The glue lit like napalm, and the booth went up in a whoof you could hear in Wisconsin. That gig ended when I took five with Bubba, my imaginary purple keyboard player, and lit up a Lark (I read that John Lennon smoked them). We had two sets of complexly arranged originals all in 3/4 time within three weeks. Even with the mask, the glue in the enclosed space would zone me out nicely, and well before lunch I would be laughing and joke with the little purple sidemen who accompanied me on boss originals I would later introduce to the band (then, the Experimental Blues) at rehearsal at night. These would later be wrapped with copper wire for the center of the speaker cone. I sat in front of a rolling frame of a drum with paper-towel rolls mounted on arms that would clack into position one after the other in a rising cycle with a mechanical backbeat in 3/4 time for eight hours a day, minus lunch.
PIGGLY WIGGLY BUSH LA FULL
They put me in a booth with a spray gun full of pink glue and a paper mask.
The idea was to make money for a Fender Showman bass head and pick up a couple of reject speakers for free. While things cooled off at corporate Piggly, I took a job at Geico Speakers (not insurance), again in Grayslake. Yes, I miss them too, but they never proved a thing. My subsequent career at the Piggly Wiggly in Mundelein, Illinois, as frozen-food manager is still under investigation, and I am not disposed to discuss it until Sara Lee drops the charges or links me with solid evidence to the phasing out of their line of brownies. Meanwhile, I was already getting paid $20 to $40 on weekends playing bass guitar for the Swordsmen at high school and church dances. My father, intent on getting me back into the newspaper business, suggested I apply for a job at the Grayslake Leak, or whatever it was, where I landed a position bundling papers off the press with fist-scarring wires. My first job, not counting paperboy, was washing dishes at age 14 at Bob's Kitchen in Grayslake, Illinois. I called the outfit DisInfo Tel because of a nondisclosure agreement I had signed that was supposed to cover the sleazy hustle at the heart of the enterprise. I did it for one day so I could write about it, and not for the money. The worst of them was for a job similar to my roommate's present job. I have labored in the fields, and I have the old union cards to show for it. Preferably on Saturday or Sunday afternoon well after the butler has cleared the brunch trays. I figure I have, in the karmic layout of the big picture, paid my dues and deserve a job I can do in my underwear. I have an easy job, I admit it, but this was not always so. staging of Triple Espresso, while I'm laughing my gosh-darn head off. She seems none the worse for wear on Friday nights, until she starts drooling on my shoulder during an 8 p.m. My close personal friend, sometimes assistant and photographer, the Specialist, is a waitress all week, works Friday lunch at a popular La Jolla watering hole. On weekend nights he is to be a rock-and-roll player, but by Friday afternoon has been pummeled into Perry Como on Haldol. He returns from his telemarketing job (and not a fraudulent one, as those things go) a shadow of the man who set off at 5 a.m. The Lowardaah.works in the shadow of sufferngaah.and the kingdom and the glory that is Far-Ry-Dayaah.would verily be cast down among those weepingaah and them gnashing theyah teethaah.yea and those rending theyah garmentsaah! My roommate, for example, has a job that visibly sucks the life from him. What really puts the God in TGIF? Crappy jobs, of course.
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