Why not?

Hemingway was born 111 years ago.

The boys in action.

Sweet Home Chicago

"We're on a mission from God." - Elwood.

There is one thing in the city of Chicago that gets people going better than the news of never-happening lower taxes, or things actually working in the Springfield legislature, and that is city sports. It used to be basketball, football and baseball. Shit, people lost it when the White Sox won the series. And it was the White Sox!

And now hockey. Welcome back. The die-hards will tell you that it never left and that the assholes just jumped on the bandwagon. Maybe they did. But what a bandwagon!

As soon as I found out that the goal that Patrick Kane of the Chicago Blackhawks scored was official, my mind had melted. I couldn't believe that the team had actually won a cup named after a guy named "Stanley."

I knew that the city would celebrate right away. And my neighborhood wasn't any different. And while I adhere to the cynical notion that watching sports on television is pure bullshit that I also enjoy, that the fans are just a bunch of drunken assholes who are mean to girls and the ushers at the games ala "Show us your tits!," that the girls are actually willing to show those twins for the hell of it once expensive champagne shows up, I was quite psyched about the reality that the Blackhawks brought the Stanley Cup back to the city after all these years.



My first impulse was beer. Where is it? Or what about the cheap champagne? How can we celebrate this shit without the proper helping of alcohol? So I did what every other exultant fan would do, I went to the streets.

They were gathered by the masses by the time I got to the major intersection in my hood.

And by now, I don’t think that anyone is disappointed. The sports pages had a field day with covering the hockey team in and out, the words to the Fratelis’ “Chelsea Dagger,” and why Patrick Kane could drink on the parade tour bus despite the open liquor law because he was 21-years-old.

For me Kane’s winning shot meant one thing. “Where is my camera?” Out here on the Northwest Side of Chicago, getting people to riot takes a lot of work. Trust me, I tried. The Blackhawks winning was that final push that let the people free and wild that night.

And we all know how that parade turned out on June 11. Even if it wasn’t the 2 million estimated people who showed up to the rally, there sure as fuck was a lot of motherfuckers wearing red.

But that win during Game 6 showed some promise. Back before all hell broke loose in downtown.

This is Harlem and Belmont avenues.







However, despite the numerous championships that the town has won, Chicago folks know that that is an opportunity to act like, well, clowns. I think that this fan is wearing a clown nose.



Love the Chicago Blackhawks. Congratulations, boys.

"It's a great day for America, everybody."

Sometime in the middle of Craig Ferguson's live performance at the Chicago Theater on May 1, Craig comments on the lunacy and the immediacy of the Internet and the three things that everyone should ask themselves before they put anything on the Web.

"Does it need to be said? Does it need to be said by me? Does it need to be said now?" Ferguson said. "It took me three marriages to learn that."

But let me start earlier. Since late February I was under the impression that I scored fourth row tickets to see Ferguson perform. That idea took on a life of its own and slowly I was convinced that, fuck, I got some really sweet seats. Of course things never go as they supposed to. Call it Murphy's Law or being Polish or whatever.

The day of the show comes and I am dressed like beautiful tits. I walk into the theater as if I own the place with my sister at my side since the tickets were her graduation present. I'm walking down the aisle, straight to the front and settle down in E407.

"This is pimpin'," I say to my sister. "This is big time." We settle in and some rich twats sit next to me five minutes before the show starts and they are talking about how well they've done in getting these seats. And it was close to the stage. Very close.

Was.

Something is not right. It does say 407 and 405 but in EE.

"Does your ticket say E409?" I ask the twat. (As a side note, she looked like a rich old twat, hence the attribution. Hey some do).

Of course me being a gentleman and not in the mood to spoil anyone's show, I asked the usher where the seats were just as the lights went out and the opening comedian Randy Kagan went on. And he's starting his shtick, but I want to know if these are the right seats.

So now my sister and I are sitting on the main floor near the back.
And I finally realized the need for opening comedians.

