Windy City Snapshot: The Article That Never Ran

<And an anti-New Year to you, too...

I drew this graphic at 15,

May 1979, when stuff like

Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground

formed essential building blocks

of my high school soundtrack.

It fits the vibe here, I think.>

<"I mastered the art of recording 

known as 'capture the spontaneous moment 

and leave it at that'. The Bells was done like that, 

those lyrics were just made up on the spot 

and they're absolutely incredible.>

<"I'm very adept at making up 

whole stories with rhymes, schemes, jokes."

Lou Reed, CREEM, September 1980

("Lou Reed Tilts The Machine">

Reckoner's Note: During my Windy City era, I kept busy freelancing for all sorts of national music rags, from the technical (Guitar Player) to the retro (Goldmine), to the general (coffee table reference guides that needed lots and lots of entries, like, yesterday, man). When that era started, I also figured it would make sense to try and get some local action, too, in case the national stuff dried up.

Alas, though, it didn't work out that way, as the following piece might indicate. I wrote it back in 1996-97, but it's never seen the light of day -- until now. This era coincided with the rise of alternative weeklies, who prided themselves on cranking out stories that The Man (as in, mainstream media) either forgot about, or flat out ignored. This was the place to start, if I wanted to do any local freelancing. Or so I was told.

I approached several outlets, but the one mentioned below (City Vibes) was the only rag to respond. Or not respond, which is what I ended up writing about, to salvage the situation -- this piece came during an era when I paid 30 cents a shot, even for local calls! 

But none of these issues satisfied the folks at City Vibes, who refused to pay. I didn't expect the full shot, by any means, but I felt my time deserved something. After all, major mags pay "kill fees" all the time, on stories that don't run, for just that reason. But not in the Windy City, apparently. I said something like, "Go fly a kite," and I never approached any of the alt-poobahs again. I  kept doing my national stuff, and never looked back, as the saying goes. 

Of course, the bloom has long fallen off the alternative weekly rose, as you'll see from the links below. But I refuse to join the Viking funeral, not only because their time has come, and gone -- and more outlets have sprung up to replace them -- but from a simple truth.

If you don't feel like answering the phone, or paying for my time, don't expect me to wear out my lips kissing you all goodbye. The piece follows below. As usual, all the names have been changed, to avoid retribution from the guilty. Make of it what you will. --The Reckoner

THE VILLAGE PEOPLE PUNK OUT (AND I GET TO HOLD THE CHECK)
I only wanted the just the facts, but all I got were just the flacks. So it went when City Vibes deputized me to buttonhole those notorious '70s bad taste icons, The Village People, currently headlining an all-star disco demolition over The Trammps ("Disco Inferno"), and KC & The Sunshine Band ("Boogie Shoes," "Shake Your Booty," and too many others to mention), on March 29 (Star Plaza Theater, Merrillvile, IN), and March 30 (The Rosemont, Chicago).

"No problem," Star Plaza's Marketing Maven reassured me, in late February. "I'll pass on your request to the Village People, and they'll call you." The mind boggles. At last, I get to pop choice nuggets, like, "And when did The Cop take a hike?" Three weeks dribbled away: no Village People, no response. Maybe they'd misplaced their Rolodex?

Take two, Monday, March 15. "I've called, but there's no answer," the Marketing Maven assures me. "Well, my girlfriend's usually here, if I'm not," respond. A length pause follows: "Oh." 

Take three, Friday, March 19: I get A) Star Plaza directions, B) travel/ticket information, C) a plug for group discounts, and oh, yes, the Marketing Maven's voicemail. But she's not there.

Take four, that same Friday: I left a message with the Rosemont's PR flacks, figuring the locals might cooperate more. No such luck, though. I guess they don't need to return my call, let alone risk the publicity.

What a unique response -- this from a group who hammered three chart grand slams in "Macho Man" ($25, 1978), "YMCA" (#1, 1979; two million US, 12 million worldwide sales); and "In The Navy" (#3, 1979), before bottoming out with "Go West" (#45, 1979), and "Ready For The '80s" (#52, three weeks, 1/80). 

