Friday, December 23, 2005

Wisdom from my mother...

If you ever watch cable news, MSNBC a few months ago gave Rita Cosby, this yetti of a woman, her own news show. John Stewart from the Daily Show has affectionaly called her Throaty McHusky.

My mom on Rita Cosby and her new show: "She proves that not everybody has to be pretty or thin to do boradcast news..."

My Mom on my high blood preasure: "See, that is god way of telling you how to get a date. Stop eating out and start working out. You are becoming a blob."

My mom on Republicans: "I don't even want to know how these people sleep at night. I am sure it invovles a lot of drugs, and nothing like that Codeine crap."

Monday, December 19, 2005

Sans tonsils, a bigger problem is found.

Waking up in a hospital is a jaring exeperiences no matter how prepared you think you can be. The nurses were calling it a typical case of "white coat syndrome." A simple fear of doctors.

In short, my heart rate was accelerating from the moment I walked into the brand new St. Luke's hospital in Lee's Summit. I was feeliung anxious and jumpy. Go figure, I hate needles, the sight of blood makes me sick and even watching something an innocous as ER gives me the creeps. I don't do well with medical things.

I remember going home a number of times in the day almost a year ago and vomiting when the newspaper I worked for made me cover the death of a police officer and the sudice of her attacker. To this day, when the police officer's name is mentioned I feel sick and sometimes depressed for my lack of control in this area.

Its not going to be the last time I have to deal with this kind of tragedy if I want to do anything in this business. But, by god, it will never get easier.

But what casued the docotrs to have an unholy freak out during my tonsilectomy on Monday was the fact that my blood presaure refused to go down at any time. It was dangerously high, I kept being told. I just wanted the get the hell out of that place.

The wanted to take blood and run some tests before I left fearing that the stress of even simlple surgery could give me a heart attack. What the hell? I am only 21 and they are telling me I might die of aheart attack - this was supposed to be an easy day to get through. No threats of lifestyle death or ominous predictions becuse of my own self destructive habits.

Shit, after a quick touch with being healthy last year, I had really let myself get out of shape. Living in Boston, I gained nearly 20 lbs eating fired fish going out for far to many pizza and beer lunches. Coming home, I did nothing to even attempt to lose the weight or work it off. So instead of my 210 that I have been weighing in at sincde I was a junior in high shcool, I am now 254 lbs. It used to make sence and looked fine since I stand roughly 6-foot-5

It was not the normal docotr that noticed this trend of self destruction. The anestesiologist who was perscribing my drugs said that he had noticed my irregualr heart rate too during the surgery. He was affriad that if it did not settle down some time near the end of the procedure he could have had to break out the shock paddles jsut to make sure my heart was going to keep working.

I had morbidly joked with the nurses as they took my insurance card and driver's licences that they really needed those to ID the body - you know just incase. Makinga joke like that in a hospital is about as well recieved as a joke about you bobmb making skills in an airport.

After teh surgery as I was sleeping off the drugs that had been shoved through my viens, he called a doctor that was to come and scare the horrible truth into the me that, even at 21, I could die of a heart attack or worse, a stroke, sometime in the next 5 years if I do not shape up.

As soon as he said this I began reeling in my mind back through time thinking of how every man on the Ekey side of my family has been hospitilized in the past 10 years with some kind of heart problem or colestrol issue. My greatgrandfather died in 1991 of a heart attack, my grandfather had heart by pass surgery and eventually had to get a pace maker of some kind. My dad is already undergoing drastic colestrole medicine for a and getting attention for a weakened heart - It was still a shock to me that this bastard even still had a heart.

Now, if I cant get back down to a "normal weight" by summer, I, too, might be on some kind of medication to make sure I do not kill myself. Seem like my almost-daily trips to Chipotle or The Heidelberg are going ot have to come to an end. The weedday/weekednd drinking might have to be cut back. In fact that idea that all fried foods would bed cut our of my diet seemed to be mentioned, but by the time we got to this friendly coversation between my mother and hte doctor, I was no longer listening.

Earlier in the month some jock from Syaracue died of a heart attack. He was not in the same situation I was - being overweght and out of shape. His family just had a bad histroy with this crap. The errie similiarty is that at 6-foot-4 and 250 lbs, he was only a month away from his 22 birthday. Well, I have one inch and four lbs on the kid, and maybe a few more months to live.

Its a terrible wayto go, if you think about it. Essentiually, your heart stop working because you never did start working out. Ultimaley, the illness, in some respect, if your fault and you did nothing about it. A great fact ot keep in mind as your vision begins to blur and your right arm goes numb.

Who knows, maybe I am being overly dramatic becasue of hte codine and other pills I am on from the surgery, but this kind of shit is a terrible load to give some one sucking down a popsicle and awaiting hte first of nearly 5 gallons of ice cream to keep my throat from catching fire.

I was going to have to go into the doctors anyway for a follow up in three weeks. Now, though, it looks like I will be making another stop at the doctors office for a new "diet consultation." I knew this holiday season was going to fucking ruin this past year of mine which has been in some respect one of my more deparessing year, but maybe this will open some door for me to have a good new year.

Maybe spend my last day in 2005 eating one of those 54,000 callorie mosnter burgers or eating some raw bacon slathered in crisco. Its my last hurrah, the fianl show down the end game. And, like everyt other huiman being in this situation, I only have a few more weeks to enjoy it. The year of self-destruction. It needs to go out right.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Fear and Loathing in Finals week: Low self-esteem and a pint of beer.

I was sitting with my attorney in the booth tucked in the corner of another chain bar that fills this terrible mid-Missouri town.

We had been drinking for quite some time already and were now painfully discussing how we found ourselves accepting the handfull of Fs we will endure report card time comes.

We were focused, we thought aloud to eachother. My attorney had coined the phrase no-nonsence November becasue we knew then it was time to get our shit together and find a way to salvage this semester we had drank and pissed away.

Of course, the elustrious No-Nonsence November gave quickly away to Cut Your Losses December. We were not going to make it. We were losing altitude and were going to crash into the mountian of reality we had been circling all year.