So that once the lights go out, the main act doesn't get distracted by people's obsessive compulsions about if they are in the right place as the ushers are frantically trying do their jobs to find seats for other people. And nobody is listening to the comic. They are still in shock and appalled about how bad the ushers were.

"Can you see?" I say when we got to "our" seats, as naturally there was a big Baby Huey sitting in front of her. She said yes.

Oh yeah, what about the show?



Out of all of the late night talk show hosts out there, I think Craig Ferguson is the only one who actually makes it his own. I do. I think he brings something to the format that you just don't see on the other programs. Plus the man is charming, funny, and yes, dare I say it, kind of sexy. That is if I was a woman. Which I guess I am sometimes.

Dressed in white pants, a T-shirt and a leather jacket, Ferguson said that his purpose was to tell a dirty joke.

"No Craig, not a joke," he said.

Of course the whole setup of the show is that he never actually gets to the joke until the end since he gets side tracked by the many, many thoughts he has, before he gets to the joke.

And yes, he does curse.

"I like to curse, but I'm a friendly curser," Ferguson said. From what I heard, "Shut the fuck up" can be actually used to show surprise and endearment. I know! He said that if people expect him to behave like he does on the show, then they were in for a long night.

"A guy isn't going to come out here running with a flag and say "Ohh la la!" so I can say whatever the fuck I want."

Ferguson said that his 9-year-old son is a hound for the Federal Communications Commission and walks behind him with a nickle jar for every time he says the "F-Word." Ferguson has been married three times as I've said.

"Here's $10, I'm going to call your mother," he said.

But the show is actually filled with nonstop laughter. And he killed.

From his musings about how America tuned in to see Tiger Woods return to golf expecting him to lose it and fuck a golf hole, a lack of sex education in Scotland, meeting Dick Cheney and then getting audited, the first sex scandal he did jokes about on the show involving Kevin Costner, about getting old and his balls sagging, "It feels like I'm being followed by two little hamsters," to fat girls, how insane coincidences prove that there is a God, and his alcoholism and more.

"Here's the medical difference between an alcoholic and a drug addict. When I used to be at a bar and somebody offered me some coke I did it. But when somebody told me that they knew a guy who had coke and we had to go get it, I was like, "Why? The bar is open.""

Or how God exists because Fabio got hit in the face by a goose at Bush Gardens on a roller coaster.

As God: "Is that Fabio? Hey watch this."

Or how Larry King represents ultimate punk rock because he "doesn't give a FUCK!"

"Larry could be interviewing you and fart while not losing eye-contact," Ferguson said. "What? You don't like brisket?"

Or Andy Rooney and how even the journalsits on Sundays drop their heads when they say "Here's Andy Rooney."

And Rooney comes on and whatever crazy lunacy pops into his head at 91 years of age and that makes it on the show: "What about bananas? They are shaped like cocks. And I want to eat them but I don't want people thinking that I want to blow an Asian man."

Personally, I enjoyed the show, yes, even from E407. It showed a more personal side to Craig that you just don't get on television. You get into the mind of a man that millions of people stay up for every night.

Oh yeah, he finally told the joke he came to tell.

It involved a man buying a gift for his wife for their anniversary so he bought her shoes and a vibrator. "So if she doesn't like them, she can go fuck herself!"

Or something of that nature.

The show was complete with Craig lip synching "Oops, I did it Again," by Britney Spears, and dancing as a boy band with some regulars on the show, including "Leather Boy."

Seeing him live on stage, I can finally understand why the man is really the only reason to watch late night comedy. You can have the Leno's and the Letterman's, but I will watch Ferguson over any of them.

He's my kind of guy. Even if I had shitty seats.

The hunt for Marlboro reds.

PRETTY SOON you won't even be able to smoke on submarines. I'm pretty sure that when that torpedo is nearing on the radar and the ship is taking evasive maneuvers, at least a third of the sailors will pull out their packs of Marlboro reds and light up. Fuck the maneuvers, where is my lighter?

The U.S. Navy, if you haven't heard, is planning to ban smoking on its submarines by next year. That's because it's a confined space, and that second-hand smoke kills, and yeah, you know the fucking argument.

