The Gonzo Loop

The one and only...

2011-09-29T19:47:00.001-05:00

"That's the press, baby."

2011-08-11T23:25:00.000-05:00

Thank you, thank you very much.

2011-06-28T23:53:00.067-05:00

Rod Blagojevich performs an Elvis tune at a paid appearance during a block party in August of 2009. ( Photo by Andrew Nelles for the Chicago Tribune)

By now we've all heard about the sad and peculiar case of former Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich. About his rise to fame as a state politician and his fall from grace, despite appearances on the national media circus circuit such as on Letterman and hell, even on the Daily Show.

But the Blago story is interesting because despite his valiant efforts of portraying himself as this family guy who got the shit end of the stick because of a conspiracy running in the deep and dark political circles, a jury of 11 women and one man decided his fate. The verdict of course, guilty. Guilty on various counts, 17 to be exact. Blago could actually face a hefty sentence.

One thing was clear to the jury... he did, based on evidence, try to sell the Senate seat after President Obama got into office for political favors, among other charges. Who knew that was wrong, right?

It's not Watergate or anything, but it sure as hell paints a curious picture about the state of politics in the state of Illinois. Not that the shady nature of our politics is anything new. It just begs to ask the question, how far does that shady rabbit hole go?

While nobody will ever know what Blago was really thinking, the fact is he is going behind bars. And while even the most prominent politicians in the state, including Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel were called to testify among other prominent people during the trial, and that claimed no wrong doing was made on their part, conspiracy theorists and political analysts will have a field day with trying to figure out who was connected to whom, and how, and why, and are they guilty by association to the felon governor.

In the inside politician circles, I suspect that the shredder machine was turned on way late into the night following Blagojevich's indictment by the feds and then his arrest. Most Chicagoans already know by now that in this city, corruption ran and perhaps still runs deep long before Blagojevich decided that Elvis is still considered cool.

But to counter any claims about the cool factor of Elvis, yeah he is in some respects, and I do rock out to the occasional "Return to Sender" rendition. But to jump on comedian Denis Leary's thinking, "How do we remember Elvis?" Yeah, found in the toilet with his gut hanging out and his Rock and Roll ass exposed to the world. With the last piece of King evidence floating in the toilet behind him. I'm only paraphrasing the comedian, folks.

I'd love to remember Elvis thin with a full set of hair too.

However, as journalists, we should not be so quick to point fingers at everybody who ever had to sit down with the former governor. Sure, it's tempting to try to connect the dots by assumption and assimilation. But that's not journalism. Dig deep folks, hopefully there is still some paper trail that can prove that it wasn't just him that was doing the wrong thing. In fact, he probably learned the ropes from others. But who?

Chicagoans know that. We just never question it, because as they say, hey, it's business as usual.

Let's hope we started with just the jester here. Blago, those cons know about loving tender. Elvis unfortunately just sang about it. And hey I'm not ashamed to say that. Because rape is not a reality in the federal penitentiary, right?

Happy Fathers' Day

2011-06-19T20:19:00.000-05:00

Remember this? This is what the Middle Class feels like. And it used to be funny.

2011-03-27T00:33:00.000-05:00

Facebook...

2011-03-01T22:40:00.002-06:00

At some point all status updates on Facebook will become Tweets on Twitter, thus negating the need for Facebook. And I can't wait to bask in the white noise. The irrelevance of it all. Of how so many people can have so much to say with so little substance. It will be marvelous. Maybe then we can go back to reading newspapers.

Where The Buffalo Roam - Opening Scene

2011-01-19T23:27:00.000-06:00

Humble beginnings start with a single blow of a horn, man.

2011-01-04T01:06:00.010-06:00

It's been a while since I got reacquainted with this little corner of cyber space. But a New Year should bring new things. And while I can't say it is my resolution to write more for this thing, I do feel the need for some creative output these days.

Ya know, these blogs used to be filed with witty commentary (I guess that's debatable.) They used to. They used to be filed with musings about the American culture, the economy, the pop culture, the sap culture, the shit culture, the homeless, the winos, the downtrodden.

People with problems. Not anymore, I guess.

But while the years of downtrodden journalism might be taking its toll, there is no better time than now to again open up the Pandora's Box and let the filth flow while side-stepping the inevitable shit storm. People need it. If not, let's just say that I've let things brew long enough.

Happy New Year. Screw Facebook.

Why not?

2010-09-12T23:13:00.001-05:00

Hemingway was born 111 years ago.

2010-07-22T00:29:00.002-05:00

The boys in action.

2010-06-14T00:08:00.001-05:00

Sweet Home Chicago

2010-06-13T01:27:00.027-05:00

"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."

2010-05-01T23:34:00.080-05:00

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.

2010-04-29T22:56:00.014-05:00

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.

2010-02-20T19:58:00.012-06:00

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.

2010-01-09T13:36:00.008-06:00

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

Denis Leary to the rescue

2009-04-12T18:55:00.078-05:00

I wanted to write this on my 1950s typewriter. The Royal. It used to be one of my prized possessions. You see, I used to have a typewriter. But not after I took it to a shop on Montrose Avenue because the thing took a bit of a beating during the crazier nights.

"This thing is in bad shape," the man said. My heart carved in two because I loved that typewriter, it was my baby. Fuck you, show me a 1950s Royal in good condition. Do it now.

Yeah, I know it's old and that's why I like it. Because it is old.

But that was Tuesday.

Rewind to Saturday.

I've met Denis Leary once. Sure, he told me that he still smokes 100s, he liked my name and thought it was "cool" and then he signed two of my books. I was at some Borders signing for his new book and it was cold as fuck. I took some bad pictures of the event.

But meeting the man and seeing him perform for the first time in 12 years on the stage in front of a big audience, well that, that's something else.

It's a different beast, and granted, "The Rescue Me Comedy Tour" did save the soul. It was the perfect answer to these ailing times. Not because there was anything inherently Good or Easter like in the show. There wasn't. In fact, this was the first time that I've heard THIS type of off the wall shit in public that I could freely laugh my balls off at the most inappropriate things. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

Hey, Leary is doing it on the stage. Fuck you if you're offended. Dr. Denis Leary is speaking, okay?

And offend he did. I think people were leaving, but I couldn't tell very well because I was sitting in like the sixth row. The only thing I saw were some older broads getting up and down; maybe they pissed themselves.

Okay, maybe seventh row. It didn't matter. Once you see that "face" on the stage, the jacket, the jeans, that asshole grin, you know you're in a world of good material. You know that this fucker works hard.

Most of it was new material. It was good stuff because you still hear the same angry Leary that made him famous with "No Cure for Cancer." Sure, he is older, perhaps wiser, maybe crazier and more immature than he was originally. (Hey, anyone who enjoys cussing is immature. But it's just so much fucking fun, isn't? And the guy is out there, that asshole that we've all come to love and accept for being an asshole.)

That's a good gig. No matter what asshole shit you say, who you desecrate publicly, who you skewer, who you anger, people still love you because that's your job. Pretty neat deal.

"Why is it funny? Because it's mean!" Leary said at the beginning of the show. He sang the "Rehab" song, and a nicer ditty called simply "Fuck You." You know the words, "Fuck you, and anyone who looks like you. Fuck you... fuck you and the horse that you rode in on."

But people ate it up. They knew the point. Shit, you're an asshole by association for seeing the man live on stage. Just by laughing at this crazy shit.

"I'm going to hell for that bit, and you're all coming with me," he said on "Cancer." Come to think of it, the show was better, it was a day before Easter. So we all said a prayer about Natasha Richardson and how more people should go sking during this time of the year. Like Madonna. Maybe Bernie Madoff.

So let's get to the good stuff. The jokes. The way that I've heard them.

Leary on Brad Pitt:

"Look at Brad. He looks so unhappy. Hey I've got kids, I've been to the airport. He has to say "'Shut the fuck up and go to bed' in seven different languages!!!"

The Octomom.

"If she was a superhero she'd be killing people with live babies." Also, "what is that a vagina, or a clown car?"

But you gotta love a guy who reads the newspaper. Leary's comments skewer many of today's attention whores. Besides doing it in the rehab song, Leary actually gave a presentation on pop culture. Sure, he pissed on most of it, but it was funny. It was funny because it was true.

Leary's common sense is that of a Boston guy who sees through the bullshit. And if it gets a laugh or its funny to him, trust me, people laugh alongside. Because it is funny.

It is funny when Leary describes getting Jacuzzi jet streams planted "by accident" between his taint. Yeah, the area between the cock and balls and the asshole. And the hilarity that ensues.

Why? Hey I have a Jacuzzi.

But you have to admire a guy who is in better shape than you are at age 52. Leary pranced around the stage flipping everyone off, singing his ass off for the people, being a good host, getting other comics out, just a stand up guy. What a show.

"This is your captain speaking, look I shit my pants. And I didn't just shit my pants, I mean ankles and everything."

Here's my favorite:

"This next cocksucker is really funny....shit...that's why I couldn't be a daytime talk show host." 'This next cocksucker is really funny.'"

Lenny Clarke and Adam Ferrara were the two other pros on the tour. Mr. Clarke, as I would like to call him due to respect, came off more as the seasoned vet comedian, playing it old skool, loving the audience. Playing with them

"Oh man, what an intelligent audience. You guys are here," he said.

"I sucked a guy's dick once," he said. "I needed the ride... I'm kidding..." "I didn't need the ride."

"I've done coke once...for about nine years."

The real doctor of life's mishaps was here. Never mind the "Snow-billed ice fucker" bird he talked about in Alaska...the one that's the problem with getting the oil out of there fairly rapidly.

He did some "joke" jokes and they delivered. I've heard one before, but those are jokes that just have to find themselves around through the circuit. Fuck you if you weren't there.

Adam Ferrara. That to quote Denis "New Guinea motherfucker." Sure he said it a while back during a roast, but it fit.

Ferrara was the only one who actually fucked with the audience. This is good, if you can pull it off well and build on that. Cuz the audience has a thing called memory.

"You're in ice cream distribution?" "Oh ok, you're an ice cream man." Cue the song.

Ferrara did a funny bit about flying Jamaican airlines. "Thiiis is your captaain speakiin" Laughter. "I can't do it now."

Surprisingly, even Denis Leary did not smoke during the show. Which has to paint a picture against the vast backdrop of Chicago aldermen who were doing some of their own assholin'.

Oh, fire codes. I knew it.

But the show was good and enjoyed myself fully. What happened at the Billy Goat next is a completely different story.

EDITOR'S NOTE: This is a recollection of the events that transpired according to me.

...

2008-12-23T22:15:00.005-06:00

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

Dire Straits

2008-10-30T20:50:00.020-05:00

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:

State of the country

2008-07-22T22:56:00.004-05:00

Oh boy, we as a country are in some serious shit pickle aren't we? In times like these, one can actually say, "Fuck the culture, what about the fucking country?" without some art fag talking about preserving the nation's art museums or programs.

Granted, in these PC times, I'm not talking about THE fags, I'm talking about "art" fags. Ya know...the people who would rather marvel at creations done centuries ago rather than looking at the world that we live in and saying "What the fuck is going on here?"

And indeed so. What about the fucking country? Some economists are saying that on a long enough time line, things will go back to normal. But that's the problem and it always was and always will be.

"Gas prices are bad. We are fucked. We can't drive to work without going into Bobby's piggy bank."

Yeah, me too. I'm strapped for cash as much as the next guy, which is why I rob Bobby's piggy bank all the time. I do it the legal way though, I get him to invest in stocks.

And meanwhile most major companies are reporting quarter losses. Starbucks is closing down 600 'oh-no-fuck-me' stores. Oh no! Shares are down. Dildos are up. Who knew?

It doesn't take a genius to notice that shit is bad in this country. People are riding it out as if it was the final seconds of the movie "8 Seconds" with that Perry guy. And that movie sucked.

I am kind of curious about how most of the things that Americans usually bought are down in sales, but like booze has been the steady workhorse of an industry that just keeps on clicking its heels all the way to the bank.

Do we need to spell this shit out? Tax the shit out of anything that gets people fucked up. I mean Elmer's glue could be making huge profits these days.

And people will buy it, revel in it, go to doctors because of it, work more in order to pay for the doctors, and then go for long hospital vacations where the bills will just keep on keepin' on and BOOM....you got some money to balance the stupid fucking budget.

Yeah I know. It seems very childish.

Much like this country.

We are doomed.

Operation Foole with an "e"

2008-06-25T22:24:00.029-05:00

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

2008-06-05T22:14:00.008-05:00

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

2008-04-14T22:11:00.025-05:00

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

2008-02-22T13:44:00.009-06:00

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

2008-02-15T21:28:00.010-06:00

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

2008-02-14T20:06:00.016-06:00

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

2008-01-29T19:36:00.000-06:00

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

2008-01-22T22:45:00.000-06:00

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

2008-01-18T00:24:00.001-06:00

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.

