I wanna start off by saying that I've never blacked-out in my entire life, and that's true up until right now. Never … have I blacked-out. Ever. Ever. Don't throw your intoxication theories at me after I tell you this story.

My pretty young fiancé is outta town for Memorial Day weekend. The kids are spending the weekend with Mommy. I'm home alone.

Big time. I'm so home alone that I cleaned my whole house and it's still so clean you'd think a gay guy moved in, except it's impossible for a gay guy to live at my house because I'm from NW Indiana. People from NW Indiana don't live with gay guys. Seriously.

Here's how it all went down: Catfish had this plan that he'd kidnap me from my house and take me to a drinking party at a local winery. He started calling me at ten in the morning telling me shit like, "I don't know, man. So-And-So is gonna be there with You-Know-Who and if you don't go then I can't go because I ain't gonna go without you …"

And I tell him, "Dude. I don't wanna go scope out wide-load old ladies at a winery all afternoon."

Yes. Drinking was due to begin at noon sharp. I tell Catfish I'm just 50/50 on this idea, and that I'll call him back if I decide to go.

Noon sharp rolls by and nobody's invited me to go scope out wide-load old ladies at the winery. I'm thinking shit is cool. I'm home free. No granny snatch today.

I got time to kill. I walked to the corner store and hooked up with some deep-fried chicken wings. Then I'm playing Second Life (Regionrat Writer). Just chilling, maxing, and relaxing like Will Smith. 

My doorbell rings. It's Catfish and our Intern. I open the door in Old Navy camouflage shorts with bong-ripped bloodshot eye-whites.

"We're kidnapping you," Catfish barges into my house. "Do you have any beer?"

And I say, "Why yes. I do have beer, Catfish. In fact, I have Miller Lite in a bottle.  Great taste less filling, D.O. Double G."

Catfish says that's cool and that I need to get dressed. "We're going to scope out wide-load old ladies at the winery."

Soon enough me and Catfish and our Intern are rolling in Catfish's convertible through the hilly Michigan vineyard roads and we're blasting Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry. I got my N.W.A. t-shirt on. I'm wearing my pimpy sunglasses too.

I was totally dope.

One of the guys from the morning show is at the Winery and him and I drank a shit load of wine and talked about how to always insure that you're able to keep the upper-hand with bitches.

I say, "Dude. It's this simple. The upper hand is decided right away, within the first ten minutes of the first date. Whatever dude you decide to be then, is the exact same dude you'll be stuck being as long as the relationship lasts. It's not that complicated."

Then I tell a story, for example: about how I once went out with a girl in a wheel-chair. Whatever.

So I get pretty drunk. I'm the type of guy that chews up all your bubble-gum. No. Com'n. That's Rasheeda.

I don't usually get drunk. I'll usually fall asleep before the alcohol insanity begins to stain. The problem was drinking in the afternoon. It throws those natural defenses all outta wack. By 6 at night I was hammered. So I do what any level-headed wine drinker would do. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and I escaped through the emergency exit to my fiancé's car.

That's when the trouble started. I got home ok. I chilled out. I drank some Tropicana Punch before bed.

Ok. So. Remember. I don't black out. I seriously don't. But. The next morning

when I woke up … I found some chicken bones on my kitchen counter.

Listen: some crackhead creep broke into my house, ate a piece of chicken, and drank one of my Miller Lite's while I was at the Winery. I was stunned. Right away I started to think of a reasonable explanation.

Don't forget: I'm home alone this weekend. Maybe my little brother Magicmike was out partying and he came to my house and ate some chicken and drank a beer. The only thing was, I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a key. Not that I wouldn't give him one, but he just never comes over to eat chicken and drink beer. It's unlikely.

I find my cell phone and call Magicmike. I say, "Dude. I need to ask you a really weird question."

"Ok," he says. "Lay it on me."

I regain my composure: "Did you come to my house, eat a piece of chicken, and drink a Miller Lite while I was out getting hammered?"

Magicmike laughs, "No. Sounds like some Poltergeist shit to me. Call a priest right away."

Now I'm freaking out because I always thought the ghost in my house was the spirit of some little kid who scribbled her name (Carol) on my garage walls and died way too young in the year 1928. Why would a little kid ghost eat a piece of fried chicken and drink Miller Lite? Believe me: I still got tons of Easter candy here. WTF.