What about if the sub comes to the surface and you can actually get a breath of fresh air, can you smoke then? You know, when like four head honchos come out on the top to "take a look around" and speak with the captain, can you smoke then? What if the captain smokes? And he says it's okay. Can the U.S. Navy really reprimand him if some snotty deckhand gets out of hand and reports the incident?

I mean, the president smokes. How come the sailors, who are under enough stress as it is down there, can't go to the back and puff a few to calm their nerves? What are you going to tell them, to go outside? Because that's what you need in the Navy, some nervous twitchy sailor who can't make an important decision and concentrate on the job because he is trying to quit smoking.

But that's the price in this country. Everybody knows the smokers get the shit end of the stick all the time. Can't smoke in planes, can't smoke in trains, can't smoke in bars, can't smoke at the doctor's office, can't smoke at the City Council building, can't smoke within fifteen feet of a door, can't smoke when you're picking up a whore because she doesn't smoke, can't smoke.... Well you get the point.

And it's not that I can't smoke in certain places that gets my crave for nicotine going. It's that there's a whole new culture out there that is designed to get ME to quit too. Nicotine is fine, as long as you don't smoke it. Come to think of it, weren't the bad guys in "Waterworld" called "Smokers" and the "hero" if you will, Kevin Costner, had fucking gills to breathe underwater. Fuck, even underwater there's a smoking ban. And it's in fucking "Waterworld."

I've quit many times sure, but it only lasted hours. Do we need studies that tell us what the things that are killing us are? Booze, cigs, fast food and lack of exercise.

How American. No shit. John Wayne and all the other "father figures" who went through the 1950s are looking at this shit like, what the fuck? No wonder they are Republicans.

I guess I'm sort of a Republican when it comes to smoking, too.

I always say live and let live, but isn't it time to stop banning all this shit? What do we want to be, a pure and a healthy nation all of a sudden? A culture of jogging freaks who are going "green" and eating their vegetables and running the fucking marathons for a cause? There were a couple of "pure" nations in history and that didn't work out too well.

I know, I know, this will sound as if something a Republican would say, but shut it alright. The far left is just as bad as the far right. They both go to silly extremes.

So cool it. You've been warned. Now light up. And sailors, keep smoking until New Year's. Smoke until that sub needs major cleaning services due to the tar build up. Make the sub yellow. Just so other nonsmokers will know that you've been stationed on that fucking thing.

Cheerio, cheeky monkeys.

On this lonely night in the Bunker, I can't help but think about the good old friend who has passed away. To call it suicide after all these years only makes the man lesser than the creation of his great works. Sure, he blew his head off with a Magnum, but he left the work of a person that battled his demons to the fullest, even the fullest extent of the law.

I miss the good Doctor. I do. Not because I knew him personally, or rode with him during my Hells Angels days (yeah right), but because he was the sole inspiration for me becoming a journalist.

Sure, there were other writers who have influenced me into becoming a slave of the printed word, but Thompson sort of made it happen for me. It was why I bought a typewriter. Then the second one after the first one took a hard fall from my desk after a heavy bout with Wild Turkey.

When he was alive, I always took comfort in the fact that the good Doctor was still out there, living somewhere in his fortified compound, shooting his guns off at everything that moved, even the peacocks.

They all got screwy, he said. Those peacocks. And when they finally shot him up into the stratosphere, a tear fell down my cheek. Not because the man killed himself, but because I lost a hero that I've come to love.

And now, five years later, I can't believe that the world has forgotten what kind of a man we have lost. In his memory, I hope that people pick up those wonderful works and read them out loud, because that's the way he liked it. Out loud. He liked the sound of his own words.

Sometime at the beginning of my journalism career in the spring of 2005 at about 9:15a.m., the door to the elevator on the 13th floor at the Columbia building on Michigan Avenue opened and a tall and handsome man wearing a black coat and carrying coffee stormed out and was searching in his pocket for keys. While all the hopeful future journalists stood in that crammed hallway waiting in anticipation, the man opened the door and sort of motioned for everybody to get in. He didn’t say a word. That is until he spoke with that lovable enthusiasm for the craft that everyone later would come to love.