This is called Kid Rocking up and down the block

2007-10-22T19:10:00.000-05:00

AP Photo

Sort of a sad commentary on the current culture.

Bobby the Kid

2007-10-11T22:55:00.000-05:00

MOST PEOPLE don't or can't stand or even understand my affinity for Kid Rock. Women think he embodies every bad, despicable, and vile quality that men hopelessly look up to. Smoking, drinking, drugs, fucking strippers and taking them to breakfast the next morning.

Ya know, rock star.

Which is why I found it weird when many of my friends scoffed at the idea that I was so psyched about the new Kid Rock album, Rock N Roll Jesus. They probably think that he is a white, trailer trash redneck piece of shit.

And he is from Romeo, Michigan. So go figure.

But this little tale happened way back in the old west. Back when nights were dangerous and people that were claiming they were holding were strangers....

I started listening to Kid Rock when the shit was hitting the fan. My friend, who I have a hankering suspicion, is nursing a serious drug habit, introduced me to Devil Without a Cause.

And I thought it was brilliant for the time. Mix a crazy white DJ, give him a record and let him rock out with his cock out while spittin' out rhymes about nickles and dimes.

Oh those were the times.

Is he immature?

Well, let's say he's one cocky motherfucker.

And he can be.

Now, sure with iTunes, getting music is easier these days. But I was never fond of buying music. Shit, my CD collection is what one of my good friends called, "An ode to the 90s."

So I don't buy music. And the only thing that I make an effort to spend my drinking money on was always Kid Rock albums.

Fuck, everyone has a story.

Because, contrary to popular belief, I still think that Kid Rock embodies everything that Rock N Roll should stand for. The bad shit. The stuff that makes you lock your doors, drink, and yell at your typewriter, and go to strip clubs, and call assholes door knobs, and order drinks from guys named Bob.

It's rock and roll baby.

To me Kid Rock, embodies America. It sounds simple, but Pollacks have weird visions of this country. And this one is mine. This is freedom.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here?

Maybe we're not ALL doomed. Just on Mondays, you know.

And he sings about love. And as fucking sappy as that sounds, every man needs an angel to rescue him from himself.

Or put him in the gutter.

The Great American Fear and Loathing

2007-08-29T16:09:00.000-05:00

"What the fuck am I doing?" one of my ex-Chronicle colleagues exclaims as the red cart full of visibly shaken people makes its way into the station.

There was obvious fear in his eyes. The type of fear that can only be compared to incidents such as not pulling out in time and not wanting kids, or pulling out but then realizing that you already went. And still not wanting kids.

He said something like "I can go on any coaster in the park, but the American Eagle still gives me the fear."

I shouldn't be talking. As we waited in line, a time well-spent trying to scare others and testing the waters of profanity, there was no fear. But once you realize that you are about to careen down a 147 foot (45 meters) tall first drop at a 55-degree angle at speed of up to 66 mph, that familiar "I'm all shook up" feeling comes back.

But let me start earlier.

As is usual in my line of work, the weekends tend to have a certain lushness about them. Especially when I'm hanging out with D-Rock.

The last time D-rock and I partied it was on the Fourth of July, hence such a long hiatus on this damned and doomed witless page. I guess you could say it was a bender that has emptied my ability to reason properly and has now come back.

I still wonder if it is possible to drink yourself permanently stupid. They say those brain cells don't come back. I wonder where I'm at.

"Rex Manning?"

Needless to say, we had a handle of Wild Turkey, a case of beer, a dirty dozen of cigarettes in our pockets and a bottle of Parrot Bay rum.

To a typical drinker this is called supply. To doomed creatures of the night like us, that's called the Forth of July weekend.

So we drank it all, much to the constant amazement of D-Rock who still can't figure out how we drink this much.

One word: Commitment.

And problems.

But last weekend wasn't different. After a short trip to what to me is practically church, Binny's Beverage Depot, we settled on a handle of Bushmills.

"It's not like we're going to drink it all," he said. And we got some beer.

So after just doing random shots of the low caliber, and swilling the shit with "I-want-to-drink-good beer-Samuel-Adams," we opted for higher firepower.

"Now is a good time for 'on the rocks,' D-Rock said and I shook my head up and down like a lapdog.

But then madness kicked in, and after a stint watching Bob "Faggot" Saget, and Bill Maher, only God knows what happened.

Then morning came and we went to get breakfast.

Sheila the waitress was there. The Shiela with the two kids Shiela? Yeah. I'm still a classy dude trying to bang career waitresses. Hey she does it for me.

However even the knuckle-bitting horny feeling of seeing Sheila in an apron couldn't overcome the Himalayan hangover I was having.

This was bad. D-Rock said he felt great.

Which is why when we did get to Six Flags Great America in Gurnee, IL, that bitter feeling came over me.

What the FUCK happened to this place?

The last time I was here, which was about 1,654,376,504, bottles of booze or ten years earlier, this place was magical. Almost like Disneyland. To a young, Polish, and inexperienced mind, anything better that Toys R' US must be magic. And there were rides. Big giant rides and Bugs Bunny and Daffy and Batman and funnel cakes and laughs and games and thrills and water rides and old friends that have since died.

Not now, however. At least not at the beginning of the trip. This time I saw it differently. What a scummy, practically non-smoking, money grabbing, kid infested, cluster fuck this place has turned out to be.

There they were. The true caricature of America. Spawning like rabbits, only to go to a place where you can buy panties with rabbits on them. All dragging their kids in unison towards fear and fast food. But you can't be a hypocrite. There's a reason people come here. It's supposed to be fun.

However, you can't even curse in line since this is all supposed to be kid friendly. It actually said "No Profanity" on one of the signs before the lines.

So a short well versed litany of profanity later, we waited for like 20 minutes to get beer. And there were like 3 people in front of us. I guess they were brewing Miller Lite in Rosie Donnell's bath tub---but then again that's probably where Miller actually does brew Miller Lite.

"Fascists!" I hollered when it came time to smoke. I just couldn't get it. Micheal Jackson was now playing, people were giving us dirty looks when I told the "What's the difference between normal blood and period blood? "What" "You can't pick up normal blood with a fork" joke.

It was a mess.

But the only salvation WERE the rides. And then the magic came back.

Normally a tale of raging bulls and American eagles ends up on the Discovery channel, but I have to say, my love for coasters came back. To use the cliche like a kid again would be too much, but I definitely did, like D-Rock said, lose the fear of coasters.

Not that I was ever afraid of them, since the last time I was here, I went front row on all the rides, but there was always that element of "When will this be over," type of thing.

Not now. I fucking enjoyed myself.

Oh yeah...and then there was the Eagle.

So the gates open up and my hands star trembling.

"Don't lose it on me now!" D-Rock says as I fumble with the seat belt. Now this is a ride of all the scarier rides the park has to offer and they give you a fucking orange seat belt before they put the metal bar over you. I guess that is what Tyler Durden was talking about when he said "The illusion of safety."

But I maintained. And soon the rickety cart, and I stress the word rickety, began tooling up the incline. My eyes were open, my heart was beating fast and I was already holding on to the almost bare now railing on the way UP. Millions of people have clutched this thing while holding in their shit.

So the cart makes that classic pause before jutting down the track and me and D-Rock both think "Fuck" and he says "This is going to suck"

And then you go.

And its a feeling you can't describe. Partly because of all the screaming. I let out the most honest fear induced scream as I plunged down that fucking drop.

D-Rock said he felt the coaster leave the track and I wouldn't disagree.

But God bless the irresponsible nature of Great America. Not that because they have wooden coasters because there's nothing wrong with that, but because that after 25 years of hardcore ridership on the American Eagle--a ride that was originally a racing coaster since it had two coasters side by side racing down to the finish line, which of course is not recommended anymore since the coasters crashed when going into the station once--it still operates before it claims one more or two more people before they shut this thing down for good.

So I was glad I rode the classic again.

Now D-Rock and I will probably want to ride something that shoots from 0 to 128 in 3.5 seconds using a hydraulic launch. They have something like that in Jersey.

Jersey. Figures.

Rest in peace and Happy Fourth I guess...

2007-07-03T21:05:00.000-05:00

...

2007-06-27T00:44:00.000-05:00

This is why I initally said 9/11 looked like something out of Die Hard.

Butt in any time

2007-06-18T21:00:00.000-05:00

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.

A gig at Nadig

2007-05-23T22:37:00.000-05:00

I COULDN'T BELIEVE my college administrators would do something so irresponsible, so poorly thought out, and, above all so dangerous. They were actually giving me a degree in journalism. Were these people crazy? I mean, yes, liberal education is one thing, but from all the years spent on the proverbial decadence highway,there is one thing you learn and you learn fast: You do not give a weapon to a man who, by many people's standards, is a daft prick.

But they did and chaos ensued, which was expected, as usual.

Graduation from college itself is lost to me forever in the annals of the John Belushi, Animal House, history book. What didn't we do?

But mum's the word, as the saying goes in Vegas, since I am actually a working professional now.

I got a gig at Nadig Newspapers.

Holy shit, people were actually paying me now. To show up on time, sure, but that was always a jagged pill that I was willing to swallow when faced with entering the real world. But this other shit they expect from me, you know, accuracy, is ridiculous. Who on Earth would ask a gonzo journalism fan to let go of things such as the miraculous hyperbole, the love of the extended metaphor and above all, the affinity for detail and of course coarse language?

Nadig, ya dig.

But deep at heart I knew that these people meant business. Many a times over my editor would come over to my desk telling me that I did not not give a shit and that that had to change. Maybe he was establishing that age old hierarchy of power? "You do and you do right" or else.

But at this point I didn't want to know what "or else" meant so naturally I followed suit. Yes, I tried to learn from my mistakes and did the job accurately. Or at least I tried to. Hey nobody said experience is easily attainable.

It was a strange predicament. I wanted to give a shit. After all, after many years spent in Davy Jones' locker, I now wanted to truly "give a shit."

But Nadig is a different type of a beast. It is an old school whore, that, by any modern standard, understands that money is what is driving this world, and that the paper must be put to bed no matter what the cost is and whose feelings are hurt in the process.

So fuck me and horse I rode in on.

So I guess it is like Thompson once said. Fuck it. Do it now.

And now, three weeks into the job, I am still doing it now.

Nadig is a newspaper that respects old values and above all, old journalism. The type of journalism that only "gives a shit" about the facts and nothing else.

And attention to detail.

So I still have a lot to learn. But if there is any good aspect to be seen here, then it is this. There is no better way to learn old school journalism than from an old school cranky editor who doesn't give a shit about anything else, except getting the paper done on time, and doing it accurately and righteously.

I guess all true and serious editors are like that. I just never knew that before. Hey, I used to be a slave to college media, for Christ's sake. And even though I loved every minute of college, and I know that the Chronicle has showed me the ropes and I am Chronicle for life, you still need places like Nadig in the real word to live, to live in the spirit of, well, honest and responsible journalism. After all, that's why all the serious journalists are here for.

Time to grow up, kid.

2007-03-22T23:35:00.000-05:00

I dream about California. Call it a simple Pollack dream, but the more I live in Chicago, the more I yearn for those white sandy beaches, the Pacific Ocean and the California sun. I dream about the women and the stars in the sky, the poverty and the unemployment on the rise. I dream of Chico's and gringo's and people selling "habanero's." I want the surf to hit me and hit me hard. I dream of walking down Sunset Blvd. and fending off bums. I dream of working for the press there. Yeah. I dream of covering the city of fallen angels.

I want to be a fallen angel.

The more I think about it the more I want to pack up my things and go. But with my degree in hand, God only knows what will happen. But I don't care. I want to be there. I want my life to be different. I want California.

And I know that if I go, I will not come back. I know this.

No matter how fucked up L.A. is.

It's the city of a million stories and a million dreams—all unrealized. It's the place where the Hells Angels—albeit in Oakland—began to wreck shit up.

I want to see the sun set and rise on that California beach. Call it California dreaming.

Alright

2007-03-09T14:18:00.000-06:00

A federal court of appeals overturned a Washington D.C. gun ban stating that the Second Amendment does not only apply to militias.

Now we know that it's the right to bear arms not the right to arm bears.

However, I must say I have no problem with guns. They're loud, obnoxious and they hurt people—just like every roadie for Molly Hatchet.

I don't own a gun yet, but a nice Python would be nice.

Smoke if you got them

2007-03-08T15:34:00.000-06:00

You know you smoke too much when the EPA is forced to consider giving you a pollution credit.

February is over

2007-03-03T19:30:00.000-06:00

BUNKER—It's 20 minutes until nine, but I don't consider this to be a morning. As a matter of fact, after doing my calculations, I have been up for 25 hours—this was the witching hour. A bed and breakfast sounded good right now. Nothing beats the morning blues like the hues of the puke in the toilet.

