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
