Letter From Milo: Dropping Like Flies

I've run my own small business - make that a very small business - for about 15 years. I'm not saying I run it well, I'm just saying I run it. I've made good money, decent money and chump change. I've seen good times and bad times, but I've never seen times as bad as these.

The way the economy is going you have to wonder if Karl Marx wasn't right after all. Like hunter-gatherer societies, barter economies and the colonial system, maybe true capitalism's time has passed. Maybe it's time for a new economic system to emerge, something that still rewards individual initiative but takes into consideration the immense disparity in the distribution of our planet's natural resources.

Why should a few nations, blessed with an abundance of natural resources, prosper while other nations, blessed with an abundance of sand, rocks, snakes and AK-47s, teeter on the brink of collapse. It doesn't seem fair. It's a small world, dangerous and very crowded. Such obvious disparities in wealth serve only to inflame the have-nots. New chickens are hatching every day and they'll all be needing a place to roost.

Whoa! I'm getting in over my head here. My world view is basically limited to what I can see out of my window. If I try to go beyond that I generally get a headache and have to retire to my couch with a cold Blatz and the remote control.

I was just reading an editorial about about the bankruptcy of General Motors. The writer opined that GM was too big to fail. What kind of bullshit is that! Too big to fail! The dinosaurs failed. The Roman Empire failed. The Soviet Union failed. Everything eventually fails. Do people think GM is going to last as long as the pyramids? Let GM succeed or fail on its own merits. I've got no sympathy for a company that foisted a monstrosity like the Hummer on an unsuspecting public. I mean, who the hell needs to drive a military assault vehicle on the streets of Chicago? Might as well outfit a Sherman tank with baby seats and a roof rack and call it a family sedan.

My concern is not with the GMs, AIGs and big banks of the world. I'm concerned about the little guy. My sympathies lie with the auto worker not the auto company. My heart goes out to the bank teller not the greedy bank honchos who helped cause this economic meltdown. While the fat MBA-festooned bastards are grudgingly accepting the blame, they are not suffering any of the consequences. At the end of the day, they will retire to their gated communities, while the unemployed autoworker and bank teller will be lucky to hang on to their split-levels and bungalows.

Swear to God, if it wasn't for those unreasonable statutes that deprive a man of his liberty for committing even the most righteous of murders, I'd go and...

Ah, never mind. Where was I? Oh, yeah. As I was saying, as a small business owner, I rely on a lot of other small business owners to help me provide my advertising services. Several of my clients are small businesses, too, and it breaks my heart, not to mention my wallet, to see them struggling to stay afloat and, and many cases, drowning.

Small businesses are dropping like flies. I've seen mom and pop print shops go out of business. I seen advertising specialty suppliers, the people that provide coffee mugs, ball caps and ink pens with logos on them, go under. I've listened to the sad stories of print makers, rubber stamp manufacturers and silk screeners. I've commiserated with photographers who had to close their studios and designers who wonder where they'll get the money to update their computer equipment. I've listened to people who have worked hard and honorably all their lives wonder if they'll ever be able to retire.

I listen and listen and listen, and all I can do is quote the great Marvin Gaye: "What's Going On?"

In my very first posting on this blog site, I promised that I would never lie to the American people. Although I've fudged on that promise a few times, I'll be completely honest now. I'm suffering, too. My business is going through the same problems that other small business are dealing with - budgets slashed or eliminated, lack of credit, longer payment terms and clients defaulting on invoices.

I don't now how much longer I can or want to keep it going. If things don't pick up in the next six months I'll have to make some tough decisions. As it is, I'm probably going to have to get a night job, something to help make ends meet. The only problem is that half the people in the country are looking for night jobs to help make ends meet. As W.C. Fields said, "It's a tough old world, you're lucky to get out of it alive."

Anybody wanna start a riot?

Letter From Milo: The Big Meltdown (Plus, another installment of Randolph Street - The Eds.)

Folks, it's getting pretty ugly. The vultures are circling. The hyenas are cackling with joy. Worms are getting fat. The Neptune Society has put in a huge order for firewood and propane. And it's all about the economy.

People who previously didn't know Dow Jones from Shinola have become experts in the stock market's fluctuations. Bankers have become objects of loathing. Bernie Madoff is America's new archvillain (worse than Hue Hollins in Benny Jay's opinion.) Detroit's Big Three, after arrogantly ignoring reality for years, are on the brink of collapse. Healthcare has...

continued below Randolph Street

Randolph Street

Richard Pegue (1943-2009)

Benny Jay wrote Saturday about attending the legendary Chicago radio deejay's memorial service. Jon Randolph shot this picture in May, 1998. The shot was used on the cover of the memorial service program.

Letter From Milo, cont'd

...become unaffordable for many of our countrymen. Unemployment figures are growing at a staggering rate. Retail sales are down. New home construction and the sales of existing homes are at their lowest rates in decades.

That's just the economic news.  I'll save global warming, rising sea levels, famine, drought, wars, pestilence, ethnic hatreds, religious intolerance, political instability, and nuclear proliferation for another post.

And guess what, folks. It's going to get worse before it gets better.

There isn't a reliable pundit who says the economy is going to turn around soon. Of course, these authorities never saw The Big Meltdown coming either, so we should take their predictions with a certain amount of skepticism.

It's inescapable. Everywhere I go, the economy has replaced everything else - sports, politics, the weather, movies, etc. - as the number one topic of conversation. Everyone has horror stories. Everyone knows people who've lost jobs, watched their retirement funds disappear, have to sell their homes, default on their loans, or declare bankruptcy.