It is strange when one meets people made out of the same ilk. It is stranger when one finds himself in a situation which requires going the distance.

What is comforting is that there still are creatures and maniac and loons out there that can definitely go the distance. They shall remain nameless.

This solidified the notion that, contrary to popular belief, you are not the only one.

But without warning, after I've returned to the bunker, I found myself in a weird predicament.

After 25 hours of what seemed like just walking the Earth, the first idea was to see how far I could go without sleep. It was time to give the mind and the body a workout. However, even now, more booze seemed like an endurance contest.

But for some odd reason the idea appealed to me. I've had one of those weeks. At this point, saying "one of those weeks" is useless if week in and week out it was "one of those weeks."

Appeal for the idea of going on a bender at this point had nothing to do with it when the body wants to quit.

I might need some healthy natural sleep after all.

I was done for. I knew perfectly well that if I hit the bed now, I would be kaput. I know a huge sleep deprivation debt will need to be paid sooner or later.

That's when the tequila showed up....

In the loving memory of the good doctor

2007-02-21T00:38:00.000-06:00

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

Sex Cannon

2007-01-22T13:52:00.000-06:00

Photo courtesy of Getty Images.

My hero. Rex "I keep my cock in a garage," Grossman.

2007-01-16T21:43:00.000-06:00

For those who think they know a thing or two about me....

2007-01-10T10:57:00.000-06:00

If you need it, you don't have it.

Aspirin

2007-01-02T05:10:00.000-06:00

"Where's the aspirin?" I scream at the pharmacist. Apparently years of pent up rage toward pharmacy majors have finally seeped out into the public. I'm at a Walgreens screaming at a certified pharmacist to point me where the fucking aspirin is. I could have been worse I guess.

I could have said where's the fucking aspirin asshole. I could have made a comment about the dissatisfied nature of the job. About working in some dirt road Walgreens counting pills for a living and then giving me that smug condescending look about how much school went into that degree.

I could have said I used to be a pharmacy major.

But I didn't. People in pain don't function on the same playing field. It's difficult to communicate with fellow human beings after New Year's Eve. It's more difficult with a giant headache and that disgusting feeling in the gut.

I didn't even hear the pharmacist tell me where it was. I just saw her hands move in the right direction. Somehow they shoved me into the right aisle. The very same aisle had chewable aspirin and Advil. I almost took the shit right in the store. It's not like anyone reads the directions when taking aspirin. You grab a mouthful and swallow. Just like they do in pornos. And then you wait for the relief. (Well a towel if we're still talking about porn.)

Fuck Bayer. I'm not paying more for that shit. It's aspirin. It's not magic.

Get generic aspirin instead.

To the mother of all wonder drugs, here's to aspirin. The new year started off with a headache.

2006-12-07T17:52:00.000-06:00

Blame

2006-11-30T23:39:00.000-06:00

No Cure for Cancer—there really isn't...not yet.

2006-11-21T15:09:00.000-06:00

George Carlin - Masculine Names

2006-11-21T14:59:00.000-06:00

President Denis Leary

2006-11-13T00:34:00.000-06:00

Robin Williams - Live At The Met

Don't know the reason

2006-11-01T23:55:00.000-06:00

Wasted away again in Margaritaville,
Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt.
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame,
But I know it's nobody's fault.

- Jimmy Buffett

He basically said my state of mind. I just want to be on a beach somewhere, listen to the surf and watch the sun go down.

In defense of cheap bourbon

2006-10-21T02:26:00.000-05:00

I know, this looks bad right from the start. And no amount of explanation, no amount of fear based tales about bad weeks, horrible days, cheap whiskeys and the American tradition, can cover up the fact that if you're reaching for Ten High bourbon, you're reaching for trouble.

Perhaps this is true in retrospect.

But let me start earlier.

In every professional field, be it a contractor who works physically for a living, a lawyer who finds the necessary loop holes in law, or any other profession that requires working on a project for a hefty portion of your time, there comes a time when a man gets pushed to the limit.

Now I am not talking about THE limit, but to some kind of a limit. This week was one of those weeks. It pushed the envelope, not in terms of work but in terms of stress and loathing.

That is when I reached for Ten High. Now, I don't condone drinking this, but if you feel that bravery is something to be worn on a sleeve, go right ahead. And it's not that this is a bad tasting or a low-potent whiskey. On the contrary, this thing can make a jackal crawl into a box. This is the stuff that they used to label as "XXX" on Saturday morning cartoons.

But why this? Why now? Haven't I learned this lesson before? Wasn't heaving out the insides enough the last time around?

Apparently not.

It wasn't and I'll tell you why. Not many people can understand a cheap whiskey, especially bourbon. They kick it to the side or avoid it like the plague, never even considering why. (No-the fact that you got sick is not a viable reason for this argument.)

In my opinion, a cheap whiskey is already a character all by itself in the big and bad, lets go hunting for some wild turkeys down the knob creek with our friend Jim or Jack, world of hard spirits. It's the guy who gets left behind and never makes it for the hunting trip and end up shooting off his gun in the living room.

Cheap whiskey is what it is, much like the "The Bears are who we thought they were!" as Arizona Cardinals Coach Dennis Green said. So you have to respect it, in whatever form.

Price does not make the whiskey. Ten High used to be advertised in Playboy in the mid 80s as a traditional bourbon. That didn't make it great either, but the point is, the shit will fuck you up.

And why not? Sometimes a strong kick in the groin is what you need. Just the harshness alone reminds you of the hardships that have come upon you. There is a term for this--rotgut.

Drinking rotgut bourbon means you are light years beyond drinking your sorrows away because of a woman, an insurance bill, or when your kids get into drugs. Cheap bourbon simply means you are down on your luck. Or your have no cash, because deep down nobody chooses to drink this shit. Situation forces you to battle this demon.

And it's not like you can drink Ten High by throwing caution into the wind. On the contrary, you kind of have to place caution in the fore front because those Ten High hangovers are ten times stronger, ten times harder, and ten times more memorable.

But in retrospect, here's a little play-by-play:

Monday

The shit doesn't hit the fan yet. But you know it's coming, knowing that class projects, newspaper deadlines and watching depressing news will do it to you. Bill Hicks used to say that he doesn't recommend watching the news for a lengthy period of time. "WAR, FAMINE, DEATH, AIDS, HOMELESS, RECESSION, DEPRESSION. WAR, FAMINE, DEATH, AIDS, HOMELESS" Then, you look out your window [makes cricket noises] Where's all this shit happening? Ted Turner's making this shit up!

Tuesday

You get edgy here. This is when the journalism newsroom starts to show its true face. People get cranky because their weeks aren't going that well either. There is much cussin' going on. The term "motherfucker" doesn't mean anything anymore, and "fuck" is used as a comma. Deadlines are looming and homework is kicking ass. Almost bondage.

Wednesday

You lose your shit. You have no qualms about calling your co-workers Mexicans, women in loving relationships "close-minded" and seeing the bigger picture is usually filled with the preface "It seemed like a good idea at the time." You also preface everconversationon with "Well, this Pollack thinks...," while pointing at yourself.

Thursday

It's over. You seriously reach for Ten High and chase it down with Powerade after work. In between shots, you listen to the Drifters tune, "Under the Boardwalk" like 90 times, while singing along. You say to yourself, maybe love is the answer.

Play harmonica.

Take aspirin.

Try to show for work on time.

Friday

You do your job. But you call people names, pick fights, strech the laws of obscenity, play pranks, talk dirty, and think about what it takes to be a porn photographer. You smoke two packs of cigarettes. You take a smelly shit. You argue about nothing that important. You watch Salvador with James Woods. You listen to Jimi Hendrix. You punch a couple of walls. You worry about next week. You...Just don't get it do you?

That's when the Ten High looks like Jenna Jameson, spread eagle on the bed, holding a bottle of water.

FUCK it, you say.

And fuck it is. It's over now. It doesn't matter. You've crossed the line, and ththehe only hope of coming out of this alive is by trying to eat something. The music gets louder, the harmonica sloppier. You think you could do Bozo's job.

Ten High turns you into a milder drunk. But only to a point. I bought a plastic bottle of Ten High on Monday. By being judicious, by Friday, I am able to drink the rest of 3/4 of Ten High, the smart drunk's choice.

Where is the water?

FUCK that. Where is the aspirin? And where is my mind?

"Let the eagle soar...."

13

2006-10-13T17:33:00.000-05:00

If I would have to sum it all up, then life is a giant see saw--sometimes your sober and sometimes your over. I believe it was a Friday morning when I realized that not only will rock & roll never die, but I might die because of rock & roll.

The phone rings and I shriek like a girl who gets her first period in school during 1st period. It's Friday, and after doing that Chandler from Friends double-take, I realize that I am late for work.

Normally this isn't a problem, but it was production day. It's a process. You have to be there.

A co-worker wakes me up at 11:30 AM. He just asks how I'm doing and after a bunch of gurgling noises I later learn that apparently I said I was fine. I also was cursing a lot and sounded as if I had a furry rat in my mouth.

Must have been one of those Thursday nights again. The ones people dear to me told me to stop celebrating years ago.

But if this is a time when I am supposed to feel regret, truth be told I don't. I just wish I would have woken up on time.

However, there is a certain feeling of guilt showing up for work at 1:30 PM, knowing that most of your co-workers have been there since 9 AM. But I thread through the dreary day, drink plenty of fluids, pop a few Aspirin's, eat a couple of sugar packets, and that queasy feeling passes.

Somebody should have said:

"You look like shit," but they didn't. But I'm sure it was on their minds.

Then I realize it was Friday 13. Normally, those days are lucky for me. I find a cheap strip club, or the toast doesn't fall down on the floor butter face down. Or the relief that washes over me when I realize that I am still wearing a rubber after she says she's a working girl. That usually happens on Friday the 13th.

Not this time, however. This time things sucked. It's as if God decided to drop a collective ... on my chin.

I try not to fret about these things too much. I realize that things could have been worse. It could have look liked this:

"Tough day at the office?"

Perhaps. But things can always look better in the future.

The other cocaine

2006-10-06T11:43:00.000-05:00

Graphic by Joshua Covarrubias/The Chronicle

Don’t blow your dough on this snow
By Cyryl Jakubowski

Once in a while there comes a story that paints a beautiful portrait of American advertising culture gone berserk. It speaks volumes about the capitalist landscape. Only in this country does a company have the balls to name an energy drink after the age-old Peruvian marching powder—cocaine.

Comedian Denis Leary once said that “the best pitch I ever heard about cocaine was back in the early ’80s when a street dealer followed me down the sidewalk going, ‘I got some great blow man. I got the stuff that killed Belushi.’”

Of course, cocaine the drug doesn’t really need a sales pitch. It sells itself. However obvious it is that energy drink companies will do anything to sell their swill, calling your product after a drug that ruined noses and lives since the ’70s is irresponsible.

Last week a Las Vegas company, Redux Beverages, announced the release of a new line of energy drinks targeted for partygoers—you know, drunks staggering in nightclubs. The energy drink, Cocaine, is 350 percent stronger than Red Bull and gives you no crash since it uses dextrose instead of cane sugar and other ingredients like vitamin B12 and other stuff found in Red Bull.

Red Bull, the benchmark to which all other energy drinks are compared, is also a key ingredient in a Jagermeister bomb. But just as you would never mix real cocaine with alcohol (because no one does that, right?), energy drinks are not intended for mixing it with booze—it just sort of happens. Call it a party favor.

“We do not technically advocate the mixing of Cocaine with alcohol, but if we did here’s what we’d try,” Drinkcocaine.com, the product’s website, wrote. Then it runs down a laundry list of possible drink mixes with names like Liquid Cocaine and Cocaine Blast.

The drink will not be marketed for health nuts or workaholics, but will be sold to partygoers at nightclubs in New York this fall. That’s exactly what the Lindsay Lohan scene needs—more excuses to stay up later and fall down harder.

Even though there is no cocaine inside, the makers of the drink argue that its effects are part chemical and part psychological.

“When a person sees the name of the drink, some psychological effect happens and the person is already experiencing the energy buzz before they even open the can,” James Kirby, inventor of the drink, said in the New York Post.

The company also said that the drink gives you a “high” within five minutes, followed by a caffeine boost 15 minutes later, according to the New York Post. The website claims that “Cocaine is not just a re-hash of existing drinks: It is a completely unique new formula - it tastes like a fireball, a carbonated atomic fireball!”

What exactly is a carbonated atomic fireball? To me it sounds like a lit up fart.

“I can think of no other product except real cocaine that could have that effect on the public,” Kirby told the Post. He also said that there is an ingredient, which is being kept secret, that was added to the drink to numb the throat and simulate the effects of actual cocaine, according to the New York Post.

But before you get excited and call your friends in New York to ship you a couple of kilos of the legal alternative Cocaine, think of this as nothing more than a feeble attempt at getting college students’ money. Obviously they are trying to get you to try to mix it with booze. Red Bull and vodka is nothing new, and Redux is trying to capitalize on that idea by sparking controversy with its namesake.

