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.