Busted

Young Woundup's rap about the last job he had before his current one. I'll probably go into this gig a little more someday. The store had a great history and attracted a lot of famous underground musicians. But the police were always lurking, and they did eventually catch my old boss. The operation lives on out of his apartment because Long Island businessmen need their Brian Wilson bootlegs. 

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2003-01-13 - 12:06 p.m.

a few weeks before sept. 11, the f.b.i. busted two shops in the village for making and selling bootleg cd's. midnight records (where i worked*) carried many of the same titles. the feds shut down those other stores for a time, but the shit-hammer had yet to fall on midnight. my boss, j.d. (a paranoid frenchman), readied my friend and co-worker b.j. and me for any questions we might get from undercover fuzz. "eef anyone ask you about bootlegz," j.d. said. "just start talkeen about 'ow 'ard eet ees to be a young man and leev een new york seetee."

i thought j.d. had picked up some subconscious vibes from b.j. and me. both of us were having a hard time as young men living in new york city. we made meager hourly wages. we worked on saturdays. we worked for a sour, middle-aged garage rocker. we would have a lot to say to any undercover spook poking around midnight.

the day after the bust in the village, a grizzled, 40ish guy with stringy blonde hair showed up and started pumping j.d. for his thoughts about bootlegs. our boss was characteristically guarded. the guy said the feds had also zapped some record stores in cleveland. j.d. shrugged, "zat's too bad, man."

a week later a beefy guy with a mustache came into the store looking for bootlegs. normally, i would've shown him where they were in our display racks, but this guy seemed inexperienced or nervous. he was a new york everyman type: dark complected; short haircut; quick, toothy smile -- he could've been a super's handyman, a subway driver, or a cop. he asked for U2 bootlegs. he was definitely a cop. no one ever asked for U2 bootlegs at midnight records, even though we had a few. i stuttered, "no, uh... no we don't sell any." he smiled the quick, toothy smile and left.

a week after that, the world trade center collapsed, and the f.b.i. had more important people to chase after than j.d. martignon at midnight records.

that wasn't the only run-in midnight had had with cops. but, at least in the other cases we weren't the ones being scrutinized.

my post at midnight was that of shipper. i boxed up all the hundreds of mail orders and took them to the old chelsea station post office every saturday. i sat to the right of the store's entrance on a small platform. it gave me a vantage point from which i could see anyone entering the store -- including cops -- before they saw me.

every once in a while -- maybe once every couple of months -- the police would conduct an undercover bust of someone out on 23rd street. midnight was on 23rd off the corner of 8th ave., down the block from the chelsea hotel. the cops liked to duck into our dimly lit shop to sychronize their watches or check their walkie-talkies. midnight also has a recessed entrance, so you can stand right outside the door and not be seen easily.

the cop would leave the store, and a few minutes later the blue and white nypd cars would swarm the suspect -- usually in a car, himself. yes, they were always male, and often wearing big, gold chains. i would wonder what they had done to command such an orchestrated arrest: drug kingpin? child porn pusher? n.y. islanders ticket scalper?

after all those busts, i got good at identifying undercover new york cops. they all looked the same: burly, mustachioed, usually with a mets hat or jersey, and headphones -- little speakers that went up thru the shirt and fit right in the ears. those were for the walkie-talkies. i could spot them at the subway platform at bedford ave. where they would ticket young people for smoking or riding their bikes off the train.

now that terror hysteria has cooled a bit, i wonder if the feds will go looking again for j.d. at midnight. in a way, he would deserve getting pinched for the overpriced bootlegs he pushes (Mott the Hoople-Wild Side Of Life-(Ltd.Jap.CD'70 Fillmore W.+Bonus)27.99 ). but i'm sure he would tell you that's how he survives. it's hard to be a middle-aged, french garage rocker and live in new york city.

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* I was more than a little tickled when we got that 2001 Best Of nod in the Village Voice and it mentioned the "supernice staff." BJ and I always took customer service very seriously.

Goodbye, Jim Rome

We did have fun this past birthday weekend. Now August is winding to a close, and with the first chill of autumn, feelings of a different way of life return: school days, leaves to rake, new TV shows and football.

I should note that this is the two-year anniversary of the start of my time on the night shift — a chapter in Woundup history readers may have found either compelling or annoying. Regardless, when it ended, my life changed in many ways, and I was able to break free from four-plus years of feeling bad about myself on the job. If you have any inkling to retrace what happened, you can begin here (start Aug. 28, 2006, and end Jan. 5, 2007).

Dreemlund

I was talking with Jonathan last night about dreams, and as I predicted, I ended up having a vivid one after earlier claiming I had no vivid dream life. But that still is almost completely true. (I think I delved into it in at least one post on Old Woundup.) I've always been more of a day-dreamer (and a layabout), and I've long figured this activity uses up fuel in some way from the Dream Gas Tank.

So, you probably want to hear about the dream. Well, I can't remember much of it now, though I know it concerned some old friends from Florida: running around at night, a dinner. I should've written it down.

But I do recall that post. Here it is. And it is your reason to start reading Old Woundup, which, though not as technically sophisticated as this current incarnation, more than makes up for any shortcomings in heart.

The Answer

It's time for reader mail, which means Picodiribibi's romp through 2002 memories has come to a close. There were a few more posts after this on the original site, but they were record reviews and didn't pertain much to our android friend.

Yes, I have indeed lost the city council episode forever. You might remember it involved Picodiribibi and his creator pitching a production of Ionesco's "Rhinoceros" to the Orland Park City Council for the city's annual community theater show. You can probably guess their response.

I promise you, Woundup reader, that I will not let these stories die a second time. Find them by using the link at right.

Will Picodiribibi come back? I don't know... maybe.

Rides Again

Picodiribibi, the Orland Park android, is back online (link at right). I re-posted his first adventure from more than four years ago. I hope you enjoy it. I'll add other stories from the Pico vault in the coming weeks. Keep checking in.

On the Record

All right... sitting here... at this hour... pining a bit for the past... I promise. I make an official promise here for you to note on RSS feeds (at right). Because I fucked up and let the original Picodiribibi Diaryland site die out, I will put it back up on Diaryland by the end of FY 2006. Picodiribibi (2002) -- the story of an android and his 25-year-old creator, both of whom lived in Orland Park, Ill. -- still has hardcore adherents. They'll be happy to know I have all the old files. So it shall be done. Stay tuned...