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