Reliable ...

... Katie Rice got a new cut.

Her artwork, as always, never needs a touch-up.

In Too Deep?

My uncle asked me what I was doing June 4, and while the date sounded vaguely familiar, I couldn't think of anything.

And then he asked me if he could count me in to participate in the annual canoe race. Suddenly a lot of reasons I couldn't remember why June 4 might be important to have other things to do started coming to mind.

"When do you have to know by?" I asked.

"Tommorow," he said—laughing.

And so an hour or so later, I am now reigstered to be up early on that first Sunday morning of June to paddle a canoe down the Fox River for, oh, two or so hours.

Yeah; this coming from a nephew whose uncle apparently doesn't realize his front paddler smokes a pack a day.

Oh, this will be something. Forget job hunting ... let me begin making funeral arrangements.

Strip Clubs Aren't Much Fun Without Money

And that's not to mention this was a non-smoking place. Oh, and they don't serve drinks either. ("Drink"-type drinks, you know ...)

But it's full nudity, and I guess that's the rules for ya. "That'll do, pig."

And since the ATM felt like totally fucking me rather than the girl—or seven—I would have pretended was doing that to me using its money instead, I was a little salty.

But, hey, all for a good cause—Because thankfully this was going on in the background while some naked woman was dancing on a stage. And we were bidding a good friend a fond farewell.

"No, we're okay ... now please step out of the way."

A good time was had by all, I'm sure—except for the few San Antonio fans in attendance.

Better luck next year. And hopefully our friend is as eager to re-attend upon returning to town in June, when we won't rely on the ATM.

What I've Seen, Where I've Been

My final day as an undergraduate in college concluded Thursday, May 11, 2006. I was the last person to leave the room because I was making up three late papers and three other late assignments.

Anyway, I'd missed too many parties at Columbia by keeping a job on the mornings during the weekends since August.

And, to conclude, I either attended or declared too many of my own "parties" graduation weekend.

(The "Drunk-O-Meter," by the way, rates on a scale of one to 10; with one being stone sober and 10 being, well, "dead"):

THE DAY: THURSDAY, MAY 11

ACT I.

THE LOCATION: The South Loop Club (701 S. State St., Chicago)

THE POISON: Sam Adams? Bass?—It's three beers and out ...

DRUNK-O-METER: 2—Too sober to want to hang around further and need to get to next location since it's going to be 9:30 (p.m.) before I know it ....

THE SITUATION: My final class—and many others'—gather for a round or two and wait for our professor to show up. He eventually does—an hour or so after us—plunks down a couple Jacksons, and says he has to pick his car up. Besides, there's places to be, which is why I'm off to—


ACT II.

THE LOCATION: A co-worker's apartment (Random Blue Line Stop, with a mildly long walk), Chicago

THE POISON: One large can of Pabst Blue Ribbon

DRUNK-O-METER: 3—Feeling slightly fucked-up and enjoying it too.

THE SITUATION: I show up at his place ...

ME: "Do you have pot?"

HIM: "Yes, I do."

ME: "Then we are good."


ACT III.

THE LOCATION: The inbound Blue Line; destination: 33 E. Congess Parkway, Chicago.

THE POISON: One more Pabst Blue Ribbon?—and a newly purchased pint of Seagram's 7.

DRUNK-O-METER: 4—Getting drunk and looking forward to my 33 E. Congres Parkway home.

THE SITUATION: It is a long L ride—one where I polish off more 7 than the companion. We laugh off most of the ride and, ultimately, end up signaling our own cab to the bar where the paper's GM assured us a ride.


ACT IV.

THE LOCATION: The original (?) Billy Goat Tavern (430 N. Michigan Ave.), Chicago

THE POISON: Part scotch, part whiskey—almost entirely Rolling Rock. (Too much "brown" the adivsor had warned me to stay away from.)