Maybe "The Peeps," as many reviewers affectionately tagged them, want us to forget such milestones as their double-LP, Live & Sleazy, or Can't Stop The Music, possibly America's only pro-disco musical, starring Nancy Walker.

Of the original Peeps, lead singer Victor Willis (The Cop), and Randy Jones (The Cowboy), have since left the group, whose fearsomely-styled costuming (including a biker, GI and Indian, among others), and cartoonish bump 'n' grind remain a pleasant night out, primarily on college campuses. If you go, expect no surprises.

One last tidbit: The Wacky Top 40 (1993) now contains a corrective statement for anyone accusing the Peeps of nasty Milli Vanilli-style live lip sync: "The Village People have responded uniformly to such rumors by making it clear that they sang live in all their concert settings for the last 17 years."

Feel better? I hope so, and for those who doubt me, The Star Plaza and the Rosemont  do have the finest voicemail systems I've ever encountered. Too bad they don't talk back.

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Your Favorite Alt-Weekly's Hit The Funeral Pyre):

CityLab: Making Peace
With The Decline Of Alt-Weeklies:
https://www.citylab.com/equity/2013/03/making-peace-decline-alt-weeklies/5043/
Governing.com:
Mourning The Decline Of Alt-Weeklies:
https://www.governing.com/topics/politics/gov-local-news-alt-weeklies-watchdogs.html

Reuters:
The Long, Slow Decline Of Alt-Weeklies:
http://blogs.reuters.com/jackshafer/2013/03/15/the-long-slow-decline-of-alt-weeklies/

Hardware Store Horrors: My Contribution To Temp Slave

<Temp Slave, Issue Six>

Reckoner's Note #1: "Back in the day" is an oft-abused expression, but an apt one for many occasions...especially when people evoke some bygone era that agrees with them better (as in, "Back in the day, you could smoke pot in our dorm lounge, and nobody blinked," or, "Back in the day, you could piss on the parking garage roof, but you wouldn't get busted"). 

As a unit of time, though, I'm going to assign 20 or more years to "back in the day." Simply because, when you hear the parties involved tossing it around, it's pretty obvious they don't mean last week, let alone last year.

Back in my day (the mid-'90s), you couldn't miss TEMP SLAVE, when 'zines were all the rage, scoring major media attention, even book deals on Madison Avenue. TEMP SLAVE started as an irreverent blast against the industry, in particular, but broadened its outlook to the work world, in general, and the sclerotic political system that allowed all its abuses, big and small, to flourish.

Though it's long gone, TEMP SLAVE isn't some quaint artifact. The themes it broached -- from America's mushrooming inequality, to the decline of regular work, and the abuses of fulltimer and temp alike -- seem more relevant than ever. So do the "permalance" hustles that keep workers forever on the company hook, without benefits or time off, let alone any say over their so-called careers and futures. Nobody can say that TEMP SLAVE''s creator, Jeff Kelly (Keffo), didn't try to warn us.

While digging through my papers, I came across my own long-forgotten contribution to TEMP SLAVE. I submitted it in the winter of '96, I think, after briefly becoming enmeshed in temping, while trying to survive in the unforgiving Windy City. My article did run in TEMP SLAVE, but I don't recall what issue, because I don't have it..

Here it is now, 23-odd years later, in all its ragged glory (with minor edits and notes, where applicable). As usual, the names have been changed to shield the innocent, and protect against retribution from the guilty.

<HOMESPUN HARDWARE'S THE PLACE (UNLESS YOU TEMP THERE)>

We've heard their jingles umpteen times: "Homespun Hardware's the place..." Doesn't that put a golfball-sized lump in your throat -- knowing some all-powerful father figure's scurrying to find you the right light bulb?

But you better look something like the Homespun Hardware Man, or else he won't let you temp there, as I learned from my one-day experience there in Wheeling, IL, thanks to Fly By Nite Talent Pool. 

