Monday, December 25, 2006

Christmas Eve

I stand alone in the middle of my living room.

the multi-colord lights that adorn my small christmass tree and drape the sliding glass door throw a warm hue acorss the room and ofer the only bit of comfort I can find in this house by myself.

Not even my bed is comfortable anymore.

I stand now, among the lights that used to hang in my bed room in Columbia - but that was a past life.

Tonight I have been crying off and on as I try and watch a movie that does not remind me it is Christmas.

At this point I do not care what day it is.

Three burbon and cokes into the night and I do not care that tonight is the point of no return into 2007. Tonight is the night that we signify family, togetherness and all that rot.

fuck it.

Tonight, I am alone and i sit with my Wild Turkey and think about this year.

I think about how i have fucked up and how those around me have only mitigated my actions to make me more bitter...more hard. They have made me this awful human who does not care about dead pets and family members who are sick.

This is me, today.

As I shed the last gut-wrenching throes of this year, I find myself wretching at what I wittnessed this evening. I find myself destroyed emotionaly at what I had to quietly watch and digest without the slighest of understanding.

Not even the the cloest of allies- fuck you Switzerland - would hear of this breaking news event. It would fall on the deaf ears of our leaders and play out before the blind of its constitutiency.

Every year my Dad'side of the family has a party on Christmas Eve to share presetns and tales of the year. Its an odd group that gets together. They all came from the most abject of poverty and now strive to be something more.

But those who remember living in a one-room apartment in Hayes, Kansas, with three children no longer have the mental capacity to share the tales - and so we are left with the family who slaves in the corporate world the erase the past.

Tonight, I came with the same disrespect for this side of the family that I usually have.

I no longer talk to my father. We stopped last May when I turned 22 and he filed papers delcaring me no longer his son.

Tonight was an exercise to show that I could shrug off any emotion and just show up. I came to the white elephant gift exchange with a copy of Sunday's newspaper - singed by me.

It was joke - just like me.

It was something to laught at. "He signed an issue of the paper he is not even in," they were supposed to say. "How quaint, how hilarious"

But at the end of the night I saw my dad clamoring to get that issue of The Kansas City Star. That thing I brought as a novelty of my own laughable exsistance.

He wanted it. He clutched it and did not even remove the bow I had hastily tied to it. He honored it and was touched by the joke I had inscribed acorss the front page.

It was nothing to me, but he wanted it. It was the only gift I gave him this Christmas.

As I drove the dark passages from his home to my own sudenly felt the dark pangs that I probably should have felt back in May.

He missed out on so many things these pasy 7 months. New jobs, new people, new experiences.

I sit here at 2 a.m. missing my dad. but not the man I say diving into the gift bag searching for my signed copy of the paper - I do not know that man.

Oh, but what do you care. We all have our issues with our fathers. I guess I only wish had issues...I really, at this point, have nothing.

Nothing but an old man who cherishes a newspaper that I singed.

I guess that makes me lucky.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

I didn't want to lose this...

These are hysterical ... I have a great weekend story, but I wanted to post this before I forgot...

Who is going to buy me a Wii?

Some ground rules...

- a tip of the hat to the Rock Star that showed the last one to me.


Insane movies and rand-o blog posts are nothing new for the Wednesday Weekly. Sometimes we need a little outside help to keep this thing interesting.

Like bringing in another editor to read a news story at deadline or a third person to have sex with at the same time. A little outside perspective can only help.

The Houston Rocket's post is a little gratuitious. But here is my logic:

(Basketball + Cheerleaders)^Trampolines = Fantastic!

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

The Snow Patrol - yes, it is as dumb as it sounds.

To: Derilicts and Drunkards
From: Ministry of Gonzo - Kansas City Bureau
Re: Snow Editor

There are few events in life that will casue total strangers to crowd around a televison set for hours on end.

Today, the newsroom came to a halt and we observed a moment of internal silence only shortly before being barked into action by our fearless leaders willing to jump head first in to this disaster.

We were agile, nimble and ready to strike back at this vile happenstance that befouled Kansas City this day.

It is snowing. This is our 9/11.

It was the perfect storm that took our city violently and left us walking funny for the rest of the day. Rain - to sleet- to snow and then nothing but 10 degrees the rest of the day.

In its pure brilliance and quick thinking, the higher lords here designed a team known as The Snow Patrol to cover the impending death and destruction that is inherent in a snow story

Not only was their organizatioanl prowess on dispaly, but so was the publisher's ability to lable the gay troupe of reporters, editors and copy deskies after an Irish Punk band that has tried to hard to sound like John Mayer or the next Sister Hazle.

There is only room for one vaugly-homosexual frat band in my CD changer and that spot is taken by U2.

But this was not about good music, this was about the music being played by the reporters who had to talk to people in the rain - which was no one - and report on the car crashes in the area - which was everyone.

Leading The Snow Patrol was one man who was dubbed the The Snow Writer who re-wrote all the graphs and vignettes from the Snow Patrol and sent them to the Snow Editor which then went directly to the Snow Desk. From there it was laid out by the Snow Paginator for our special section on the snow titled, SNOW KILLS 45: Is this our Columbine?

I wish I was making this up.

Be vigilant, be aware, be ready to strike at a moment's notice. With the two terrorist factions, Hydrogen and Oxygen, coming together in an icy rage, we areall doomed.

Doomed to have my story pushed off the front page becasue some 3-year-old whore was doing snow angles in her front yard.

Fear not, comrades, we will get through this. We will prevail.

Do not cut and run!

Monday, November 20, 2006

I broke into the old apartment.

This is where we used to live.

This is where some of the most bizrre people came together in a two year orgy of booze, drugs and stripers with bo staffs, to sing the priases of a god that never existed.

A god that we preached would dsave us if we could ponly finish that entire tray of jello shots before the end of the night.

We screamed of a religion that wanted to warp every mind that crossed the thresh hold of this building and partook in the madness.

We grabed the wrist of every open mind and threw down, cursed it, brutlaized it and raped it until it knew that rose colored glasses are not how you view the world.

But tonight...tonight, We were locked out.

We had come from jsut about every cardinal direction to once again stoke the fires and throw rocks at the windows of convential wisdom.

But in our absence they had borded up the windos and pad locked the front door, chancged the combination and brought in the welcome mat.

Who were we now, but drunks loose on the streets with no where to go?

Looking across the face and hearing the sotires, none of us were doing well in the real world.

We went out in the world expecting our energy and determniation to keep us going, but sitting at that table looking around we had failed. We had come back to nurse our wounds and tell our stories of how life has given up the raw deal.

Only, it was not raw, it had been cooked to perfection and force fed to us. We were suckers to eat up and sell out.

Oly-oly Oxen Free, The Berg was home base and we were hiding out there for the night.

The Temple was Closed for business. All that are left now are the sleeper cells that infest this country from sea to sea.

Lying on my back in the allyway after falling it was pretty clear. Going back again was not an option - unless I wanted to face the new guard that stood at the city limits with their baseball bats waitning, watching.

