Punk Rock Art Photos: Sights & Sounds (Philadelphia Style)

<All words and images: The Reckoner>

My business trip roadshow continued to Philadelphia (through which I actually came back twice -- first, on returning to Washington, D.C., and again, from New York -- more on tat later). While driving up from D.C., with one of my partners, I saw this guy's sign, though I didn't take his photo, out of respect.

I watched him run up and down the traffic island, really working the midafternoon rush hour (slow hour, really, given how choked these streets seem to get). The W.C. Fields quote ("On the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia") popped into my head, and then, I pushed it out, just as quickly. Whatever this sign's author is facing, I suspect he'd rather be somewhere else.

As the street sign suggests, we're cruising through Queen Village, on the city's east side. Queen Village itself has had quite a checkered history (see the links), having weathered its share of boom-bust cycles -- notably during the 1960s and '70s, when a disastrous string of urban planning decisions essentially cut off the neighborhood from the city...making an apt backdrop for crime noir writers like David Goodis (1917-1967), whose work has enjoyed a revival here, though he's better known in France, where icons like Francois Truffaut turned them into films.

That said, however, gentrification has made its impact felt, as you'll see a few photos down. Street art is big here, too, as this photo shows. What it represents, I've no idea, but it's a real striking work, nonetheless.

Quite a few punk rock shows took place here, according to my partner, before the city fathers naturally caught wind of them, and shut the proceedings down. The name of this church escapes me, but as you can see, it bears all the hallmarks of an historic structure, though Trump and his white-sheeted base (note the "Black Lives Matter" banner) probably wouldn't feel welcome here.

One of many turn of the century homes that you'll find here in this area that presumably have gotten a workup or two. I snapped it from our car, as we passed by on the way to this establishment...

...which you'll find on 11th Street, I believe, not far from where we came in (past the mural). I highly recommend this place, particularly the Laotian sausage, which is excellent. We continued downtown, stopping off for a meeting or two that might help us make more connections that'll further our writing careers. Time will tell.

This massed parking meter bike seemed distinctive enough to earn a click-click or two from my roving camera. It struck me, in a strange way, as an updated Mod aesthetic -- right away, I thought of those shots in Quadrophenia, where all the Vespas are lined up, ready for some action against those nasty Rockers. A bit of artistic license on my part, but there you go, then.

You'll see this distinctive sidewalk pattern all around Fourth Street, where we stopped off for our evening meetings. It caught my eye, so I snapped it without hesitation.

Here's the front window of the See gallery, complete with reflections from across the street -- the icing on the cake, of course, if you're up for a good art school-type photo. However...

...what this foreboding mime figure from behind the curtain is thinking, I'm not sure I want to know...and not sure that I'd care to ask!

As usual with these photo essays -- or, at least, lately -- we'll try and leave you on a high, which is this mural on the side of a candy store. Proof positive, I'd say, that Sanders's support in his groundbreaking 2016 presidential bid ran more than an inch deep, even if the Democratic National Committee tried mightily to convince us otherwise.

The quote below it ("Without people you're nothing") is actually from Joe Strummer, who left us all too soon in 2002. An apt statement for today's parched times, since people are all too often the equation that's been whitewashed out of our peculiarly American brand of big biz, show biz, "none of your biz" politics...and one of many reasons, I suspect, why Joe, were he alive today, would give this display a rousing thumbs-up. --The Reckoner

Wikipedia Links A Go-Go

David Goodis:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Goodis

Queen Village:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_Village,_Philadelphia

Punk Rock Art Photos: Sights & Sounds, DC Style (16th Street/Park & Monroe)

"I've got a pocket full of pretty green

"I'm gonna give it to the man behind the counter

He's gonna give me food and water 

I'm gonna eat that and look for more

"And they didn't teach me that in school 

"It's something that I learnt on my own 

That power is measured by the pound or the fist 

It's as clear as this oh...

"I've got a pocket full of pretty green!"

<The Jam, "Pretty Green">


<The Jam, "Pretty Green">

<All images: The Reckoner>

Whenever you're traveling anywhere, it's always a good idea to check your money, and see where you stand. That definitely typified my trip last month to the East Coast, where I spent most of my time in our nation's capital, Washington, D.C. So late one night, I rolled out my cash along the floor, and proceeded accordingly: I'd call this shot "Still Life With Money."

It's day two, I think, so I still just had shy of $500 -- which isn't as bad as it sounds, since I got some help with the actual travel costs. Even so, I had to be careful: we're talking about a town where $2.19 was the going rate for two-liter pops (that you can typically score for $1 to $1.35 back home depending on what kind of sale is running).