When Fly By Nite called, during record wind chills of minus 70 below in January, I wasn't elated about a retail assignment. I'd just finished three pleasant weeks at a microfilm place, meaning all the free copies, office supplies and phone time that a freelance writer could want.

Thrilled or not, though, I took the gig, since Fly By Nite claimed it would run two weeks. To worsen matters, my North Side cubbyhole's just 35 miles from swinging Wheeling. When you're making $8 an hour, and gas $1.40 per gallon (minimum), you're hardly coming out ahead, especially if you're driving a 1983 Buick gas guzzler!

The job itself, which begins at 8:00 a.m., is pretty routine. Fly By Nite bills it as "general office." In reality, this gig only involves rearranging shelves to make room for new products, so I spend most of my time figuring out how to display chainsaws. It hardly matters where, because the manager vetoes most of my arrangements, anyhow, forcing me to get his "official" word before doing anything.

And woe to those poor customers asking, "Where do I find such-and-such a screwdriver?" I simply point to my supervisor. "Why don't you ask Trevor? He knows more than I do." As the morning drones on, I tire of this May-I-Help-You-Speak, and hide behind the nearest available shelf whenever customers approach.

I get some comic relief over break from reading the industry's views about theft in American Hardware. After questioning various Homespun outlets in Arizona, and Virginia, its lead article concludes the greatest danger to corporate profits isn't coming from customers (wow, really?), but (duh) employees, leading to some All-American notions about how to preclude such illicit redistribution of wealth.

For example, the article suggests, slip an extra $10 bill into somebody's register, to test their observancy (and honesty) at the same time. Also, keep big ticket items out of sight, so your employees can't "lose" them after closing time.

As a result, most retailers are using civil prosecutions against employees with aggravated sticky fingers. Unlike criminal cases, they only require 51 percent proof of guilt, and allow judges to levy restitution fees of four to five times the item's original value, plus the usual court costs. What a great way to grease the legal wheels!

I hear even better stuff from Trevor over lunch next door. After four years at Homespun Hardware, Trevor now makes $8 an hour, same as me. Not only that, he spends two hours a day driving to this sorry job from Oswego, in northern Illinois, which means he must rise and shine by 4:45 a.m. Nothing like enforced dedication, right?

As it happens, I don't see Trevor all afternoon, spending my last three hours at the mercy of his sidekick, Donnie, who fits every joke imaginable about sexually frustrated hardware men. 

Not that I care for his idea of humor, which involves yelling "Airmail!", followed by a 40-pound lawn bag hefted into my gut. I get even by ignoring his braying commands to "load those pallets!" by sitting on them, the minute he disappears, to bitch about his domestic life for the umpteenth time.

I've hardly crawled home again at 5:30 p.m., when Fly By Nite calls. The rep's hardly asked how everything went, when she adds: "By the way, I've talked to the owner, and he's uncomfortable with your hair. He said, 'This is a community where people drive their Lexuses.' I don't think you'll be able to go back there."

Huh? I may be blond, and look something like Kurt Cobain from a distance, but am I that grungy-looking? Instead, I say, "Is this guy a charter member of the Christian Coalition, or what?" Especially I only met the owner, Chip, for about 30 seconds today. Does he have a wife named Dale, too?

"No. Maybe a little conservative, but I think he's just concerned."

"What about my time card?"

"Don't worry, Trevor will approve it."

POSTSCRIPT: FRIDAY

I've stopped off at Fly By Nite. While waiting for my one-day check, I overhear another molelike rep telling somebody: "Oh, sure, this job involves some light lifting -- but you can do it," A pause. "Where? It's up in Wheeling, so you'll need a car to get there."

I can't be sure, but it sounds like they're asking a woman to take those 40-pound bags. Maybe she'll have better luck with Chip than I did.

My total check came to $56 (seven hours). Uncle Sam took the remaining $5, meaning I worked one hour for free, basically. Assholes.

My 1983 Buick Rivera gave up the ghost about three months later, in April. It hasn't run since.