“So welcome to Columbia, people. There is still time to get out,” Jim said.

This was “Reporting for Print and Broadcast.”

And of course as was his style, Jim’s teachings of journalism would be based on “doing” rather than reading the textbook. Sure, there was a textbook, but over the years I always came back to the book and reread the chapters that I never got to read during class. That’s because Jim would come in on sunny days and say stuff like “Put your shoes on kids, we’re going outside.”

And off we went, to press conferences, to meetings, to City Council hearings and other wonderful things that were happening in the city. Jim loved people, but he also shared a strong bond with those who were devoted and enthusiastic about the craft as he was. To him journalism was life, and he went at it with a kind of wonder that no one will be able to replicate. He was just excited to be working in the business and he wanted as many intelligent people to join his side. And later some did.

“Which famous outlaw gonzo journalist died this morning?” he would ask on the news quiz of the day. (Had to read the newspaper everyday if you were in Jim’s class).

But while Jim’s trademark coat, his beautiful smile and charisma was the stuff that everyone could be a apart of while in the journalism department at Columbia, it was the way he was at the Columbia Chronicle newspaper that truly separated and put him in a class by himself.

“Award-winning Columbia Chronicle. Put that on the resume. ‘Award-winning,’” he would say. God he loved that paper. When I got there, I ended up working with a commentary editor, who in his own way, also loved Sulski and learned and channeled his lessons onto me. As assistant commentary editor, my desk was right across from Jim’s office. I mean, I could see what he was doing all the time.

Which always baffled me what kind of a “pimp” Sulski was. I mean the guy loved life. He would be wearing Airwalk sneakers in the summer, polo shirts, eating Skittles, reading newspaper comics, on the phone, playing the latest videogames while gorgeous women students would walk in and ask him for help. He was a kid in a smart man’s body and he tried to instill that sense of awe and wonder to all those who came into his office. And his door was always open, that is, until about 3:30 p.m., when he would proudly announce that he would be on his “cell.”

However his laid back attitude always took a back seat when you had a problem while working on a story or trying to come up with some editorial ideas. By the time I made commentary editor I learned that a walk to Jim’s office would mean one thing. He would never tell you what to do, but rather make you use your head and try to connect the dots yourself. And then like always, things would fall into place and you knew where to go. However, over the years, people at the Chronicle started calling the visits “the Sulski mindfuck,” which was true, because Jim would throw so many ideas at you, that by the time you came out, you knew that you had something to write about, but it was up to you to figure out what the hell it was.

I always loved the way he thought. When he would be mulling over an idea, he would always pace in his office, or get out and pace around the Chronicle.

“I think better when I’m standing up,” he would say. And he would, he would pace back and forth, gesturing with his hands and talking to himself and would come up with an angle, or what to do about a problem, or just plainly, come up with a way to stick it to the man.

“People talk to themselves. It’s a problem only when you start having a conversation.”

I can’t express how sad I am. In a way, my Columbia experience wouldn’t be the same without him, and I sort of feel pity for the new generation of kids who will not be able to make Jim a part of their lives. But that’s life and I’m sure the school will have more great teachers like Jim, however, I don’t think anyone will be able to fill the bright and deep cheerful void that he left behind.

I remember a moment at one of the newspaper’s Christmas parties at the Billy Goat Tavern, and I overheard Jim talking to somebody, sort of away from the whole Chronicle madness, taking in the whole scene and saying “Wow, look, they are just like we were.”

And we are and will continue to be.

Jim, who caught on to my affinity for dirty humor once told me a joke that surely was not fit to print. It involved a man who fell inside of a woman’s private parts and found another man inside who eventually found a solution to getting back out. “Find my car keys, and we’ll drive out of here.”

God bless, Jim, and tell whoever it is up there or down there that you found your car keys.

Sincerely,

Cyryl Jakubowski