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This page has been experiencing a bit of a lull, but let's hope that changes in the near future. Happy Yule.

Dire Straits

Sometime in September I remember driving to work and seeing a giant black cloud on the horizon. I don't think I remember a hard-on that was that big.

Well, maybe when I was in that strip club in Ottawa, Ill., but that's beside the point. Anyway, a reporter's instinct tells him to emulate a dumb moth and fly straight toward the danger.

Anyway, here were the results:

Operation Foole with an "e"

EDITOR'S NOTE: Most ideas here are George Carlin's ideas.

He's dead now, but like he always said, "Fuck the dead! Hey you're dead, what do you give a shit?"

From all the things that George Carlin taught me in his lectures about life (yes, they were lecture about how to live), the one thing that always stood out for me were his rants about death. He always had a very peculiar view of death, one that I like the legion of his fans took to be their own.

I can't help feeling sad that the man who introduced me to stand up comedians died, but I also want to do the man justice for the things that he has taught me.

Thirty years ago, during his 1978 special in Phoenix he talked about death, as he usually did. But when I devoted two long nights watching the body of his work again on HBO, I caught something that I previously didn't. That's because when he talked about death he was alive. But now he is gone and so is his soul. And he knew where it would go, too.

"I think your soul goes to a garage in Buffalo," he said. Hey you go where you think that you are going to go, that's what he said. I still think about where he actually did think his soul would go.

I hope that it went into the people's collective minds since he was a beacon of truth in America. When you understood Carlin beyond his love of the language and human potential, you understood what life was about. It was far from superficial for him. In fact, he was like the sheepherder who led his cattle into whatever foray his mind felt like leading you to.

Sometimes he felt dirty, as in his Carlin "Back in Town" special when he took on feminism and said that it is easy to piss off a feminist. "Hey cupcake make me something to eat and give me a blowjob."

"I know I'm a pig," he said. Then he said that he is a twisted evil fuck and that he accepts it.

But from most of the media reports that I've read about Carlin and the legion of comedians and fans voicing their take on him, they always talk about his relevance today.

They talk about the 7 dirty words and the Supreme Court case and his ties to Lenny Bruce.

But nobody talks about the fact that he was one of the only mainstream comedians who could say the foulest shit on the stage and get away with it.

He made it in his life. He did it his own way.

Sure some will say he is a comedic martyr by now.

But I always viewed him as the grandfather that you always wanted to have. The one who would pull out the nudie deck of cards during Thanksgiving when the parents weren't watching and show you the ropes.

To listen to Carlin, it wasn't about being hip.

I think that what he did was the highest form of social commentary that could ever be. And he sailed through it, through the times, through his complaints and grievances, his people he could do without, his dog humor, his political humor and just plain ol' things that pissed him the FUCK off. And rightly so. He did it like a champion.

"It's a great country, but it's a strange culture." - George Carlin.

So I do hope his soul is somewhere in a garage in Buffalo. Maybe I'll visit one day. And he will be hanging out with all of his dead dogs and cats that he frequently talked about and he still would be shaking his head at the world that he left behind.

SHIT, PISS, FUCK, CUNT, COCKSUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER and TITS.

Depp

Sometimes in journalism you face a lot of disappointments. Sometimes the job gets in the way of following your wants and wishes. But hey, it's the job. It pays the fucking bills.

The office was struck with Johnny Depp fever since he was filming the John Dillinger movie "Public Enemies" right across the street from our office in an old police station. Sure, the movie trucks came in, and the security guards "didn't know anything" as they chewed on French fries from the local McDonald's, but there was no sign of the actor.

So the pressure was on.

Would he show up? Will he show up? Get the camera ready for some action since this is community news.

So we never got the shot.

But apparently, the man DID show up, him and Christian Bale, who will forever be known in my mind as Patrick Bateman of "American Psycho" fame.