After spending one more day with Fly By Nite (January), and three weeks with Kelly (March), I've gone back into freelance music writing. I'm no longer temping for anyone.

POSTSCRIPT: NEW YEAR'S EVE 2019
Reckoner's Note #2: I'd forgotten one thing, after re-reading the above TEMP SLAVE piece -- but it popped back into my head, the minute I read it.

Right after Trevor and I got back from lunch, an older, heavyset gent with thick horn-rimmed glasses breezed through the entrance, stopped briefly to chat with a cashier or two, poked a glance around the aisle. He swiveled around, took a glance at me, and literally did a double take. As in, walked a couple quick steps back, but thought better of it. Then he scurried off.

"Who the hell was that?" I asked.

"Ah, that was Chip," Trevor said. "He owns this place. Don't worry about it."

We then parted ways, Trevor, to presumably mess with more shelving arrangements, and me, to the back room, where those 40-pound bags awaited my gut. 

This moment, I'm sure, triggered the situation that I confronted when I got home. Trevor seemingly shrugged it off as "no big deal," but I suspect he knew -- right then -- that I was toast, heading for a one-way ticket off the island. Not that he had any say in the matter (of course).

Even so, I'll never forget Chip's glance, brief as it was, one that conveyed a look of pure visceral disgust. Presumably, I fit the bill of all those left-leaning, drug-addled, US of A-hating misfits he'd heard so much about in the mainstream media.

Why didn't I mention that uneasy bit of eye contact? Who knows? In my own way, I guess I gave Chip a break, not that he'd return the favor. I wouldn't make that mistake again. At least -- not so soon! --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Before You're Dragged Through The Temp Net):

Mark Maynard.com:
Jeff "Keffo" Kelly On Temp Slave:
http://markmaynard.com/2014/03/the-untold-history-of-zines-jeff-keffo-kelly-on-tempslave/

Print Fetish Collection: Temp Slave:
http://printfetish.com/2008/03/post.html

Punk Rock Art Photos: "Dead Malls Don't Talk Back (Take II)"

<Take I The Squawker>

"Once more, with feeling..." Depending on your age, you'll either associate this lyrical sentiment with Buffy The Vampire Slayer ("But I can't find my sweet release/Let me rest in peace") or Kris Kristofferson ("Let's try it once more with feeling, and we'll call it a day"). But either way, it seemed like an appropriate backdrop for our return to the dead mall that The Squawker and I last visited in September.

The resulting photo essay sparked one of our best-received posts, so here we are again, this time, starting with the fading JC Penney sign on the right side. Basically, this is the rear view, as you're driving around the property. Its closing last summer left this area without a JC Penney for the first time in nearly a century, locals told us.

<Take II: The Squawker>

As we continue our drive around the property, we stopped behind this rear entrance. Note the overgrown grass now sprouting through the cracks in the parking lot. Apparently, regular maintenance is no longer a consistent feature, or else, it's been scaled back -- either for budgetary reasons, or there aren't people to do it regularly.

<Take III: The Squawker>

Here's a closeup view of that rear entrance, as The Squawker shot it. We briefly debated going inside, and nosing around, but decided against it, because our afternoon to-do list still beckoned. As you see, though, the grass is growing thickest and longest near the entrance, but doesn't show any distinct signs of regular maintenance.

<Take IV: The Squawker>

Here's a longer view of the rear parking lot, so you can get a sense of how far the grass has grown, and how empty it looks. On this particular day, on this side of the mall, we didn't see a single car parked here. As we drove back towards the main road circling the mall, we counted roughly two to three dozen cars, most of them belonging to the people still working here. How long that will last, who knows?

<Take V: The Squawker>

Swinging back around the left side, we came across this bygone anchor store, Carson's, that shut down in spring 2018, according to the locals. Our camera lens was giving us fits -- hence, the black shapes in the corner -- but I liked the effect, so I didn't crop them out. But you can see plainly enough that the C in the store's name is gone, now long reclaimed by the elements.