I think my problem was I had nothing really to look forward too - at least until classes start again next semester.

No job, no projects, nothing really to be anxious for over the break. It was an odd feeling. Its now everyone elses problem. Every year since freshamn year, I have had a project or something to keep me occupied.

A seasonal job, classes, internship.

THis break; surgery. Not really a project that I can really have any control over. I just show up at 7 a.m. on monday, get druged up and my tonsils yanked out. Apparently I am going to camped up here in the KCMo for several weeks.

It should be interesting. We will see how things go.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Being horribly offensive.

Sometimes when my good friend and I get together and talk, we find ourselves being far more offensive than normal human beings...

(Talking about the two high-ranking editors at the local newspaper and how they both have blogs)

BB: So maybe I'm a bit obsessive when it comes to Missouri politics as I find myself tempted to send Jim Robertson an e-mail to correct his blog--he turned Jetton into the House Majority Leader.
LH: sir, you might be a little over obsessive
LH: i have yet to be interested enough in that mans blog
LH: at least messenger is a freak and takes some really bizarre positions on things, but robertson seems far too boring
BB: I hate Tony Messenger so I barely have the stomach to get through his column much less his blog.
BB: I'm still pissed at Messenger because he used his whale ass to shove me out of his way and get the story I was going after.
LH: was that the cheney event?
BB: Yeah, I take it I've bitched about it to you?
LH: yes, sir.
BB: Well, at least I'm consistant.

(after a long converation about the Libby Indictments, Judith Miller and how Mauren Dowd probably feels left out in this whole female martyardom of journalists.)
BB: Yeah, good point. Just fuck Marueen once to get her to shut up.
LH: ha
LH: that might be it, she just has not gotten laid
LH: fuck her until she votes republican
LH: i dont know who would be tortured more
BB: Honestly, that would be the short version of a lot of the reviews of her book.
BB: She's not getting laid so she decided to justify why men aren't needed as they seem to pick their hand over her.
BB: I can tolerate her for a little bit, but she gets so shrill.
LH: id like to see that headline on a column of hers "Mastubate vs Mauren, you know who the winner is."
BB: hahaha
BB: That's why she's pissed at Judith Miller. Scooter rode the Miller train uptown over her.
LH: Haha
LH: Judith Miller got passed around like the village bicycle at the defense department
LH: that is why she wanted tocover WMDs so much
LH: might explain the security clearance too
BB: Her big concern were heat-seeking missles.
LH: and herpes
BB: Well, you have to watch out for biological warfare.
LH: ha
BB: Maureen Dowd sleeping around the CIA and DOD contaiminating Miller's men with her seeds of destruction.
LH: making them all soft and afraid of war with her sweet, liberal, anti-bush pillow talk
BB: touche my friend.
LH: then we might see the first female president - or dictator - or sex slave driver, who knows. if women figure out how to use this sex thing against men in the military we are all doomed
BB: Well, we survived Hillary, right?
LH: like i said, if WOMEN figure this sex thing out
BB: Ah, good point.

(same conversation line, now moving to state politicans. We always had a running joke that Hanaway - the former speaker of the house was trying to eat rep. Chuck Graham.)
BB: So does that mean Catherine Hanaway has a shot at the White House down the road?
BB: Hanaway hungry. Feed me votes.
LH: as long as she can feed of the immobile corpse of chuck graham
BB: The next Terri Shivo?
LH: Hanaway approves stem cell research for former collegue Chuck Grham
LH: when asked why she said, "I like the thrill of a good hunt"
BB: hahaha
BB: Graham who responded with a "squeak, squeak" declinded to elaborate.

It's is probably best we are not in the same area of the country.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Breaking into your apartment

"Coulter is willing to throw his love all over the place." she said. "While you don't want to throw you love to anyone. What is wrong; you afraid?"
-Amanda, talking about relationships - not sex.

"She said it's hard for me to see how one little boy got so ugly. Yes, my little girly, that might be, but there ain't nobody who can sing like me. Ain't nobody who can sing like me. Way over yonder in the Minor Key"
-Woody Guthrie

Damn it. I tired to explain why these two went together and how it related to my past weekend. But I could not do it without embarassing myself or making my life seem like some kind hole. Also it made refrence to people who probably do not want to find themselves in this fourm being talked about in such as way. Ask me about this, I might tell you.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

"That is all we could ask for..."

Its been a sad state of affrias here in the Temple of Gonzo.

I have deprived the world of my rantings and musing about why the world around me is to decedant and depraved to truly understand hte meanings of life and everyhitng we have (or had) to offer them.

A quick update of where I have been.

I spent a weekend in the hospital with some rare for of a throat virus. Apparently the Bird Flu made its way to COlumbia and is decided to rape and pillage my throat at the most inopporune time; right before mid-terms.

It took a trip to the hospital where the masochists in white uniforms shoved needles into me and pumed me full of pain killers (so my life has not been all bad). They then crammed a tube down my throat - mostly to help me breathe.

They then had to cut open my tonsile - you know the crap in you throat that usually gets taken out at the age of 12. Go figure. I still hold on to mine. I have issues with holding onto the past.

I think i could be the drugs from that ordeal, or the fact that now, as I get back on my feet 100 percent, i find myself not sleeping - ever.

This past week I had too much going on. STRIPES, Mid-terms, deadlines. It all came down in one cruel cluster-fuck and nearly crushed me like some kind of bug under the eye of an evil 10 year-old with a magnifying glass.

Just burn the flesh off me and maybe i can take the rest of hte semster off.

I then spent hte next week preparing for a job fair where i was demoralized, humiliated and told to maybe pick a different profession. And that all came from the adviser who was sitting at hte front desk checking people in.

Fuck her, and the fucking newspapers at the fair.

With all this unneeded preasure and drugs corsing through my body, i seem to be having some very weird and vivid dreams that pretty much scare the crap out of me.

A couple of nights ago I woke up after a rather weird dream.