We started at 9 a.m. Shit, even the editor rolled in on time. The office was full of surprising expectations. Hell, maybe he WILL be there.

But the day dragged on as they usually do and no Depp was in sight. The only "depp's" I thought that were in attendance were the the dip shits who thought they would see Johnny Depp.

I was the dip shit.

As is customary at Nadig Newspapers, we cover the meetings of the Lincolnwood Board of Trustees. The board talks about riveting stuff like changing yard setbacks and approving grant money.

But at this point I was in a panic. It was bad enough that I drove all around the City's police stations covering area crime, but I was missing out on some Depp action.

Anyway, the day was over and it was time to go home.

So instead of staying and waiting for Johnny Depp, I went home to get something to eat and take a shit.

Bad judgement.

I began my journey to Lincolnwood for the meeting and I stopped by the "set" to see if "Johnny was there?" He WAS, but some security lady told me that he wasn't. I knew this because there were some fans staked out on the lawns. They knew he was there, but I didn't.

Cue the meeting.

But on the way back home, I parked my car and walked up to the set and asked one of the truck drivers who caters to the stars if "the star of the show was going to show up."

"Oh man, you missed him buddy. By about two hours," he said.

"Two fucking hours?" I said.

"Yeah both of them came in. Him and Christian Bale. You know what [Depp] does, he shoots the scene, goes to his trailer, changes, and then jumps into a car and he is gone," he said.

That's when the dagger was placed roughly into my heart.

"Fuck," I said.

I said some other things, but then I decided to drown my sorrows in vodka.

"Fucking Johnny Depp," I said.

I called some friends so that they could guide me through the ordeal, but in the end, yeah, I was a disgruntled fan of his work. But it was my fault. I should have been out there at 5 p.m. dragging a fold out chair and a beer can "waiting for Johnny Depp."

Sometimes work is more important that Johnny Depp.

Cue the vodka.

Ciao,

Gonzo.

An old fashioned rant

On the way home I picked up some beer imported from Denmark. Carlsberg has a nice kick, despite the notion that the Danish people have something against the Muslims for printing those cartoons of Allah in their newspapers.

No, they just make a good beer. And what a way to start a blog about controversy and the presidential campaign then without mentioning Jeremiah Wright. Sorry, Reverend Wright.

Well Wright is wrong. Maybe not about what he says about the black church, since I absolutely have no basis to know the REAL issues black churches face, but as cracker, even I can understand that this guy is causing unnecessary harm to Obama's campaign. Jesus. The more this man talks the more Obama squirms at the podium. And like Jay Leno said recently, you have to wonder how much Hillary is paying this man to continue to jive in front of the cameras and the radio.

But that is a joke and not a fact.

What is a fact is that when I went to cover Obama's presidential announcement in Springfield last year, Obama's message was clear.

"What's stopped us is the failure of leadership. The smallness of our politics -- the ease we're distracted by the petty and trivial, our chronic avoidance of tough decisions, our preference for scoring cheap political points instead of rolling up our sleeves and building a working consensus to tackle big problems," Obama said in February of 2007 in Springfield when he announced his candidacy to run for president.

And even a year later those words ring true in the daily slug fest for political points in the media.

What's bogging down his campaign now is that he sort of has to deal with the daily dish of new controversies and answer tough questions. Which there is nothing wrong with that. Every man, woman or child (Bush. Cheap shot. I kid the president) had to answer those when they were running.

But it seems to me that some use this to their advantage, especially in the high-wire world of campaining. It's like all the candidates decided that because America's attention span is so low, especially when it comes to the presidential campaigns, that the Beavis and Butthead steamroller designed to destroy everything in the proverbial path to reach a goal (to score), is acceptable.

I thought that this was about ending the war. I thought that this was about fixing something. Anything. Shit. Even the door lock on my Ford Tempo.

I thought we were smarter. I thought that this was about getting Republicans out of power, which was something we couldn't do with John Kerry. Because you know, he was the most electable.