Fearing the day that we return. But when we do, we simply fall. Slip on a glossy face of a product being sold to that same crowd that forced us out.

We left willingly hoping the new crowd would keep things the way we left them. But they robbed our graves and cut off all communication - half expecting, it seems, that we would dry up and stay home rubbing ointment on our sore musscles.

I gave up a long time ago. THis is about going through the motions until somehting better comes along. Only now those motions will have to consist of me not moving my lower back.

It will consist of me, i suppose, giving into the enivetiable and jsut lying back and take it.

I guess I was asking for it.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

I will bore myself healthy

It is a setence that i have actually said to myself out loud a number of times this week. The whole point was that I was going to somehow write about what this meant to me.

SOmehow derive a point that not only was entertaining but also enlightening. It was going ot make you sit up and take notice.

The one sentence was going ot make you start cheering for me each time i decided to get up off my ass from a job that is slowing sucking my soul and run for an hour or do afew crunches.

Instead, as i say it to myself over and over with each rythmic pounding of my feet on a treadmill i find it to more depressing.

I have gotten to a point in my life where the excess and the party has ended.

I quit drinking two weeks ago. I becasme to much for me.

I was tired of feeling sick and all I was doing was making myself sick every night of the week.

BUt that does not explain my sudden desire to want to run and lift weights like the scrwball meat heads that I see every night at the gym at the same time

10 p.m. lats. 11 p.m. glutes

It is a system that not even the biggest of weight-and-ballance clocks could disrupt.

But this is not about those sorry animals who measure their worth by the amount they bench press. Fuck no, this is my rant about where I am.

I turned whatever this frutration with my co-workers and the people around me (which are few and far between) and have turned into a raw energy that allows me to run 2 miles every night for 10 mins at a time.

Its kind of sad to think that it took this kind desperation to want to work out. Then again, as i said before, I am jsut bored.

I have nothing better to do with my time than to run and pump and do something that does not invovoeld me force feeding myself fried foods or beer.

It something that i have done to keep my mind from wandering about all the self doubt that has kept me from being social or trying to actually meet people.

Fuck, who needs people. I got my 2 miles.

I got time where i can fade into a headset of music and thoughts from the past day.

We got a new person on the desk. Another woman. I don't know why I have become so frightened to talk to people all of a sudden.

I avoided her so i did not have to introduce myself. she sits directly acrosss from me at the City Desk, but i maamnged top pretend to be busy that i did not look up from my computer or notes long enough to even say hi.

I escaped at 7 p.m. and went stright to the gym Maybe to punish myself for being rude....maybe becasue i did not want to sit alone at home eating noodles and tomato sause...maybe becasue i am too cheap to even buy that and decided to jsut skip dinner all together.

Whatever the reason, I run now. no emotion, jsut sweat and sore muscles. You want ot feel pain, bench press your own weight.

I run listening to songs sung by a dead man.

I did not know this man, nor is there any literature on him. Only the stores that were told to me about his life before he took his own.

Its good music.

Not that anyone would know that. He is not famous or known for his music. He is just another man. Another man who got bored and found something to do.

He bored himself talented.

If only i could bore myself a personality again.

Monday, October 16, 2006

You will want to sit down for this.

Are you sitting?

Becasue what I am about to tell you flies in the face of everything that I have learned in my few fragile and woeful years on this rock.

What I am about to say will shatter any exposed reality that bobbs along this sea of lae like a jagged ice berg waitning, hoping, praying or te next ship to silently slide by o take it down into the murky depths of truth.

Oh sweet jesus, merely typing this makes me want to tear my hair out beat myself to death with my shoe.

I joined a gym.

Not jsut some backwater shed with a few tredmills and weights. No, I joined a really swanky place with pulsing loud music and neon bright lithgs shouting things like "LIVE STRONG" and "BE HEALTHY"

The employees wear matching track suits and have clean cut hair with noy piercings. As soon as I walked in - still wearing my dress clothes from work.

I was completly out of place with everyone wearing their wok out accessories and me in khakies and curdory jacket.

I was well dresed for teh financial raping I was about to endure.

At least the she was gentle. She smiled teh entire time she told me it was going to cost 30 bucks a month to join, but for only a little bit more I could get a personal trainer...

"I would do this ifyou really want to get into shape..." she would say smiling clearly not ever having to experience such a thing as strech marks.

I have strechmakrs - the last person who i saw with strech marks like this was a methed out stripper just south of Wichita. I refuse to become that.

I was marked a sucker from the momentt I walked in. So i somehow got signed up for not only a personal trainer, months worth of shakes, nutient bars and vitiamins but also the use of the racquette ball courts.

I don't fucking play recquet ball..i probaly never will.

My goal though - lose 60 lbs.

Was this vain of me. Probalby in some sence. But i hope the 600 buck i droped tonight will motivate me to make some damned use of it.

Otherwise, i am jsut fat, retarded and now broke.

Sunday, October 15, 2006


My new bar, Bogarts - where white trash meets lower-middle class - I have gotten into hte nasty habit of tearing up my coasters.

This was such a problem at the ole stomping grounds, The 'Berg, that the girls fianlly quit bringing me coasters. Yes, they recognized me and knew to stop feeding the beast.

You could always tell when we had a new waitress becasue she would bring everyone in my group a coaster and by the nedo fhte pitcher I would have shredded them like it was my job.

Well, the bartenders at Bogarts caught on really quickly when I started folding my coaster and began to tear it down the middle.

"Shit, if you leave that in a little leaf pile next to your tip, I am going ot run you down with my car," The waitress said as I was trying to live through the 45-7 smoack down my Cheifs were enduring. I was in no mood to mess with this woman. She and I had a slight recognition thing going on after only my second time in the bar.

I think it was becasue we went to high school together. She sort of remembers seeing me, I sort of remember he r being pregnant. It was kind of akward to bring up.

"Sorry. Bad habit."

So from now on she vowed to only bring my napkinds as a coaster.

For some reason, I do not tear up napkins. I will crumple them up and bat them around and eventually throw them away. But void are napkins to my shredding and OCD fate I deem on them.

My new habit, I have noticed at bars here, is to write on naptikns. I will write anyhting and everything. a constant note taking and documenting.

The songs that were playing. The people in my eye-sight. The conversations swirling around me.

But at this end of this week I noticed I hads stuffed a few in my coat pockets.

And so I submit them, off spellings and all, here as my story:

1: Even mad men and fools utter lines that history will remember.

2: Big Head Tod
Stevie Nicks
Janis Joplin
Bob Dylan
Led Zepplin

3: FRiday, October 13 @ The Record Bar. Roman Numberals BE THERE.

4: You expect professionalism from amatures.

5: I want to preserve the dignaty of the people who have to encounter a faceless and ambigious legal system.

6: (A picture of what looks like an aneorixic Garfield) (816) 555-8106 (Editors note: the real one turned out to be a fake)

7: (Doodle of what looked like some star ship) - Bamma

As I read back over some of these it makes my life seem kind of interesting. But really, if you heard the stories that i know behind each of these (in no particualr order) then you will realize that I am still that coaster shredding freak you have known all along.


