CHAMPS CHICAGO: A Windy City Win!
By CHAMPS Magazine Staff
Chicago, a city that embodies style and an old-school vibe, really outdid itself as the host of the latest CHAMPS Trade Show. This year's event was a total whirlwind, buzzing with an energy you could practically feel on the show floor for all three days. Exhibitors were telling us how well they did, with buyers actually spending and sticking around right up until the very end.
Photo by GRAS GRÜN on Unsplash
1 Oak Wholesale booth
URB booth
University booth
Durity booth
1836 Kratom
You couldn't miss the Demand Vape booth – it was constantly swamped, living up to its name! However, the real showstopper was on Day 2 when the legends themselves, Cheech and Chong. Tommy Chong and Cheech Marin were right there, shaking hands and chatting with fans, making the whole place feel electric.
CHAMPS also spread some good vibes by giving back to the shops that showed up. Three lucky businesses each snagged $1,000 just for being there! Christine from Maine Smoke Shop was over the moon on Day 1, already planning to pump her winnings back into new inventory. Day 2 saw Ankit from South Bend Smoke Time grinning from ear to ear after getting his check, and on Day 3, Gur from ABC Smoke in Altoona was another happy buyer with more cash to spend.
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Day 1 Winner Maine Smoke Shop
Day 2 Winner South Bend SmokeTime
Big Chief booth
LUCY booth
Gary at the B2B Wholesale booth
Cheech & Chong with Je
The Glass Games at CHAMPS Chicago really kicked things up a notch. With a brand-new setup, they had mesmerizing Artist Demos with Dichro from CBS (Coatings by Sandberg) and even more Collaboration Stations. It was the biggest glass event this Chicago show had ever seen, giving glassblowers a platform to not only show off their incredible skills but also make some serious sales.
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20 MinutesTime Like Banjo
Paul LIberty 50G
Day 2 had this super fun, fast-paced competition called "In 20 Minutes Time." Imagine: glassblowers are given a theme and just 20 minutes to create a unique piece. The creativity was wild! Tony Kazy Glass took home first place, with Dom Glass in second, Sno-Glass in third, and Paul from Liberty 50G rounding out the top four. And the four amazing demoing artists—Niko Cray, Crunklestein, Terry Sharp, and Guido Glass—crafted some truly stunning pieces that were kindly gifted to the shops who attended.
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Group Shot of Glass Participants
One of the really amazing things that happens in Chicago is the fireworks. The last night, after the show had officially closed its doors, there was this absolutely huge fireworks display at the Parkway Bank PARK Entertainment District. Seriously, it was one of the most epic displays ever!
The 2025 CHAMPS Chicago Trade Show wasn't just another event; it really highlighted the vibrant energy and innovation in our industry. From the bustling booths and enthusiastic buyers to the star power of Cheech and Chong and the mesmerizing artistry of the Glass Games, it was a huge win. Even if the Pope couldn't make it in person (though he popped up digitally the day after!), it felt like a nod to how adaptable and forward-thinking this industry is.
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Niko Cray on the torch
Niko with a bag of goodies!
Joey Guido with CBS Dichro
CHAMPS Chicago wasn't just a trade show; it was a fantastic get-together that really set the bar high for what's next, proving once again that it's a vital hub for businesses and artists alike. Missed out on the Chicago excitement? Don't worry, the party isn't over! Join us for the next incredible CHAMPS show in Las Vegas July 23rd-26th!
Terry Sharp with Guido learning in the back
Crunklestien
By Amear Mortall
A low hum throbbed through the secret government hangar, a symphony of crackling temporal capacitors and the bewildered clatter of a preserved 19th-century statesman. Dr. Emmett Brown, wild-eyed and perpetually disheveled, tightened a final conduit on what appeared to be a heavily modified 1970s Winnebago. Beside him, President Abraham Lincoln, surprisingly spry for a man plucked from the precipice of history, adjusted a pair of Doc's oversized sunglasses over his spectacles.
"Are you certain, Doctor," Lincoln drawled, his voice a familiar timbre of gravitas, "that this 'campaign trail' will yield the insights we seek into the American spirit? Your historical texts suggest a rather… tumultuous period."