You tell me.

This is a rough draft. Screw all the over-educated typo-hunters. If you're my fiancé, then you're learning of this whole story as we speak. Boo!

See. I'm ashamed. I thought Kurt Vonnegut Jr. was already dead. Seriously. Did he die again? He was a great writer. He did a good job at making everyone else seem absurd. Bukowski does that too. Just so you and I agree from here on out, Kurt Vonnegut Jr. is really dead this time.

I don't know why I'm the last one to hear of this. I think it's because lots of other writers are confused by what I've done. So we don't talk about stuff like this (about writing). I would rather talk to other writers about girls and sports or Kurt Cobain. I want them to feel as confused as possible.

When I die, I hope people are surprised because they thought I was already dead as well. That's how you know you hit the big time.

I got a mass email today. It was addressed to all players, media, and expected guests. The United Way has cancelled their basketball matchup against the celebrities (and one non-celeb <- me). Let's face it: I don't have a show in real life. Most people don't.

I'm bummed the United Way bailed in the face of the God of Life's Challenges. The email said the United Way decided it could raise more money at a Golf Outing, which is funny because of all the snow I see on the ground outside my window.

I replied to all:

"We would've beat their asses."

SEND ....

At first I was thinking, maybe I shouldn't have wrote that. But then, I got a REPLY ALL back. It was from so-and-so, who happens to have a real life Show.

"No shit. That's probably why they pussed out," he wrote.

----------------------

In other news: I had my fiance take the real age quiz at www.realage.com. Her actual age is 24.7. I was pleased to get the results back, which said her real age was 16.4. What guy would complain about that score?

Picture it: I'm jamming away on a very important project that will vault me into the group of D-list Celebrities. To keep me working I'm blasting some Too Short. My cell phone rings. It's an unknown caller from a queer area code. I just drank a can of MONSTER, so I answer.

The following conversation between RICH and an UNKNOWN FEMALE occurs:

RICH: "Yes?"

UNKNOWN FEMALE:  "Is this Richard Laskowski?"

RICH: "Yes."

UNKNOWN FEMALE:  "My name is (inaudible response) and your friend Matthew Morris gave me your number. See, I'm from the Church of Latter Day Saints. Matthew and I just had a very touching conversation, and while we were talking he mentioned you as somebody he cared deeply about, and might appreciate being reached by people who really care about you."

She stops talking and I don't say anything, because if I do I might laugh. She can obviously hear Too Short rapping about how he's comin' straight from Oakland!

MATTHEW MORRIS is one of my best friends from high school. He's got a lotta things impacting his life, but Christ sure as hell isn't one of them. He is one of the funniest guys I know. I haven't heard from him in 6-months and outta nowhere he throws the Jesus people at me.

The UNKNOWN FEMALE is pitching me about how Joseph Smith Jr. was a latter-day prophet, and all I can think about is that her sales technique really sucks. Rule number one is she needs to make it about me, and not about her church. I start to space out a little.

UNKNOWN FEMALE: "Is everything ok?"

RICH (smiling): "Yeah. Go on …"

Then the UNKNOWN FEMALE is talking to me all about the Book of Mormon. And as soon as she pauses and gives me a chance to speak I decide to kill this conversation, because I'm kinda busy with a very important project that will potentially make me a D-List Celebrity. Hollywood is much more important than Church.

I mean, everybody knows that.

UNKNOWN FEMALE: "Maybe I'm just having trouble hearing. Could you please turn your music down?"

RICH: "Oh. I'm sorry. I just bought this CD. Look. I just want to say I appreciate your call, but I'm a devout Catholic. I go to church and everything."

UNKNOWN FEMALE: "Oh. But Matthew said-."

RICH (polite laugh): "Yeah. In fact I was just preparing our church newsletter when you called. It's funny how God always finds a way to reinforce our mission when it counts."

UNKNOWN FEMALE: "That's so true. But before I go, do you have any friends or relatives that may be seeking love from the son of God?"

RICH: "Oh. Absolutely. Hold on and let me pull up my contact list on Outlook Express."

After I gave her some names and phone numbers I thought I'd give her my best Charlie Weis speech.