But these trivial all out attacks on candidates are reported in the media at a frantic pace.

If anyone remembers, a couple of weeks ago Hillary appeased to the blue collar vote and won Pennsylvania because she downed a shot and a beer.

Because when you think about boilermakers, and I'm talking about the old fashioned ones where you drop the shot glass into the swill and then down the whole thing as fast as you can, the first thing you think about is Senator Clinton.

Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Not Mike Royko, or Bill Hicks, or Richard Pryor, or George Carlin, or even most of the old timers who frequent the Billy Goat Tavern -- the classics -- the people who have deserved a free boilermaker at the end of their day for the past 30 years, the people with grime between their finger nails, the ones who wear work boots, shit, the ones who drive an old Ford, but no, it was Senator Clinton.

But why? What is this political game of backgammon teaching us? Or what is it supposed to teach us? There's been debate about the levels of the middle class, but I doubt that somehow the image of a former First Lady doing shots of Crown Royale and chugging beer will appeal to the working classes? Is that what we want? Some beer-swillin' shot bouncing lady that can kick it with the old boys and has had pretty much of a pimpin-aint-easy roll with our national saxophone player?

I guess so. I guess we do. Hey, it worked.

But have you seen the people at the bar? At the local drinking hole? At the church around the corner? At the local bottle factory?

It's not a pretty sight. Fore one, you're in it and so am I, drinking with the rest of them. But come on, a stranger coming in for a one-time visit doesn't really mesh with the background. "Support the Troops" bumper stickers and the giant screen TV's used for karaoke pretty much make up for it and the giant garbage cans used for cigarette butts outside of the door don't help either.

None of it should help.

I used to love bars.

I'm astounded that the "boilermaker" image actually worked in Pennsylvania. That's like using Pee Wee Herman for an advertisement of why Porno Movie Theaters are good places to go to on the weekends.

Hell, everyone knows that presidents don't mix well with the die-hard Cubbie bars on the North Side of Chicago. Where you can still find old skool payphone booths. Where you can smoke. Where you can bitch about your problems even though you haven't seen these cats in a long while.

Shit, I guess it is like Washington politics. The in-crowd stays in, accepted by the boys, fearing what this new jack off with a leather jacket will do to the aesthetic of the place. Because the aesthetic is important. The image. The way you look at it.

Not all that other shit. Ya know, policy, the economy and being able to fill your gas tank with a $5 spot, as Dennis Miller once put it.

Even the idea of getting the drinking culture's vote by doing a boilermaker seems so out of the blue to me. I mean, if you've ever been in a bar, you can buy that shit (the vote) by buying a deuce of rounds. Maybe some Wild Turkey, if it is a lucky night. Then a night of scratch-offs...hey it's a gamble right? Maybe some pizza, "Hell no one cooks at home anyway!" then some beer and then if we're lucky,we can muster up enough courage to say "What the fuck is up with these rebate checks? Aren't they supposed to come in at about this time? I paid this shit."

But this is all stupid.

Why?

Because the sad truth is, that while I frequent these bars, people in the bars are not meant to run the country. In fact, on a wild suspicion, the people at the local watering hole will never be able to make decisions about war and the economy or even if the machine takes quarters, then can you still mix colors and whites?

But please, don't call us stupid. There is this wave of rhetoric that somehow the American people are dumb and stupid. Like we only get channel 2 or something. Like the analog-to-digital switch already came and we didn't know it. Or were aware of it.

Like, "what the fuck happened to Channel 9?" "I thought the game was on tonight?"

I'm sort of tired of the same two families running this country who know how to play the political game. Who know when to say something, or bring something up at the right time, to yes, score political points and in the eyes of the American people, make the other candidate look like he is an incompetent imbecile who has no idea who he should be hanging out with.

Like that's what it takes to win. To make the other poor sap who is running look bad.