I was driving with my two brothers in the mountinans of COlorado toward the home of the Temple of Gonzo's idol, Hunter S. Thompson. As we got closser I could sence it. It was like being there and everything looked exaclty how it did when my attorney and editor went out there for the man's funeral back in August.

As we approached his hom, I could see the remanants of the 200-foot tower, disasembled and lying on the ground. THe part ended a long time ago and now the people who lived here were putting together their lives as they coped with the loss of their leader, their husban, their father.

The next thing I remember we are at the front door of his house asking to see Thompson.

"Only if you can handle him," The woman - I assume his wife - says to me. He has been dead for nearly nine months, and yet it seemed complteley natural that we were meeting him in his home.

My brother and I sit on the front steps that appear to go to the second floor of his ranch house. The steps are darkened as they go up into oblivian, but it is obvious someone is coming down them.

I don't turn around but I see the expression on my brother's face. He is awestruck. He says nothing.

I turn around and instantly am drawn to his eyes. As he limps down the stairs he stops about three stpes above where I am sitting. He features are gaunt and his eyes yellowed and sunken into his round, bald head.

His signiature yellow aviator glasses slung arounhd his face and ciggarette burns with a mellowed intensity.

He did not come screaming down the banister or shout obsenities or attempt to tackle me from behind - something I would expect from this legend of a tourble maker.

I had never met him beofre and now, in my dream, i did not know what to say. I was more affraid than anything.

As he leaned on the railing ot take the weight of what I assumed was a bad hip, he took the ciggarette out of his mouth and started muttering to him self looking down at his feet.

His family is standing around hte stairs - or I again assume they are his family - they look directly at me with an unwavering facination.

"Well son," he starts looking right at me, his eyes red and droopy. Drugs? Lack of Sleep? "You have done everything you can. And that is all we could ask for..."

He trails off and then begins to trun around and starts back up the stairs into the darkness.

It was obvious, I had failed at something. Something so impossible that even Thompson himself knew there was no such thing as sucess in this mission. The Insanty could not be maintianed, the level of energy and action would not last. But what was it? Did I fail him? Is there someone I had failed.

Was it the fact that we lost the spirt of the Temple? Did these tresspassrs soil the grounds of this place so much that Thompson, whom we had decidated the palce, no longer wanted to be associated with it.

Was it the newspaper fair? No, he would not give a damn about that crap. It was life. Had I not been a good deciple in the teachings of Gonzo nad the way of life where noone if comfortable - everyhting is a game and a palce to goof off.

I had failed. Look at me. There is no coming back ot the days of Gonzo after this. I have lost it. I knew this when he died and we saw his body shot into the sky in a flurry of fireworks. The party hadended, the madness would stop. The man would reign again.

Only I had attempted to keep it alive, but that brought nothing but lost expectations and this constant nagging from one outsider that I have a drinking problem. You are jsut jellous that I can be so succesful and drunk at the same time.

But it does not matter now. It's over.

Like changing the channel of the TV I was suddnely gone. The feelings of being somewhere: gone. I did not feel the warmth of my surroundings or the feeling of someone lurching around me. It was jsut another dream I had entered leaving behind the last real thing I knew.

From here on out, Gonzo is a dream, an asspiration and someting that will always be jsut beyond the reach of any mortal man.

Well, as long as I can still blet WIld Turkey from the bottle and breath the air, I will aspire for that goal. I will continue to fight against the forces of evil - both real and imagines - sometimes the imagined ones are worse.

A good friend said that to me once. I think its time to pay her a visit and begin this renniassance of the Spirit of Gonzo.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Ramblings from a fool...

I was told my blog posts were too long. Too boring. I understand that. They are not meant to entertain you. the New York Times bores me. It does not mean I am forced to read it, but I do. It's good for you. You might learn something


I don't know what is more depressing: editing the obituary pages or editing the wedding pages.


I met a girl this past weekend. She was amamzing - always has been. Found out we share the same interests, likes, dislikes and passion for life. I also found out we share the same dislike for relationships right now. Fuck.


I am listening to some Spice Girls which is turned up way too loud from the room next to mine. What is more troubling is that it follows the song Skater Boy.


Had an interview with the Orlando Sentinel today. The Third in as many years. Here's to hoping the third time is a charm.

I think it is a good thing when he says he was impressed more than once reading my resume and such. Here's to hoping I didn't fuck myself over - like every other time I opened my mouth with a recruiter.


Aaron Brown is doing a story on how he lived through Hurricane Katrina. Still pictures of his "tense" moments waiting for the storm and then him in the storm. He look so frustrated becasue he cannot boradcast...looks like someone is missing out on the TV equivalent of the Pulitzer...Maybe next time god decides to fuck with humanity you will be there with a reliable satalite uplink.


The most amazing piece of journalism from Katrina

The Saturday after Hurricane Katrina drowned my city, I sat alone in a rented Jeep in front of the latest headquarters of the Times-Picayune's "New Orleans bureau" – our fifth in as many days – pounding furiously on a laptop, taking belts of Johnnie Walker Red to beat back tears. I was locked out of the staff's Uptown house, awaiting the return of the tiny team of colleagues that now represented the entirety of the paper's presence in the city we once dominated. On the advice of cops who warned us they couldn't patrol the area – and to forget 911 – we'd arranged for a shotgun and two .357 revolvers that would arrive before nightfall

read, learn, become better from it.


I am getting too far behind in school work.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

A letter to a friend...

I seem to have trouble sleeping again. This time I am not sure what it is. It could be that I have once again overwhelemd myself. It could be that the last couple of nights I have drunk myself into some kind of retarded stupor.

Or maybe it is just the fear that with all this presaure and heat from above, I am simply being transmogified into something I do not want to become - bitter, mean, irritable.

This weekend was a weird and wild weekend. As I sat here writing to others I started to realize that they simply do not understand what it means to go to the Maneater's 50th anniversery reunion. How could someone from the Cape understand how imporatnt the paper is to both the people who write and create it and the people who read it and fill its headlines.