DRUNK-O-METER: 7—And everyone else is either:

a) pretty drunk too, but not as drunk

b) just about as drunk

or

c) perhaps even more drunk—and kissing for $10

THE SITUATION: This is my newspaper's end-of-year celebration, and considering the number of graduating seniors, I get rather sentimental. Every person who wrote something for me deserves credit for writing what they did, and every other person—even without writing for me—deserves similar props. If I've already told somebody how much I liked working with them, they tell me to slobber on somebody else.

We laugh, we drink, we reminisce. Life, after all, is good.

Back to pervious Blue Line stop to crash on an editor's couch ...


THE DAY: FRIDAY, MAY 12

ACT I.

THE LOCATION: That co-worker's apartment, Chicago

THE POISON: Well, nothing yet ...

DRUNK-O-METER: 0, for a second.

THE SITUATION: I know the day is off to a bad start when my co-worker gladly pulls what, at the time, seems to—and, ultimately, turns out to be—a gigantic handle of Johnnie Walker Red ... from the freezer—at about 11:00 (a.m.).

I fill an empty water bottle similar to his for Manifest, and the handle is difficult to hold because of how it sticks to your hand. I'm thinking about this funny sensation before my host covers his mouth with amazed laughter.

I filled mine all the way, he notes.

I tell him he will want to exchange later, anyway.


ACT II.

THE LOCATION: Manifest Urban Arts Festival (you know ... kind of where ever students want to roam the South Loop), Chicago

THE POISON: Johnnie Walker Red & Budweiser's answer to "Steel Reserve": something called a "Hurricane."

DRUNK-O-METER: "About a 12," I'm told the following day ...

THE SITUATION: With our paychecks, in fact, not directly deposited that day and, thus, all of us having no money, we seek something to eat. We begin at the tents and find only candy being handed out at the booth for our newspaper.

After returning to our office from Panera, we B.S. until Richard Roeper arrives to awe us with his "How-did-I-become-Gene-Siskel's-replacement" story of celebrity status. He seems appreciative when I say, "Tell Ebert he was wrong about Bring It On."

On to see Buddy Guy perform before staggering to the South Loop Club, back to the office, and end up seeing the Pharcyde kick major ass. I remember them being good ... and then things get a little blurry.

According to Gonzo's recollection of Friday night, I guess this happened.


THE DAY: SATURDAY, MAY 13

ACT I.

THE LOCATION: My bedroom, St. Charles

THE POISON: My own breath

DRUNK-O-METER: 4, and going down however slowly from last night

THE SITUATION: I arrive at work sometime around 8:45 (a.m.). I am late, but always am. Today, however, I am unusually hurting.

I make it through the shift, however. And not once am I told that I reek like the brewery I'm sure it smells like I am.

Upon returning home, I pop in—what else?—Bring It On, and immediately fall asleep.

Tomorrrow, after all, is a big day.


THE DAY: SUNDAY, MAY 14

ACT I.

THE LOCATION: My Grandma's Mother's Day brunch, St. Charles

THE POISON: Decent orange juice and bad coffee

DRUNK-O-METER: As close to 0 as possible

THE SITUATION: Many "So you graduate when?" and "What's your dream job?"-type questions.

That's fine, because reminding relatives that the ceremony is today and, yes, classes just ended, distracts from the fact that I, in fact, have nothing set up for afterwards.

"Happy Mother's Day," I say upon leaving.


ACT II.

THE LOCATION: The UIC Pavilion (525 S. Racine Ave., Chicago)

THE POISON: Camel Lights

DRUNK-O-METER: Still at 0

THE SITUATION: My parents have forgotten their camera and are not willing to walk to the local Walgreen's to buy a disposable one either.

I receive my cap and gown, put them on, and proceed to stand with the some thousand or so other graduating students in the parking garage. We are broken into majors and I end up bumming my mentor a couple of smokes before they file us into the auditorium.

Columbia has gone out of its way to cover all references to UIC with its own banners. The place actually looks pretty swingin'.