Want an impressive high-rise view? D.C.'s got plenty of them, like this building at 3039 16th St. As my business partner told me, Columbia Heights, where I was staying, is going through a major building boom, which is a 180-degree change from the '80s, when it had a reputation for all sorts of inner city iniquity (mostly drug-related). Nowadays, though, it's a far different game, with the gentrifiers doing what they do in any big city -- treating it like a giant Monopoly board. For a sampling of the prices, read the link below, and try to keep your eyes from popping out.

Here's another impressive high rise view, looking down Newton Avenue NW and 16th Street. This is a side view of the Yorkshire Arms, whose array of amenities -- per Zillow -- includes 24-hour maintenance (with live-in staff), and a solar hot water system. "When you live at The Yorkshire, you'll find yourself at the new center of urban living," its description boasts. Judging by my cursory online research, rents for a one-bathroom, 475-square-foot studio start at $1,399 per month. Utilities are included, though. At that price, they'd better be, right?

One distinctive feature of D.C.: fences and gates are really big here. Here's a boxed-in view of a side yard along 16th Street and Park Road NW. Are they trying to keep the (real or imagined) riffraff out, or merely boxing themselves in? You can play that chicken-versus-egg parlor game all day long, I imagine. As for me, I settled for a couple art shots, like this one below...

...along 16th Street, not far from where I was staying. The second shot shows what this floral display looks like from the side, where it's not fenced in. So, depending on how you look at it, it's either confined, or freer than you might imagine...from a distance.

A box of free clothing that someone put out on 16th Street and Park.... that was on a Tuesday, and by the next day, virtually empty. Depending on how look at it, it's either a case of six degrees of desperation, or opportunity. All in the eye of the beholder, right?

The prayer board: one of the most distinctive features of St. Stephen of the Incarnation Episcopal Church, where I stayed during my week in D.C. People put down who (or what, in some cases) they want to pray for, and they'll take it from there on Sunday, I imagine. My own shadow's down below. I liked the effect, so I didn't crop it out.

We've already heard frequent comparisons to the Trump presidency as a dumpster fire in the making, so I figured...might as well get that evidence down before the first match is lit. But, seriously...I'm going for another art shot in front of St. Stephen's side entrance. You tell me how well I captured it.

I encountered this gent in front of Giant's 24-hour supermarket at 1345 Park Road NW. He had his bike lit like a Christmas tree -- you can't tell from the photo, but he an array of lights that he could switch off and on at all, controlling them from the handlebars, I believe, while a small, yet souped-up boombox under the seat pumped out a Michael Jackson tune. "Mind if I take your picture?" I asked. "I think you're worth having a look at, more than once!

As you can see, he didn't mind. Not one bit. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, 
Before These Housing Prices 
Leave You Pushing A Shopping Cart):

WTOP: Columbia Heights Is Now
One Of D.C.'s Priciest Housing Markets
https://wtop.com/business-finance/2017/05/columbia-heights-now-one-dcs-priciest-housing-markets/

Punk Rock Art Photos: "Politics & Protest, DC Style" (16th Street/Park & Monroe)

"Don't be told what you want,

&Don't be told what you need:

There's no future,

 No future,

No future

 for you..."

<"God Save The Queen,"

The Sex Pistols>

<All images: The Reckoner>

I suspect that these flyers went up on this gas meter box on 16th Street during the debate about the Trump administration's enforced separation policy. As you can see...it's not a big hit in our nation's capital, evidently. The irony of evangelicals blindly supporting a man dogged by accusations of rampant serial infidelity, including the funneling of hush money payments to a pron star, needs no further elaboration.

Not sure what this flyer refers to, but I imagine it's tied in with the overt expression of racism that's suddenly become au courant again in the Trump era. Or, as Chris Matthews stated a few years back on MSNBC: "They act as if their base is wearing sheets!" Chris, old bean, you don't know the half of it.

I saw this particular sticker all over 16th Street, although this happens to be a different gas or electric meter. Considering the mess that the current crowd has made out of that ill-starred Washington, D.C. swamp -- which barely looks drained, nor even slightly disturbed -- it's not hard to miss the message, is it? Which brings me to...

...this particular photo. I saw this graffiti all over the neighborhood, too. One of the hottest local issues during my week-long stay in D.C. was Initiative 77, which proposed to change who's responsible for paying tipped workers the full minimum wage. (For a more in-depth explanation, see the link below.)