Christ, they would have no comprehension unless they were there at 3 a.m. as the chancellor was trying to avoid phone calls about athletic departments screw ups or some fucked up curator event. Unles they had to deal with staff writers who had never worked at a newspaper, or an entire black organization prepared to protest and storm your office, they will never know how nearly 200 people came together in a sureal orgy of alchool and war stories this weekend.

By god it was an event. The entire evening was simply summed up by one editor from the 80s:
"If this was for the Missourian, would you be sitting here today?"

Fuck no we would not, there is no comparing the rush you get from writing a story, or editing a headline or even contributing you ever loving soul to this paper to the machine that is the Missourian.

The missourian is a basard child of everything this world of journalism has created. It is an obligation, not a love. It is a requirement to graduate, not something you do becasue you know you are doing a good for the studetns, the city...the fucking world.

Sure, it sounds grand and sometimes a little delusioanl, but that is what the maneater was. It was too big for its own britches, it wanted to burn some bridges and watch them burn while laughing, it was the hemorid on the ass of hte administration.

I kept trying to explain that sitting at the banquett was something that I had to do.

"I thought everybody hated the maneater?" One of hte STRIPES kids asked me - i tried not to hit her.

I used to joke that the Menater was like a drug. Sometimes you are up, sometimes you are down, but there is soemthing that brings you back each time and eachtime you wamnt more, you wnt it stronger. Eventually you get kicked to the curb one too many times and so you try to quit. But it will always be there. It has become a part of you DNA, your ever liuving soul. When you die the last part of what ever it is you hasve left in you will scream out and remember the time Elson FLoyd unexpectedly stopped by the office simply becasue he could.

What the fuck. Who does that to jsut any newspaper.

It was not power were looking for. We did not do it to elevate ourselves. We did it for the voice, the voice of the students. Or maybe our own. hwo knows

Anyway, we are getting off topic. I realized tonight that to be a great journalsit, you need a great newspaper. No, you need a great energy from a newspaper.

One alumni said that the maneater wasz an unstoppable force. It did not matter who was in charge or who was contributing their blood to the program. It was a ship in the night that showed no signs of slowing even as it came crashing ashore.

The menater in its 50 years has become a living and breathing force. It was alive. And nobody, not even the most uptight of bitches could stop it from slowing down. If you did, there were people still aboard that were willing ot crush anything in its way.

But what was important to me wqas the pure enenrgy that exuded from the brown pannles and the gray walls in the production room. It was an energy that no mater what time or what day, you could feel growing each time you walked in.

No other newspaper has that level of force.

A line from Primary Colors seems to fit nicely at this point.
"I can't do anyhting with these people. Sure I shine, but that is only becasue they are my sun and I am like the moon. All I can do to shine is relfect the light and energy they give off."

The maneater was my sun these past three years. Now that sun is setting. What is it we do now. FRom the other sdie of the fence tell me. Is there hope out there. Is there some kind of expectation, no, abiblity to find that great source of power from a single newspaper.

There damn well better be. Becasue without it, I can understand why so many journalists shrivle up and die. Lack of energy. Like a hangover from the free energy we got from college. Unless we find a new source we all will end up like that.

Thatwill be the next challenge. Hopefully then we can turn around at the 75th and say, I was there. I made it out alive. And by fuck you will too. But you will be the better for it.

Don't let the sun set, ever, fuck no.

Saturday, July 30, 2005

Fear and Loathing in Cape Cod: A savage journey to the heart of an American into to temptation...running for your life.

Look at us we're beautiful
All the people push and pull
But,They'll never get inside
We got too much to hide

There was a dark period in 80s and 90s when being a musician meant nothing more than a group of young teens singing falceto and cordinating dance steps.

Groups like New Kids on the Block, 98 degrees and O-Town were producing crap that, for some reason or another, were being eaten up by pre-pubecent girls across this god forsaken music deprived country.

That was then. Today, those hacks are nothing more than washed up musicians - hopefully getting jobs in the real becoming an accountant or insurance salesman. They deserve that kind of helll after the shit they force-fed us for so long and called it talent.

Unfortunatly some of those guys still think they have talent and have been trying (more like failing) at putting together a solo career. That is, it seems, the thing to do after your band failed to continue its wasn't the fact that you collectivly were inept at music, now you have to embarass yourself on stage - alone....

Last night the paper sent me to do a simple bar review for the sunday pages. A quickk 200 word brief about this bar and what made it special and why people should go. Simple enough, except I was being sent to the most god awful place this whole fucking cape that juts into the ass of the ocean could produce - Pufferbellies.

Lets imagine every stereotypical dance club with flashing lights, fog, and a neon light up bar and there you are smack dab in the middle of this freak show.

Girls on Cat walks wearing nothing by tube tops and glitter...pop collar from every guy who was there looking for an easy score - or worse, was dragged there by his girlfriend who would probably make out with any thing that moved if she had on Singapore Sling in her hand.

The bar manager was nice enough, he let me in without having to pay the 25 dollar cover charge and did not mid that I was still wearing jeans and a t-shirt that I had worn to work - Yes there isa dress code and no, I was not even close to meeting it.

HE took me up to the VIP booth, which was nothing more than a plywood platform with courches hung from the rafters. Here the entertainers or "Cape Cod High Rollers" could look down on the mass of people grinding and humping the person next to them. The mass orgy of skin and gliter paste was blinding as the DJ spewed some of the most god-awful rap music from the stereo that was designed to do nothing but shot you across the room.

It was not a place to get a good drink, enjoy music and be with friends. IT was a place to dround out the sences so you do not have to actually look at the person you are fucking on one of the three dance floors in this establishment directly behind the Train Tracks.


I made the mistake of poitning out that the building that could hold nearly 1,500 people only had about 150 hmping along on the dance floor.

"THis is kind of weak," I said to TJ (or was it JT) the clubs operations manager.

"FUck, I am going to have ot show you a fun-ass time," he said.

This apparently means he was going to take me up to the Green room where JOrdan Knight, formerrly of the New Kids on the Block was hanging out with some girl who was apparentlly was wearing nothing but a macrame shirt.

