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.