still need places like Nadig in the real word to live, to live in the spirit of, well, honest and responsible journalism. After all, that's why all the serious journalists are here for.

Time to grow up, kid.

I dream about California. Call it a simple Pollack dream, but the more I live in Chicago, the more I yearn for those white sandy beaches, the Pacific Ocean and the California sun. I dream about the women and the stars in the sky, the poverty and the unemployment on the rise. I dream of Chico's and gringo's and people selling "habanero's." I want the surf to hit me and hit me hard. I dream of walking down Sunset Blvd. and fending off bums. I dream of working for the press there. Yeah. I dream of covering the city of fallen angels.

I want to be a fallen angel.

The more I think about it the more I want to pack up my things and go. But with my degree in hand, God only knows what will happen. But I don't care. I want to be there. I want my life to be different. I want California.

And I know that if I go, I will not come back. I know this.

No matter how fucked up L.A. is.

It's the city of a million stories and a million dreams—all unrealized. It's the place where the Hells Angels—albeit in Oakland—began to wreck shit up.

I want to see the sun set and rise on that California beach. Call it California dreaming.

Alright

A federal court of appeals overturned a Washington D.C. gun ban stating that the Second Amendment does not only apply to militias.

Now we know that it's the right to bear arms not the right to arm bears.

However, I must say I have no problem with guns. They're loud, obnoxious and they hurt people—just like every roadie for Molly Hatchet.

I don't own a gun yet, but a nice Python would be nice.

Smoke if you got them

You know you smoke too much when the EPA is forced to consider giving you a pollution credit.

February is over

BUNKER—It's 20 minutes until nine, but I don't consider this to be a morning. As a matter of fact, after doing my calculations, I have been up for 25 hours—this was the witching hour. A bed and breakfast sounded good right now. Nothing beats the morning blues like the hues of the puke in the toilet.

It is strange when one meets people made out of the same ilk. It is stranger when one finds himself in a situation which requires going the distance.

What is comforting is that there still are creatures and maniac and loons out there that can definitely go the distance. They shall remain nameless.

This solidified the notion that, contrary to popular belief, you are not the only one.

But without warning, after I've returned to the bunker, I found myself in a weird predicament.

After 25 hours of what seemed like just walking the Earth, the first idea was to see how far I could go without sleep. It was time to give the mind and the body a workout. However, even now, more booze seemed like an endurance contest.

But for some odd reason the idea appealed to me. I've had one of those weeks. At this point, saying "one of those weeks" is useless if week in and week out it was "one of those weeks."

Appeal for the idea of going on a bender at this point had nothing to do with it when the body wants to quit.

I might need some healthy natural sleep after all.

I was done for. I knew perfectly well that if I hit the bed now, I would be kaput. I know a huge sleep deprivation debt will need to be paid sooner or later.

That's when the tequila showed up....

In the loving memory of the good doctor

Let’s start at the end. My eyes flicker like a fluorescent light bulb until I stare, like an idiot, at the ceiling. This is the first gaze of the day. Various memories, some of them strange, linger in my head about the night before. It must have been early morning — continental breakfast hour — because the light coming from the window was too bright.

The scene has changed dramatically in my hotel room. What once was a peaceful refuge filled with hope and laughter turned into a savage landscape of empty beer bottles, sleeping bodies and melting ice.

Good God, what happened?

The room in question was room 420. It smelled like a sweaty, crowded dive bar without ashtrays. Our room was hit by a vicious force. It was a force which could not be described with mere words. Get a bunch of drunken college journalists together into one room and things are bound to get out of control.

You had to be there in order to feel it. Some have called this force cockiness and assholism. Others blamed it on the boogie.

I think the blame lies with a bunch of good people having a good time.

But our delusions of grandeur were squashed at the awards ceremony. So what? Apparently we were under the illusion that accolades come easily. Who cares about awards? We know we do it better, stronger and faster.

At the Illinois College Press Association convention this year, The Chronicle didn’t sweep, or even dominate the competition. Perhaps other schools took it personally last year and made best effort. Then again, maybe they out-prayed us during half-time.

Somehow we didn’t see this one coming. But we took some awards that probably won’t get the deserved credit they need. The photo desk, despite not winning anything during the shoot out, managed to rock out with their you know what during the awards. Our front page layout got a nod and so did the staff of The Chronicle for editorials. And graphics laid more pipe than Wishkah plumbing.

Some of us fell into that age-old trap: We thought we were better.

But considering how many idiot savants and poor schleps we were up against, it was not unreasonable for us to think that.

Those other papers who won have a memorable trophy to put next to their school colors.

That’s about it.

However, at the end of the day, no amount of certificates, no amount of awards and let’s-rub-it-in-their-faces attitudes can replace the one thing The Chronicle has always excelled at: Passion—A passion for life and a passion for the job.

ICPA is a time for celebration. It’s funny that we were the only ones celebrating.

Say what you want about our behavior, but there is nothing more fulfilling than standing alone and giving the finger to conformity.

Live Gonzo

Sex Cannon

Photo courtesy of Getty Images.

My hero. Rex "I keep my cock in a garage," Grossman.

For those who think they know a thing or two about me....

If you need it, you don't have it.

Aspirin

"Where's the aspirin?" I scream at the pharmacist. Apparently years of pent up rage toward pharmacy majors have finally seeped out into the public. I'm at a Walgreens screaming at a certified pharmacist to point me where the fucking aspirin is. I could have been worse I guess.

I could have said where's the fucking aspirin asshole. I could have made a comment about the dissatisfied nature of the job. About working in some dirt road Walgreens counting pills for a living and then giving me that smug condescending look about how much school went into that degree.

I could have said I used to be a pharmacy major.

But I didn't. People in pain don't function on the same playing field. It's difficult to communicate with fellow human beings after New Year's Eve. It's more difficult with a giant headache and that disgusting feeling in the gut.

I didn't even hear the pharmacist tell me where it was. I just saw her hands move in the right direction. Somehow they shoved me into the right aisle. The very same aisle had chewable aspirin and Advil. I almost took the shit right in the store. It's not like anyone reads the directions when taking aspirin. You grab a mouthful and swallow. Just like they do in pornos. And then you wait for the relief. (Well a towel if we're still talking about porn.)

Fuck Bayer. I'm not paying more for that shit. It's aspirin. It's not magic.

Get generic aspirin instead.


To the mother of all wonder drugs, here's to aspirin. The new year started off with a headache.