It was 11 and he had not set foot on stage, but he was alraead bent on some drug that he probably snorted off the ass of his new groupie. She looked more than ready to run away with this 32 year old wash out...he was still cool to her, sadly, though she was still living in 1987 - when in real life she was probably only a todler.

Also in the room were anumber of other wahs out punks, all of them with their own groupies ready to perform some kind of devious weird sexual acts jsut so they could grow up and tell their grandkids they fucked JOrdan Knight or the cute one from 98 degrees in the bathroom of a Cape Cod dance club.

I could only take it so much. I needed strong drink. SO i began grabbing as many beers as I could from the cooler in the Green room. Aparently they were reserved for Jordan - the star of the night. THat was too bad becasue he had really shitty taste in beer - miller? You are afucking half-wit singer - coulkd not atleast request something with a little taste or kick?

With enough drink in me, I noticed my attorney from the newspaper was already chatting it up with some of the other singers from O-Town - a band that had no furture from the get go, and yet Disney and its evil empire somehow got them a platinum record.

The only redeming quality of this idiot was the fact that he played Sgt. Peppers Lonely Heart CLub Band as his opening song per my was like a fucking Time warp I shouted to the bar tendeerr who was getting me free drink at this point - she did not understand - not that i expected her too.

WHile my night progressed I began to grow tired of dealing with these "rock star" and decided it was time to bolt.

JOrdan Knoght managed to corner me before I left, though. He knew I was press and was looking to get as much as he could

"We got a party after at my hotel if you want to come.." he said...he looked like he had enough company. I did not want to move in on his throws of women.

"No, Jordan, I'm going tot IHOP."

The mere suggestion of leaving him to go to a fast food diner sent him into a downward spiral.. He stared at me at first in what looked like anger...then quiuckly he became disbeleife and fianlly i THink his eyes settled on depressed. This bastard was sad I chose IHOP over him.

I got my fial job in by turrning to one of the other New Kids on the Block who aparently livesi n Boston now who was telling me I was passing up the oportunity of a life time. I had no iea who this jack ass was. ANd I made it pretty aparent I didn't care who he was.

THere is nothing worse than someone in the inner circle of the VIP room questinging your importantce.

Fro me, I knew I was nobody, just the newspaper man, but these kids were still riding a high and terrible wave of celebrity that came to a head and went crashing down everytime someone, somewhere asked "Who are you?"

For a real celebrity, they will look at you like you are crazy, comforted by the fact that they know they are famous, but for these mucial wastes, they rely on people like me to recognize them on stage and rmemeber their fame.

I was not giving that to these guys. And they knew they were done. Only one of them (the O-Town singer) semed to recognize the little paly I was orchestrating. HE knew he was nobody. And he seemed somewhat happy that he was just playing. I can respect that - sort of.

But he is still hanging with a group of losers who needed to be stoped.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Blogging from work...a new low.

There is a special game I like to play at my house in Dennis, Massachusetts.

I have gone nearly two weeks without actually seeing my landlord. Technically we both live in the same house. She lives at one end and I the other in my dorm-sized bedroom. The kitchen is really the only thing that connects our two room, but with only about 20 feet seperating us, we still manage to not see each other - we even share a bathroom.

But this is not all bad - she is crazy and goes to bed at 7:30 p.m. I am not joking. She gets up and goes to work before I even wake up at 9 a.m. So, the fact that we do not see each other is not the big of a strech. The crazy thing is that she still manages to communicate through notes her displeasure of having me live with her. The Gonzo in here is long dead.

Although the crazy life continuesto follow me at home, the newsroom on Cape Cod has becomes quite melencholoy.

In the past two weeks, the newspaper has seen two of its best leave (or announce they are leaving) for two very different reasons. It really seems to stereotype both ends of ther spectrum that a journalist has to live if they want to have any kind of a family.

Cliff the editor in cheif here, announced two weeks ago that he is leaving the Times to become the long Island editor for Newsday. Holy crap, I thought, this guy is amazing. Not only does he currently lead an award winning mid-sized daily, he is not becoming the equeal of the New York City Editor of the New York Times.

With this kind of offer (I am assuming it was an offer), you cannot really say no. He, obviously did not. So now, he and his family are uprooting a life they have spent several decades creating to move to Long Island.

He is leaving for bigger and better things and his family is moving along with him. From what I have heard, he actually has stayed at the Times longer than any other editor before him. He managed to hire half the staff and put most ofthe top editors inthe position they are now. This is not the first person to leave the paper. Most of them find higher calling elsewhere (this goes to show how good the Times can be in propelling its writers, editors and others to higher places.

Still, Ethan, the full-time business writer, also announced that he is leaving the Times. He is following his wife who got a job in the Washington D.C. area. He spent the last few months at the Times essentially looking for a new job in the D.C. area. It did not really seem like there was much of a choise from what I can gather. his wife a got a new job and she was moving with their daughter to D.C.

Ethan did get a job in D.C. He will be working for a Bankers trade newspaper that publishes five days a week. I am not going to say whether this was a good decision or not, becasue this is not my life and I do not know how I would have handled the situation if I hada wife and a daughter.

It sounds like to him he made the right decision. But, essentially, he is uprooting his journalism career to work for a banker newspaper. All of it for his family.

Again, no family of my own, no real career to speak about of my own, but both are very opposite directions. Both made becasue of something out of their control and for their better in two different directions.

If that makes sence.

It's all very odd and makes me wonder what kind of decision I will make (if i stay in the journalism busienss) come 10 years from now.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Fear and Loathing in Boston: A savage journy for an American celebration

I was already jotled awake with a couple of those Starbucks doubleshot expressos. The kind that are supposed to make you feel trendy and cool at 6 in the morning as you get in your jetta and prepare to sit in traffic on the way to your deaden accounting job at some no-name firm downtown.

I decided the caffeine surging through my body needed some food to compliment my digestive track before my eyes poped out of my head. There was not much in way of food on the cape except for those crappy sit down country breafast spots. So, I decided to stop at the gas station for a microwave buritto. Nothing like a good 'ole American mande mexican buritto to start off the Fourth of July celebration.