The ceremony has its share of speeches and the cliches that go with them, but sitting with the Chronic's staff and joking throughout is better than being assigned to sit in alphabetical order. When we hit the stage, the editor before me drops her card. The names have been getting rifled off and the pause is momentary. I'm smiling too much to even hear my name get announced, shaking hands with the college's president.

When we get off the stage, we run into a series of professors from the department and it's more hugs and handshakes from there.

After heading back to the garage to return my gown, I exchange a few phone numbers while a professor I for three courses scolds me for not having sent out my resume.

"I've been busy," I say.

Everything still seems somewhat surreal. Did I really just graduate? Am I really done with this college thing? Did I hear "Walk This Way" today?

And here I'd been hoping to hear Aerosmith's "Permanent Vacation," or maybe AC/DC's "Jailbreak" immediately after the ceremony. Either would be appropriate.


ACT III.

THE LOCATION: My aunts' home in the South Loop, Chicago

THE POISON: Wine, wine, wine

DRUNK-O-METER: 2

THE SITUATION: After a few pictures, my aunts are busying themselves in the kitchen preparing what will be an outstanding meal. My mother can't stop raving about the artichoke-and-cheese bite appetizers. The cork is popped on a bottle of champagne, and we're off ...

Dinner consists of salad, fried eggplant, and pork tenderloin. One of my aunts asks if we want red or white wine, and I start with white before having a glass of red at the end. As expected, my mother is the one who begins nudging my father to leave almost immediately after the meal's conclusion. My parents head back to St. Charles, but I hug my aunts good-bye and head off to catch the Red Line for—


ACT IV.

THE LOCATION: Celtic Crossings (751 N. Clark St., Chicago)

THE POISON: Mostly Guiness

DRUNK-O-METER: 3.8

THE SITUATION: The man who trained me for my position on the newspaper is having a small, quiet get-together at this bar. For him, graduation must seem even more special than I could have imagined it. At 42, he believes he might have been the oldest graduate there. I ask if I can be the second-oldest, and he says no.

Because I'm horribly shy around a crowd I'm unfamiliar with, I spend most of my time chatting it up with an advisor's girlfriend. Then comes the dreaded question: "So what's your dream job?"

(Long pause, roll of the eyes.)

"I guess my dream job would be writing whatever I want and being able to have it published where ever I want," I say.

Not impressed by utter vagueness, she presses on for a realistic answer. She tells me that at her job (a daily newspaper), she has to basically write 3,000 words a day.

I can do that, I think to myself. Secretly, I'm wondering how a guy who only a handful of times had to write 3,000 words a week for the last publication can make that transition.

I go to the bar to get another round of Guiness and ask the bartender for a shot of Jameson's. He buys it for me, and I tell myself, "I'll come back to this place."

It's been a long day and people begin calling it a night rather early. Some people, after all, have to work tomorrow.

Not me, however. Feeling that the night can not just end here, I call up an editor who had told me he was throwing a party. He informs me he's "fucked up," but, yes, I should come by.

"Now how do I get there?" I ask.

It's the Orange Line this time, to Midway Airport. And I'll need to catch a cab. While waiting for the train, I am suckered by the man who claims he needs money for a train to some suburb to confirm his dead daughter at the hospital. This is a buzzkill. I pay five dollars for it to go away.


ACT V.

THE LOCATION: Editor's apartment (way the hell out by the airport)

THE POISON: Miller Lite and shots of whatever we can find

DRUNK-O-METER: 8

THE SITUATION: I have never been to this particular editor's place, but it's decorated with a lot of Green Day. That's cool by me.

He explains to me that he and his family have been doing shots of Jack Daniels since the ceremony ended this afternoon. We and his friends kill off that bottle, and then end up finding a bottle of vodka. More shots.

ME: "Is this the futon I'll be sleeping on?"

HIM: "Yes it is."

I remember nothing further.


THE DAY: MONDAY, MAY 15

ACT I.

