My First Job: Rank and File (Part 2 of 4)

All of this hullabaloo about fast food chains supporting anti-gay causes and the ensuing controversy has stirred up some more of my own memories about working at Everyone's Favorite Chicken or "EFC," which is not really its name. (Names have been changed, as Tina Fey would say, "to protect the awesome.") See my earlier post, "Keep Calm and Carry On," for more on the background and chuckles on how I came to work at EFC and other adventures in fast food.


Rank and File


It was very interesting to learn the power dynamic at EFC. There was the single-shade-of-grey-haired gentleman who owned the joint and hired me. Let's call him "Mr. Smith." Mr. Smith was a genuinely nice man. As a boss, however, he really effed up the system when he came out of his upstairs office to "help out front." He was much more effective as a figure head than a manager or a front-line employee of any sort. There was a collective inward groan when he surfaced out front to lend a hand. The front line crew had mastered our communication and chain of productivity (or non-productivity, depending on our mood at the moment), and having to deal with the Interloper and slap a smile on our face to please this authority figure really slowed down our rhythm. Also, it made it slightly more challenging to give away free food to our friends when he was around. (More about that later.) If we played our parts well enough, however, he never knew a thing.


Mr. Smith's favorite expression was, "If you've got time to lean, you've got time to clean." Clever. I do remember one spectacular cleaning Mr. Smith performed. We had a Very Special Visitor, the Health Inspector, stop by to evaluate the restaurant. I witnessed Mr. Smith dust off the top of an exhaust fan, scattering dust and debris into the basket of food frying in oil below it and onto the fries waiting in the warmer while simultaneously sweet-talking the inspector. The restaurant passed the inspection with flying colors, I kid you not.


The true management was entrusted to college-age kids -- some of whom were recent high-school grads from my own school, meaning that I already knew them in a previous social hierarchy of power. Or if I didn't know them previously, then these kids (I mean, let's call them what they really were: slightly older kids than me - with definitely more facial hair than me) automatically earned credit with us as older college students. At least one of the two women college students ran all of the books. I think that's called "accounting," but math has never been my bag, so I have repressed such vocabulary if I ever knew it at all. (Do I have any friends who are accountants? If so, my apologies, but I have no idea what it is that you do, really.) And then there was the good ol' boy, "Charlie," our charismatic college-age manager whom many of the females, at least, both resented and revered for his ability to boss us around, his smug charm, his good looks, and his flirty ways. He and whichever guy was working often mildly hazed the newbie employees by having them go around to the other stores in the mall and ask to borrow their "left-handed shelf stretcher." I'm disappointed that such a thing does not exist because I am left-handed, and I do try to appreciate the advances in left-handed technologies that our modern world offers. He and a few of the other males who adopted the good ol' boy mentality exerted enough influence over me and Beffy (my best friend who helped land me this cushy job) that for a period of time, we even listened to country music. Like anthropologists trying to assimilate to a new culture, there we were: hardcore Cure and Morrissey fans-turned-modern-country-music listeners. These were crazy (and short-lived) times.


Most of the positions at EFC were very gender-divided without great explanation. The girls typically worked out front on the literal "front lines" as cashiers and order-takers, and the guys were in the back, cooking chicken and presumably talking smack. Oh, and concocting crazy combinations of food that they dared each other to eat. It was a primitive form of "Fear Factor" going on back there...After enough hangry* people came at me demanding food, suddenly lurking around in a back room - even if it means slaving over vats of frying chicken - seems like a welcome alternative. The real kicker is that us ladies watched as the guys slinging chicken and having fun times in the back got raises and we did not. I do not know the justification for this, but it seemed incredibly unfair. That I did not commit murder during the entirety of the Christmas season when I worked at the busiest (and only) mall restaurant full of endlessly crabby children and adults was definitely grounds for a raise, if you ask me.

 "Hungry" plus "angry" equals "hangry." Thank you, Betsy Lavin, for creating this most appropriate, descriptive term.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: My "glory days" were my college years spent workin...

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: My "glory days" were my college years spent workin...: My "glory days" were my college years spent working in a music store. (Remember music stores? Physical structures where people would go sole...

My "glory days" were my college years spent working in a music store. (Remember music stores? Physical structures where people would go solely for the purpose of buying cassette tapes, compact discs, and vinyl?) I loved that job and all of its perks - knowing the little-known bands and often getting prime tickets to live shows. Although...Maybe I'm getting too damn old for the nonsense that comes with seeing live music in clubs: All that beer spilled on me by people nearby (rather, all of the beer I spill on myself), the eternal wait for the band to actually take the stage while everyone endures the mediocre opener, the jockeying for a good, unobstructed viewing spot to watch the band, the still-not-being-able-to-see when the band finally does take the stage, the fear of going to the bathroom and missing a favorite song,and the painful bladder repercussions (given the intake of both beer and caffeinated drinks to stay awake past 9 p.m.). Add to that the recent stat of affairs: our kids, Bless their souls! - who still wake up at 6 a.m., even though I'll make it home after 2 a.m...All of these things. Hmmm...Now that I think about it, I never want to go see live music again.