RICH: "I have to say I'm really touched by your efforts today. Since I walk with Christ as well, I know how hard reaching out to people over the telephone can be. Just keep thinking it's a numbers game. If you reach out to enough people, you'll get a sale every now and then."

UNKNOWN FEMALE: "I'm not really selling-."

RICH: "Even a blind dog finds a bone every now and then right?"

UNKNOWN FEMALE: "Uh. Right. Well, thanks for your time, Richard."

RICH: "No problem."

UNKNOWN FEMALE: "Ok. Bye."

RICH: "Yep. Love your show. You were great today."

UNKNOWN FEMALE: "Oh. Thank you."

RICH: "Later!"

After I hung up I called MATT MORRIS, but his cell phone number was disconnected, which means he must have had his church conversation in person.

Yesterday I shot real guns for the first time ever and I lived to tell about it. I fired a 20-gauge shot-gun and a 9mm Ruger handgun. If you've never shot guns before, you wouldn't believe the power of a bullet, fired so fast it passes through a suspended cardboard target unnoticed.

A big bang. A flashy mini-explosion. A kick. You flinch. You blink. There's a large hole in something. The shell casing pings around fumbled football style on the cement floor.

Smile. Reload.

The popular catch-phrase I hear lately in the big-boy world is: "I love your show. Hey, I love your show. Love your show." I think Catfish started saying it first, and then it spread.

I don't have a show, but I know the ones who do. And now they say it to each other in mutual admiration (apparently) for each other's shows.

Here's what's up: "Love your show" works with anybody, at any time. When I'm getting cashed out at the cornerstore-- "Thanks for the can of Monster. Love your show." I'm on the phone trying to cancel a check with the bank-- "So there's no fee for this? Cool. Love your show." To my girlfriend: "Do you know where my jogging pants are? Thanks, woman. Love your show."

I like to say it to people. People like to hear it. It makes people around you feel cool. And when your people feel cool, you feel cool. Everybody knows that. A considerate "Love your show" every once in a while will get you there.

Now people are getting irritated. Today two different people told me, "Hey Rich. I don't really like your show that much anymore."

They're on to me.

Life as a Region Rat (should be one word) revealed

Elizabeth Wilkinson

Posted: 10/30/06

The title "Regionrat" jumps out at those of us who grew up in Northwest Indiana. We can identify with the term, having lived with it most of our lives. Growing up in the Region gives us a different perspective on life as well as a tough skin.
Author Richard Laskowski is no different. Whether you hate the term or embrace it, reading a book by a fellow regionrat is decidedly familiar. Laskowski, a 1995 graduate of Griffith High School, captures the unique landscape of this area perfectly. He talks of being on the beach, looking over smokestacks. He talks of boredom and the oppressiveness of the Region. It's almost uncomfortably familiar.
The familiar landscape is a great backdrop for a story that many people know all too well. Laskowski hit the party scene hard, doing drugs and drinking away most of his youth. He shoplifta from what is now Westfield Shoppingtown Southlake, but was still known as Southlake Mall in those days. After a fight at a party, Laskowski ended up spending time in Lake County Jail. Sadly, many people in this area have heard the same story over and over.
The story telling in "Regionrat" is honest, straightforward and compelling. However, Laskowski spends nearly two thirds of the book setting up for the main event. Visitors to the "Regionrat" MySpace know that this is the story of "a tragic death that tore apart the lives of a group of NW Indiana friends, and the blame and grief that turned them into lifetime enemies." However, the tragic death does not happen until nearly the end of the book. The blame and grief are not dealt with in depth, because the story only goes as far as the funeral of the person who died.
This is not the story of a tragic death, but of the events that lead to the tragic death and the immediate aftermath. Anyone who has ever lost someone knows that the funeral is just the beginning of grieving. Furthermore the blame is not resolved. This book begs for a sequel.
"Regionrat" is available as a free e-book on myspace.com/regionrat. It's a good thing too. While it's an interesting enough story, the selling point is that it took place in our own back yards. There are typos and other errors in the book itself, but overall it's a worthwhile read.

© Copyright 2006 PUC Chronicle

I've had book reviews up the ass and I don't go posting many of them (if any at all). I would catagorize this one as a pretty good review. Thanks Elizabeth. Big shouts out to you.

There are just a few things I need to talk about.