Although restaurant associations predictably went all in against Initiative 77, to the tune of $175,000 -- as Bob Dylan once said, "Money don't talk, it swears" -- several locals told me that waitstaff in high-end restaurants also pushed back, apparently because they feared that any form of equity for those on the bottom would mean taking a pay cut. 

Despite a low voter turnout, Initiative 77 passed decisively, by a 55-45% margin among those who did turn up. However...since D.C. is subject to Congressional oversight, the Republican majority is already moving to squash it, along with the City Council, whose members consider it a job killer. You don't want those lobbyists and political operatives eating elsewhere, right?

Suffice to say, this is a complex issue, with no easy solution. However, when voters get the idea that their will is irrelevant, it's not hard to see why these messages are popping up. It's a trend that, by and large, continues to erode faith in democracy. If Trump gets his wish to become a dictator, this is one of many signposts that we'll look back on as a warning signal that nobody heeded. End of sermon.

"Russia-gate, Murder-gate/My families depend on it/I NEED YOUR HELP NOW!" reads this rather dramatic appeal. Not having the background, I've no idea what kind of help the author is seeking...but he's helpfully posted where you can find him, so those who live in the Columbia Heights can ask him, if they feel so inclined.  As for me...I settled for snapping the picture.

Here's several causes popularized at once, on a street sign along Park Road NW (which I may have inadvertently referenced before as Park Avenue, or Street -- apologies for the error).  "I'd love to get several of those 'Trump Is An Ass' stickers," Squawker said. I should think they're not too hard to find, and whoever's making them is probably doing a roaring trade on them.

After all this gloom, I thought I'd leave you something inspiring -- this banner at the place I stayed in Columbia Heights, St. Stephen of the Incarnation Episcopal Church, on Newton Avenue NW. For three nights after hours, when everybody had gone home for the day, and I was the only person in the building, I struggled to get a decent shot of this banner. Finally, I did. It's a hell of a more appealing alternative than the world of Trumpism, isn't it?--The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Before Your Employer
Stiffs You Again On Your Tips):
https://wamu.org/story/18/06/07/guide-d-c-s-initiative-77-minimum-wage-proposal-pitting-restaurant-workers/#.W19ho_lKiM8

Punk Rock Art Photo: "Still Life (W/Mattress Tag): DC Style"

<That mattress tag, in closeup.>
<Photo: The Reckoner>

<i.>

"Now this is an item," I told myself, while strolling around 16th Street and Park Avenue NW in Washington, DC's Columbia Heights area. Why would anybody bother to graffiti tag a mattress -- one of two, in fact -- being set out for discard on the sidewalk? 

That's what I found myself staring at Saturday afternoon, though, during the first weekend of my business trip. That's one thing I love doing, whenever I do get to travel -- just wandering around, taking whatever shots appeal to me of the local color that I'm soaking up.

I wondered what kind of story lay behind this particular tag. I'm used to seeing them in streets, and train yards, but, again...why bother doing it on something that's (presumably) headed off to the county landfill, somewhere? Presumably not, since the grocery stores charge 10 cents per (plastic) bag, to prompt customers into bringing their own reusable bags. However...

<Those mattresses,

full and side views,

16th St. and Park Ave. NW.>
<Photos: The Reckoner>

<ii.>

...as it happens, trash is a major issue in D.C. And, judging by the info in the links below, so is recycling, an enterprise to which the city has remained committed, in fits and starts, anyhow. The irony of hauling away 53 tons of trash for incineration in Virginia -- including 132 truckloads of plastic bins deemed to be a public safety hazard, due to chewing by rats, as the May 2014 Washington Post story indicates -- needs no greater elaboration.

In fairness to D.C., it's hardly the only major city that struggles with recycling, a topic that often generates warm and fuzzy feelings -- until talk turns to the nitty gritty details of how to fund it, what kinds of rules will prevail, and who administers them. As the ILSR overview of D.C.'s solid waste history suggests, the city has a long way to go before it can call its efforts good.

A few details will suffice to make the point: D.C.'s overall recycling rate (35 percent) lags well below the 70 percent and above that other major cities have achieved. Similarly, D.C. pays $120 per ton to recycle, a figure that seems prohibitively high, compared to the figure cited for Baltimore (a princely $20 per ton). At any rate, read the overview for yourself, and make up your own mind about what's going on, and what should be done.