Having said that, I recently went with a friend to see the Indigo Girls. (Yes, I admit that the Girls are a guilty pleasure, but those ladies are part of my childhood audioscape.) They played at a tickets-still-remaining show in Richmond, VA in one of those standing-room-only venues. If I went to a few more shows like this - a mellow, good-natured, happy crowd primarily composed of lesbians or friends-of-lesbians - I might have a rosier perspective about going to see a show. Being there was therapeutic when compared to the days of attending punk shows where some big dude cranked up on something repeatedly slammed into me in his crazed attempt to start a mosh. (Thankfully, one time there was an even bigger dude, who reached out from behind me, and in one deft move, grabbed the meth-head by the neck and convinced him to take it down a notch. Chivalry lives!)

The good ol' days...Was this really where I went to see live music? I don't even recognize this place in the daylight.

So that's where I come from, which brings me to now: My review of Stageit, an online interactive concert. I learned of it from a Facebook update from Bob Schneider advertising a few remaining spots left to join up and see him on stageit.com. From digging around a bit, I learned that the concept was created by a musician to help artists make some money in a music culture that (these days) rarely pays well. For most artists, touring extensively is cost and time-prohibitive. So, stageit.com provides another way for artists to get their music to the masses as well as to connect with fans in more of an intimate way. Concert-goers don't have to physically go anywhere; a log-in is provided on a certain day, at a certain time, and the fan watches where ever he and his internet-connected computer are.

I was curious: What makes this different from watching a youtube video of the artist's live show, or streaming concerts from channels that allow consumers to access archived shows? On stageit.com, no shows are ever archived; in fact, they are one-time shows, much like an authentic concert. A person can certainly purchase multiple shows (what is, in essence, "touring with the artist"). Also, fans can send questions to the artist in a scrolling feed during the performance. If a viewer likes what she she hears, she can respond by tipping the artist, tossing money into his virtual hat while he plays. Or, she could grease the palm of the artist by tipping while requesting a song. Also, the view watches the artist perform where ever the artist wants. The chosen venue often ends up being somewhere in their own home or studio -- kitchen, bedroom, wherever.

So I paid all of $5 to see Bob Schneider. Once I registered with the site and paid my fee, stageit.com sent me a link to the "show." We logged on a few minutes before the 9:00 start time and watched the scroll feed as people enjoyed their fifteen seconds of fame without Bob present, even: "We want Bob! We want Bob!" and "Let's get effed up and do some effing!" And this, which still has me puzzled: "I need to pee like I hate porcelain!" Finally, the screen blipped, and there sat Bob: "Let's get this Mother____ started!"

Waiting for showtime.

Really, there is some similarity to watching an artist on Skype, with better filming equipment on the part of the artist, I imagine. The picture quality was only but so good (even on our decent HD television), and the streaming paused at times and then sped up to "catch back up" with itself. In between songs, Bob addressed the people making requests online, noting where they were from and making fun of them for saying/doing inane things. Also, the volume fluctuated: It was hard to hear his comments in between songs, and we had to jack up the volume when he was talking. Then, the sound was uncomfortably loud when he was actually singing, and we again adjusted the volume accordingly.

Also, unlike a live show, it was pretty awesome that I could yell, "Hey! You're in my way!" to the guy blocking my view, and he sat down cooperatively....Because he's my husband. Oh, and we spent the show lounging around on couches. And we used bathrooms that were closer and much cleaner (so I'll have people believe, anyway...) than the ones in clubs or arenas.

Greg rocks out to the show.

Mark swoons to Bob's tunes.

The Stageit format for an artist seems to be less pressure than a live concert. When playing from a request, Bob didn't always remember words from some of his songs. Sometimes he got through a few lines and then had to move on to another song because he admittedly didn't remember the rest.

But it was cool to feel like we were in close quarters with an artist and to hear his silly banter. The dude is hilarious and has the sense of humor on par with an 18-year-old frat boy. And we could smell some sort of substance coming off of him, even with the barrier of the television. If I was a betting woman, I'd guess he was loaded. Maybe that's what it takes to play a show for a camera, which must seem artificial.


Live show vs. Stageit.com -


Bottom line: For Superfans jones-ing for any glimpse of an artist or for those who are highly curious and short on money and/or time to go see live music, I'd definitely recommend giving stageit.com a whirl. It's still hard to compete with a live show, though.