"What? You smoked crack?" Oh no way. Not in this life time will I vote for a crack head. I'll vote for a wife that could care two-shits since she is in politcs about whom my husband fucks, but that crackhead thing, that you can't ignore.

But just as I'm tired of drinking Miller Genuine Draft, I'm sure the men of America are tired of the same old rhetoric of a couple that probably doesn't fuck anymore.

And this isn't meant to be sexist. I'll take Hillary over McCain any day. But come on. People have cheated on their girlfriends. That sex was a little awkward wasn't it? Like, yeah, "I love you. Isn't Leno doing his "Headlines" segment tonight?"

We're all fucked. The beasts are winning. And it's the worst kind of beasts. The ones who will say anything and spin any little turd into a political point.

Now where are those stimulus checks? Can I drive to work without returning to the gas station as if it was my alma matter? Can I pay these bills without having to juggle when I actually pay them? Can I save something for the future, I mean these student loans are fucking killing me. Can I NOT live pay check to pay check after I graduated from college? Can I please have some hope left in this electoral process? Can I please stop watching commercials that want to give me a pill that makes my dick hard? I have to go to work. How will I call the hospital after four hours when I have deadlines to make?

As Jack Nicholson once said. "Sell crazy someplace else. We're all stocked up here"

People talk about voter apathy. Well, I gotta tell you, the way that this current Democratic orgy is playing out, that's where this is headed.

At some point even the American people can spot a weasel and say, "Oh fuck this!" The Cubs game is on. We're used to losing.

And so it goes...

"Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?" - HST

As it is customary every year in February, it's time to mention the Good Doctor again. This marks the third year anniversary of his unfortunate, albeit self-inflicted, death.

Yes...football season is over. And what a season it was. Finally the underdog had its day. Even the Good Doctor would probably have something to say about the New York Giants cold cocking and whooping the New England Patriots like Ike Turner used to beat Tina.

But Ike is dead now and so is the doctor and even though people remember Ike for being an asshole, people remember Thompson for who he was, what he left behind and whom he inspired.

He gave us gonzo journalism, which over the years has been changing and morphing. To some it's about covering politics with a wicked eye. Rolling Stone's Matt Taibbi tries to do it on the campaign trail. Talking about the media and its goons as if he wasn't one himself. What would Thompson say about Clinton and Obama? Would he make allusions to being on the rag? Or, like comic D.L. Hughley said, would the First Lady ask for a "hot comb" and nobody would know what the fuck that is?

The whole generation now is preoccupied with cell phones and celebrities, coming up with shit like Brit-Brit and how she likes to show her snatch. We've got eye drops for chronic eye dryness that inform us that it wasn't tested on people with herpes of the eyes. We've got McDonald's selling salads and pharmaceutical companies mixing drugs for cholesterol AND high blood pressure. Writers finally showed Hollywood how if they don't give a fuck about them, they won't give a fuck about Hollywood.

And Angelina Jolie is pregnant!

But gonzo, always, I felt, was a state of mind. An attitude with a label. A certain way of looking at the world. Be it cynical, or heartfelt, angry or sad. It wasn't something that you could emulate, but rather, it was something that you had to learn through your own life. Thompson dared use to go to the edge, spit in the abyss and then go back and say that you did. Most fall off when they see the edge. But some don't. Some stay. Some do come back with that youthful glee and say, "You should have seen it, man."

Thompson had a love and hate relationship with deadlines. And I missed mine. He died on Feb. 20, 2005.

"But what now? What comes next?" - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Like the cling clang King of the rim ram room

By the time the credits started rolling after "Leaving Las Vegas," I started to think about love. That powerful emotion and how devoid of it I am.

Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to my love life? I mean, it didn't just evaporate. Sure, there were a few bangs here and there, but come on, nothing is more depressing than this.

This.

This lonely shell. Valentine's Day has come and gone and all I got to show for is an empty bottle of booze. Fuck.