Only my intention in the 7 eleven were more than jsut a food expidetion. I was looking for mixers. I needed something to throw into the liter of Vodka i had jsut stolen from my landlord and was planning on drinking on the trian into town. The whole trick was to make it a color and flaovr that noboy but myself and who ever i deiced to share with would know about.

Only my appearance at the front counter with two burittos and three bottles of root beer drew a little suspision from the state highway patrol man standing there getting gas. Try to act calm, trhis is jsut an all american drink and some burittos for a wary travler at 8 in the morning.

he was not buying it.

Staring right at me he could tell something was up. He probably thought I was going to robbthe place. No person in their right mind comes into a 7 eleven and get two burittos and three root beers. Maybe a serial killer with some hell-bent ttiwsted routine for eating microwaveed food with his victim before raping them and doucing their bodies in root beer, but not me. I am the model american boy.

This guy was not getting it. His swager represented everything I was there to celebrate, freedom to ramdoly question anyone who approaches you who appreas different. Wait, that is not what it represents.

Fuck it I though, deal with the pig.

The confrotation was brief. His words were simple short and spoken like a true nantucket native. "No worries officer, I am jsut here to celebrate like every other god fearing american."

As I left I began chanting U.S.A. - seemed like the natural thing to do before he pitol whiped me into submission.

Back behind the wheel with the caffieen taking full hold. Blood shot eyes, lack of leg muscle control. 100 mph down highway 6 across the only bridge off this god forsaken Cape. The trip to Boston should take a normal human being some like an hour and half to drive. Mine, 45 minutes. There was no time to waste. I had to get into the holiday spirit and priase the freedoms to drink in public and shout obseniuties knowing I am protected by a constitution that says i can.

I had the entire train to myself. perfect. With a large ominous sign overhead warninig of the dangers of dinking while poregnate, I mixed my vodka and root beer. 10 a.m. - it was going to be a good day.

The state of Massachusetts is a weird state. It gave birth to one of the grests political dynasties tthis country might ever see - all of them alcoholic.

Yet, it is the strictest in way it deals with its own vice for alcohol. You are not allowed to have na open continer anywhere in public. The only way that businesses are allowed to have alcohol served in their restraunts is becasue it is inside (yes, law declares there must be a door between the public and the drinking masses), and it must be in private. No drinking in the park - well fuck to that system.

The first friend I made was sitting in the parrk behind a bench I had deicded to sit on for a little while. He wander up to me and asked for changee - I honestly did not have any to give the poor bastard, but I said Id give him a stong drink.

Who needs change when I can give him booze directly. cut out the middle man.

"Shit, man. I don't want to fucking get caught with htat here..."

His response surprised my first reaction was not a good one.
"What are you a fucking cop?"

From there our friendship blossomed. I was not in any mood to get shived in the middle of a tourist heavy central park in boston,. So, I hightailed it to the nearest crowded area. He will never find me here.

MMy publlic dispaly of alcoholism was not going over well. Things needed to change and I needed a better cover than a clear nalgeen water bottle. The cops knew I was drunk. There were pigs on jsut about every streety corner.

Each of them trianed and heeling dogs that could spot disenters a mile away. Ready to tear off your arm as soon as you began to hiel hitler or praise the advances of stail.

Bad vibes all around me...this day was only going one direction.

End part one...

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

My blog is boring...

Sorry, it has been a while since I ahve posted here. Most of that is becasue I do nothave internet access at the my palce of residence in the good ole' Cape Cod, and I feel guilty blogging at work at the newspaper.

Well, today I am sitting in the back corner of the Falmouth bureau - i was here to cover something that ended up not happening. Now, I do not feel as bad sitting her pretending to work when I know nobodywil lcome back here and bother me; nobody knows me, why should they come back here. make this exciting. So the first couple of weeks here has been a real mind trip. I find myself smack dab in the middle of one of the largest summer parties ever created in these United States. The beaches are full of people willing to offer their beer or bong a mixed drink. Only the second night I was here I met this group of kid from New Hampshire who had jsut gotten out of school and were drinking and setting off fire works.

This palce really is the palygroun of th erich kids. It did not take long for me to get into the swing of thing. Seriosuly, pop your collar (kill me) and walk onto any random beach and you can instantly find a group of drinking buddies.

The fact that I don't have to actually report to work until 10 a.m. gives me plenty of time to sober up and get ready for another night of beachfront carousing.

One night this group from New Jersery had apparently brought there boat up top the cape and were planning on setting sail and drinking until the sun came up. It was a damn hoot. With a hibatchi rolling a fire and late night skinny dipping episode, I find myself wondering what exactly will bring me back to Columbia.

Granted, this is all on the weekdays. On the weekend, much of hte partying is confined to the bars and night clubs where I have spent much of my time...

Well, if i don't kill myself on my own, then I am sure the group of hell's angle-like bikers I met last saturday night will when I have to tell them that I am leaving in August.

Trust me, with little time here I dont feel I have done it justice, but I will give you more updates in the future. right now it is 5 p.m. here - happy hour. Can't lets the sports department down and miss that appointment.


Wednesday, May 18, 2005

The sequels always blow...

As we watched the pin-headed Republicans take over every institution in this country and pervert them into a place of “family values” with a glossy overcoat, there was one place in America that stood as a big Fuck You to every conservative ideal and person who though living right meant studying and going to class; The Temple of Gonzo.

It was simple home deep in the heart of Anthony Street, and if you had the testicular fortitude to enter its hallowed halls of nudie pictures and stolen street signs, you would be changed forever.

The amount of booze that flowed from this place is too high to even begin to count (especially when it is being dumped on a woman from a 35-gallon swimming pool), but it served as our source of power as we battled dumbass skateboarders who try to pick fights and stripper handlers that are skilled bow-staff fighters.

We took crap from no one and made a few enemies along the way. None of us were perfect – except maybe for Poon who made sure we paid the bills on time - but we still lived life the fullest for nine months out of this past year.