<The inevitable art shot, with

a little help from Picasa.>
<Photo: The Reckoner>

<iii.>

Now that I know a little of D.C.'s solid waste history, I can guess why someone did tag that mattress. It plays into that age-old impulse, I imagine, to say: Here I am. I wanna be known, I wanna be somebody, so pay attention. This is me. I exist. 

No matter that it's going off the sidewalk in short order (as it did, by the following Tuesday, 7/10, three days after I shot these images). Maybe the tagger's from the area, and maybe not. Whether he or she ever saw their handiwork again doesn't matter (unless they're the type snaps a photo for their files, which I doubt). The point is, I did. You did. We all did, as we passed by, if only for a few seconds. 

And maybe that's enough. Andy Warhol's celebrated 15-minute cycle of fame is now, often, a matter of seconds. But in today's parched climate...we take whatever we can get. It's life as the ultimate smash and grab raid.

So that's why I clicked away, snapping these shots. As I did, a bald black guy in his thirties or forties -- I couldn't tell for sure, exactly -- stopped, and looked intently at my activities.

"Hey, man, it's an art school shot!" I said. "The art school dance goes on forever!"

The guy threw up his hands, smiled briefly, but mechanically, and walked away quickly. I could see the wheels turning in his head: Just what I needed. Crazy white people! --The Reckoner

Links To Go
Institute For Local Self-Reliance:
Brief History of Solid Waste 
Management and Recycling in Washington, DC:
https://ilsr.org/brief-history-of-solid-waste-management-and-recycling-in-washington-dc/

The Washington Post:
 DC Said It Was Recycling -- It Wasn't (May 2014):
https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/dc-politics/pictures-show-dc-may-have-dumped-trash-cans-that-it-said-were-being-recycled/2014/05/20/1f4c2a24-df9a-11e3-810f-764fe508b82d_story.html?noredirect=on&utm_term=.3aea26ab5423

(Heads up: Link longer than usual, as I had to log in as a guest to read the story, and get around the paywall -- you may have to do likewise.)

Punk Rock Art Corner: "1977 (Year Zero)" Word Cloud

<i.>

Technically speaking, this drawing isn't a world cloud, in that the words don't directly flow out of one another. But that's okay. This is punk rock-style outsider art, which means we can call it whatever we want. I've always believed that if you're gonna be categorized, better to do it yourself, before the outside world slaps a disagreeable one on you that sticks like stale mashed potatoes. 

So, maybe in this case, we should call "1977 (Year Zero)" the anti-world cloud, I guess, since the words 'n' phrases don't care to rub shoulders with one another. It's also apropos for the song this drawing celebrates: "1977," which graced the B-side of the Clash's "White Riot," released in March of that storied year...what many writers refer to as Punk Rock's Year Zero.

That being said, what's striking, 40-odd years on, is how neatly "1977" straddles the punk-retro divide. On one hand, the riff is really a slower, stripped-down version of the Kinks' "All Day And All Of The Night," which shouldn't surprise anyone who collects Clash live tapes -- which showcase a leaner, angrier Mod-style garage band, with a gruffer vocal delivery, and more in-your-face lyrics than the era permitted.

At least, that's the evidence to these ears, based on the tapes that survived from the band's first half-year or so (notably, Screen On The Green, 8/31/76, The Roundhouse, 9/5/76, and Birmingham Town Hall, 11/5/76). Yet all the ramalama we soon called punk is present and correct here: the declamatory guitar, elementary song structure (verse/chorus, verse/chorus, verse/chorus, solo, and coda -- in 99 seconds), and no-frills approach (particularly the bass and drums).

<ii.>

The other obvious difference lies in Joe Strummer's lyrics, which veer from Dylanesque fixations ("Danger stranger, you better paint your face"), to straightforward protest ("I'm too long on the dole/And I can't work at all"), and provocative statements ("Ain't so lucky to be rich/Sten guns in Knightsbridge").This feature, coupled with Strummer's raspy delivery -- when most British singers affected a Yankee, or at least, mid-Atlantic accent -- truly draws the line in the sand between past and present. 

"1977" also marked another long-running tradition of Clash songs that would land Joe, at various times, in hot water with a) his punk-oriented peers, b) the music press, and c) rival bands, who gave him a great deal of grief for singing, "Sten guns in Knightsbridge." Was Joe suggesting. time to blow away those future British one percenters, Baader Meinhof-style, with automatic weapons? 

Not quite, Joe responded, maintaining the lyric referred to those Sten guns being pointed at him. Which makes a bit more sense, if you think about it, right? The classic posture of the punk rock troubadour caught in the crossfire, an image that many other bands would quickly mine themselves, to varying degrees of success.