"Get out," my friends tell me. "Go outside," they say. Yeah, what, clubbing?

But it did get me pondering on love. All my friends are falling into it faster than Flash. Cheap comparison, to be sure. One guy is getting married. One guy is recuperating from disaster and healing through love. One guy is enjoying his weekends doing...yeah who?

And then there's me. Not gay. LOL. Haven't found the right one, or at least, Miss right now.

So I opened a bottle of Wild Turkey and watched "Leaving Las Vegas." Why didn't Elisabeth Shue win that Oscar? Speaking of which, what the fuck happened to Elisabeth Shue? Geez. Girl had it.

Like Mira Sorvino. WTF happened to her?

Love to me is one of those things that just sort of happens. It happens to everyone. You will be smoking a cigarette, make some dumb comment to a girl that is passing by and like Madden says, boom, you're buying IKEA bed sheets and silk white ties. And going karaokeing when nobody else is going.

Fuck!

While I'm not fond of karaoke, I can see the connection. Doing something together. I miss that. I miss picnicks and walks in the Forest Preserve. I miss flashlight knocks on the window from cops who are asking "What are you doing?" and I miss steamed up windshields and late night sandwiches.

But most of all, here's what I miss: Doing it together. Not in the literal sense, but in the figurative one.

Sure I'll have another shot. It's time to put on Smooth Criminal.

Noir

My life has degenerated into a slow, reflective and jazzy sort of a life. Always pondering my situation. Where do I work? Why do I work there? Why am I a reporter? Why do I drink? Why don't I have a woman? Why does Valentine's Day suck so much? Why does chocolate taste like shit? Why do my flowers always wilt?

* * *

I get off work at 5 p.m. and exit through the door with my friend reporter/kindred spirit/about-to-be-married man/co-worker. He needs to stop at the convenience store next door to buy some candy. I guess his blood sugar was down. I light up a Camel and stand at the intersection of Gale Street and Milwaukee Avenue, looking passively at the hordes of crowds that have decided to populate this area at this particular hour; running red lights; walking when the "Don't Walk" sign is on; fucking with traffic.

And it's Thursday. Pay day.

Then a little Asian teenager gets almost plowed by some driver in a hurry because she stepped out onto the busy street with that dumb high school sort of excitement, causing the man to break abruptly, tires squeeling like pigs, swerving to the left, missing her by inches.

"Holy Shit!" me and the other reporter utter.

We wait to see what happens. The driver, a very sordid sort of man gets out, yelling at the hapless girl, telling her that he almost killed her. He almost did. And cops are right behind, but they do nothing, but pull into a McDonald's parking lot.

"Fuck," I say.

That kind of a hit would get us both soaked in crimson.

My friend agreed.

Would we cover the event?

Yes.

But it would be overtime.

Major shit.

But the girl didn't die. She just felt stupid in front of her friends, especially when the driver of the mini-van came out and yelled at her, telling her that she was almost killed.

But it didn't bleed so it didn't lede.

* * *

At this point I needed a drink. A stiff one, too.

And I thought about death.

And money.

I thought about how many times I came face to face with death. And how sad yet liberating it was. I heard the serpent rattle its tail.

But listening to some poor rendition of Jessica Rabbit's number of "Why don't you do right," got me in the noir mood.

And I started drinking bourbon.

It was Valentine's Day. I hated this day ever since I was single and had trouble with love.

I didn't want to think about the past loves since it depressed me. I was alone. Sitting here singing "Get out of here, get me some money too."

Why don't I do right like some other men do?

The night needed a boilermaker

By the time I got home after 12 hours of working and makin' newspapers, the thirst had rang my doorbell and I just needed to mellow out. It was already an exhausting day and the thought of me getting through the rest of the night sober sort of put me in a vile mood.