We honored the death of our hero, Hunter S. Thompson, by getting piss drunk and attempting to burn down our own apartment. We threw our parties by preparing for them only five minutes in advance and made sure we all were already drunk as people arrived.

We provide drugs, alcohol and a damn good time to anyone who wandered down the hill from the MU campus, and we judged no one expect for those who now stand at the alter prepared to drink and become new members of the priesthood in the Temple – Fred’s sister and that kid from the College Democrats, I am talking to you.

With the end of the school year we see two of our members leaving to become missionaries in the world spreading the ideals of Gonzo and getting ridiculously drunk on a Monday (it happened more than we can remember).
Now the mantel rests on two who must carry this institution into the next year. It is no doubt that we, as the remaining members, will be able to continue our functions. My worry is that the two new individuals who will be populating the temple. They are new, young and naive – the perfect combination to inflict teachings.

But will they be willing to accept our way of life? Can they withstand the mind-altering experience of seeing a six-foot five man fall down repeatedly? If not, then we will scare every bit of sensibility out of these swine and break them down to their core only to rebuild them into the deadbeat, alcoholics that we are today.

Still, fear runs through the emptied halls of Gonzo. There is an apprehension that chills everyone who fears the Temple may never be what it once was. With 50 percent of our leadership gone, we run the risk of losing our grip and falling from the standards we have set for ourselves. The pools of alcohol might run dry; the Monday, Tuesday and Sunday night drinking may move back to the Thursday, Friday, Saturday settings. We might actually have to star attending classes if no one else is willing drink with us.

Never. This I vow to combat, if half of the house is leaving, then the two remaining members will have to be twice as Gonzo and drink twice as much. We will continue to hump along this path of life and make it interesting not just for ourselves, but those who are unfortunately sitting next to us at the Heidelberg as we begin spitting beer down a woman’s shirt and licking it up – that is after we removed her bra in public.

We have come through this year with a few bumps and bruises, we have gathered our fair share of scrapes as we drag our asses through this university, but with HST as my witness, we will return twice as strong with only half the members.

The sequel of any movie always blows. It is rare to see a movie that can be better, stronger, funnier and more outrageous than the first without sacrificing some quality. But since we at the Temple are not in the market for quality, we do not have to worry about that. We will only have to worry about when our next drinking binge will begin and from what Greek house can we steal more beer.

Coulter and myself will be able to hold down the fort while our brothers spread the word of Gonzo like an STD (although if it were a real STD they could skip Omaha, they seem to be doing fine on their own).
If we can’t hold down this sacred fort, then we both will burn it down.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Our friends in the media...

Well, I have to hand it to U.S. Rep Kenny Hulshof. He sure knows how to make a guy feel swell.

In what seemed like a campaign stop in Columbia, Hulshof made damn sure that (1) the mostlly conservative crowd in the room knew that the media was present and (2) that we simple-minded media friends did not mistake him when he said things like, "I support the president and love the work he is doing. How dare we even have such a system of taxation! Bully!"

Four different time Hulshof pointed out that he was going to "tell it straight" and who cares if the media is present.

At one point he even looked right at one of the reporters and made the comment "Even though our friends in the media are here, I want to tell you this story..."

As if somehow he was giving us a personal glimps into his life and we, the media, were now privvy to deepest darkest secret.

He also would make references to his friends in the media when he was really going to let the shit fly. At one point he stoped, looked around at each press person (the three that had gathered) and made a little huff as if he was saying "I am teflon! Whatever these media elites have to say about me - screw them. I am talking directly to the people."

Well thanks for that, Kenny. I am glad we can make you feel free to talk about the prepacked talking points.

(These quotes are not exact...go figure...on a blog that follows my stories of drunken nights and concert events)

Mosh-pit 101: Beat the living hell out of anyone and everyone in sight

There is no way to honestly describe the jubliation, the pure adreneline rush and the joy of being in the middle of a mosh pit. The flailing and total loss of control all timed to the beat and the rythm of music puts you in an utter state of euphoria. A real, honest to god sense of letting go and just screaming at the top of your lungs.

This is exactly how it felt as I was being knocked around, pushed and generally man-handled Saturday night at a concert here at the university. The band: a ska band who I have never heard before. That part was unimportant. The music was not angry or giving off any negative vibes - it was just music - loud, upbeat and catchy. The kind you can dance to rather violently. The kind of dancing that makes you sore, but only after you have finally sobered up the next morning and have had enough time to recount what exaclty you have done in the last 24 hours of your life.

I was near the back of the mosh pit to begin with the concert. It was not until the end when my roommate and another friend pulled me in and I began to let lose. Let me tell you, someone with my height and coordination should not be "letting lose" around 50 other people who are attmepting the same thing. It just looks weird and leads to me being punched in the nose and knocked over a number of times.

Still, last night was a great way to throw off everything crappy thing in this past year. When I was in high school I used to be a part of a program where I could pretend to play judge in a juevenile court system. There I could yell and scream at juevenile deadbeats and criminals until I was blue in the face. If they crossed me once, I could bring down a fury that was never really warrented, but to the adults in the room it seemed like just the kind of thing these kids needed. Something to put them on the straigh and narrow. All the frustrations from the week could be let out here in the form of assigning community service or degrading a shoplifter

The same was true for my debate. It was a place I could release and yell and be angry.

Here, at my college, there is nothing like that for me. There is no competition or place where I can release all the tention that has built up and become bottled inside. There is no Youth Court or Final Round of debate on the weekends.

This build up, this muck that collected in me for the past three years sat there in the pit of my stomach and made me depressed and bitter - if not nearly alcoholic (it was the closest thing to a release I thought I found).

This year, I think it finally got to me.

It had built up so much I could literally feel the muck and hate in me. It was now a tangible thing that I could see and feel corsing through me. Becasue of it, Iwas becoming self-destructive. Doing things, making decisions and hurting those around me when this muck would spew out.