While Redux has every right to call it’s product Cocaine, it just sends the wrong message to young folks. “Well, shit, if this stuff gets me high, I wonder what the real thing will do?”

Beside, cocaine the drug already has a bad enough reputation. According to the DEA, nearly 2,600 kilograms of coke were seized last year in Illinois and 120,000 kilos in the nation. Chicago is the major transportation hub and distribution center throughout the Midwest because of its location. There’s a shitload of cocaine out there on the streets and we don’t need anymore of it even though humorist and commentator P.J. O’Rourke once said, “Drugs have taught an entire generation of Americans the metric system.”

When I think of cocaine the drug, I don’t think about Eric Clapton’s song, (however catchy), “Cocaine” which glamorized its use, but about the friends I’ve seen swallowed by their addictions. When I think of Cocaine the energy drink I think of some jackass kid overdosing because nobody told him that perhaps he shouldn’t be mixing cocaine with Cocaine. But live and let live.

Let’s get serious. Naming your product Cocaine only furthers the acceptance of the drug. Red Bull is already known as “liquid crack” in the party circuit. And while some energy drinks are often viewed as health supplements, some people might get the wrong idea with a drink like Cocaine. What’s next? Branding sleeping pills Heroin or apples with a methamphetamine sticker that says “made in rural Illinois?”

Just as I wouldn’t go out of my way to score some blow off the street, I likely won’t jump on the back of the charging red bull or a Ginseng monster to the nearest dealer in order to get my can of Cocaine—unless the first fix is free. Furthering cocaine’s appeal by calling an energy drink after it is irresponsible.

...

2006-09-27T16:44:00.000-05:00

Tough actin'

2006-09-16T05:05:00.000-05:00

From the Jim Beam files:

Tonight I’m one of those hiccup drunks. It reminds me of those old MGM cartoons where there were a bunch of Technicolor bulldogs and cats all hugging and singing “We were traveling along….ON Bourbon Street.”

I don’t even know when a day is supposed to end and the day begin. Time is one of those commodities which I have lost, ever since the paper has been back in business. How can I live when I can’t get my fix of Bill Maher or Real Sex on Friday?

Doomed.

Bound to repeat mistakes, my mission for tonight is simple. Get it over with. Reach that alcoholic plateau, ride the sea crest until the liquor is gone and then dive into couch mode. This is where things were at.

There’s a new kid in town. His name was Captain Gonzo. He was a man without a vessel. But he made up for it in liquor.

I guess when you start getting your fill straight from the bottle, things are bound to turn grim.

Grim indeed. I got home at 3 AM. I wasn’t pissed or anything, but I did take into account the simple pleasures of watching a movie, smoking a cigarette or reading a book. I took into account taking off your shoes and socks after a long day. I took into account John Madden’s solution “tough actin’ Tinactin” even though I didn’t have a fungal problem.

Let the Devil within me ride. Take the ticket.

...

2006-09-02T12:44:00.000-05:00

Night turns to day and again I'm waking up in strange places and stranger beds. At least the furnishings were nice. But not as nice as this.

Image courtesy of http://www.myspace.com/jennajameson

2006-08-28T21:00:00.000-05:00

Busket

Assholes rarely win

2006-08-27T21:56:00.000-05:00

It doesn't bother me that much that Kiefer Sutherland won the Emmy for best lead in a drama series. What DOES bother me is that I actually spent the time watching the fucking Emmy's to SEE Kiefer Sutherland win.

Now I'm not a fan of 24...but I understand that with hype come accolades. So Kiefer, congratulations, Jack Bauer is a total nut job. But for my money, you ain't shit compared to Denis Leary.

For the record, Rescue Me is by far the better show with much clever writing. Plus, Denis Leary writes for it, acts in it, and produces it.

Then again, now I can understand why Leary sat next to Kiefer during his roast on Comedy Central. As Colin Quinn put it nicely, "Dont sit with your real friends Denis, sit with Kiefer." Or something like that.

I can already see who introduced Leary to Fox, but that person shall remain nameless. It's now what you know but who you know. So it makes sense, with TV politics and all, that Sutherland would win.

That's my idea for a t-shirt: Sit with Kiefer.

Perhaps next time Denis. I voted for ya.

And for the record, fuck this year's Emmy's. The only good thing that came out of the tiresome ordeal was Stephen Colbert belting out, "I LOST TO BARRY MANILOW!"

Priceless.

Those who remember, Denis Leary was the one who said "I want to have a Barry Manilow skull keg party at my apartment."

No wonder he lost too.

Sit with Barry Manilow.

Chappelle's show

2006-08-23T16:36:00.000-05:00

ROSEMONT, IL- The stage is bare, and unlike Elvis, I am not standing there, but rather sitting and listening to the crowds mingle its way into the Rosemont Theater. It was Saturday, as I dutifully can remember, and approximately 7:30 in the evening. These crowds, they were not what you might expect. Most of them were white, and by that I mean transparent. Some even wore colored neckties. All around, beautiful blondes with curled hair, tall heels and bigger lips, strutted their shtick down the incline that led to their seats.

They were expensive seats. I was sitting dead center. I say the crowd was unusually white because it was a show that dealt with racism, bigger cocks than mine, infidelity, masturbation, the show Cheaters, and Iceberg Slim, a Chicago pimp who is long gone.

The show in questions was a Dave Chappelle stand up comedy gig.

“This is some suburban shit,” Chappelle said when he entered the stage after much waiting.

He was right. It was right on the outskirts of the city. The type of venue, which in the past featured George Carlin (also a show I splurged cash on). But that was long ago.

This is also a part of the reason why I went to see the man perform his shtick live on the stage. Not because I am an overt Chappelle fan-boy, with a Chappelle’s Show DVD set, Comedy Central neon light and Half-baked on laser disc and VHS, but because I tend to shell out money on these live shows when I consider the artist prolific.

Much like George Carlin, who in a way is the grandfather of comedy now, Chappelle is the stuff legends are born from. It may sound silly, but in the same respect that Richard Pryor was voted the greatest stand up comedian of all time by Comedy Central, Chappelle ranks right up there with those comedians who make you question, learn, laugh and reflect on a culture, that sometimes makes you puke.

It was said that Richard Pryor gave Chappelle the torch to carry on. In some respects I would agree. Who were the other candidates? Bernie Mac? Eddie Murphy? Hey man, I enjoyed “RAW” as much as the next guy, but Chappelle showed he had character when he walked away from the $50 million Comedy Central offered him for another season of Chappelle’s show. Talk about not wanting to prostitute yourself.

But noble anecdotes aside, the motherfucker is funny.

His professional bravado, impeccably laced with quick laughs, thoughtful pauses and lightning quick responses to the handful of asshole hecklers out of the 4000 people there that night, gave new meaning to the term “professional comedian.” Fuck…you couldn’t do that shit. I couldn’t do that shit.

Somebody from the deep left balcony actually said “Fuck those white motherfuckers,” and the man recovered. Of course, Dave was doing a spiel about immigration in America, and somebody felt the need to chime in.

“Fuck those white motherfuckers? That’s the weirdest shit I’ve ever heard during a show. Speaking of white….”

You have to be quick on your feet when you do that type of work. I always admired that about standup comedians. Their ability to turn a potentially show ending atmosphere into lead in to the next bit amazing. One wrong quip from a heckler and the atmosphere can turn into that awkward silence when granny talks about cheating on grandpa. At least nobody said "I'm Rick James, bitch!"

But comedians are quick aren’t they? It takes years of practice. I wouldn’t be able to open up for Chappelle’s DJ’s drug dealing friend’s dog. I’d smoke a Marlboro on stage, sweat and talk about Bill Hicks.

Then the riots would start.

Not really, of course, but one could sense the belly of the beast. But Dave controlled his environment, his people mind you, with the tenacity of a bobcat. Wild and collected, his poetry became music.

His spiels about the word “vagina” made people gyrate in their seats. He only said that it was too formal. Vagina is apparently a “pussy with a bowtie.”

“Hello white people,” he said. He mentioned that he was not referring to the whites in the audience but the other “white people.” The ones there that night, were, apparently, cool enough to hang out with him.

A barrel of laughs as always, Dave closed the show with an anecdote about Iceberg Slim, a Chicago pimp, who basically made a trick of the century, by pimping his “bottom bitch” into many more financial endeavors, to say the least.

While this show might not live in infamy, as say, Pryor’s did elsewhere, he is really the prime candidate of our generation to take over the crown of the man who once came out with an album called “That Nigger’s Crazy!”

Hiatus

2006-08-19T14:13:00.000-05:00

Deep out there, somewhere in the stratosphere, an idea is brewing. It's an idea without a name yet. It's a left turn on a red light. It's a "righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by an 'orrible cunt... me."

But until that idea comes, here's Jenna.

Bloody Horseshoe Pit

2006-08-09T07:36:00.000-05:00

Here's a nice story that will have you quoting Brodie Bruce from Mallrats. "You face forward, or you face the possibility of shock and damage." On that note, a Northampton, Pa man survived a horseshoe pit stake impaling after he allegedly was backing up with a sprinkler and fell onto the said rusty stake.

Thank God the man survived.

But this casualty breeds an interesting point. Why are we still playing horseshoes? You know we have cell phones, cheese whiz and computers under a $1000 but we still mange to engage in this "fun" activity. We don't even USE horses, unless your a stubborn police officer, as an important means of metropolitan transportation (Notice I refrained from Amish, farmer and lovebirds-who-want-a carriage-ride jokes).

A game of horseshoes anyone? Hell no! Besides such violent accidents as this, perhaps the only way to summarize a game of horseshoes is to quote Dave Attell from his Skanks for the Memories album:

That must have been invented before fun, because it's not. There's only two ways for that game to end. Either this sucks, let's do something else, or OWW you hit me with the horseshoe.

Sticker

2006-08-08T05:50:00.000-05:00

Here's a couple of things I'd want to see on a bumper sticker:

1. "Honk, if you're mom is born again Christian."

2. "My other ride is a rickshaw."

3. "I became an alcoholic because my daughter didn't make the honor roll."

4. "I should have bought stock in Exxon-Mobil."

5. "You think that's coffee?"

6. "That's not my girlfriend down there."

7. "Or my boyfriend."

8. "I have an alibi."

9. "His shoe size was a nine or a ten."

10. "I don't tip during mass."

2006-08-05T04:18:00.000-05:00

Hunter S. Thompson on David Letterman 1983

"sugar tits"

2006-08-03T08:32:00.000-05:00

I can only imagine that Mel Gibson jokes will be with us for awhile. While his anti-Semitic remarks were definitely a No-No, I still have a growing suspicion that that won't stop people from saying things like "Let's party like Mel Gibson." You know, with a bottle of tequila in the back seat and calling female officers "sugar tits."

Speaking of sugar tits...

Shotgun Blues

2006-07-27T03:19:00.000-05:00

Showing visiting tourists from the Old Country how to shotgun a beer is a lesson in cultural assimilation. This goes far beyond heartfelt qualms about immigrants taking American jobs; oh no...remember they are tourists and it's not like they are overstaying their visas. It's about showing the dumb, depraved and above all, entertaining aspects of American culture to others. Tourists don't understand the concept of shotgunning a beer, at least I don't think many do. But I may be wrong.

"What for?" they ask.

"Why?"

Why? Since when has there been a reason to engage in complete stupidity in America? That's the beauty of it. There is no need for reason. There doesn't have to be a "reason." Just do it...and stop wearing Nike's. I hate Nike's, despite what the commercials say.

To us, punching a hole, preferably with a knife in the bottom of the beer can, then tilting your head back, snapping it open and sucking down the libations as fast as you can is normal. It goes without saying, it's one of the few things we learn in American high schools that has no virtual application in the job world.

But we do it. Or at least used to. This goes way beyond those strap-on beer bottle contraptions and way past industrial sized beer bongs. This is simple.

Sometimes you create a monster if you are an adept teacher of the arts of beer pounding.

"Let's do another one."

Geez--I haven't shotgunned a beer in so long. It was a nice re-visit. One has to remember that American culture is founded on getting things done bigger, better and faster.

Go, go, go!

2006-07-27T01:26:00.000-05:00

Times change...now only $3.99

Hustler Humor

2006-07-26T21:13:00.000-05:00

Here's a couple of old favorites from the pages of Hustler magazine during the 80s. These come from the February 1981 issue. Fun bar jokes if you ask me.

1. Question: What's green and yellow and eats nuts?

Answer: Gonorrhea.

2. The HUSTLER dictionary defines a cotton-picker as: a girl who lost the string to her tampon.

And I own that issue.