I was at a potluck dinner the other evening with several friends, all witty, accomplished people who work in the arts, communications, advertising. Normally the dinner table conversation would have been stimulating. But this time it was nothing but gloom and doom.

"Moe lost his job."

"Damn."

"Yeah, and his wife got cut down to three days a week at her office."

"Damn, that's tough."

"They might have to sell their house."

"Did you hear about Curly, down the street?"

"What happened?"

"Lost his job, too."

"Jesus."

"Lost his health insurance, too, and then had a stroke worrying about it."

"Good lord! Is Shemp still working?"

"Yes. The world still needs good divorce and bankruptcy lawyers."

I'm beginning to wonder if Karl Marx wasn't right after all. There seems to be something inherently wrong with the system, some sort of dormant bug that's come alive and threatens to undermine the rotten foundations of capitalism.

"I'm just a hack writer, bright enough to know when there's a problem, not smart enough to provide a solution. That's why I'm so glad there's an intelligent man like Barack Obama in the White House. After eight years of Bush ineptitude, of pandering to America's worst instincts, the money men and the merciless corporate machines, the special interest pigs, and the rigid minds of the military bureaucracy, maybe now someone will stop and consider the plight of the rest of us. We can only hope.

In the meantime, I'm stocking up on canned food, bottled water, and I'm digging a bunker in my backyard. See you in 2014.

Milo's Smoking Update

In my first post for this blog, I promised never to lie to the American people. Well, it's been over a week since I started my latest quit-smoking campaign and, yes, I've cheated a few times. But I'm not giving up. I still see a light at the end of the smoke-filled tunnel. I'll keep you informed.

Big Mike: "Do I Look Like A Liar?"

Tuesday was Trivia night at Dick's Pizza. Skip the Trombonist, my usual teammate, had to substitute for Andy the Trivia-meister, who was busy helping an old pal settle into alcohol rehab. I have a lot of trouble with Skip's questions whenever he fills in but I'm an ace when Andy runs the show. Andy and I must have similar interests. I do know this: we both have copies of the "New York Times Almanac" in the bathroom. Perhaps Skip doesn't read in the bathroom.

Anyway, I was happy to be out from under the sobriquet, Team Gorlock. The name was Skip's idea. He's a devotee of "The Colbert Report." Gorlock, a character on the show, is Stephen Colbert's lawyer.

Since I was playing alone against five other teams, I chose the moniker Frankie Machine in honor of one of Chicago's greatest authors. That was the lead character's name in Nelson Algren's book, "The Man with the Golden Arm."

I quickly found myself firmly ensconced in second place. Here's a sample question: What do Karl Marx, Bob Dylan, and Sonny Liston have in common? (Answer at the end of the post.)

I sat next to a garrulous young couple - a pretty woman and her athletic-looking partner. She'd struck up a conversation with me before the game started, asking about the crossword puzzle I was doing while I waited. She proceeded to tell me her name was Natasha, that she was an accountant, that she'd been born in Guyana, that she was highly ambitious, and that she'd lived in Orlando, Florida until recently.

Natasha asked me what I do. When she learned I'm a writer a lightbulb flashed on over her head. "Do you write biographies?" she asked.

"I'll write anything as long as the money's right."

"Have you ever heard of Dee Brown?"

The name sounded familiar. I remembered that Dee Brown had written "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee," one of the seminal consciousness-raising Native American books of the 1970s. "Yeah," I said, "I think so."

She pointed a thumb at her escort and said, "Here he is."

I recoiled a bit. Dee Brown, I figured, ought to be pushing 100. Natasha noted my puzzlement.

"You know, Dee Brown," she said. "The basketball player. He won the Slam Dunk Contest in 1991."

"Oh yeah," I said, but not too convincingly. The fellow appeared too callow to be even the younger Dee Brown.

A few moments later, I pressed Natasha, "So he's really Dee Brown the basketball player?"

"Of course he is! Why would I lie? Do I look like a liar?"

I don't know what a liar looks like but I do know Dee Brown was a star for the Boston Celtics in the 90s. Natasha introduced me to him with the preamble that I was a fine writer and would like to write a biography of him. I was about to say I'd expressed no such desire when the fellow clasped my hand eagerly and began telling me he was in Louisville to start up a basketball camp for youngsters. "Write a story about me," he said, handing me his card. "Anything you can do will help."

He and Natasha decided to play Trivia. They called themselves Royal Crown. Skip insisted on calling them Royal Clown. During the first round, I moaned out loud about the difficulty of the questions. "They ain't so hard," the fellow said. "I got at least six out of ten."

"Six out of ten! You're shitting me," I blurted. I figured I'd answered only four correctly.

"Damn," he said. "This is easy."

Skip then announced the first round scores. The fellow and Natasha had answered only two correctly. "Aw, man!" the fellow moaned.

When the game was over, I'd finished in second place while Royal Crown was second to last. Still, the fellow pranced around the room high-fiving people.

And then, like that, the couple left. Someone told Jason the Bartender that the fellow was Dee Brown. Jason, a basketball fanatic, tilted his head. "Yeah?' he said. "Didn't look like him."

My mind immediately flashed to a story I'd read in the papers last fall. A New Jersey man was arrested after spending the summer telling people he was the New York Yankees pitcher Joba Chamberlain. Apparently, his summer was packed with free drinks and food and more sex than he'd ever had before. The man was charged with criminal simulation and theft of services.

I fingered this Dee Brown fellow's card. Could he be the real thing? I'll let you know in a future post.

(Trivia answer: all three appeared on the Beatles' "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" album cover.)