Thursday, October 12, 2006

My one friend in Independence.

Drunken men find flaws in silence
Their words mostly noises
Ghosts with jsut voices
Your words in my memory
Were like music to me
I'm miles from where you are.

You would kill me if I told you where that came from. So, tonight it will go unattributed, though any smart man with a half sence for internet research and the abilty for music might know.

Fuck, my ability to care about what people think has overtaken every inch of my being, my living here in IndepMo, the real world.

For Morethna four months, I have lived in a cripple state of being knowing that it would take only one night out, a simply foray in the bars and night clubs this subrubs on the outskirks of Kansas City - the wrong side of the tacks from everyhting good - to actually find friends and people who seem interested in the sotries I tell and life i lead.

Instead I became a hermit living my life in at work and at home. My new home has become too drab for me to want to remain here and work has become a palce that I want to be at for only the pay check.

It is the saddedstate of affairs when your job is no longer fun. When it has taken itself to the level of being a job. Maybe i ned to stop being so laid back and easy going. Maybe I need to stir up shit for the sake of stiring up shit.

The first compliment I received for even doing my job came from someon who does not work in my office. In my line of work, as a historian of Journalism and fact, that is kind of sad.

On my home tonight, though, i fianlly conqured whatever self made fears i had about going out and decided to sit at a bar during happy hour. It was the first time i did this by myself since graduating.

I know, all those time i was drunk or madea fool of my self came at the xpence of being at home, alone.

TOnight was different, i was sick of my lot. I was tired of coming home and splitting a bottle of burbon with myself. It was time to adventure out into the real world and see what this shit hole of a town can provide for me.

There is a neighborhood bar, Bogarts, not far from my house, that provided hte perfect stage for this farce. If i got there and decided it was not worth, it would not be far to begin sucking down the burbon stored neatly aboive my fridge.

I do not know why I keep my head down and remain to myself. There was already on guy there with a note pad writing - that role in this little drama was already taken. I had to play the part of intently reading guy. I sat there for nearyl an hour, only talkin to the waitress.

"Thank you,"

"Yes, I'll have another."

The converation was short, and to the point. My reading was what took up most of my time.

Bamma came wandering over from the pool talbes in a drunken kind of wander thato nly depraved men know how to walk to appear sober. He had it down, he knew the route. he had been ehre beofre.

Bamma was from, get this, Alabama. HE was a transplant from the state after a few run ins with the law. He was travling from Alabama -getting aay from fialed marriage and a criminal record - only to land in jaiuo one more time.

This time he was broke and had no car - the police, he said, took it and did not return it.

So he was stuck, homeless for about month in Independence. He fianlly found work as a consturction worker - building homes and commercial buildings. He had a hobby for drawing and though that his artistc talent was his way about of this town and back home to Alabama.

The only probelm was he kept spending his money at the bars on half assed writers like myself.

"I'll tell you, what, you haveto have dreams," he said listing to the right just far enough that his t-shirt revealed a US air force tatoo on his arm. "YOu have ot know what you want or else you have nothing to live for."

The waitresses appologized to me when he got up to leave to go the restroom. He was aregualr and a seriosu drunk at that. Passed out in the bar a number of times. But they were more interested in the fact that I as new and promissed to come back.

As much as they told me that he was harmless and that I should not be scared off by him, i was actually endeared. He was not a smart man - the first thing he said to me aas he asked what I was doing.

I was writing down dates, times, quotes that I was reading about in the paper.

This, of course, led to the inevitable what do you do question. I love it when people are not impressed with what I do. That sounds stuck up, but its true.

"President of the USA," I would like to ring out. "Aw that's nothing you pussy. I lay dry wall for 15 hours a day. Can you do that," is what I would want to hear come back.

I don't think you job should define you and with Bamma. So he bought me a drink. And another, and another. Before I knew it I was drunk and he and I were talkingabout hte meaing of a goal and how to properly form one in life.

The bar was eirrly quiet. Despite, Janis Joplin and Led ZEplin blaring over the juke box, the palce was still somewhereyou could have a good covnersation - something I have ye to find Anywhere in this vile town.

Our conversation went back and forth. His life, my life. Why I stayed, who I thought shold win the world series - the super bowl - the Americas Cup. It did not matter.

I nteh end my bar tab for 7 beers was about 3 dollar. I tipp heavily - about 4 dollars - simply because i have this condition where waitresses who bring me alcohol paly this dual role of enabler and lust object - a deadly combination for any drunk of my stature.

Bamma strolled to the back and out the fire exit somewhere near where i think his home was located. I went home and laughed my self to sleep.

I was not making fun of the man - i am sure his heart is in the right palce, but to knw that Bamma and so many other s are desprate for a conversation - something that has gone dry here in KC - fills me with a kind of joy.

WEll, if you arereading this far into this boring post, then you deserve adrink on me. COnsider this your coupon. one free drink and a retalling of the Mike and Bamma bar adventure...

I think this is a good start out of hte hole i have dug for myself. I depres myself knwoing that htere is nithing beyond what I used to have. The last remanented of gonzo or whatever it has transmorgified into, are gone nad not i must make due with merely smearing the ashes on my face to mask the constant grimace i have.

I need to be happy. This did that. Though it is only the start. I jsut hope I do not find mysefl in some town like Independence - drunk, strung out on drugs with a bloody t-shirt - when the cops pull me over and take my car away.

Then I will wait in the nearest bar for the next punk to come along to feel some gratifiaction that he has not sunk to that levle to find that the images of crashing his car on the freway are not something that are healthy to have.

Gd this wretched post needs to end.

Thursday, September 28, 2006

The names have been changed to protect (SHITHEAD)

I'm sure I will get in trouble for this, but that is why I post it. I got this e-mail from a friend of mine.

Holy shit, dude.
I just got fucking hosed today. It was pure nuts-to-soup how i got dicked over. I know I am new at (MAJOR DAILY NEWSPAPER) - a professional in a big newsroom, but this was something that I don't think I would everdo to someone no matter how long or where I working.
Anyway, I'v been working on this story for a couple of weeks - doing updates keeping in touch with residents in (RANDOM GOD-FEARDING TOWN).
So, today I call (A SOURCE) and ask them how things are going. The guy, who is (ROLE IN STORY), puts me on hold and then comes back and says that he has been told not to talk to me.
"What the fuck?" I said to him. He tell me that he and his business partners are going to talk to (SHITHEAD REPORTER) at (MAJOR DAILY NEWSPAPER) and the they were being told not to talk to me until his story ran.
Yeah! I got frozen out of my own story because some (MORE DERAGATORY NAMES) thinks he is going to bigfoot me on this story. Not to mention we both work at the same (MAJOR DAILY NEWSPAPER). Who the fuck does that to their own collegue? Really?!
Well, long story short, (RANDOM EDITOR) overheard me and decided to do something about it. I told him that being new and all i did not want to rock the boat too hard. So, he said that he would take the casue up himself and that he would not directly implicate me. Apparently other reporters have had trouble with (SHITHEAD REPORTER) in the past. I mean, like fist-fight probelms with this reporter.
Well, man, sounds like life in your neck of the woods is pretty dull. Keep me up to date on life.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Ekey v Ekey

On May 8, 2006 a man entered the Jackson County court house with a briefcase full of important papers.