Aww-Shucks

2006-07-17T23:03:00.000-05:00

Shoot, el presidente said "shit." I wonder where he learned such bad language? Listen, out of all the things that Americans should be concerned about...Noting the barrage of other slightly more worrisome things our president has done, him uttering the word "shit" is the least our worries. I would start worrying if he got taped on the mic saying something along the lines of: That's bull-fucking-shit, we gotta go over there and fuck some shit up. Hezbol...some bullshit, fuck it!

Hypothetically speaking of course, as sometimes the need to clarify is necessary.

That's what would worry me. Any "Party of God" that has an AK-47 on its flag/emblem scares me. But that's just me. Besides, Bush said it right, and I find that nothing shows more respect than proper pronunciation. Say it with me now kids, Hezbollah.

Besides, the word shit is a strong word. It's the All-American word. It's the football player that "won't take shit from anybody," it's the cowboy chopping down trees "watch out now, that shit is falling," and like it or not, it's our president saying he means business. As opposed to other times, when he's just shooting the shit.

I say get this shit off the news.

Bush shooting the shit with Bono

Why is the rum gone?

2006-07-14T05:35:00.000-05:00

Setting sail to see the new Pirates movie wasn't difficult. Of course, I opted for the matinee because no one in their right mind should pay full price for a movie ticket. It's either a pack of cigarettes or the "privilege" to see what Hollywood has to offer. And those buggers are rich enough. Bloody pirates.

And like most American theater experiences, an adventure in and of itself, this one was no different.

I tend to sit at the wings of a movie theater. My local cineplex serves the type of people that would rather crowd in the center than take a left and lounge on the seats, balls out (if it were that type of a theater).

Which leads me to a few grievances I have. Now I know that I am not perfect when it comes to watching movies. But I do try to be courteous. I reserve my judgement for better occasions, such as this one.

Finding a seat is never easy. Especially when all the lights go off and one has to do that sleepwalk, hopefully no one will kick me in the shins thing. It's also amusing to me to watch fellow man battle the conventions that are imposed on us by the movie house.

Indecision, I find, is the number one problem when it comes to finding a seat. I've seen at least dozen people, ranging from kids to seniors, standing in the aisles like lost children, popcorn falling on the carpet, soda straw chewed into strange contortions, looking where to sit, while aisles to the left are fucking empty.

Sit DOWN! I'm watching the previews. I know they suck too, but come on.

Look...the screen is fairly large, so it's not necessary to sit dead in the middle. Live a little and sit where the empty seats are. So you can yell at your kids in the corner.

But live and let live I guess.

And you would think the cell phone problem was eliminated. Now the ringers are off, but if one takes a bird's eye view of the theater it looks like an Aerosmith concert--except the lighter it's the fucking BRIGHT phones, all shimmering in the dark, like a disorganized runway.

But I know that mostly everyone has some fits about the movie experience. Ranging from this "popcorn tastes like someone jizzed all over it", to "We're NOT FUCKING BUYING POPCORN," past the "Dude, those nachos reek like shit," to the "I gotta piss after 2 liters of soda."

Sometimes I am guilty of this. I find myself thinking, if there is a huge line, fuck it, I am not going. But then I think about the humanity aspect of it. I swear, sometimes you feel hostility in the air at the movies. Like as if we're not in this together, although we will laugh together. What happened? Perhaps it's the everything is about the money when it comes to movies these days.

What the fuck am I talking about...everything IS about the money...hence Pirates 2. Save the legacy speech for the children. And despite the whooping 135.6 million opening weekend, Disney will cut it's film slate from 18 to eight. Not only that, but Disney is yet to announce as to how many jobs will get slashed. Isn't that the same technique people use to teach dogs not to shit on the carpet? RUB his face in it.

But let's get back to the actual film. The movie is essentially the equivalent of Empire Strikes Back. It's the dark second act. Those pirates in Hollywood know how to sink a line and have you wait for next year. There, I must say, they got me. And like a fucktard, I will line up next year to see the final act. I have to. If you've seen the movie then you know what I mean. I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

For this specific purpose, I chose not to watch the original before hand. I felt too much pirates is not healthy. I've even indulged in a bit of Myer's Original Dark rum to get in a pirate mood. I left the eye-patch at home.

I'm not sure what some critics want from a movie. I guess they want the movie to make them feel special or someshit. To quote Reservoir Dogs, what's special, taking you out back and sucking your dick?

Dead Man's Chest is on par. It's bigger, better and faster!

Then I came home, drank Mount Gay Rum by the barrel and watched the original.

Then mood changed and I understood.

I understand why certain movie critics didn't light up about Pirates. Compared to the first one, Depp doesn't seem to be having as much fun as he did before. Sure he is still Jack Sparrow. He is still hilarious, looney, perfectly exaggerated and still the main reason to go see Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, but a certain spark is missing. Perhaps the world was just a happier place when Hunter was around. Perhaps since the stakes are bigger, the Captain has to be a morose motherfucker. Perhaps, the pirate is destined to become the hero. Or perhaps the rum is gone.

Nonetheless, drink up me hearties yoho.

Bust

2006-07-14T05:21:00.000-05:00

After an incident like this, what happens next? Who smokes it, snorts it or shots it? Err...I mean flushes it down the toilet or burns it.

2006-07-10T20:36:00.000-05:00

Apparently, it's the most remarkable product.

2006-07-09T03:53:00.000-05:00

Can you kick it?

2006-07-09T02:38:00.000-05:00

Boy, somebody in Berlin sure has a twisted sense of humor. Last Wednesday, Berlin police arrested cement soccer ball pranksters. I guess somebody wasn't happy with certain game results. While soccer fever hasn't hit the U.S. in the numbers that most would hope, cement-filled soccer balls might be the answer when dealing with unruly soccer practice kids. It might catch on. Those kids have no decency when it comes to caring for clothes. Do you realize how hard it is to get grass stains out of white uniforms? Tide all you want, but only bleach has that stain removing power to get rid of blood out of white socks.

All joking aside, how fucked up and generally malicious toward humanity does one have to be to invite people to kick cement-filled soccer balls? Only in Berlin apparently. Pranksters.

The American Way

2006-07-04T16:01:00.000-05:00

Time to ponder the American Way. Only on the Fourth of July does reflection about the things we take for granted in this beautiful country of ours apply. Yet as I stood in front of the charcoal grill, white smoke getting into my eyes, I thought about this "American Way." In truth, the American Way defies reason. It's completely illogical, hazardous to your health, and most like will have you dying before your time. Which is why most people, preferably from other countries, can't understand why we love (or loved) gas guzzling cars, twenty inch steaks slathered with A.1, light beer, fireworks and the Simpsons.

Because we can. We love to flaunt that idea of freedom in front of the whole world. As it should be. The thing the American Way taught us is that it is as much mine as it is yours. So we drive drunk in tin cans, eat high cholesterol foods, drop down from massive heart attacks and smoke two packs a day. Then we die. Of course we do. Then we learn not do drive drunk in tin cans, eat bad foods and smoke. But we learn or go sober. Because you have to feel a little bit guilty when you think about when it is your turn to quit all the bad vices. But quitting is also a part of the American Way. And if the world hates us because of our illogical arrogance...then so be it! We'll sing the Star Spangled banner drunk if we have to. Blurt that bad boy out and at the end of the first verse when it's time to ask if the flag still stands...You know what we'll say? FUCK YEAH it still stands and it's going to stand for a really long time.

So much for the American Way rant.

In the end the American Way defies reason because it is something that has to be experienced and felt and not written about. As today's Sun-Times editorial stated:

Americans recognize their country is something special; this is not hubris or arrogance, but an appreciation that the freedoms experienced by those who emigrated here from countries fraught by war, tyranny or terrible poverty are a beneficence that can be given nowhere else.

Perhaps the American Way is, much like cigarettes, a nail in our coffins. But we will die fighting for the right and the privilege to die righteously. (From clogged arteries, malignant tumors or diabetes reactions)

To me the American way is pretty much still the 70s version. The one that wasn't health conscious, but strung with brawn and brutality and above all, illogical macho. To me the American way had balls to say what we wanted, do what we wanted,smoke what we wanted,fuck who we wanted and die how we wanted. Just like now. It's still here. So wave THE flag.

2006-06-25T15:16:00.000-05:00

Voices in My Head

Pooh Bear

2006-06-25T14:39:00.000-05:00

This story is too awesome.

Photo from AP

I want fries with that

2006-06-23T00:02:00.000-05:00

This is what we in America call progress. No wonder life isn't peachy. Fuck the minimum wage. Those fuckers don't need it. It's nice to see we're doing our job. Next up...immigration.

OK

2006-06-22T23:55:00.000-05:00

We used to run after ice cream trucks.

F-Day

2006-06-18T19:28:00.000-05:00

I don’t know when I started referring to my old man as Papa Koala. One guess is that I was riding some kind of a Vulcan mind melt high a couple of years ago and it seemed like a funny thing to say. I mean, koala bears tend to be very lethargic, plump and mind wise, fucked up on eucalyptus leaves. Kind of like my dad, except the last time he dipped into the eucalyptus stash was when he had a cold.

Papa Koala, or whatever clever moniker I try to slap on him, the man is after all my father. Daddy Man is knee deep into the FIFA World Cup this month, so there is no way of wringing the remote control out of his hands. That is if you can find the remote control, which as always, lodged in the bowels of the couch.

We call it soccer; the rest of the world calls it futbol. But since Father’s day is kind of a big deal in this country, the day went pretty much like I expected. While there was no “shrimp on the barbie,” there were many great porterhouse steaks; corn, potatoes, hamburger and brats, and anything else that clogs up your arteries and makes you regret those Father’s Day cookouts.

Then there was beer. Perhaps bliss is eating, drinking and then sleeping mid-afternoon out in the backyard. My pops has been sticking to that mentality for eons.

Then slowly but surely, the evening degenerated into what we in the household call, conversation. Sure, to others it may seem like angry shouting and poor choice of words. But I gotta tell you, there are only so many words that can illustrate love hate and need at the same time. “Tell your mother to stop smoking cigarettes and cook something!” Somehow, dad you just ate doesn’t cover the bases.

Here’s to Papa Koala anyway. Love that crazy coot.

Coffee

2006-06-13T20:17:00.000-05:00

Good news for drinkers. And on this thirteenth day, of the sixth month, in the year of our lord, 2006, drinking coffee proved to be a more serious engagement that previously thought. I'd say more, but I'm ready to remodel the house after two pots of coffee.

Belated Bender Post

2006-06-10T04:58:00.000-05:00

Editor's Note: Here's an account of the final days of the semester Chronicle style. It happened a few weeks ago, but I said I would eventually write this up. It's long and most likely not many will reach the end. But fuck it.

Renegades

At this point maybe Little Richard was right. All I need now is a long tall Sally. Have me some fun tonight.

It was time to ponder this rotten assignment. The week was a full blown booze fest, with people falling down and unable to get up. The thing to remember about a final week of the semester is that anything goes. The odds are against you and nothing is sacred; there are no barriers, and with this crazed, depraved outfit known as the Columbia Chronicle there were no borders left to cross.

At some point my mind had snapped and I was consuming large amounts of liquor and cigarettes. Not larger than usual, but usual enough that would make many suburban alcoholics proud. There was a purpose for this debauchery and it was all for a good cause. The cause for celebration came quickly and unanimously. Some can argue that a student newspaper has no place hanging around a place like the Billy Goat Tavern, a Chicago media hubbub. But I'd like to think otherwise--we've earned it.

Many hours later and I still have difficulties trying to piece together that Thursday, let alone a whole week. Good God I thought, is it possible to drink for that long? But that didn't matter anymore. What mattered was piecing together an accurate enough account of what transpired. With the help of others, mainly fellow editor D. Rock, debauchery of that magnitude would not be forgotten.

Thursday night. The staff of The Chronicle is celebrating a good semester by going out drinking at The Billy Goat. Since there is no paper to put out anymore everybody was supposed to meet at the office at 9:30 PM. I get there a little earlier, to gauge the scene and how it will change. High hopes, to be sure.

The office is buzzing with a savage hornet nest quality. There's an unusual amount of activity, people clutching brown paper bags filled with cheap malt liquor--that's how we roll. This pre-game ritual is only the tip of the iceberg. It all went downhill from there.

By a unanimous decision, the staff of the paper concluded that it would be cheaper to get to our den of iniquity via a fleet of taxi cabs. Our general manager was sponsoring this bash so everyone's hearts were dead set on one thing: Alcohol, and lots of it.

Most of the staff went first in the order the cabs arrived. We, apparently, were the last rung of the ladder. Some have taken to the streets, not wanting to sit and lie in wait; they hailed their own cabs to the tavern. Of course the remaining editors and I chose the same route. We hailed a cab, there were five of us, and managed to cram into a cab like sardines being shipped off to Bangladesh. I remember very little from the cab ride, other than the fact that raunchy behavior was at an all time high. The cab driver seemed displeased the fare was a five minute ride down Michigan Ave.