The type of mood that had me screaming at drivers who couldn't be patient enough and wait for a person to make a left hand turn while the light was still green, but had to make an Action Jackson right turn in front of an oncoming bus. The type of mood that had me wondering why First Blood was way better than Rambo III.



It is during days like this that I call on an old friend, the boilermaker. Mike Royko was onto something with this. He truly was. He knew that in the end, most hardworking newspapermen need a boilermaker after a peculiarly hellish and shitty day.

And aren't they all?

(No, they just seem like it.)

But ask for a boilermaker these days in a local bar, and, while the cordial bartenders sure know what I am asking for, they are not really ready for dealing with a whole night of drinking boilermakers. And now with the smoking ban in full effect, it was time for the smoke-free bartenders to do some extra work cleaning glasses and mugs.

Ya know, doing the dishes.

Yeah, it might be an asshole thing to do, but I think there has to be a trade off in everything.

So I went into a pretty nice establishment. Not the usual shit hole I used to hang out when I could smoke. And I ordered a boilermaker.

The bartender brought me a beer and a shooter and sat it in front of me. She looked like a sweet lady with a sweeter gig. No assholes coming onto her. No dickwads wanting frosty mugs with EVERY beer.

Now to me, the only way a boilermaker should be served is by dunking the shot in the beer and chasing it all down in one gulp. Then ask for another one.

"God damn!" an old man said next to me. "I haven't seen that in thirty years."

"What nobody does that anymore? That's kind of hard to believe," I said.

He explained to me that the boilermaker is more akin to just a shot and a beer these days. Granted, that's what it always was, but I just said that I felt it was more "old skool" to do it this way.

"Gimme another I said."

The female bartender reluctantly took both glasses and brought me new ones. At first I thought that this was my chance to finally payback the people who fought so valiantly to work in smoke-free environments. The ones who came on the news and said what a good idea the smoking ban was. But I said fuck it, she was a nice lady. Can't resolve to hatin' everyone by association.

I gulped the second boiler fast and felt a warm calm come over me. Then I went outside to smoke.

Naturally.

And it was colder outside than in Joan Rivers' asshole. Metaphorically speaking, of course. How would I know, right?

But after a while, I mellowed out and told the nice lady that she didn't need to replace every single glass.

"Pour it in the same one," I said. It didn't matter. What am I, 12? All of a sudden I need a new glass every time. No way. I tipped good for her trouble. Then I said that "I" was sorry.

Then I remember that the evening just degenerated from there, since, hell, if you've ever been drinking at a bar, that's how those nights usually go. At some point I actually enjoyed the fresh air outside, watching traffic go by, thinking, ya know, if someone fucks with me smoking outside, then they would be messing with the wrong kid. I just bought a Rambo knife. For hunting of course. And survival.

Fire proof this middle finger

Ok, so now that the smoking ban in Illinois has pretty much become passe, I really didn't think that the non-smoking gentry would end up actually fucking with the cigarettes themselves. But they did. God bless you American Cancer Society.

Ever since Jan. 1, I had this weird suspicion that someone was screwing with my Marlboros. They just started tasting different. And on top of that...I kept wondering why I can't just lounge around and smoke without having to jump up from my chair and erratically yelling "Motherfucker!" while going through my pockets for a lighter for the tenth time.

"What the fuck is wrong with these things?" I would ask. Granted, that's probably a silly question to ask about cigarettes, I mean what's not wrong with them?

And then after hearing a slow ticking clock and moving my eyeballs sideways for two minutes, it finally dawned on me.

"Oh my God. They did it. They actually did it.Those fuckers spewed those fire-safe smokes out onto the Chicago cigarette market."



I thought I wasn't smoking them fast enough. That's why they were going out.

It turns out they are putting MORE shit in the cigarettes. And it's not even the good shit that smokers used to enjoy with their coffee and their spiteful angst.


Now I look like a crack head with my lighter in my hand, "because that darn thing just keeps going out."