He was slightly overweight from age, but made the first flight of staris as easily as he had in the past 10 year of being in that court house.

Walking to the judge's chambers on the thrid floor, the man by-passed the elevator already packed with moring rush hour traffic. As he passed front desk the smiling clerk took the paper the man had been carying and asked for the judge's signature at the bottom.

One name was already scribbled across the bottom on the stright, neat line with flare. Now it only needed to blessing of an offical to make the document legal, binding, resolute.

Judge ________'s office was emacluately decorated and clean. Only bad news comes from well organized letters and offices. The good news is always hastilly thrown together with little regard for looks becasue the news itself is the attractive part.

Judge ________ took out his pen from the desk and did not even read over the document in front of him before signing it. He was unfazed. It was not his kid or his father he was seperating. It was just another day.

That day my father asked a judge to remove me, legally, as his son.

On May 9, the man called me to wish me happy birthday. I turned 22 and the man on the phone was just anohter person with well wishes and good regards on this day of celebration.

I have not spoken to him since that day. On Tuesday we will be in the same room for the first time since I graduated from school. On Tuesday we will go before that judge once again but we will not speak to one another.

No, that is for the highly paid porfessioanls. They will talk for us, like some half-wit advocate that pretends to know what is going on around them.

These people in the future courtroom setting are the reason I hate lawyers. Its all an act for $300 an hour.If they really cared about what was going on here today, they would do it for free and help us take out the beats for free.

But this is not their battle, they are just the hired guns.


This was most evil mind-fuck to have suddenly dawn on a man after blowing through $500 of booze and drugs in a signle night.

I was back in CoMo for the football game and to reminise with old friends and peers. It has been on e ofhterare times I have actually been around people my onw age that seem aactually interested in what I am doing in life.

Stories and bloody battles unfoled before us at the heidelberg once again. I enjoyed my time. But at the end of the night I knew I was going home to this foul mess that has been festering in the corner for more than a decade.

I enjoyed the drama of the night in Columbia. It was temporary, it was nacient. It was something that, in the end, makes a great story to tell over your next hiundrend dollar tab.

This story. This is a story about a bitter man who took down his ex-wife and eldest son in his twisted version of events. He didmn't care about anything else. He had started a new life that he could simply photohop his real son into.

One big happy family that, according to the computer, makes all look whole.

No, this story, this mistake has put me in a place that is not sad or angry. It does not irritate me or make me want to strangle the first thing I come to.

The feeling I have when recounting this story in my mind or to those who might become inconvienced by me being gone to deal with it, is simply numb.

I would be happy with being angry. it makes me resolute and want an end. I would be happy with being sad because then I could find the people who make me happy and put it out of my head.

But numb? I jsut don't want to do anything. I jsut sit. I feel nothing but a knot in my stomach that i used to get when I was going to a test for a failing class or realized I missed deadline on a story.

This is nothingness. This will hopefully be over by Tuesday.

But that line is false. Even as I wrote it I was lying. There will never be an end.

I sometimes wonder if I will go to my former-father's funeral.

I don't know.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Move out and moving up...

"I knew going to the Examiner was going to be a temporary gig," I mumbled to a friend after three shots of tequilla and a dozen burbon concotions last night.

Even in my desprate, frantic search for a job, I knew in May that if I took the job with the Examiner I would have to promise myself that I would only be there for one term of the newly elected mayor.

I did not want to be a lifer in a newspaper that has been mocked by its own readers for as long as I can remember. The Examiner exists not so much becasue it has an editorial voice that speaks for EJC, a region mostly ignored by the major daily in KC. It exists becasue it is the only racket in town that covers High School sports well.

There are people there that, in fact, do good work and know that the paper can do some real good in this community, but the forces at the top seem to keep that from happeneing.

Forces that either don't understand their central mission or don't care.

It was a wicked mind-fuck to lay on someone that had just graduated with all the idealistic flare and vitality of regualr gun-ho journalist. In my brief time, I have seen how working there can sapp you dry of will to want to move on or be more than what your two-sided cubicle will allow you to be.

There are those who still hold on the mystic falacy that there is still a light at the end of the tunnel. But hope fades and dreams disapear without the right kind of coaching and nouishment that dried up at this builing long ago.

I had worked at places where you were pushed to do better constantly. You competed and beat eachother knowing full well that they would turn around and try to beat you once again...Here, it was shooting fish in a barrel. It was easy and it should not have been.

I should not have been the lead reporter on issues when there were people who had been there 5 + years and still didn't seem to get it.

I was at the Examiner so briefly that i did not even get a going away lunch - fuck, the interns got a going away lunch. I have not even been invited to give an exit interview for my reasons for quitting.

Maybe they know what I will say in that exit interview and I know I will be right. They know when I say, our best talent at the top is being stifled by one man, they will have to write it down and make it official.

Wwll, i should not speak poorly for this place too much. It did give me my spring into my next big assignement. Which is where much of this guilt, i think, come from. I feel bad for leaving.

The battle for making the paper better had enough people finally. They could have mounted a good attack on those who were holding us back.

Oh well, my battle is moving across the state line.

I think it is good to think of my job as a constant fight with sources, editors, the publisher, myself. It keeps things interesting. It keeps things fresh.

This is not a game of checkers where you simply move your piece across the board and win or lose, this is a never ending game of 3-D chess. You move your pieces up, down, diagonal to get into a good position only to realize you have been beated 10 moves ago.

I feel like I cam prepared to play chess with a buchn of checkers surrounding me.

In the end, I knew I was temporary. a short-timer, in and out. There was nothing that was going to stop me.

There is a trend at the Examiner that I might not mind following. Most of the people who work there now have left and then returned for some reason.

I could see myself leaving and then coming back. Only I would not come back as another reporter. Ill come back when I buy the paper or get hired as the new executive editor.

Shake things up in the workingclass town and make the Examiner the feared paper it used to be in the 70s when the energy and ink flowed like it was going to drown some one.

It was a newspaper then. that's all we ask for today.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

I was standing on the point between drunk and sober. That tipping point where you could be drunk if you focused, but at the same time you could fake your own sobrity to any new beat cop running his flashlight across your head.

The vicisou place where one more drink could be too much, but you know the one in your hand is not enougn.

I was leaning on the pool table that was serving as our make-shift buffet. an odd assortment of bar food and nauseating meatball trays. I was easlily the tallest in the bar as this young woman - another man's wife - was talking to me. Leaning in and taking an angle that, from a distance, could have been bad for both parties.

I had heard about her being both annoying and yet damn good at her job. At this point the alcohol was settling nicely into my cells and whatever she was saying was lost in the wash of voices and bizarre scenes around me.