The Billy Goat is the world famous tavern made popular by a slew of celebrities, most notably SNL cast member John Belushi, as well as nationally syndicated Chicago Tribune columnist Mike Royko.

Royko would spend his nights at the Goat, often after work, shooting the shit with the other journalists of the time. To this day, the interior of the place is filled with a plethora of yellowed press clippings, along with photographs of other famous writers that made the Goat their home away from home.

Aside from this little history lesson, by the time we entered the place, most of the staffers were already there. Some were sitting down at the tables, chewing down enormous cheeseburgers and chasing them down with Old Style beers.

The mood was festive, to say the least and it is safe to say that The Chronicle began to take over the main floor. We were right smack in the middle of the action and other patrons were wise to finish their beers and relocate.

Yet despite the general ambiance, the real story was with the people. These were my cohorts, my people and while you have to give it to them that they work hard, they partied even harder.

There was the problem.

The main trouble with a story such as this is that it is difficult to take careful notes during such a depraved event. Most of us have lost their wits by now, from either too much pre-gaming or from the free booze that was flowing, what seemed like, out of a bottomless cup.

The Billy Goat staff couldn't keep up. As soon as I made myself comfortable one of the good boys brought me Old Style, which during the course of the night, would turn into servings of MGD, my personal favorite of the big three breweries. An immediate call for shots was issued and the poison of choice, a round of Wild Turkey's for those who could stomach it, appeared in front of the brave.

One of our advisers at the paper lives by one rule: Don't drink anything brown. It was great advice, considering that many were not following it. Still, he's been there and done that and he knew what he was talking about.

At first fear began to manifest itself. My first worry was how I would get home. I knew, right as the harsh brown poison burned its way down my throat, that driving was out of the question. From that point on, the progression of the night was documented on our faces. As our cheeks got redder, the conversations began to downgrade in quality, almost to the point where previous parties became the topic of debate.

As that old Budweiser commercial, we all loved each other, man. Grand toasts were made and many more were what seemed like at the time, issued as if they were edicts concerning the last great group of student journalists that ever sharpened their skills at the Chronicle. Most of that was true; even the master of ceremonies, the GM said many times over that in all his years there he's never worked with such a tight knit group of crazy fuckers.

Eventually the night disintegrated into many broken beer bottles and flashes of scenes. Two guys making out, one with the intention of making $10, which he did. While loopy people, drunken photographers and cute girls who obviously had their fill, staggered and swayed from one conversation to the next, I was trying to asses the situation, which proved difficult since I was having trouble lighting a match.

Who was I kidding, I was blitzed. By the time everyone began to call it a night (the GM eventually had to close the bar tab) we sprawled out into the night waving peace signs and giving out hugs, to each other mind you and not wasted winos.

Speaking of winos, I caught up with a few other equally hammered individuals who were spending the night at the editor-in-chief's new pad.

Then it began to rain and when we reached the pad, a nice place that he shared with two other roommates, he brought out a bottle of freshly opened Jim Beam. We did shots and he went to sleep.

As for the photographer and I, well that's a different drunken story. We tried to go to sleep, but the decision to press on and reach new lows manifested itself with the first shot. Needless to say, the man who let us crash at his place deserves a fresh bottle of Beam. Degenerates.

Wicked things happened early next morning. I had to attend the last class of the semester. Smelling like what I can imagine Nick Nolte did during his DUI bust, the photographer and I went to get breakfast.

"What do you mean I can't smoke here?" It's probably not nice to scream at a nice waitress.

"Oh YEAH!" That was the obnoxious sound (like in the Kool Aid commercial) that rush hour commuters got to hear repeadetly as we made our way back to school. Looking back at it now, perhaps we were out of control, but a new day was upon us and we had to attend Manifest, a graduation celebration.

Some binges end with the puke hitting the toilet, some binges end while sobering up in the can, while other binges deserve to be continued. So we pressed on. After class, this is a new day mind you; I went home, showered, changed clothes and returned for more, hangover like a motherfucker.

This was Friday, Manifest was in full swing and I had to hurry because Richard Roeper was having a journalism department sponsored conversation. I attended, naturally, but I knew that things would turn celebratory when the free wine showed up.

It was on like Donkey Kong. Roeper, always the cool guy, talked to future hopefuls. After it was over, I asked him if gonzo journalism was dead. He mentioned during the event that at the beginning of his career his literary voice was in emulating HST amongst others. Whether he was joking or not, when I posed the question to him afterward, he suggested that times are different and you just can't do what Hunter did anymore.

I smoked some cigarettes and poured through a bottle of wine after that. Then the Colt 45's came out. Then the memory got blurry. It's true what they say about malt liquor--it will fuck you up quicker.

Like before, there are instances of me turning into full blown Pollack battle mode and trying to con certain organizers into giving me more free beer. At the end of Manifest, which if I didn't mention it before, was a college sponsored celebration for graduating seniors that included live band performances as well as a "party under the tent" sort of thing, organizers gave out three free beers to every student who was of drinking age.

I immediately saw a loophole and scored Miller Lite's, which I shoved greedily into my bag, like a Polish kid who was predicting some sort of an alcohol draught. But they were onto me during my third attempt at scoring free beer.

Then D. Rock was, according to the photographer, "in bad shape." Perhaps the good Rock doesn't remember what happened during that night, but it involved him drunk as a skunk. We tried to help, the photographer and I, by pilfering nasty food from the tent. Like the true Polish crusader I made several rounds gathering up sandwiches for the man in bad shape. Apparently he woke up next morning, searched his bag and found a neat Ziplock filled to the brim with stale sandwiches.

We had to carry him to the train station. And he was a dangerous drunk, running into on-coming traffic, flipping people off while graciously screaming "Fuck You! Fuck You! You too, Fuck You!" But you can't blame or judge the poor bastard. He had one too many and considering that he was a newborn college graduate; I can safely vouch for him and say that he was justified in his actions. As for the photographer and I, carrying the poor drunken sap on our shoulders, getting a bit lost on the way due to listening to drunken directions sobered us up really quick.

"Don't give that to him," the photog said, referring to the 7-11 taquitos I bought. He was right; in that state he would puke probably all over us. Eventually D. Rock jumped into a cab, a fare he didn't pay since they didn't take credit cards, that took him to his rightful destination--the train station. Apparently Rock was on a much bigger binge than we were, but that is a story that he can document.

Graduating college happens once and while it wasn't my turn yet, I got to tag along for the celebratory part of the end of their journey. As far as accurately trying to document the trip, the real documentation showed up in the mirror following those two reckless days. It was a figure with unkempt hair, bulging eyes, bloated face; a real American hero of the drunken gentry. There was no point in continuing. A time of healing ensued.

Star

2006-06-08T11:33:00.000-05:00

RAMBLINGS OF THE HIGHEST CALIBER….

2006-06-08T02:49:00.000-05:00

Ever since school has ended my life has been taking a steady, albeit surly, slowdown into the realm of procrastination and just flat out laziness. It’s the worst possible condition to be in when you are an up-and-coming journalist. As one of my teachers and mentors used to say, “Journalism is not sedentary.” Yeah – you learn journalism by doing it. This is not journalism.

In fact, I would go as far as to say that what I am doing with my life is rather pretty sedentary. That word alone sends shivers down my already crooked spine. The reason it’s crooked is from lying in a prone position while reading the newspaper every morning. I used to call this the horizontal boogie but now I call it plain hideousness. I could be hooked up to an IV is what this feels like and it would be the same.

That whole philosophy that everything happens for a reason is for the birds. Yeah, perhaps, in some utopia fantasy land where people get the jobs they go after, everything does happen for a reason, but in the real world the whole argument is for the birds. Where is the clause that states that sometimes good people make bad decisions? Because not EVERYTHING happens for a reason, sometimes shit happens because, well, shit happens. Listen, everything-happens-for-a-reason-enthusiasts are positive and optimistic people who believe that in every bad there is a good.

Really? Fuck them.

So when I get pulled over to perform the sobriety test it’s kind of a dance for my freedom. And I dance. It happens for a reason right?

Here is something that happens for a reason.

To end this little asshole trifle here’s an ode about my old ex-girlfriend. She deserves every minute of it. I dedicate this to her. She did me wrong. Here is Bill Hicks from his Love, Laughter and Truth album:

“I’m driven by the fantasy that one day this girl whom I love in the world who she said she loved me and left; one day she is going to be living someday in a trailer park, somewhere in Alabama, living with this ex-welder, six hundred pounds, fur all over his back, drinks warm beer, farts, belches, beats one of the kids, watches the Dukes of Hazzard every fucking night and has to have it explained to him. She is going to have nine naked little kids with rickets that bring home dead animals from the side of the road to eat at night, burrows on their face, mud on their face, rats lying babies in their ears at night; one night that welder is going to be making love to her and he is going to be on top and suddenly his heart is going to explode and she is going to be trapped under 600 pounds of flaccid fish-belly cellulite, shifting like the tides of the ocean, as blood, phlegm and bile pours out of his mouth and nose into her face and just before she drowns in that tepid puddle of afterbirth, she’s going to turn to the Tonight Show and I’m going to be on it. So you see folks I am not bitter,” said Bill Hicks in that performance.

In the name of the Devil

2006-06-07T02:20:00.000-05:00

So this is it huh folks? 6-6-6 rolls around and we go bonkers. Mothers don't want to give birth on this day (I guess there are times when the term "suck it up" applies)my cable goes out, the Omen is released and generally there is a lot of screaming about the Devil when there shouldn't be. I've met the guy. He's got some good ideas although he gest carried away sometimes. Fixation with fire and brimstone. Good dental plan though. Not a very nice guy.

But I made sure I made it through the day in order to comment. Just in case you know. In the words of Richard Pryor, the Devil a cold motherfucker jack. I could always die in a pool or some shit, choke on a pretzel, or get a bad case of DT's and jump out of a moving El Train.

By far though, while reading the Sun-Times this morning, I found this piece of news the most disturbing. And they wait for Devil day to tell us this shit.

So all this time waiting for not having kids is kind of a bad idea apparently. Fuck, if somebody would only tell me sooner. I should start spreading the seed when I can now. Otherwise my children might be dwarfs! And I love Snow White as much as the next guy, but can you imagine watching that shit with your dwarf offspring? And I stand corrected that I love midgets. And balloons.

The conversation would go like this when Dopey would do something well, dopey.

"See son, this is a work of fiction. You don't look like that. You're a beautiful baby boy. The Disney company is completely full of shit. They don't know shit about dwarfs. Hey what's with all the sneezing?"

So much for the Devil-may-care attitude.

And while Richard Roeper has something to add on the 6-6-6 fiasco, I'd like to think that it's ridiculous people would actually buy into this let's go see a movie today type of shit. He does piss on Ann Coulter in a sense and that is never a bad thing.

Yet when I step back and look at this anti-Christ sort of day, it doesn't matter that studios are trying to make money even today, Christmas is still the champion--nothing like blowing a wad (of cash that is) on useless shit in the name of the holiday spirit.

I am in a good mood after 6-6-6 because,apparently, a new study found the reasons for my nightly screams into the abyss, as I pour cheap after shave on my shaved face and get into a shouting match with my neighbors.

Explosive disorder?

"People with IED reported having an average of 43 outbursts in their lifetimes, resulting in an average of $1,359 in property damage. But only 29 percent had been treated for IED. And 82 percent had at least one other disorder, such as depression, anxiety and drug or alcohol abuse."

What kind of outburst are we talking about here? I'm still covering up the holes in the walls with patriotic flags.

There is more to be said about genuine rage but that will get documented after my next outburst:The kill-that-motherfucker's-loud-stereo-day. The Hulk ain't got shit one me.

*Editor's note: The Hulk, apparently, only gets his news from the Sun-Times

"Call Cobra"

2006-06-01T04:37:00.000-05:00

My first introduction to the American culture happened in Poland. My grandma (she is dead now God rest her soul) was loaded with money. This was the 80s. She worked here for a while and made ample amounts of money doing what to this day is a mystery. Then she came back to Poland and lived frugally off the heap of green she made in the States. They called her Jewish for her frugality.

I was a bastard kid who beat up other 3rd graders if they started talking shit. This was pre-Compton; this was Polack land. But my grandmother bought a VCR back then. And my father, her son, used to borrow the NEC VCR from her on any occasion that he could. At that time, Poland was overwrought with VCR piracy. The uncontrolled piracy led to mass markets on Saturday’s where you could buy any movie that America carried for pennies. Listen, nobody is going to make a political stink if they can get their hand on a copy of RoboCop.

I still have the tape. Granted now it has a Denis Leary special recorded over it, but the first American movie I’ve ever seen was Cobra with Sylvester Stallone and Commando with the California Governor. Back to back, two action movies sparked my imagination of what life in America was like. I was naïve and I was perhaps 7 or 8.