<Take VI: The Squawker>

Here's the defunct entrance for the defunct Carson's. The name itself is the newer version of Carson, Pirie, Scott & Company, whose ads I remember well as a child growing up. They always closed with the original name, ooh--oohed and ahhed over a light jazz background ("Carson, Pirie, Scott..."), followed by the tagline, spoken largely by itself ("AND Com-pany!"). That was in the '70s, of course, long before the American Dream withered off the vine for most people.

<Take VII: The Squawker>

Here's the parking lot in front of the dead Carson's store, as overgrown as the rest of the property. As you see, there's plenty of cracks in the surface, and -- though not apparent in this shot -- there's lots of potholes, too. So many, in fact, you'll feel like you're driving over a lunar landscape. Needless to say, it pays to go slow here.

<Take VIII: The Squawker>

And so, we end as began our original photo essay, with the shuttered Sears, and the truck standing in front of the now-defunct loading dock, its battered door still dangling open, waiting in vain for someone to finally shut it, and send it on its way.

The dishwasher that stood nearby, forgotten and forlorn, is finally gone, its place now taken by a yawning pile of dead brush. When will anybody clear it? Who knows? All that's left, it seems, is the tumbleweed rolling down the street, while the wind whistles in the distance. This is the sound of America today, the opposite face of the recovery that's being touted in established news outlets. 

Yes, the economy is working, but for what, and for whom? That is the question that looms large over landscapes like this one. When this mall finally closes, they'll blame specters ranging from the e-commerce boom, to the toughest retail climate seen  in 30 years, or a withering local economy. 

The subtleties will undoubtedly feel lost on those having to find new jobs or locations for their businesses, as these words from Kris Kristofferson ringing in their ears: "'Cause somehow, darlin', something good/Got lost along the way/And our song ain't nothing/Special anymore."  The Reckoner

Life's Little Injustices (Take XVI): Do You Get Fries With That? Hell, No!

<https://consciouslifenews.com/video-shows-mcdonalds-fries-made-eat/1191801/>

<i.>

The minute we checked out the menu, I knew we were in trouble. The Squawker and I had stopped off at this roadside diner, Paisano Italiano, for lunch, while running the usual errands that tug at your brain, and wear down your patience, but still have to be done. We'd eaten here a couple years ago, but if you like something once, you'll like it again, right?

But I began having second thoughts when I scanned the prices. The cheaper meals started at $11-12, and rapidly escalated from there, to $15, and up. 

So I quickly flipped the page, and looked at the sandwiches. "This might be the only thing I can afford here," I told Squawker. "Otherwise, I'm not sure how this'll work, even if we just get water to drink." This is what you tell yourself between paydays: decisions, decisions.

"Yeah, I see what you mean," Squawker said. "It looks like it's about 50 percent more than what it was last time."

The waitress continued to flit around, wiping a table here, our table there, darting over to the register for a quick sidebar conversation with some regular or other.  Getting her attention hadn't been easy. Keeping it looked harder still. I steeled myself, and kept looking. Surely, I told myself, there's something I can afford here...

<ii.>

The waitress flitted back over. "Need a few more minutes to decide?" she asked. We both nodded.

I gestured at the menu. "I think I'll have stick with a burger, which is... Okay, there's one for $5.75. Everything else is six, seven bucks and up."

"Sure you don't want to try the pizza buffet?"

"Well, that's 20 bucks, and the thing is..." I lowered my voice. "By the time you include the tip, it'll be $25 or $30 when we leave here."

"All right." Squawker shrugged. "I think I might have to get a meal, though. Spaghetti with some meat, I think."

"No add-ons for us, I guess." I forced a smile, and gestured to the waitress. "I think we're ready now."

<iii.>

The waitress returned, her order pad poised. "All right," I said, "I think I'll get the Classic Paisano Burger, and..." I scanned the menu once more. "Do you get fries with that?"

The waitress shook her head. "No, that's a separate item." 

My eyes clouded over. "What? I can't do that, oh, wait..." There they were, for a single ($1.59), or a double ($3.75). "No, no, no, forget it. I can't do that."