The director of advertising, a larger woman with no problem wielding the excess cleavage that spilled from her top, was grinding against several otehr women on the stage. The savages were literly licking, touching and provoking others to be as demented as them as they pulled on eachtoer's hair and clothes to become even more depravved.

My boss, a 30 something sports guy who was as passive aggressive as they come, was sitting at the bar with two women - i suppose you could call them that - under his arms as he too swayed and felt the music that was pulsating - not so much in rythm, but more like a waves on the beach. There is something steady about it, but every now and again one wipes you out and makes you relaize the sea is unpredictable - much like what I was witnessing from my perch at 6'4" in this bar.

I had set this woman, who works for a more respectable institution than myself, on a topic that I knew she would continue talking with little input from me. This was not becasue I felt superior, I wanted to talk to her and make some kind of impression, but I did not feel like talking about myself or what I do or something that required me to add anyhting of worth to the conversation.

"yeah, I agree..." "Are you kidding me?" "Wow, I can't beleive they did that." Was all I could muster at times.

Better to let someone else to do the talking in a situation where me opening my mouth could get me in trouble. I was in the mood for simply sitting and nodding, agreeing to whatever becasue I could barley hear her voice over the roar of hte bar.

I had never seen adult bahve this way. There was all the making of some drunken frat party. The alcohol had been so thick that the man we all where there to honor had left - passed out in the parking lot.

He had a good time.

It was closing time and those who did not have someone to go home with were qucikly snatching up their last drink from anyone who could still order for them.

"My friend thinks you're cute," I was told.

"Really? Is this the same friend who was making out with my boss earlier in the night."

She didn't get the joke. So, she moved on to the next guy down the bar who did not already have someone under his arm.

I walk out of the bar and leave alone. I don't feel alone, but there is something about coming home by yourself in this state of mind.

Well, here is to better things.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Feel the energy

Sitting in the grass of hte Fort Osage football field, I was disapointed at my newspaper.

I had gone to this all-night marathon walk becasue the paper I work for now was a major sponsor. They were advertising nad had signs and information about us all over the palce - but no one from the paper was actually there.

I was there covering the event, people kept asking if I was the only one there to reprsent the only major daily in Easter Jackson County - KC Star is too self-invovled in KC to care about the suburbs.

It was not until roughly 8 p.m. that our another reporter even showed up.

I know we don't do a lot of things right, but it was just sad to think that we could not muster enough people to sit at a fundraiser for cancer research.

I had always believed that hte strength of a newspaper relied on its own community invovlment - its abilty to be a leader and a force - but it was obvious that this was not happenending here tonight.

I was a strong proponetn that to do well in any situation, I needed a good base of energy. A place, person of casue to draw my own abilty to function.

In Columbia, I had my friends, my attorney, my editor, the Maneater, STRIPES, etc. I was afraid that I would not have that anymore - that hte energy had dried up after the death of HST or the day we all graduated from the last chapter.

Despite all of that, as I was sitting midfield watching cancer survivors, their family, friends and supports circle the track, I knew that whatever I wanted accomplish at this paper was going to have to be self derived.

There was no attorney goading me on anymore, no insane boss. Now I was sitIting next to a reporter who is quitting in two weeks and another who does not seem to enjoy his own job.

It's an odd dynamic I find myself in right now. I feel a good energy waitning ot be tapped, but it has nothing to do with the people around me.

I can only imaigne what will happen when I moveo ut of the old compound and into my own bureau of gonzo.

Friday, June 02, 2006

The biggest small town you have ever seen.

Sure Reno might have a lock on that quaint little catch phrase, but it sure as hell belongs right here in Independence.

Only in this town can you be related to two city council memebers, have your grandparents be life-long best firends with the mayor, realize the director of the health department live across the street from you and be recognized by name at jsut about every city event - maybe that is just me

This is not about popularity or the fact that I have a mother who is active in the board of education or that my brothers are bizarlly well-known atheletes in town, but it is still baffling that in a town of 115,000, I can be recogized in some form as I cover an event for the newspaper here.

I know, a lot has happened in the past three months. I appologize for not posting, but there was a lot of things going on - including graduation, girlfriend, and getting a job.

Things looked a little bleak there for a while - well mostly in my mind. I thought maybe I might be stuck in Columbia, serving drinks or woking at Eastgate along side my attorney.

But that was three months ago. Today is very different.

I'm now bringing my own stlye of Gonzo journalim - shamelessly stolen from the good Doktor - to the dry and broing lives of the Independence City Hall employees - most of which are either related to me or have watched my brothers play sports.

It's only been one week and I already know this is going tobe good. Massive developments, a new mayor, crime and death in the west side - iut has all the makings of a straight-to-video movie.

Some of the other reporters and editors did joke today at lunch what it would be like if the Examiner newsroom had a sitcom based on the people who work there.

It would be something like Survivor meets Mary Tyler Moore...itg makes sence in my head and that is all that matters.

Well, kids, I can tell I have become a little rusty, very boring and more of a freaking weirdo in the time that I have not posted here. But there are no more death threats to jackass cowboys or self-depricating commetns of death or some rot like that.

That, I hope, is done, I am busy now and away from some of the bad vibes that permeated the air in Columbia.

One of hte sports editors who went to MU said it best, "Now that I am out, I am glad I only have to visit."

Insanity is still a big part of my own advnetures, its jsut going to be a different kind of insanty - an adult and more wicked kind of insanity.

This is going to be good.

Then again, you could probably have figured that out so far.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Holy Biblical Crusades, Batman!

My partner in crime from the ole' Cape Cod days pointed this little gem out to me. I guess i now know how the White HOuse felt when was actrualyl a porn site...

I take that back, I know what the porn site felt like when it discoverd that was actually a legitimate government site...

either way, THE Wednesday Weekly is treading a little too close to my territory. Its time we fight a war for freedom, freedom of idiocy...I mean, freedom for iditos.

But you know you prefer the original

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Going Gangbusters.

Folks, I am giving up.

I have found that at this little bit of correspondence you and I shared over the past few years became more and more bleak, I could never really pin-point why.

It was this horrible event - these last few years - to get up and post something on this column or write about my days simply becasue i was being pulledby some evil force to think only the nasty and hateful things that were happening to me.

As my own mother was recapping how her hiatus to Las Vegas was this past week, she subtly sliped into the conversation how a pile of rejection letters from prospective jobs and internships had been pilling up over the past few weeks.

All of the last places I had bee nsweating over and worrying about. The fianl few newspapers that thought I might somehow make a difference, but in the end thought the better of it.

It was not like they were major papers either. They were out of the way places in far flung corners of the country. Fuck it, i suppose, they don't want me.

So, kids, I'm getting out. This is it. The fianl boarding call and the last call.

Now, now, dry those tears, young lad. This is not the time for a funeral for my journalism career. I have been told I am a wonderful PR hack and the university is looking to bolster its ranks a few at a time.

Or, who knows, working vicariously through college students to fulfill or discover what I missed in my four years might not be so bad. it took my attorney five years to fianlly figure out what he wanted.