Looking back at it now, since I now own Cobra on DVD, there was much to say about the American culture in that movie. America to me, at the time, was a place where supermarkets had everything and crime was rampant. But something was still alluring about the place. When that junkie criminal starts blowing up the place and Stallone takes a swig off the Coors beer can I knew that this was a place for me. I knew nothing about the “movies are bullshit” theology.

In the 80s when they showed you a supermarket on TV you had a hard-on bigger than Peter North starring in the North Pole, a volume series that would grow exponentially. The aisles were filled with beautifully wrapped products, ranging from Keebler’s cookies to marshmallows. And when you were a kid, you ate that shit up. This was the seed of the American Dream—Cobra.

Sounds pathetic now, but when I was growing up this was what America looked like to me. A place where seagulls flew by or hung loosely on the light posts and people lost their wallets when they were returning shopping carts. Toys R Us was king and Christmas was synonymous with the store. It was a place where pizza had a sense of novelty. It was a place when NBA basketball was KING and baseball was somehow second even though it’s not like that now. It was a place when 16-year-olds drove their daddies 76 Plymouths and made out at the drive-ins.

It’s a shame that all that innocence went away.

What is America now? We are slaves to gadget cell-phones. We wear and pay for faded jeans yet really old faded jeans are out of style. We talk and listen to music on our phones while our lives revolve around the e-mail address. Are we really better than anyone else? We’re a superpower that is struggling with being a superpower. America, with its excesses, is almost like Rome. And we all know that history lesson.

It’s hilarious watching a movie like “Air Force One” these days. The terrorists actually have a better point than we do in the movie. Gary Oldman’s character veers into a speech toward the end of the movie about murder. He says something along the lines of: Murder? Don’t talk to me about murder. You kill so many people around the world in the name of freedom that it is laughable. Murder? Who’s the hypocrite?

Now we know how far we go to be the next American psycho a song once said.

Perhaps the media is not doing enough. The media is supposed to be the watchdog of the government. But these days it seems like it’s not enough for the public to know what injustices are happening. We need to act. The truth is, the government knows how helpless the public is. In truth, the public can’t do shit. We can’t create change no matter how hard we try. Elections, write your congressman and all that shit is just bullshit posturing. Welcome to politics. Sure as a journalist I need proof right here for what I say. But this is a blog. A blog is a place that has gained negative connotations in the eyes of the media. No self respecting news service trusts blogs. It doesn’t matter what we say here, even though sometimes blogs are quoted by the AP. We in the blogosphere can say what we want, but in all honesty, we don’t count. It’s a shame. We’ve got something to say. We’re not useless.

Pick up these balls

2006-05-25T16:59:00.000-05:00

You'll be sitting around the house, perhaps a beer in hand watching those housewife programs (Nanny, Roseanne or worse, The View) and that loathsome commercial will come on. At the time, seeing a vacuum cleaner pick up a 16 pound bowling ball yields only a slight chuckle.

Only later the sheer idiocy or rather, the essence of the commercial makes me re-think my TV programming. Granted, perhaps, should I ever be in a situation that will involve me trying to pick up my Woody Harrelson Kingpin bowling ball out of a bowling pin system and the power goes out, I must say I would yell "Get the Oreck!"

Since we're on the topic of absurdity, does it have to be a bowling ball? Can it be, say a 16 pound severed human head? What about a case of Moosehead, the beer, not the actual head (unless you saw off the antlers with a rusty saw)?

Yeah everybody bitches about the stupidity of commercials, so here are some things to have fun with.

If the commercial starts with a question, always say No. It defeats the WHOLE purpose of what follows. They assume you say "Yes" to shit like are you hungry or would you like to suck her tits? Shit, now that I think of it that might be a yes.

This one is from my pops who is a balding man. When he sees commercials about those fucking get your hair back commercials he switches that shit off real quick. Not cause he's bald, but because apparently he doesn't want THOSE assholes selling him this shit.

Luxury cars that apparently make you a better person. ONLY $49,999. Because when I AM crunching through a bag of Doritos, I look at the $0.99 on the bag and think "Fuck my life sucks, I'm eating Doritos, I could be driving one of these new babies." I'd like to drive one of those pussy-mobiles (read: Chick magnet), but not to a strip club but INTO a strip club. Just to see what happens.

My ideal car is from the 70s. Big two-door gas guzzling mother that peels out and has racing tires and those dual dices hanging off the mirror like a pair of cojones.

No wait a minute. I'll have an Oreck hanging off the mirror sucking one of those 16 pound bowling balls. These days you have to make a statement.

Jet Lag

2006-05-21T01:48:00.000-05:00

Here's an interesting news item:

Apr 27, 2006: PRESS: Mexico's Navy plans to buy Russian SU-27 fighter aircraft

"The Mexican Navy plans to set up an air defense unit using SU-27 aircraft," the article says.

Here's the Flanker.

In fact, Mexico is actually ready to get these bad boys in order to form "the first strategic air control element in the country." Translation: Pinche Gringos.

I found this bit of news a bit interesting consideringg that Bush plans to build a fence around America. I guess world politics are always in the state of upheaval. What the hell does Mexico need air cavalry for? In the same vein we do, to protect their shit. They got oil fields too. Oh and you can party in Mexico. Cocaine is OK, to a certain extent.

That's my next vacation spot.

Oh YEAH!

2006-05-21T01:00:00.000-05:00

"No man, this is grass."

This is what lazy people do.

2006-05-19T01:59:00.000-05:00

Sleep. Lots and lots of sleep, all fueled by lots and lots of irresponsible behavior. Sure we can all get jobs, work a cocksucker shift and then go home and bitch to our loved ones about “how hard work was.” But the asshole thing to do is to stay home. Lazy people, the people who just finished their semesters, awaiting bigger and better things, somehow just spend their lives living in some sort of a bullshit infused fantasy.

But if there is anyone to talk about being lazy, especially since as Alice Copper said, school is out for summer, then it would have to be me. And I’m not the first one to claim that those couple of weeks after school lets out belongs to entirely to me. Many have said it to me. Some say they will major in “taking it easy.” Others say that the first two weeks will be dedicated entirely to the consumption of bourbon and other unmentionables. While those two are very noble exercises in the important, albeit health costly, search for the inner self, there is one more area that lazy people usually excel in. The topic of course is watching movies. And lots of them, I’m talking about 12 hour blocks of Blockbuster sponsored movie marathons, where the only exhaustion possible is a) eye exhaustion and b) the necessary function of going to take a piss, smoke, and sometimes shit.

So I went to that evil movie whorehouse known as Blockbuster and rented a few things. You know you have a problem with laziness when you call ahead to book a copy of Johnny Knoxville’s latest opus, The Ringer.

I do that. I call ahead. Because countless times I went to the video store and came out with the likes of Chronicles of Narnia or Rob Schneider’s Deuce Bigelow part 2. I’m lying; I would never succumb to Deuce Bigelow part 2. Now Jenny McCarthy in Got Dumped—pure gold—that’s a different story. I’m kidding of course, but the nights when you borrow shit turn out to be shit as well.

Jesus, let me tell you, I hate bad movies. That’s because you pay to watch them and they are unbelievable shit.

So I rented The Ringer.

You know, Johnny Knoxville was enjoyable when he was being, well, Johnny fucking Knoxville. Shit—I will come out and say that I enjoyed Jackass to its fullest stupidity. I loved those guys. Fuck, I bought CKY videos staring Bam Margera and Jackass season 2, but The Ringer is bad. Not entirely bad, seeing Knoxville act like a retard gets some chuckles, but in the end, I felt I was better off with watching re-runs of Jackass on MTV.

I admire Knoxville for one reason and one reason only. He was able to turn downright stupid shit into a paycheck. I respect him for that. I would love to hangout with the Jackass crew. Are you serious? Those fuckers are crazy and they know how to party.

On to round two. Hostel.

Now Hostel is the type of a movie that signals your mental imbalance just because you rented it. Granted it’s gory, twisted and it’s fucking sick, but it’s a well made movie. It’s a good movie, considering that Eli Roth, the writer and director, is in production of Hostel 2 right as we speak. Hostel is nice.

There is a surprise in my little lazy bundle and it is called Grandma’s Boy. Now hear me out. Happy Madison, Adam Sandler’s company, produced this little title for a miniscule box office success, but the movie is funny. It stars Allen Covert, the same guy you can see in virtually every Sandler movie. He was the caddie in Happy Gilmore and was featured in most of Sandler’s work.

Now he has his movie. And a lot of faces make cameos. Rob Schneider, no surprise there, makes it as well as Kevin Nealon.

But I liked it because it spoke to my generation. It’s a movie about game designers, no wait, stoner geeks who are game designers. It’s fucking hilarious. Comedian Nick Swardson steals every scene he is in. You gotta love the guy. Go get stoned with your buds and watch it. It’s a stoner movie.

And Munich will make you shit your pants. If you haven’t seen Spielberg’s Munich then you are missing out.

Munich is such a good movie that it makes Capote stumble on its speech patterns. The movie works and hits your “thinking caps” about the way Israeli Mossad has been taking revenge after the Munich massacre. It will knock your cocks off. Eric Bana is now a major actor. Daniel Craig proves why he should be the next Bond, that blue-eyed fuck.

In the end though, lazy people get to do what others don’t do. Jerk off to “Taboo,” watch stoner movies and drink large quantities of liquor. It’s not a lively life, but all lazy motherfuckers can relate to just chilling in front of the TV.

Why is IT talking?

2006-05-18T04:33:00.000-05:00

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “This isn’t going to work.”

I mutter something vulgar under my breath and realize that my clothes are still on. I try to free myself from the plethora of crumbled up bed sheets but it’s all useless. I am helpless and this fucking headache is not helping. Remnants of a night gone by flash behind my eyelids like a dream that went nowhere. The phone is ringing and the machine gets it since I’m in no shape to walk, let alone talk.

Something awful is happening to me. How long has this nightmare been going on? A week? A couple of years? I sit up on the bed and fish my glasses from under the pillow. Perfect place, now that I think of it.

Reality is beginning to slowly hit me and The Bottle starts talking in gibberish, making rude gestures and flimsy accusations.

“Geez, what the hell do you want!” I scream.

Great work, keep talking to The Bottle, I’m sure it will answer. The Bottle in question is Wild Turkey and I realize at that point that maybe things are getting a little too hectic. Hey it started it.

“Maybe it’s time to start giving a shit,” The Bottle says. “Maybe enough is enough.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing man, just trying to say that you’re lousy company.”

“I’m lousy company? Fuck you Bottle! I’m hanging out with you!”

“Why are you screaming, am I screaming?” The Bottle says.

So what’s the drunkard wisdom today, I ask, almost sure that the thought of me having a conversation with an almost empty bottle of bourbon, in some states, is certified mental illness.

“Nobody likes a quitter unless they’re a sperm eater,” The Bottle says.

“What?”

“Nothing, just trying to get you out of bed to read the newspaper,” it says.

You know, waking up used to be good. The birds would chirp, the sun would shine through the blinds, right on your eyelids most of the time, and you would be happy. It was always fun having a warm body next to you. It’s the flip side when it’s a cold body.

I scratch my head and check messages. Then check e-mail. Then MySpace. Then visit CNN.com. Then turn on the news. Then take a piss. Then shake. Then watch Looney Tunes. Yosemite Sam is on. Sam was always the most stressed out of all the WB characters. Some would argue that Wiley E. Coyote was, but Wiley knew his position in life. Whenever he would take a plunge down a canyon he would have that “so what else is new” shrug, or a sign. Not Sam, you could see pure agony in that man (if you can call him that) as he was tricked into falling down or getting blown up. That’s because Sam is a human character, he knows what will happen. Varmints.

“Don’t eat the eggs,” The Bottle says.

I must be sleeping. If I would be a cartoon I’d be me.

I eat the eggs and I puke.

“Told you. I don’t go well with eggs in the morning,” The Bottle says.

I make coffee. I watch porn and comment on the bad acting. I actually try to dispute what they are saying. “I want you to cum in my mouth,” is blaring on the TV and I’m screaming “LIAR!” as I skim over the newspaper.

“You know you should be jerking off,” The Bottle says. And at that point I had enough. I pour a shot and like Wiley Coyote I shrug. The post semester celebrations will eventually turn to pure inbred alcoholism. I should have woken up quoting Thompson. “The possibility of a total mental collapse is very real now.”

I go back to sleep, playing it safe. This never really happened. But if it did, it would be something out of a cartoon. Anvil drops on my head.

“I don’t go well with anvil’s either,” The Bottle says.

Just because

2006-05-18T03:08:00.000-05:00

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, unless you're wasted and you don't mind.

Brings back bad memories

2006-05-17T02:13:00.000-05:00

So I could ramble on about the various parties I went to last week. Beginning with Monday at a bar called Monday's in Chicago, or Tuesday's decadence of my own, Wednesday at Spin, which unbeknownst to me at the time was a gay nightclub, or shit the culmination of events on Thursday which was the end of the semester party at the Billy Goat. Who knows—that Goat party was so crazy it deserves a post of its own.