However, that grief paled in comparison to the chorus, which drove the song's central point: "No Elvis, Beatles or the Rolling Stones, in 1977!" To Joe's critics, that assertion sounded -- well, downright dubious, considering that he'd bolted the more pub-rock-oriented 101'ers to join the Clash. How could the man who'd belted out Chuck Berry covers with abandon now seem indecently eager to bury him, as those slogans (CHUCK BERRY IS DEAD) daubed on his paint-splattered clothing appear to suggest?

Such questions are well worth asking, though 40-odd years on, what strikes me -- looking back -- is how many of Joe's critics, once they'd allowed themselves the luxury of making a rhetorical point, missed the fact that he, too, was making one of his own...that it was time to turn the page on the past, at least for the moment, and forge ahead with something new.

But that's what happens, isn't it, when people take art so literally. They don't see the forest for the trees, which is a more critical skill than ever to cultivate in these politically parched times...and why I felt, on the spur of the moment, ready to celebrate "1977" in my notebook on the train ride home. --The Reckoner

Links To Go
The Clash: "1977"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=KorwwAjKpaY

<I

Don't 

Care...

'Cause

I'm 

Not All There>...

Punk Rock Art Corner: "Touring, Touring, It's Never Boring" Word Cloud

I just went on a business trip to the East Coast for 10 days. It's probably the longest I've been away from home since, oh, 2011, give or take. Overall, while the actual business went smoothly enough, the actual logistics felt pretty challenging, at times, since I mostly opted for the train...which, generally speaking, is considered smoother (less physically punishing), than, say the bus.

Unless, of course, you're taking multiple trains, in which case all the cliches really do apply. One town looks like the next, and one mile melts seamlessly into the second, third, fourth, and so on. My last day proved particularly challenging, as I hopscotched from New York, to Washington, DC and Chicago, for a grand total of 23.5 hours!

I got a flash of insight into why bands hate the physical realities of touring, and why so many of them churn out songs about the drudgery of staying in Holiday Inns  as their careers blur into the twilight years. In my case, the road home started at 9:47 a.m. Saturday, and finished up at 9:15 p.m. Sunday, so in this case, I found myself thinking: "All my sympathies, lads. I get it now."

So how do you make the minute hand move a little bit faster, once you've exhausted what conversational possibilities exist among your fellow passengers? Well, me being me, you'll either write, or draw, and draw, and draw a little more. Thankfully, I had the foresight to pack some colored Sharpies!

So, in this case, I took my inspiration from one of the lighter odes to the road: "Touring," by the Ramones, which makes the whole business seem downright wholesome ("The kids all come from miles around/The party gets started when the sun goes down/And Holiday Inn's the only home I know"), if not an enviable experience ("We got a fuel injected tour bus, man, it really flies/With a video tape deck inside/Let's go rock 'n' roll, everybody come along") that no self-respecting combo should live without ("Touring, touring, it's never boring/Especially with your favorite girl/All around the world"). Suffice to say...look for plenty of drawings and writings to come out of this trip. -- The Reckoner

Jobs To Nowhere (Take II): The Return To Michigan

Suggested Soundtrack: Chinatown (Closing Credits)

<Storyteller's Note: The following account is true, though strictly personal and anecdotal, is true. The names have been changed, masked or omitted to avoid retribution from the guilty.>

<i.>

Lou Reed it said well: "Things go from bad to weird." Long story short: Chicago didn't agree with you or the wife. Throwing in the towel didn't feel like an angst-inducing decision....not after three years of slaving for $9.75 an hour for eight hours a day. Three years of getting up by 7:30 a.m. and walking four lengthy blocks to the pigeon shit-splotched bus stop (where you spent an hour day commuting to and from the well-off suburb, where your employer was located). Three years of living in a mouse-turd-infested apartment that your slumlord shrugged off by saying, "Just get some traps." 

Bottom line: You and Illinois are breaking up what's now a hate-hate relationship. Funnily enough, the return to Michigan materializes faster than you'd imagine. You apply to several reporting jobs, including one in Holland, whose editor advises that they've just filled that particular spot. 

But their sister paper in southeast Michigan has needed somebody for awhile, so it sounds like they won't get terribly picky, the guy suggests: "Want me to send your resume and clips down there?"

"Yeah, sure," I shrug. "Might as well check it out." 

What happens next recalls a quote attributed to Hunter S. Thompson: "The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."