Doc Brown, wiping grease from his brow, beamed. "Precisely, Mr. President! The very fabric of societal discourse is being rewoven! And our target, a certain Mr. Hunter S. Thompson, is at the epicenter of its most gonzo threads. A journalist, they say, who doesn't just report the news, but becomes the news!"
Their mission, sanctioned by a highly classified (and frankly, bewildered) joint congressional committee, was to observe history, not alter it. Lincoln, privy to Doc's future-history library, was deeply troubled by the divisive currents of the late 20th century. He believed a firsthand encounter with a figure like Thompson might illuminate the evolving relationship between truth, media, and the national psyche. Doc, ever the scientific thrill-seeker, simply craved the temporal adventure.
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The Winnebago, now throbbing with a low temporal thrum, shimmered, then vanished. It reappeared with a faint pop and the smell of exhaust fumes in a sweltering motel parking lot in Miami, on the Fourth of July,
cologne, and the buzzing, almost tangible static of political frenzy, as if the very asphalt vibrated with unspoken anxieties. Campaign posters for Nixon and McGovern plastered every surface, some already peeling in the humid heat.
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Lincoln, in a borrowed, ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt, stepped out, followed by Doc, who immediately began taking atmospheric readings with a repurposed Geiger counter. 'Great Scott!' Doc exclaimed, his repurposed Geiger counter clicking furiously, its needle twitching wildly. 'The ambient paranoia levels are off the charts, Mr. President! Fascinating!'
A few yards away, a man in a bucket hat, his face a blur behind sunglasses and a cloud of smoke, froze mid-sentence at his chaotic sprawl of notebooks, empty liquor bottles, and a portable typewriter. Hunter S. Thompson, or what was left of him, squinted, his eyes narrowing even behind the dark lenses, as if trying to discern if the
new arrivals were a particularly potent hallucination or federal agents.
"Who in the unholy hell are you two?" Thompson rasped, his voice a gravelly symphony of whiskey and cynicism. "You look like a goddamn historical reenactor and a refugee from a particularly bad acid trip."Doc, unfazed, extended a hand. "Dr. Emmett Brown, at your service! And this, sir, is President Abraham Lincoln!"
Thompson stared, then slowly reached for a fresh tumbler of Wild Turkey. "Lincoln, huh? And a 'Doctor.' Right. And I'm the goddamn Easter Bunny. What's your angle, you federal creeps? Trying to plant some kind of subversive message in my copy?"
Lincoln, ever the diplomat, offered a slight bow. "Indeed, Mr. Thompson. We seek to understand the currents of this peculiar epoch. Your dispatches, Doctor Brown informs me, are… uniquely insightful."
The ensuing conversation was a surreal masterpiece. Lincoln, with his eloquent but archaic language, attempted to grasp the intricacies of modern political campaigning, the role of television, and the burgeoning cynicism. Doc, meanwhile, excitedly explained the principles of temporal displacement, occasionally mistaking
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Thompson's drug-fueled tangents for profound philosophical breakthroughs. Thompson, convinced he was either experiencing a particularly potent hallucination or being subjected to a new, insidious form of government psychological warfare, peppered them with questions about power, corruption, and the true nature of the American beast.
"So, Honest Abe," Thompson slurred, "what do you make of this whole 'silent majority' bullshit? Sounds like a goddamn conspiracy to me. And you, Doc, you got any of that timetraveling hooch? This '72 vintage is starting to taste like formaldehyde."
Thompson then paused, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. He rummaged through the chaos on his makeshift table, pulling out a pair of his own iconic aviator sunglasses. "Here,
Abe," he grunted, pushing them across. "You look like you need to see this country through the right lens. These'll give you a clearer view of the bastards."
Lincoln, after a moment's hesitation, took the glasses. He removed Doc's oversized pair and, with a thoughtful expression, settled Thompson's aviators onto his nose. The world, through the tinted lenses, seemed to take on a new, sharper, perhaps more cynical, edge.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the Miami sky in lurid oranges and purples, punctuated by the distant explosions of fireworks, the Winnebago hummed to life once more. Lincoln, now with a deeper, more troubled understanding of the era and sporting the signature aviators, and Doc, brimming with new data, prepared for departure. Thompson watched them go, a manic grin spreading across his face. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he had just witnessed something truly bizarre. And it would make for one hell of a story.