But on a more somber note, a Chronicle photographer and I went to see United 93. Now before we get at the heart of this matter, the weather was in the 60s in Chicago that day. The sun was shining, kids were running into traffic (as kids do) and me and the photographer hailed a cab to catch a showing of this flick. From this day, he will always ask me why we went there. It's not that anything bad happened at the screening. No booze was involved and nobody got punched in the face. It was the sheer power of the movie that turned the rest of the afternoon into a farce, something Eugene Ionesco would call absurd.

United 93, the documentary style big budget drama, is the type of a movie that can suck the beauty out of everyday things—things like the playoffs or chasing skirt, or fuck, even chasing the story. And I say that and I mean that as a compliment because United 93 is such a powerful film that everyday things mar in comparison to the memory of that day. Prada Shoes, Virgin record stores, Millennium Park and Chipotle can all go fuck themselves when compared to something that actually means something. Granted, we all know the story of that flight. But the way that the film is made, with hand-held camera angles and real people who experienced it acting out what happened that day, mixed in with the confusion, despair and the harrowing climax is what will probably make this the best 9/11 film out there.

Originally when United 93 came out, I wanted to see it. That was it and that being three weeks ago; I faulted on that promise, hence the Billy Goat and the debauchery. But somehow I got a copy of the television drama Flight 93 and my 9/11 curiosity was sparked again. But I won't go into the details and I can say that both have its merits and high points, Flight 93 playing the emotional cues (read me crying like a bitch) and United 93—well that's a different story.

United 93 is disturbing.

Having seen it I must say that the movie resonates far after you leave the theater. I won't spoil it, but the ending serves as no payoff; it just makes you sit there, as the lights come on, forcing you to deal with the reality of what fucking happened that day.

Too Early? That whole argument that it is too early to have movies about 9/11 is horseshit. We have to watch, despite what a USA Today poll says. Families of those who lost their loved ones will obviously not be happy with big budget portrayals of those tragedies and they deserve all the respect they can get. But it's the public that needs to be reminded.

Even though we say "We will never forget" I have a hankering suspicion that a lot of us did. I have a hard time believing that a movie such as United 93 is being used as a way to make money. Sure it will. But it's probably Oliver Stone's WTC that will take that honor. United 93 is meant to show you the horrors on that plane that movies made for television can't. That's the point. You pay to get disturbed.

Sure even the cynics will say that 9/11 is so five years ago and we should get over it. Bullshit. Letting time heal wounds is one thing—a privilege reserved for the families who suffered—but for the rest of us, we need this.

There is no glory in watching this film. As my cohort put it, this movie makes you feel like shit. Indeed. And it's not what you see on the screen that does so, it's what you see when you leave the theaters, on the street that does.

People are living this weird safety laden life now, some even sick of thinking about 9/11. Does the movie reinforce our hate of terrorists? Possibly it does, but not in its portrayal, since the film does a good job in not dehumanizing the hijackers, but in reinvigorating our previous hatreds—mainly we hated being attacked then and we would hate to be attacked now. I have no sympathy for the devil as much as I have no sympathy for the fuckers who crashed planes into our buildings. But the movie suggests that they had their religious agenda, albeit faulty by some of our religious standards (by my standards is another story, a story filled with violence and no remorse), and the heroes of the flight had theirs: Survival. That's what makes the movie powerful. We can listen to the phone calls over and over again. We know they, as one passenger puts it, did not want to be there, but it's the experience that counts.

The movie makes you feel like shit because you see yourself in others on the street. You yourself have forgotten. You did. Life goes on as usual on the streets. It's not like that for the families of the tragedy. Life is not the same. But I'm getting preachy.

Walking past yuppie stores and fancy diners down Michigan Ave. helped to reinforce that idea. We have no clue where we are, we read what's on the news with a grain of salt and then talk about it over drinks. We are far away from the day that changed everything. We are so far away that we ourselves have been changed, blinded by technology and gadgets, we are just sort of there, experiencing it all like a fly on the wall—not a good shape to be as citizens—that's a journalist's job.

My 9/11 experience lacked any drama but all tears and rage. I was on a subway train when some commuters talked of a plane hitting the WTC. Then more commuters came in, talking the same shit. Then a bum came on begging for change. And when you saw it live on TV, that second plane smashing into the second tower you were like: WHAT THE FUCK! And then there was silence. Complete silence. Nobody said a word. You knew this was different.

Everybody knows where they were and what they did. 9/11 is my generation's Kennedy Assassination. No shit we can't forget it. Our futures are based on this single event and the political mess that spawned on from it . Was it revenge that made the administration do what it did? Perhaps. Was it the sudden need to act? Who knows?

Politics are different issues though. We can skewer and squander, talk and compromise, issue rebuttals and commentaries and so what? What happened afterward—a giant political mess, a war, and no hopes for the future?

But we, as Americans, are still collecting on the chain of events that started it all on that faithless morning in September. Is it too early to be reminded? No. Listen; if we are keeping count of Mickey fucking Mouse's birthday, then we deserve to be reminded of 9/11 from time to time. And I live in Chicago, the home of the Cubs, so don't talk to me about hope. Hope is all we have here. Let's stop talking and bullshit and God, as silly as it sounds try to fix something. Next stop immigration debate. Then the bus veers of the turnpike into the unknown.

We're a long way off from the moment where Will Smith lights up a cigar and calls it a "Victory Dance" as he did in Independence Day. We're doomed.

Hotline

2006-05-13T17:02:00.000-05:00

Disorder Hotline

Brother Grim

2006-05-11T16:33:00.000-05:00

Sometimes sitting there in the Bunker, beating away at the old Royal, brings weird questions into your head. You wonder why we’re slaves to technology. You think about writing on an old typewriter. But most of the time you’re thinking about getting head from some cutie you met in a nightclub last night.

Besides, the reason why I was pulled to the typewriter like a carriage horse is because the computer ate shit and died, in my head at least. It’s not that computers can’t be fixed, but because I always try to do the fixing myself. I’m sure there is a way to resuscitate this broken beast. Fix it up. Do something that yields a Beavis and Butt-Head style “Ugh.” I fuck around with the computer registry. Big mistake. But eventually you learn what is what and thanks to geeky advice that you pilfer from your friend’s internet connection you manage to get it working.

And then you think about death and how fragile life is. Then you die. No matter what career we will eventually embark on, there is a definite end to all of this. Cheerful, isn’t it. Death, that grim brother is always waiting in the shadows. Which is funny to think about because that means Death hangs around with everybody. On the toilet, at a party, in the bathroom, on the couch watching Real Time—Death is always there. You’ll be eating cereal on a Saturday and you’ll feel a tingle on the back of your spine and it’s just Death farting.

Plus you know Death, yes the Grim Reaper, parties. I once saw Death do a beer bong. And not just a regular beer bong. I’m talking about a big plastic contraption, PVC tube, dual carburetors—lots of fun.

Because what is there to do for Death but to wait for your sorry ass to get to “that time.” But while she/he waits, I say quit staring it in the face and have dinner with it. Why not? Could you imagine? Try eating a steak dinner with Death.

“That’s not beef, Bob. It’s actually Steve.”

You could be roomies with Death. Of course, you would have to have rules.

“How many times did I tell you to keep your scythe away from the razor blades?”

“You know if you weren’t such a motherfucking Chewbacca lookin’ nigga then you would learn something,” Death would say. “I have a scythe to work with. It needs to be cleaned and sharpened often. Your ass will fall thanks to this scythe. I’m Death motherfucker! Wash my cloak you bastard. Always bitching about razor blades.”

Living with Death, come on now, could be fun. You know rent is covered. Insurance? Death has no liabilities.

Now does Death take syrup on her/his pancakes? Like Travis Bickle perhaps?

That would be the irony; you chewing on a bloody stake while Death is eating croutons telling you might die from a clogged artery or that your cholesterol is way up.

Remember Wisconsin Dells? That Noah’s Ark Theme park? White water rafting with Death would be a hairy experience. Him and his scythe, that hood. Here’s a ride…plunge to your death. Come to think of it there was a ride called The Plunge. It works for the kids.

Must be this tall to smoke cigarettes. This tall to drink beer. This tall to sleep with a supermodel. This tall to get midget benefits.

Hanging with Death could be fun.

Drinking with Death would be a trip. He’d tell you, eventually, when you will die. And then you would begin to live.

Down with CC

2006-05-09T22:01:00.000-05:00

Tuesday night at the Chronicle.

Dead silence. No real surprise there since there is no more paper to put out this semester. The place feels like a cold dead morgue. Complete with cadavers and white sheet. No more drunken talk over martinis, which if we really think about it, were pints of Steel Reserve High Gravity Lagers. No more worry about deadlines. Oh yes the deadline is a crucial part of any journalist. Without it not many are able to function. With it many go crazy trying to get by. But it is a necessary part of any journalists’ genetic make up. It’s so crucial, really, that many of my colleagues would not be able to put their socks on without it—which is why some leave a clean pair at the office, preferably on the window sill.

The deadline is what made old school journalists have a bottle of rye in their wooden desks. Now it would be Zima and gladly that's not the case. It's still Rye.

I was done with deadlines also. An event that made me cream my pants, lose all control of other bodily functions and crave large quantities of cheap malt liquor—not necessarily in that order.

Much will be missed about this particular brand of journalists that The Chronicle has produced. For one these people are maniacs. Not one of them can be certified as sane. Mostly everyone is crazy in their own way—which is the way it should be.

More needs to be said on this matter. But I need to save up for booze.

PS. Bulls lost. Chicago still is the same.

Verbal Morality Code

2006-04-29T17:28:00.000-05:00

Fuck you.

I think so

2006-04-22T15:02:00.000-05:00

Can we still smoke cigarettes on Earth Day?

Honk

2006-04-22T01:44:00.000-05:00

Captain's Log: Production night.

Friday, April 21, 2006

They come out in waves. Fuck. The white shirts combined with black stripes all surround the platform. There's hundreds of them. It's a different world. They are all drunk to pieces. Going to pieces. The type of bastards that find a place to sit on the subway and make it their own. White Sox fans. They pour out of the gateways on a Friday-must have been game night. Living in Chicago during the White Sox reign is a particular experience.

It's not like the Bulls winning anything. This is baseball. A game that is filled with drunken monsters, all wearing white and black, caps totting their flags, all ready for a fight. They pour out of every crevice on a Friday when there is a game in Chicago. And then they take the train to the suburbs to pick up their cars. These fuckers don't even live on the South side.

But the train is filled to the brim with characters. And I observe what is happening. The rumble of the train itself is subdued by the wave of noise that comes after a winner of a baseball game. It doesn't matter what they are saying. They are all talking about the same thing-the Sox have one.

But these are dangerous drunks with malice in their eyes. You can see it if you look closely. The train cart is filled with black and white jersey's. All pledging allegiance to Konerko or Pierzynski or Mark B. Dangerous fucks, who have the ability and the potential to skin your monkey ass raw. The type of people that do not get swayed by the idea that getting a haircut from a photogenic blonde is a good idea.

Oh A.J. (I've seen the pictures)

But let me start over.

The alarm clock goes off at 6:45AM. Fuck, I think, as I reach for the snooze button. I can't. I can't. I can't lounge in bed today. Get up, you fucker! I drag my ass off the bed and hit the showers, as my non-existent high school coach instructed.

Thoughts flow slowly.

Coffee I think. That's the cure. I drink 7-Up instead to cure the thirst. It doesn't help. The newspaper doesn't make sense, even though I picked it up wearing my boxers in the morning. Do I have cream? I do and a wave of relief washes over me in a hypnotic way.

By the time I reach the L-train I am sweating and cursing. It's always a ripe condition to become bitter. This is how the day goes on from here. Bitter. For no reason really, except for the fact that it all will go to shit.

I can't even read in this environment! These bastard souls are taking a toll on me. But why? I love reading "Pearls Before Swine" strips at this hour. They make it easier to handle.

By the time I actually get into the office, sans class, I am filled with panic. It's a cluster fuck I exclaim and call my Commentary editor. He's out doing an interview of sorts--he won't be in until past noon. ONE PERHAPS.

You have to understand that it is production day at the Chronicle. The day when all the week's shit gets put together. A day of reckoning. By the time the copyeditors leave, it's a free for all; a fuckathon that involves patience and perseverance. Deal with it. Eat it. Snort it. Do it.

Hours go by in a newsroom slower than they usually should.

Cut to me going home.

Fuckers on the White Sox train.

All drunk. People trying to get home in their worried states.

So are we. Done. UR DONE. SEE YA!

The question remains. Do you honk it into the toilet bowl?

Word

2006-04-19T13:28:00.000-05:00