<ii.>

Compared to some job searches, this one feels more painless than most. You only need a week to work out terms (including two interviews). Your new boss also has you call up somebody to get information on some topic or other, for a story that'll never see the light of day. Obviously, it's your audition, but it's a weird experience, especially when the woman you call waxes suspicious: "If you're a reporter there, how come I've never heard of you?"

Your response is the essence of breezy reassurance: "Oh, don't worry. I'm new to the area. I just started this week, so I'm still getting used to it."

A couple weeks later, you and the wife settle in. You wanted a change? You got it.  You're in another small town, though far more rural and right-leaning than those you've experienced. There's no lack of self-styled home churches and militia leaders here. It's the kind of place where even the occasional millage renewal doesn't pass, because people are so suspicious of government (what do them damn revenooers want now with my money?).

It's also a place where you have to get cable, because you're so remote, only one "regular" TV channel comes in. Once the sidewalks roll up, mostly by five or six o'clock, you have to improvise your own snacks and entertainment. That's OK, for now. The low cost of living is enough to convince you that your money will go a lot farther here.

<iii.>

Your first few months pass in a haze of the usual city, county and township government meetings, the occasionally interesting feature, and endless busy work -- like typing up briefs or obits, plus cranking out additional articles for tabloid sections (or "tabs," as they're called, an experience you'll mortally despise -- more on that next time).

All the same, things go from bad to weird, and it doesn't take long. Your boss's preferred communication is the bitchy memo that she slaps on your desk, preferably after you've gone home. For example, she gripes that you're only working a 70-hour pay period, instead of the 80-hour mandated one (two weeks, Monday through Friday). 

Lunch hours don't count, though you're often working right through them. You never heard about that reality during those interviews, a situation aggravated by your boss's "snipe first, explain later" mode of leadership. You wonder what difference it makes, since you're hardly working a 40-hour week, anyway. The time cards that you turn in are pure fiction.

The Wednesday staff meeting poses another struggle. You must show up by one on the dot (a mistake that you only made once, as it earned you a bitch out). Most weeks, you're lucky to finish by two, even 2:30, depending how long your boss feels like expounding about the lameness of city government, the virtues of time management, or whatever else crosses her sprawling mindset.

It's an interminable gabfest that's barely a notch above your boss's preferred topics: big city paper jobs that she's already worked, big city paper jobs that she's scheming to get, or big city paper jobs that somebody else shouldn't have got. Evidently, the current gig doesn't feel satisfying.

But your boss has it all figured out. Once that fancy job in a bigger town falls in her lap, she'll find a cheap apartment, so she can commute on weekends. That is, if she wants to commute.

"Doesn't your husband get a vote?" you wonder. "Where does he fit into all this?"

Your boss's face pinches into its familiar dismissive sneer: "Oh, he can follow me."

You nod a fake assent, and trudge back to work. Your reflex is that of the consummate lifer: don't go looking for trouble. It's not worth the hassle.

<iv.>

That September, your world gets a jolt when your boss resigns, even though there's no big city paper gig waiting. The ad manager has just gotten promoted to publisher, and she's just furious. Why's that, exactly?

Like many who scale the promotional heights, the new publisher has impressive advertising  and business credentials, but zero on the journalistic side. Not that he seems to care, since he mastered the part that really matters: the workplace politics Olympiad. The office gossip is that, for years, he "ran" the original publisher, who's now retiring into the sunset.

Not surprisingly, then, your new publisher appears unfazed by his promotion. He seems most excited about the possibility of getting more golfing time with his drinking buddies, who include major advertisers like the local Spartan store. You get the feeling who he'll support, if push comes to shove about a story. That's how Mayberry RFD really works, right?

Still, the itch to resign proves to be one catchy virus. Within weeks, your two coworkers also quit, one to join his wife at a plum teaching job, the other back to her hometown, from which she'd commuted an hour a day. There's no dream gig awaiting her, either, but she's ready for a career rethink.

All these events come off as shocking and dismaying to the night editor, an old friend of my (now) ex-boss. She'll grit her teeth and hang on for another year or so, though not out of any real joy, but the dreary, mechanical grind of "gotta make a living, gotta make a living" ringing in her ears -- and yours, too, for that matter.

The irony's lost on you now, but it'll fall sharply into focus later, as the atmosphere continues its freefall, and your own standing grows ever dicier. As crazy and dysfunctional as the Bad To Weird Era got...as sad as it sounds...soon, you'll realize look back and say, "Those were the good old days." Because your situation is about to get truly nightmarish. --The Reckoner