The waitress rolled her eyes, and threw her hands on her hips. Her lips froze into a sarcastic flourish. "Welcome to Paisano Italiano!" she said.

"You want to go?" Squawker asked.

"I think we better," I sighed. "The way this is going, I'm not sure this is the place for us."

I took a quick last look on our way out. The room had gotten a little fuller, as the lunchtime crowd were beginning to filter in. They all looked older, though, sixtysomething and up. Of course, I told myself. Retired Baby Boomers, from the looks of it. Great jobs at great wages. Everything worked out swell for them. For me, not so much. Who else could afford this place now?

We headed back into town, and settled on our favorite taquiera. They had lunch specials for a fiver each. Or maybe we could split a burrito. Either way, those options looked a lot more pleasant than the situation we'd just encountered. Our mindless errands still beckoned. Such is life. --The Reckoner

When Open Mikes Aren't Open Anymore: Three Snapshots

<i.>

Generally speaking, I don't do open mikes. For an example of the hiccups that occur, see my other post below, "The Never-Ending Open Mike (Two Surreal Case Studies)." I'm not saying the problems that I cited happen all the time, or my experiences have always been subpar. The situations I encountered simply hardened my resolve to find better outlets for my music and spoken word material. After all, it's hard to showcase your abilities when the showcase itself goes sideways.

Lately, though, I've seen some odd terms and conditions popping up, when I've wanted to participate. Imagine the Riddler posing one of his preposterous jokes, wagging his finger at Batman's campy '60s incarnation, or the darker ones currently making the cinematic rounds: "Riddle me this, Caped Crusader. When is an open mike not so open anymore?" To which Batman strokes that famous rugged jaw, furrows an eyebrow or two, then snaps his fingers, and responds with the following three examples.

Exhibit A: Sounds Good (But We Gotta Vet Ya First): Back in the summer, I'd recorded three songs at home, and thought. Hey, why don't I try these out? Can't do any harm, right? That's the most common reason for doing open mikes, right? Road-test your new material in front of a real crowd, keep your chops up, that sort of thing. In this case, you had to e-mail the venue in question ahead of time, which I did. Here's the response I got back:

Thanks for your message regarding open mic.

Please send along a sample clip of what your performance would be - either video or audio. Thank you.

I found this response baffling, since it begs one obvious question: well, if you're just gonna cherry pick who you want onstage, anyway, it's not really an open mike anymore, is it? Then it becomes something else, but not an occasion that fits the alleged purpose of open mikes: a place where all comers can play whatever they want, while getting a chance to meet, and swap phone numbers and/or ideas afterwards.

Needless to say, I didn't send a thing.

<ii.>

Exhibit B: You Gotta Pay (If You Wanna Play): The same venue cited above (we'll call it Cardboard City) also runs a poetry/spoken open mike, which I've done three times. I was looking forward to the same opportunity again this week, until this sentence from the press release stopped me dead: "$5 minimum donation please. Donations support our non-profit arts organization." It's not clear to me whether this policy applies to everybody, or just those watching the performers, but on its face, this sentence skirts the edges of paying to play.

Pay to play is most commonly associated with sports leagues and music venues. The term refers to the practice of requiring an upfront fee before the performer can take the field or the stage. Musicians first encountered pay to play in the 1980s, at venues in Los Angeles, CA. (Typical variations involve buying X number of tickets in advance, or guaranteeing that "X number of people will show up.") Pay to play is less controversial in the sports world, especially in local leagues, where few, if any parents will quibble about the price of signing up Little Johnny and Suzy for soccer.

I'll have to investigate how Cardboard City applies its donation policy, but my only issue is the connotations it carries for performers, who already face enough barriers to entry -- and doing our "thing," whatever that means -- without our wallets getting thrown into the mix.