1) Laskowski (me) wasn't the one in this jail or robbing that mall. It was the main character of my novel Ray Kozlowski who did things at these particular places. For example: I was not in that particular jail, but its juvenile detention center across the road. Ray was in the big boy jail. The malls we raided in real life were typically in Illinois. Ray raided the local malls. So what people need to understand is that it's a fictional story based on a good degree of real experiences I had and translated into this story. I'm not James Frey pretending Regionrat is a straight-up memoir.

2) I graduated from (insert High School) in 1994. The shift in years depicted in my story are meant to be respectful to people I may, or may not, have based characters on. Some characters are even based on people I knew in my early 20's in Seattle. Again, there is the idea that everything in the book is factually based on me and that this is a memoir. Ray graduated from "Granite High School" in 1995. Supposedly. Again. It's a fiction novel.

3) It's true. There are typos and errors in the book. I've never claimed to be a literary nerd. I had a story to tell and told it the best way I could with no formal training. Despite having some pretty tremendous successes with Regionrat, my story has always been rejected by literary nerds all over the country. I'm not the guy who grew up hard and ended up at some Ivy League University with a Master's degree. I'm just a regular guy who wanted to write a book, and when they said I couldn't do it, I did it anyway. So I don't really care about the typos, because there are meant to be flaws in art. Under certain circumstances it's a valid point to bring up, but maybe not so much during a book review that has it's own typo: He shoplifta from what is now Westfield Shoppingtown Southlake ... What? But really. That typo takes nothing away from the content of her review. Just like with my book.

4) Elizabeth touched on structure and build-up and climax. Because I'm not a literary nerd, I'm not bound by writing a book the way THEY tell me to write it. I am a writer of realism. My aim is to capture the feeling of real life. Who from NW Indiana lives a life according to the flow and strict terms of a drug-store novel? I was there. The grief and blame started right away. Right away.

This was a good review though and I appreciate Elizabeth taking the time to read and tell others about Regionrat. Regionrat though, is not meant to be categorized or labeled by those who know the big words. I didn't write my story for critics and English professors. I wrote Regionrat for the ones who still bleed.

Thanks for the good review, Elizabeth. It takes balls to be a good critic and I wish you all the courage in the world as you hit the streets after college.

Peace out, everybody.

This will be brief. This IS NOT a Friends Only blog.

Over a decade ago a friend of mine crashed her car and suffered injuries that killed her instantly. Painfully I was a passenger in this crash. I'm grateful to have had the privilege of not only knowing this special person, but to carry the burden of being the last person to see and hear her alive. I am honored to have known her and grateful to be able to tell her story.

I certainly wasn't her only friend. She had more friends and admirers than I ever even knew of at first. Her death was a shock to our entire community. Grief, sorrow, and reflection were expressed by many of us. As is common in large groups of people, a small percentage of them are short-sighted and narrow-minded. During that time we had no shortage of them. Not being able to deal with this tragic loss, they made the emotional decision to put the unsubstantiated blame for her death onto me. Even though my only association with this event was being in the wrong place at the wrong time; the hurtful rumors, sick stories, and misdirected threats were hitting me in every direction.

I never got ugly with them back, because we were all just kids, and I knew even then that people deal with grief in strange ways. I thought it would go away, but it didn't. The personal attacks ripped life as I knew it away, leaving me no choice but to flee and reflect and rebuild.

Here's what I did: I wrote a book about it, not about the girl who died, but mostly about people who take a bad thing and make it even worse because they don't know how to choose the right words. The basic act of using logic often doesn't happen in situations like this. You can't just fuck with people with the purpose of destroying them and hope that they'll go away quietly.

My message to the ones who put hatemail in my inbox is as follows: At first I was the bad guy because you all suspected I was responsible for something that wasn't true. And when that was made clear, now I'm the asshole who wrote a book about it. What you people don't realize is there'd be no book if you ever had an ounce of compassion and took a few minutes to think before using your words. Hatemail isn't going to bring her back and it's not going to keep me from telling my story. Your group is made up of only a few, while those who feel gifted by hearing my story number in the thousands and thousands. Because of Karma I am successful and because of Karma you still drown in your own false images. If only you could stop thinking about yourselves, we'd all feel a lot better. Victims are not made through popularity contests. Heroes don't become heroes by only helping themselves feel better.

Rich