I knew we had passed the point of no return Today when my own family started sending me things about how to get into grad school. Look at me, ma, MBA and all.

There is a sence of freedom in knowing what you dont want to do or can't do. Its one less avenue I will have to weirly walk down everytime I want to look beyond my own horizon.

It's the boulevard of broken dreams, so condem the whole structure and jsut get the hell out of the way of the blasting caps.

This is the end.

Not so much in a sence of goodbye forever, more like moving away to another town. We will still write and be friends - we jsut won't see eachother or spend time together anymore.

There are far to many thingsa out there that have yet to be discovered and i kept the damn blinders on all of my academic career.

Friday and the rest of the weekend took me by complete surprise. Maybe its time we get back to living like we used to in the past - Adventure was the key, not alcohol. Maybe I need to just quit being such a damn loser and ask this girl out again.

Either way, I have a few projects now. None of them include the damn Missourian and not one of them include a summer plan. I'm beinging to find comfort in this.

The lack of plan will be my last refuge.

Vegas will be my Alamo.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Random Thoughts from Hell

Here I am again - sitting in a chair that yields a great view of the chaos that is about to become another great sports section. Here I am again - with my chin slung into my hand as I prop my head forward, bored, waiting for something to happen.

I have gone beyond hating this job to a general euphoria of knowing it will not end until I graduate from this place. Every Tuesday night from 4 p.m. until 1 a.m. I have to sit here and act like I enjoy being talked down too by an squad of jacka asses who get their jollies from split infinitives and gerunds that dont match the base or some rot like that.

Every Thuesday I have to sit here and act professional while I blog on company time pretending to do my journalistic duty to the human race. I know how the copy chief laughs at me becasue I can't do this. I also know how they all hid behind cupped hand talking about how someone will need to cover for my mistakes.

Well, I am so glad the teaching process continues here. The Missouri Method my ass, I want out of here.

It's not all piss and vinegar - at least I am told I am the only one who can write a coherent headline. Seems editing and headline writing is not found in the same vein. Go figure.


I have yet to understand why women wear decorative scarves. It makes no sence to me. They are wearing short sleeved shits and tiny cardigan sweaters and yet this silk scarf still hang from teir necks.

It is the new necklace.

I think my dislike for them come from the same irratioanl fear I have of turtle necks. Have you ever seen me in a turtle neck...nope...and for good reason. The crappy Pucca Shell Necklaces that all the kids loved in jur high and high school fell into this same catagory.

Nothing around my neck, please. It only makes the bears angry, and frankly, you don't want an anrgy bear to ruin you picnic - no do you?


Great line from the Kansas City Star on Sunday in regard to MU losing 79-46 against KU. All after the resignation/firing/public hanging or Quin Snyder:

Even Kirk Hinrich, a former KU star from 2000 to 2003...was shaking his head.

"To be honest with you," he said, "it's hard to believe. I don't now why everything happene, if Quin Snyder resigned or was forced outor whatever. But I had respect for him. He did a good job there when I was here. But when you've got a team that goes through what Missouri has gone through, you never really know what going to happen."

Ultimately, it was that bad for Missouri; sympathy from a Jayhawk.


So, I have been offered a job. It has nothing to do with why I am at this university, nor is it even close to why I came to the school of journalism.

No, I am being offered an administrators position with the Department of Student Life. Essentially, after my stint as director of one student organization. they now think I need to take on seveal studetn organizations.

THe program seems fairly simple enough. Come back and work as a "Graduate Assistant" for two years while they send me to graduate school for two years to get an MBA or degree in education. After getting that out of the way, they will hire me on as a full-time Assistant Director of Student Life.

I would be the one running your Summer Welcome and Get-to-know-you Freshman Events. I would be the one who trains and maintains the student government leaders. I would be the one coaching these bastards through every budget hurdle and legislativve loop hole.

I would be the anti-Me from Freshman year who wanted to bring down the MSA presidency through reporting on its election. It was a farce then and will always be a face. Nothing but a joke to those on the outside who see it for what it really is - a club for the prettentious and socially depraved.

Do I want to be the next Mark Lucas? or Kathy Scroggs. I guess everyone gets desprate enough at some point in their lives.


I have yet to hear back from anyone on the real job front. Anyone out there looking for a depressed bitter writer?

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Happy (fucking) Valentines day...

"Why do you eat and drink so much?"
"Well, at least I can feel full rather than nothing at all."
- Bobby Hill to Bill on King of the Hill.

Wonderful, it is another great holiday that we all can gather around and sing the hymns of love and pure kindness and other rot like that.

Valentines Day - where we wait for Love to come bounding down the chimney to fill our stockings with various STD and other disapointments. Well, kiddies, just like Santa Clause, Love does not exist. it was a fucking lie perpetuated by your parents as they fell deeper and deeper into an abusive relationship with eachother.

this nugget of information was not imparted to me by my professors or some role model - no, it was shouted at me by some asshole in a moving vehicle. It actually sounded more like Suck my Balls, but the meaning was the same.

Of course, as people all over the country embrace and show how much they love eachother despite how much weight they have yet to lose post-new years resolution, I sure as hell was not about to let anyone be happy around me today.

Sitting in my quasi-office one young girl came bounding in and announced that after her studying and class work, her current boyfirend of the week was going to take her to dinner at some fancy place and then spend the evening with her watching some movie about how we all were simpler in high school or about how life can be summed up by one hopless comedy of idiots who do not know shit about the world.

I was not going ot have this. So I found something I did not like about her and proceded to yell at her for about 15 minutes.

"I was having such a good day until now," she said on the verge of tears.

"Not my problem. Fuck you."

Fuck, it was even more depressing today as I was sitting in my attoreny's office and we both mused about this jovial day of mirth and frivolity.

"You know, it is kind of sad that the only phone call I am expcting to wish me a happy valentines day is from my Mom," my attorney thought outloud burying his head into the newspaper and trailing off.

The sad part was so far that day my mom had already called me. That was the only phone call I expcted too. Oh, but don't pitty me or think I am some kind of abnormality.

I sit pretty comfortably at the news desk of the Missourian. The only thing I envy right now is the team of sports reporters who are violently writing and reporting the latest cluster-fuck by this athletic department. Shit, when will this god-awful storm end. They get to write the stories, I jsut sit here and read them like everyother braindead idiot who picks up this garbage we call The Missourian.

You know, I have had fun valentines days in the past (grade school parties and crap in high school does not count). No, last year was amazing. There was no expectation or planning. It was just me drunk in a tree shouting nonsence to the people below. Next to me is the one woman who seemed to understand it all and continued to reach into my coat pockets for her next beer. But she is gone now.

Never again.

Dan Savage was talking in his column that Valentines day really is nothing more than a corporate holiday. Well, that is nothing new, but I did appreciate his counter-holiday to this vile event

Steak and Blow Job day.

On this day women across the country will serve up a fine steak and one blow job to each guy. Instead of chocolates and flowers - T-bone and a face fuck.