How the fuck are you supposed to smoke those things? I know how. In one continuous drag that will give you a heart-attack. This is the last draw you non-smokers. I'm spiking the water with lead, you jogging pricks. And putting thumbtacks in your running shoes.

Oh yeah, rest in peace Heath Ledger. Smoke if you got 'em.

The days when "hope" wasn't just a political term

graphic by Josh Covarrubias


Keep your eyes peeled in Springfield

As soon as we sat down in the confined space known as the coach seat of an Amtrak train headed for Springfield, Ill., I knew that this would be a strange trip. This was coach—the mode of transportation for drunks, housewives and apparently, college journalists.

Our mission was simple: Go to the Capitol and cover Sen. Barack Obama’s (D-Ill.) presidential announcement. I have never covered anything this big as a reporter, so I didn’t know what to expect.

My anxieties of performing under pressure were heightened when a grandmother with an unruly child sat across from the photographer and me. The fact that I was self-medicating with Wild Turkey, while going past miles of rusty silos and dilapidated Winnebagos, didn’t help either.

“Could you babysit him?” the grandmother eventually asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, obviously feeling the ill-effects of the bourbon. By then the kid was sleeping. And thank God for that, because he didn’t have the luxury of hearing the sailor storm of curse words and obscenities that came afterward. The photographer and I were the last people who should have had the responsibility of babysitting a child. But eventually granny came back and our babysitting adventure was over.

We arrived in Springfield around five in the afternoon. We met a French photographer from McClatchy-Tribune news services, who invited us to go and get our credentials with him. But we were not on the list for press credential pick up.

However, after much struggle and polite shouting, everything was in order. We had the credentials and we had the hotel.

Then fear began to show its ugly hide. Would I cover the event righteously? What if my recorder runs out of batteries?

I guess I would have to improvise.

When the day of the event came, I did my best to fit in with the army of media professionals who descended on the town like a pack of rabid vultures. I wore a tie.

Springfield looks like a micro version of Washington D.C.—without the press corps, the president or, apparently, nightlife. It truly is the middle of nowhere. It’s the type of town that has six major streets, conveniently called 1st through 6th.

The crowds that came out to support Obama were a determined bunch. The streets were littered with used up hand-warmers. And despite the insatiable cold, children sat on their parents’ shoulders and waved Obama 08 signs as if it were the Fourth of July.

I stood there on the media riser, with my fingers frozen, clutching a Panasonic recorder, cursing. A historic event was happening while I debated the quality of my leather gloves.

There was chaos all around.

Anchors with microphones resembling lollipops fed their reports to headquarters miles away every 15 minutes.

Then the ink in my pen froze. I was panicking while fumbling for a pencil buried in my coat.

At some point after Obama left the stage I rushed to interview people in the crowd. I talked to a few pro-lifers who were protesting Obama but nothing they’ve said made sense. It had nothing to do with a presidential announcement.

So I kept moving.

There was a point when I stood in awe in front of massive crowds, people passing me left and right, and I couldn’t help thinking—get it together and talk to anyone available!

And as I sat in my hotel room later, writing my story, I thought about the meaning of this trip. Despite that chaos that came along with reporting on something of this magnitude, I was glad I had the chance to be a part of this.

This wasn’t about an African-American announcing his presidential candidacy. The fact that 17,000 people came out to see this man speak showed something that couldn’t be described in words. This was about the essential hunger for change in American politics. This was about finding a leader.

The next morning the Amtrak station in Springfield was filled with homeless guys. The fact that our train was delayed by two and a half hours was enough of a disappointment. I worried about being stabbed.

Then the French photographer showed up again. In the best French accent since Gerard Depardieu, he said he was “pissed.” He would not make his flight home. As we waited, we talked about the American Dream and how bizarre it was for a train to be late here. He couldn’t rent a car because they were closed on Sundays.

“I am f—ed, ” he said. Then he made a pledge to never take Amtrak again.