But in the heat of the mosh pit, pushing and throwing my roommate and unknonwn strangers gave me an opportunity to spew this kind of hate and depression. It was a sweaty orgy of pure movement and aggression all timed to the music and ending for a break to recap the session every three of four minutes. Each time I ran into a stranger I could feel myself becoming calmer, bit by bit for nearly an hour I just ran and twisted and bounced off every person. Each time I came close to the edge of the pit, I was thrust back into the center of the mass only to continue venting this muck I had collected over the months.

It was my court room, my debate round, my place to be angry and have others acknowledge it by throwing and elbow or two into my jaw.

By the end, it was better. Three years of muck expelled. All through the insantiy I had lost my hat, a magazine and an extra t-shirt that I stuck in my back pocket.

But, sitting on the edge of this feast, watching me and collecting the things I happened to lose while I was temporarly going crazy was the same person I had begged to come to this concert. Shannon, someone who has been putting up with me through all this, was standing, watching me. She has been the traget of some of this muck in the past, but still she was there watching and holding my things as I went along. She could only laugh at the fact that I would do such a crazy thing.

Last night was my ending to a semester that did nothing but mosh pit me around and knock me on my ass a few times.

But rather than dwel on the things that I was trying to scream and shout about , I like to think of last night as a reaffirmation of what is comming. The new roommates, friends and people in my life. All of it clearer and more in focus after a simple mosh pit that I was not even suppose to be in.

My past is not something I am going to fear anymore, but I sure as hell am not going to continue to think about in my fatalistic way that I seem to have become so prone to doing.

On Saturday there was someone there to hold my things as I dropped them while going through the motions of being angry at the world and more so myself. I missed that. I will not always have that. I got lucky that night. If nothing else, Saturday's mosh pit not only knocked some sense into me, it gave me a new appreciation and respect for those things and people comming in the future.

If this post taught us nothing, it did tell us once again that all of life's lessons can be learned through a good hard-rock mosh pit.

Sunday, March 20, 2005


On religious girls: "You got to look out for them. Once they get pregnant, they stay pregnant."

Saturday, March 19, 2005

What the Bucknell?!

Well, if you didn't think God was dead, then Friday's game of KU vs. Bucknell should prove it. A pathetic dispaly of athletics and sportsmanship on the side of the fame Jayhawks. While it is expected of our shitty Mizzou Basketball team to go out in the first round NIT, it was a total slap in the face for KU to do so in the NCAA.

We as MU fans might, for some unknown reason, be hung up on this prissy asshole of a coach Quinn Snyder, but Bill Self actually has/had talent as a coach. We expect Quinn to suck. KU atleast had a reason to think they could win this year.

This is really an odd year, thought, for basketball. Roy Williams could very well take the entire tourny (his first after about three atempts in the past). And Illinois could also very well do the same.

It would be very werid to see the former KU coach or the former team of the current KU coach win the national tournament after they were knocked out in round one.


Friday, March 18, 2005

Get me the Fuck out of here

Holy fucking christ.

There is no other way to tell you how happy I am to finally be on Spring Break. It had to have been a conspiracy hatched by some of the most deviant minds that brough four midterms two papers and a head cold on me all at once.

I don't even want to mention the shit the people decided to dump on me dealing with STRIPES and god knows what else that I have not even begun to look at or work on.

It was quite the sight to see thousands of people leaving Columbia in droves. The entire town seemed to cough up every student that was still around and shoot them to the remote locations of Flordia, Panama Beach and other cliche spring break location.

I, on the other hand, will be traveling to Colorad with my family and former high school teachers to enjoy a week of skiing and intelectual enlightenment.This week, is my week. Loaded with a newsly aquired collection of Kurt Vonegut and Jack Karouack novels.

My quest to Be Gonzo is now progressing to the next step. After studying Hunter S Thompson nad his works it is now time to move to those who inspired him. There is no way I could copy the Thompson style. Any atempt, as I have seen already, comes off hookey and foolish.

So, this week will be my attempt to find my own style. It will draw, undoubtedly from Thompson, Karouack, and other along that same line, but it will become my own.

This a week long test run will then, hopefully, be refined this summer at a fun internship somewhere. As it stands right now, I am a finalist with the Cape Cod Times in the Northeast. It would be the perfect place to try for a good style that could define my own writing.

I am probably jsut being pretntious, but it will be fun. So, screw you all. Im goingot have fun and ski and read and not worry a damn bit about school or anything else.

It will be good.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

The Shit Farm

Everyday brings something new and exciting when working at the Missourian.

Today, I was introduced to the term Shoveling Shit by a couple of the editors I am working for. After seeing their expressions when they noticed I was listening, I have s feeling this was something I was not supposed to hear.

Shoveling Shit - (v) sho-vel-ing shit, 1. To edit stories written by half-ass reporters who do not know what is going on. 2. To move shit from location to another with a shovel.

I have a feeling it was more geared for the first definition rather than the second. Still, it gave me a little glimpse into how the editors really view the paper they work for.

For years I, and many others in the School of Journalism, have made fun of the Missourian because it is not, shall we say, the strongest when it comes to writing and news coverage. We heard from Juniors and Senior who had already worked there that the whole process of writing for the Missourian made them gag.

It was painful, I was told.

It only made my anticipation for writing for the Missourian grow even more anxious when I would think about how there were editors who actually enjoyed working for this paper. People who were full-time employees. People who actually committed themselves to this.

Why, I would think, would someone want to do this? The natural conclusion that we, as a people from the outside, came to was that the editors were worthless.

Why not? Could these editors not get a job somewhere else? Where they relegated to working at a worthless newspaper because they, themselves, were worthless?

No, with the revelation of this one term I found that it was not the editors who were worthless; it was still the writers. It is the editors who have to deal with the crap that 200 novice reporters give them on a daily basis.

You try reading 15-inch stories that read like stereo instructions about the latest city council meeting. So, it seems, they have created this term, Shoveling Shit, to give a shed a little light on what it is they have to wade through and form into some kind of news story every day.

It's funny to think about - editors/teachers making fun of their own students because of their poor performance. It gave me a new respect for the people who have to shovel my own shit that I think is God's gift to news.