Frankly, he said, the only reason it has not made it natioanl, is becasue Halmark has yet to figure out how to fit it all on a card. This is the kind of man who needs to be a woman - that I can date.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Wake up! My news is more important.

I love phone calls in the middle of the night.

You might think this is weird or that I am being scarcastic, but I really do enjoy getting phone calls (both sober and drunk) after 1 a.m.

There is something about the way the person who is calling cannot wait until morning that makes its urgeny 100 percent more urget. The headline, if one could be written for a late night phone call would be in the 200 pt. type that screams something like "WAR!" or "VICTORY"

Of course the really good phone calls are always middle of the week, right at 2 a.m. or later. These are the real people who live lives that do not conform to the 9 to 5, drink your lunch crowd. No, these are the people who live life at all hours.

These are not some run-of-the-mill How's-your-mother chat. Fuck no, this is a Get the hell out of bed and listen to my story, thought, concern, query or drunk adventure from the night.

No sir, my friends do not waste time or wait until morning with news so great as, "I jsut out drank my light weight frind at a gay bar and now we are going swimming!"

That, sirs, is something you stop the mother-f-ing presses and you call Me in the middle of the night. We run the correct story, no matter how late police find some investment bankers shot up in their car in Williamsburg.

I have tried calling people in the middle of the night with such news only to be reminded that it is 3:14 a.m. by someone who is grumpy or horse-voiced. Or, worse yet, routed to voice mail. By god what has happened to my firends who were so willing to take my middle of the night phone calls and now seem to be pre-occupied with "sleep"?

I have not had a good nights sleep (that was not induced by alcohol) since my freshman year of high school - why are you people?

Well, we are fast approaching the 2 a.m. hour. I think it is time I give one of you bastards a wake up call to inform you that I have jsut updated this vile blog.

Friday, February 03, 2006

Monday, January 30, 2006

Another Monday night...

It is far to frustrating to actually write coherently these days. Mostly, it all sounds like I am verging on some kind of sucidal rage or maybe jsut ready to end it all for a band of fucks who dont know that we are quickly approcahing the edge - but that is not the case. Who really knows where the edge is, anyway?

No, I am jsut another drunk in this world and we are humping through it like everyone else.

I think my problem tonight was the fact that my favorite movie was on - Leaving Las Vegas.

Not so much becasue i think that Nicholas Cage is some wonderful method actor who does great justice to a character who drinks himself to death. No, I like it becasue it is akward and the dialog between the drunk and hooker goes from lovey dovey and happy relationshop talk, to crude comments about blow jobs and how random guys will shove her face down into a pillow while she is wearing the jewlery that Cage bought her.

All of it is very raw and in the end (stop reading if you have not seen the movie) he dies with her on top of him.

That, my sorry sack of lack luster readers, is what this world is missing. People willing to endure akward conversations, situations and crisis all in the name of being used so as not to feel so wickely alone every waking moment of your life.

Who better to pick than a drunk and a hooker - they dont have feelings, they dont matter in society. Kill one and there is anoter making his way through the ranks ready to take his stand on the battle field.

No, this is a good cinema. My roommate already mocked me as he came home and found me watching the tail end of the hour and a half drama.

"My god, you really are depressing hte shit out of me here..." he said - stoping only brifley to take in the last words of the movie.

This makes mroe sence if you understand the events that unfolded the weekend before. Broken computers, books and dreams, as a few of us got together to drink and instead found ourselves realizing the the stack of rejection letters from shit-hole news organizations are really jsut formalized forms of being turned down by the hooker at the end of hte bar.

"...It was a bad disease, but her searching was over..."

She smells nice, we buy her drinks and even compliment her shoes or ear rings or what ever the hell hookers wear, and in the end - after 50 buck of watered down liquor - we get a form letter in the mail promissing that if we keep trying someday, maybe some day, we will get lucky and someone will want to take us home for the night.

Fuck that, I'm sick of it.

I'll jsut tell my landlord that I staying and not going anywhere. God, no. Even that is too depraved for me.

There is one job prospect on the horizon. All that is left now is for me to fuck it up in the interview. I did a bang up job with the orlando job and now, I am prepared to torpedo my next job prospect.

Oh, but these are far to heavy of topics to really care anymore.

There really is only so much you want to endure while reading, and god knows I am not doing a serive to any of you prick-fucks who acutally log on to this crap.

That is your fault. Not mine.


I think I am prepared to annoucne that one of our roommates has fianlly caught on to what it means to live here.

After meaningless destruction of our apartment and some late night diner food, our newest recruit let lose.

"A someking section makes not sence," the waitress said about hte recent smoking ban. "its like having a peeing section in acommunity swimming pool."

"Ah," he said contemplativly looking toward the celing. "Sol, it is convenient just innapropriate."

Also, in a bizaree game of truth or dare...

"Ok, cut the crap. Are you a lesbian? I just have to know."

This he said to our roommate after we tossed papaers and poured beer all over her and the apaprtment. Really no rhyme or reason, jsut a good old fasion grilling...McCarthy would be proud.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Columbia 301, respond...

To: The Department of Weird Activities and Odd Happenings.
From: Agent 2101

Columbia, Mo - Jan 15 & 16 between the hours of 11 p.m. and 2 a.m.

Begin Narrative: Much like any other night here in the Temple my attorny and I found ourselves drinking much more than we had anticipated. Originally, I had planned to have only one drink while he ate dinner at the kitchen table and we mocked the unholy rodents that have returned to our home.

But, much like the rest of my life, one drink is never enough. We managed to coax our third roommate from his room and told him he also needed to drink with us to celebrate god knows what.

Three bottles of champaign and half a bottle of vodka later, we all were to a point where we were conduting some of hte higest of intelectual debate: who was the better James Bone (see a few posts back for my arguments), who was the better Batman, does the movie make the character better or does the character make the movie better?

These were the pressing issues that we faced and we battled them out and then settled our differences like men - by daring eachother to piss off the balcony or into a trashcan set up in the middle of the living room.

We opted to toss poker chips into the trash can.

Still, with that much vile liquor corsing through your body, you do not end the night so early - as I had planned to do originallu so both my attorney and I could get up early and prepare for another stellar semester of academic success.

Instead It was time to play with my new toy, the police scanner, and see what this horrid little town was up too on a Sunday night in the wee hours of the morning.

"Columbia 331, report of 51-year-old woman with shortness of breath requesting assistance..."

"Columbia 344, we have a report of a woman stranded at the intersection of Stadium and Broadway going north. Can you respond."

The simple banter and cold words between the county joint communications and the street police was enough entertainment that we would have been content. But that is not how we roll here.

"Columbia 301, report of a noise compliant at 1614 Anthony with possible minors drinking on the premiss, can you respond?"

A shock ran through all four of us sitting in the living fixed on the scanner as we realized that our building had just been identified. My attoenry and I were, in fact, sitting with two minors - drinking.

"Oh crap, we are so screwed..." some one yelled.

My first thought was to grab the scanner and run outside scanning hte streets and the skies. I could see it, helicopters droping comando units onto the roof, swat vans storming the parking lot with cops in riot gear preparing to storm our humble home. Snipers taking aim at our heads rom the roof of the building across the way.