THE LOCATION: That futon

THE POISON: Tap water

DRUNK-O-METER: 0.08

THE SITUATION: There is a note on a nearby table that begins, "Derek: We got wasted!"

As though I'd forgotten.

But the note also says to come party today at MU, which, as it turns out, is Marquette University in Milwaukee. "You wanna go?" he asks me later that morning.

I had intended to start my job search today. Don't waste any time, you know.

"Sure I'll go to Milwaukee," I say.

And so, still wearing the same clothes I had on during Sunday, we are off ...


ACT II.

THE LOCATION: Marqutte University, Milwaukee

THE POISON: Miller High Life Light cans, Miller Lite keg beer

DRUNK-O-METER: 5

THE SITUATION: When we arrive at the editor's old apartment, I notice there is a framed picture of him on the television set. There are also about eight or nine guys who are playing "Edward 40-hands," in which a 40-ounce beer or malt liquor is duct-taped to each of your hands. They are actually writing down the times they start and finish. I tell them I can't compete in the contest, mostly because I know I'll get too drunk, too fast. "I smoke," I tell them, and it passes as acceptable.

After hanging around the apartment and watching the thrilling conclusion of both Edward 40-hands as well as the Cleveland Cavaliers' stunning series-tying win over the Detroit Pistons, it seems the crowd is heading out to hit the town.


ACT III.

THE LOCATION: Union Sports Annex, Milwaukee

THE POISON: Scotch, scotch, beer, more scotch

DRUNK-O-METER: 6.5

THE SITUATION: I tell the two I came up here with that I'd go to the bar. Beer's on special my (now former) co-worker tells me pitchers of domesitc beer are on special and, yes, he will have a scotch, too.

When I ask for two Johnnie Walker Blacks on the rocks, the young girl looks to another bartender and asks as though she forgot a recipe. It turns out they don't carry it. After being informed about the two scotches they do have, Dewar's will have to suffice. Again, she needs to be told how to make these strange drinks. "She's new," another bartender informs me.

But as I turn to the stage, hearing a two-man band perform Bon Jovi's "Living On A Prayer," I notice they've been joined by a third voice—my co-worker. When the song ends and the duo begins to play Bryan Adams' "Summer of '69," he's back on stage again.

Soon enough, we're over to watch some of the partiers drunkenly bowl. I can't help but notice that some guy named Dwayne Wade is really popular in this town.


ACT IV.

THE LOCATION: Back at the apartment

THE POISON: Kegstand time

DRUNK-O-METER: 8.25

THE SITUATION: Pretty much everyone is wildly drunk by this point. It's Senior Week here, I'm told. I take note of four yellow notices lining the wall behind the television. They all say the same thing, except for the dates. The forms are from the landlord, and each one begins, "I noticed a keg on your balcony," before going into the You've got two days to get rid of it, or kiss your deposit good-bye.

I hold my own pretty well when it's my turn for a kegstand. The first one lasts 30-something seconds. Then I sneak into the bathroom and vomit. Feeling better, I do another kegstand that approaches 30-something seconds again before I'm dropped. (Nobody was hurt.)

"We've got to hang out more often," I remember saying, but I guess my last words were something to the effect of, "I'm sleeping right here" before passing out on the floor of one bedroom.


THE DAY: TUESDAY, MAY 16

We return to Chicago, and I'm still in the same clothes I had been wearing on Sunday. I ask my general manager at the newspaper if I can come back later this week to clean out my desk. I would've done it Friday, but, of course, I was too drunk.

Instead, I spend most of my day on the Internet, achieving nothing. I'm in one of those "I'll never drink again"-type feelings, which typically last, oh, about an hour or so. I want to write down everything that's happened in this, well, five-day weekend I created. I'll get around to it. If I can still graduate college after all this time, then I'll finish all this other stuff too.

The Priorities Of Our G.O.P.

I've already told friends that should Al Gore (please ... please!!!) consider another run in 2008, he has my fullest support. However, I certainly wouldn't complain about Russ Feingold ... if I thought he really had a chance. (No southern voters, indeed).

