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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.