We all had now gathered outside on the front deck looking up and down the building hoping there was a wild party of some sort going on that might have actually gotten the cops attention, but everything was dark and no one was out on the deck at all.

Listening intensly to the scanner outside, we waited. Armed with my attorney we were going to head off the pig bastard and launch a preemptive strike. They thought they could get hte jump on us, but I had the upperhand.

Our own short attention span took us back inside where we continued to laugh and go nuts about the night's turn of events.

"Maybe the cops don't always respond when stuff like that gets called in," one of hte roommates said.

"301 to Columbia, I am outside 1614 Anthony and noone is answering the door, anyway we could contact a landlord or get the exact apartment number?"

"Oh shit, they are right outside."

The cop shines a flashlight into the front windows of our apartment. At this point we had already turned off all the lights and had prepared for an all out assault.

"Take no prisoners! We will not go quietly!"

The cop did not come to our door. My attorney was prepared to play a much more diplomatic role and slowly went out to the front, with my close behind. He was going to take the first bullet - not me, fuck no.

The police officer shines us with the masssive mag light he and begins his verbal assaul.

"What are you guys doing?" he asks.

"Just hanging out. Not really doing anything."

You can hear the scanner in the background as it is stereoed from the cops own radio.

"You know who lives up in that apartment," he says pointing to the corner on the opposite side of the building.

"Um, well, some dudes,"


"We don't know their names..." my attorney then trailed off.

"Ok, well get inside and be quiet," the cop says with no inclination of remose for his crap attitude to fine tax payers like ourselves.

The cop was some young punk who did not sign on to the Columbia Police department to bust up sunday night parties. He was pissed, but was not going to do anything. And didn't as we later heard on the scanner

"301 to Columbia, possible liquor law violations, but no report."

We dodged a bullet. Maybe this thing will provide us with some valuable insight when we once again throw some of the ragers we have been known for in the past. Now with this scanner, we can monitor when the hammer is about to come down and abandon out persuits in the Temple and let the young, idiots who remin behind get squished by the man.

This was a great Christmas Gift and it will have some great uses.

Agent 2101, 10-14 and out.


Wednesday, January 04, 2006

The next great American novel.

It was savage burn on what could be considered their own home turf. Thousands turned out to see Texas battle it out with USC.

While I have always considered College Basketball the sport to watch, there was no denying the enomity of the 10 yard run by VInce Young that put his Longhorns over the top of the Trojans to take home the the most ugly and revered trophy in college football.

It was a game accented by twisted runs and hits that literally made players' helmet jar off their heads. How oelse could you reaaly describe the pure hell-bent Texas Team's desire to whip USC.

It was a bit of respite from the foul head trip that God laid on the otherside ofthe country where 12 miners were killed for doing htier jobs in a small backwater town on West Virgina.

It was only after news outlets and stray onlookers began shouting praise to this foul god that the miners had beene rescued were we told my the President of hte company that it was all a lie.

Only one had survived.

When the broadcast news began saying all were alive and flashed joyus photos of family memebers hugging and relieved that their loved ones were still were clinging to life i thought it was odd that no one was asking mine officials or anyone who was actully with the rescue team what was going on.

No one, aside from beligured family memebers, was saying for sure who was alive and who was dead. It is a real mind fuck at 3 in the morning to watch the whole situation pan out. It's enough to make even crulest of minds wonder who was behind this kind of pure evil - leading on a family in a time where their husband, son, father was trapped beneath 2 miles of rock and earth. No this was ana act of something more menacing that what some dying governor or CEO looking for profits could do alone - it was an act of desperation.

But this is not what we were going to talk about tonight; I needed an out. I was up allnight watching, reading the news and trying not ot curse at Anderson Cooper - you fucking hack.

I was tired of watching the news.

"What sorority girls don't do: watch television news - it is too depressing and boring to ever bring up in conversation. Read a newspaper - same reason...Do extra-credit project. Do the Laundry - it goes to the cleaners."
- Rush: A girl's guide to soroity success.

So I escaped to the book store. I needed something to do aside from sitting around my house alone with nothing to do. After the surgery the days started to drag on. With no job - or any job to plan for (Thanks, MSA, for that one) - I had nothing to do except for read.

In my time at home - just a little more than three weeks - I have read: The DaVinci Code and David McCollugh's 1776 (at the insistance of my HS english teacher), In Cold Blood, Feet to the Fire (a book about journalists who covered 9-11 and how they wished they had done better afterward) and now have moved on to Pledged: The Secret Life of Sororities.

I'll let that last book sink in for a second.

The whole premiss of the book is not new - a journalist (female) poses as a sorority girl for a year and then writes a book about it.

It is actually really interesting - it is nothing really new that I have not already picked up from the mind-fuck that is induced on hundreds of girls at my college, but it is interesting that she picks out four girls to really follow all year.

Two of them are people she admits in the beginning of the book seem like they would never join a sorority - she also admits that she thought following htese girls would make for a little more damning of a book. I think this is what got me into the book in the first place; the pure honesty that the author brings to the introduction of the book itself.

She admits, for example, that she knew nothing of greeks or how they worked. She originally was doing a story on the TExas greek system and found it facinating how much of an emphasis there was and wanted to expand it to a whole social study on the subject. The amount of sociological background and support she puts in here also makes me think she was trying for a kind of research book, more than a story book.

Sure, there are bitches and stereotypical sorority girls weaved through the entire book, but the book it actually quite interesting about how greeks from the natioanl office to the lowest pledge use this twisted form of mental manupliation to seperate out the "weak from the strong." The idea that they groom leaders, but at the same time demoralize girls to train them to be followers. Rampet promotion of sex and sexual acts given and traded between frats and sororities, but the idea of being a slut or labled a slut is still applicable.

It does make a few references to my own college and its greek institution and a whole host of others in the area. I kind of want to make the limited number of greek students i know read this book. Get a better handle on how they might swallow it.

Well, we have strayed far off topic again. Anyway, this resurgence in my reading has made me once again want to write my own book. I am not sure what itiwll be about by my mom, of all people, thinks i should make it about my junior year of college.

The whole idea of living in a place we calledthe Temple of Gonzo and the crashing of a funeral simply becasue we could.

However, she said that while I should write this book in the next few months, I should not show it to anyone unless I trusted them. Instead, I should put it away for about 10 years. Then in the year 2016 - when I am riding around in my hover-car - I will bring it out, re-write it and hopefully, she said, be able to add a little wisdom inbetween the tales of late night binges and drug addled study sessions.

Make it something like Stand By Me, but the standing might be a little harder with as much alcohol invovled. I could see it being a cross between Stand by me and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - with a little dash of Breakfast of Champions mixed in.

Techinally, I wrote the ending to a book I wanted to write last summer. My idea was to look at how things ended and make it a book of, in weird sence, how things ended and how those endings really make up one big narrative about how I had lived.

Lame, I know. This is why i never finished it - my endings always suck.

Like this one.