I know Gore blew it in 2000 by losing his home fucking state—as well as Clinton's too—but at the rate Bush—and Iraq—is going, I don't expect any Republican without a teriffically deceptive Karl Rove smear campaign to have any hope ... whatsoever.

So Feingold basically just told the Congress to take their asinine "gay marriage" amendment to our constitution, roll it up, and go fuck themselves with it. Mad props, Russ.

Hell, even Dick Cheney's daughter—an obvious supporter of our current misguided policy—said this is "writing discrimination into the constitution." It's pathetic, I tell you.

And here is exactly why: For all this B.S. about marriage being, you know, "sacred" between a man and a woman—we have done everything possible to undermine that message. Want to get married on a whim—via a drive-thru—in Las Vegas? Fine. On TV without actually meeting the person? Even better.

It's a privelege for those of us who are, you know, "straight."

We've reduced marriage to such a joke, suddenly protecting it as something—ahem, "sacred," couldn't be more ludicrous. Or dishonest. Or disgusting. You get the idea.

The divorce rate, by the way, for American couples is, oh, just about half-and-half at best.

I have relatives who have continued to maintain their homosexual relationships for far, far longer than many of the failed heterosexual unions I have attended to celebrate.

I say this as a person who couldn't give a shit less about marriage in general, but I also say this as a person that hopes that one day we can finally realize who you're sleeping with—regardless of their sexual orienatation—is important to you and only you.

That's love at its most fundamental basis, and no law can determine it because only you know what that is.

I am completely positive our Founding Fathers had the exact same thing in mind when they killed off the people that created this nation.

Don't Look Now ...

... But the Atlanta Braves are only 3 1/2 games behind the New York Mets and back above .500 again.

June is not far away, and neither is another hot streak securing another division title ...

Too bad for local fairweather favorites, the White Sox, who have suddenly found themselves trailing Jim "F*$#ing" Leyland's Detroit Tigers.

Suddenly—and for the forseeable future, life is good.

Stop Your Self-Rightousness ...

... please.

Yes, I think Hollywood exploits certain events for its own financial interests, but judging from the reviews and personal accounts of "United 93," that does not seem to be the case here. This time, it seems, Hollywood actually might have got it right.

And the people who bitch about a movie being made about the plane that didn't end up crashing into anything that day really, really ought to consider how the two-word phrase "Nine-Eleven" has been whored out by just about every politician on both sides of the Mississippi. It's revolting enough to cause nausea among anybody with the slightest amount of common sense.

My long-standing argument has been that some people in this great country of ours believe that our own sensitivity trumps anybody else's sensibility. I'll repeat that until I die.

But nobody else in the world has an ounce of sensitivity for us anymore—nor should they.

We suffered a massive tragedy of unbelievable proportions and we—as a country, as a nation—squandered that political capital by invading a country completely unrelated to the incident.

If 9/11 means anything to the rest of the world anymore, I'd be fucking stunned.

And I sure hope that makes somebody as angry as it makes me.

Know It When You See It ...

... and why this CNN piece made Tom Tomorrow justifiably angry one week ago ... :

"The report, which analyzed data from governments, research institutions and international agencies, found higher newborn death rates among U.S. minorities and disadvantaged groups. For African-Americans, the mortality rate is nearly double that of the United States as a whole, with 9.3 deaths per 1,000 births."

... and if you can actually stomach that, then you should really see what an ass Tony Snow made of himself today.

Really nice guy.

Stirred, Not Shaken

The supposed "shake-up" of the Bush Administration couldn't be less encouraging (or much of a "shake-up") if the president were actually trying.

So the whole Andrew Card thing was rather meaningless and Tony Snow replacing Scott McClellan was a double bonus for Bush: Perform a mercy killing at press secretary by letting McClellan go, and then replace him with a pundit from Fox News. Bingo!