Exhibit C: Shut Up And Sing (Just Don't Annoy The Regular Folks). I came across this example while preparing an entertainment calendar for one of the publications that uses my writing. The verbiage reminded me of the Dixie Chicks documentary, Shut Up And Sing (2003), which chronicled the outcry that greeted the band for its relatively mild denunciation of then-President George W. Bush. Given the ferocity of Trump's fanbase, imagine what would happen now, if a similar band declared itself "ashamed that the President is from New York"!

Anyway, here's the relevant language from this venue (we'll call it The Stable), in all its one size fits, opaque glory:

Please be respectful with your material. While we want to be open with our stage and invite all forms of art, it cannot be at the expense of others. This is not a night for improvisation or a political platform, but a chance for all to enhance their crafted art skills. Thank you. I have a few issues here, starting with the obvious: What does "respectful" mean, and who gets to define it? Presumably the host, though it's not exactly clear. Judging from the next sentence, it's fair to say that any Dixie Chick-style verbiage is verboten, and you'd probably check your improv comedy styles at the door, too. After all, we wouldn't want anybody riffing off Trump's latest pipe dreams, or Phil Ochs's "Love Me, I'm A Liberal," would we, now?

I'm not sure what kind of open mike is being promoted here, unless it's the Comfy Cozy Coffee Set. Considering how dark, dangerous and desperate our times have grown -- and not only politically, as the California wildfires are demonstrating this weekend -- it's a little bit much to insist that musicians, in particular, just stare straight ahead and keep their mouths shut. Sorry, but if all we've done is just stay in a bubble, and simply talk shop, then not much has happened.

One quality that these examples share is the apparent lack of trust underpinning all of them. What's really strange is that open mikes aren't paying gigs (except for the host), so if there's no money -- no guarantee, no tip jar -- changing hands, what's the problem? It's not as if I've seen anyone at either venue counting off the MC5's signature song: "And right now, it's time to...kick out the jams, motherfuckers!"

Happily for me, I'm not going to deal with the fallout from these practices. I've been asked to perform at a church dinner with someone else a couple Saturdays from now. Aside from one suggested song ("This Land Is Your Land"), our minister is letting me work out the rest -- as it should be, since I've played there before. No advance clip, no minimum donation, and no admonition against airing inconvenient opinions needed. Maybe I'll check back and see how the above venues evolve -- or don't -- but I'm doing what makes me happier. Which means staying off the Open Mike Highway, at least for now--The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,

Before The Sandman Gives You The Hook):

The Never-Ending Open Mike (Two Surreal Case Studies):

https://ramennoodlenation.blogspot.com/2019/01/the-never-ending-open-mike-two-surreal.html

Showtime At The Apollo: Sandman Fight:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvJO_M6jIxg

Gigs And Bands (UK): Five Reasons Why

Open Mic Nights Are Killing Live Music:

http://www.gigsandbands.com/5-reasons-why-open-mic-nights-are-killing-live-music/

(Plenty of food for thought here -- written to irritate, so bear that in mind, but lots of interesting pros and cons in the comment section, so have fun!)

Happy Halloween: "Dark Money Word Cloud I+II"

<"Dark Money Word Cloud I":

The Reckoner>

It's just too big to stop...Ka-ching, Ka-ching...It's not the time...

Ka-ching, Ka-ching...

The political climate doesn't allow it...

Follow the money...Money is speech...Follow the money...

Ka-ching, ka-ching...

Corporations are people, too...

Ka-ching, ka-ching...

Just follow the money...

It doesn't buy my vote...

Ka-ching, ka-ching...

"I think the major factor for why Biden has gradually been falling in the polls is by the way that he campaigns and speaks and the contradictions in his claims versus his record. 

"And those contradictions are very much played out in his current effort to rationalize taking huge money or accepting the huge money going into super PACs on behalf of his campaign."

<Norman Solomon,

Common Dreams Contributor>


."Joe Biden should get scorched 

on the next debate stage

 for starting a super PAC 

because he doesn't have grassroots support." 