Now, perhaps you remember our friend Michael Hayden. An inspiring record of great service to our nation in the military——and, well, actually still serving in the military.

That wouldn't really be a problem——what with his involvement in the current NSA spying on Americans and that whole P.R. mess——if he weren't just nominated to head the goddamned Central Intelligence Agency.

Yes, a man who takes orders from the infallible Donald Rumsfeld and seems to advocate the executive branch being above the law is supposed to be the right person to lead a civilian agency that Dick Cheney has already done everything to totally undermine for political capital.

I'll take gin ... up ... olives. And please——really shake the shit out of it.

Hmm ...

Random Toothpaste Finding

Yeah, Right

Sonny Bono's widow, Rep. Mary Bono (R-CA), says that—get this—her annual congressional salary of $165,200 won't be enough to pay for her one kid's college education at the University of Southern California. Oh, and they need satellite radio and Bluetooth technology for their two new cars.

Wow, heartbreaking isn't it? Here's some helpful advice: make your spoiled brat who likes to "live life on the wild side" get a fucking job. It worked for the rest of us.

"I'm Not In The Intelligence Business"

Yeah, Rummy. No shit.

To his credit, he takes the questions but just forgets to give an answer. Then the guy they planted in the audience follows up by buttering up Rumsfeld before (I assume) lobbing a softball. So just recently, we had Tyler Drumheller on "60 Minutes," and now Ray McGovern—both of the CIA—both saying the White House was lying. Not "being misled," lying.

And again, those were Rumsfeld's exact words. From the March 30 episode of "This Week with George Stephanopoulos in 2003 (11 days into the war):

GEORGE STEPHANOPOULOS (Off Camera): Finally, weapons of mass destruction, key goal of the military campaign is finding those weapons of mass destruction. None have been found yet. There was a raid on the Ansar al-Islam camp. A lot of people expected to find ricin there. None was found. How big of a problem is that? And is it curious to you that given how much control US and coalition forces now have in the country, they haven't found any weapons of mass destruction?

DONALD RUMSFELD: Not at all. If you think, let me take that both pieces. The area in the south and the west and the north that coalition forces control is, is substantial. It happens not to be the area where weapons of mass destruction were dispersed. We know where they are. They're in the area around Tikrit and Baghdad and east, west, south, and north somewhat. Second, the kernel facilities, there are dozens of them, it is a large geographic area. It is the Ansar al Islam group has killed a lot of Kurds. They're tough, and our forces are currently in there with the Kurdish forces cleaning the area out, tracking them down, killing them or capturing them, and they will then begin the site exploitation. The idea from your question that you can attack that place and exploit it and find out what's there in 15 minutes. I would also add that we saw from the air there were dozens of trucks that went into that facility after the existence of it became public in the press, and they moved things out. They dispersed them and took them away. So there may be nothing left. I don't know that. But it's way too soon to know. The exploitation is just starting.

"Somewhat"? At least he was right about the "eploitation," you know, "just starting."

Now let's ask when it fucking ends.

Please.

The Sad Truth

Josh Marshall really nails the depressing reality about Iraq.

Good Catch

Andrew Sullivan linked to a rather telling photograph of Denny Hastert that got snapped on Thursday.

A Contest

"This, by the way, is the same Washington event where Bush previously charmed many (and horrified others) by pretending to have trouble finding Weapons of Mass Destruction (after we'd started to realize they weren't in Iraq), and wandered the room looking under tables. Really cute, huh? They should send videos of that to the families of soldiers killed."

Excuse me, but does this point not just completely outrage you? That bit of insight comes courtesy of this post from Chris Durang at The Huffington Post in regards to Steven Colbert's appearance at the White House Correspondents Dinner on Saturday.

The contest: I'm seeking the best suggestion for a new title for Mr. Bush, because "President" just isn't cutting it and relatives won't let me use the string of four-letter words I'd prefer to precede this moron's surname with.

Secondly, do I open this contest to Republican friends or will that decision only end up getting me punched in the face again?