<Erick Fernandez, Journalist>

"While there may be disagreements between candidates in this race about whether or not it’s okay to have a super PAC, on this issue the country is already pretty united: People have had ENOUGH of the wealthy and powerful buying our candidates and elections."
<Fahiz Shakir,

Bernie Sanders' 2020 Campaign Manager>

Common Dreams: 

"Sanders Campaign, Progressives

Rip Biden Super PAC"

<10/30/19>

<"Dark Money Word Cloud II":

The Reckoner>

I must make two honest confessions to you… 
First, I must confess that over the past few years
 I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. 

I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion 
that the Negro’s great stumbling block
 in his stride toward freedom 
is not the White Citizen's Councilor, 
or the Ku Klux Klanner,
 but the white moderate, who is more devoted
to “order” than to justice; 

who prefers a negative peace 
which is the absence of tension
 to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; 

who constantly says:
“I agree with you in the goal you seek,
but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”;

 who paternalistically believes 
he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; 

who lives by a mythical concept of time 
and who constantly advises the Negro
 to wait for a “more convenient season.” 

Shallow understanding from people of good will 
is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding 
from people of ill will. 

Lukewarm acceptance 
is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

<Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
 “Letter from a Birmingham Jail”>

Guest Cartoon: The Highwayman: "The Windowless Basement Hustle"

<Click on the image for the full effect!>

"We're not going to beat 
Trump with pocket change."

Democratic Presidential hopeful
Pete Buttigieg, 
pondering the pros and cons
of joining the money chase

"Small-dollar grassroots campaigns, aka what Buttegieg insults here

as 'pocket change,'

out-fundraise him by millions.

"Our nation’s leaders

should be working to end the era

of big money politics,

not protect it." <Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez offers a slightly different take>

“The front of the line is always filled
with people whose pockets are filled."


Joe Biden, Zombie Frontrunner,
Explaining How It Works, 101

Our friend and house artist, The Highwayman, is feeling righteously angry, as this week's cartoon makes amply clear. The quote in panel #2 comes from The National Review, which ran an interesting article (see below) about Democratic Minority Leader Charles Schumer's strategy to retake the Senate --by putting up party-vetted favorites, have them say as little of substance as possible, and run a blizzard of negative ads to make their opponent -- typically, a white, male, inoffensive, party-vetted favorite -- seem like the spawn of Hitler, Osama bin Laden and Satan combined.

Does sound like an equation that favors the common interest? Not in the least, but it showcases the Democratic Party disconnect between the Old Bulls, who seem hellbent on imposing the above vision on the rest of us, till Hell freezes over, or they die, or finally get run off, whichever comes first -- and the newly energized progressive wing, who don't want the anti-Trump resistance simply hijacked to preserve the status quo...the same status quo that keeps us stuck in the hellish non-choice between a) Aetna and Cigna, b) Comcast and nobody, c) Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump...take your pick. Wash, rinse repeat.

This cartoon came at an interesting week, due to some welcome light getting shed on the issue of big money, and its role in campaigns. Just look how far Zombie Frontrunner, Joe Biden, has fallen -- $1 million in private jet rides later, and he still ends up with just $9 million to show for his third quarter of fundraising! I can just imagine the slogan: "Joe Biden: The Last White Man Who Can't Raise Money. Give Till It Hurts."

So what's Lunch Bucket Joe's solution? Do a 180-degree turnaround (see link below), and go with the super PACs that you disavowed when your campaign started. Of course, you'll definitely fix what ails the system, if you ever make it to the White House, and try elbowing past all those big donors, waiting to cash their IOUs, which only means...yeah, we've seen this movie before, time and again. It didn't pass the stench test then, and doesn't now. Unless we stand up and say, "We demand something different." We don't want to stay stuck in the windowless basement, right? --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry.

The Ghost Of Dark Money

Is Banging At Your Door)

The Intercept:
Joe Biden's Super PAC:
https://theintercept.com/2019/10/25/joe-biden-super-pac/

The National Review: 

Chuck Schumer's "Wndowless Basement" Strategy

For Winning Back The Strategy:
https://www.nationalreview.com/2019/10/chuck-schumer-windowless-basement-strategy-for-winning-back-the-senate/