Reglar Wiglar Idiotorials

IDIOTORIALS
BY CHRISTOPHER P. AUMAN

#21

(2005)

Reglar Wiglar: I like that shirt.

Chris Auman: Oh, this old thing?

RW: Yeah, where'd you get it?

CA: Thrift store.

RW: It really looks good on you.

CA: Really? Thanks.

RW: So why a self-interview for this issue's Idiotorial?

CA: Besides the fact that no one else wanted to do it, you mean?

RW: Right, besides the obvious reason.

CA: Well, I just don't think Reglar Wiglar readers ever get a chance to see me as a person. They never get a glimpse of who I really am. All they get to see is a really fantastic magazine and they never really see the genius behind it.

RW: Maybe they don't want a glimpse.

CA: They don't, you're right, but why should it always be about them?

RW: Excellent point.

CA: Thank you. You're a really good interviewer by the way.

RW: Thanks, man. You're cool to say that.

CA: You're cool too.

RW: I guess were both cool! (mutual laughter) Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

RW: Ok, before this gets anymore narcissistic, let's get to the point.

CA: Why don't you ask me what's been happening with the Reglar Wiglar lately?

RW: All right, what has been transpiring with the magazine as of late?

CA: Nice, I like the way you kind of reworded that, made it sound better. Anyway, I'm glad you asked that question. There's been a lot happening, how'd you put it, as of late?

RW: Yes.

CA: A lot of changes. Sweeping changes that are directly affecting the way we run things around here.

RW: How do you run things around here?

CA: Into the ground usually. (mutual laughter)

RW: That was really funny. Anyway, what kinds of sweeping changes are we talking about here?

CA: Well, for instance, I fired the entire staff?

RW: That's a big sweeping change.

CA: Yes it is, and it was quite a shock to those people who were fired, which was all of them.

RW: What was their reaction?

CA: Most of them were relieved I'd say, but there were a few. .

RW: I can just imagine who, the usual suspects, huh?

CA: I know, right? Some people were all like, "Fire us? You don't even pay us," and I was all like, "Pay you? You don't even work here, technically," and they we're all like, "F this" and "F that" and a lot of "F You!" and a few punches were thrown and I think someone's glasses got stepped on and got crushed.

RW: That's horrible.

CA: Yes, it was.

RW: What prompted your decision to fire everyone?

CA: It wasn't my decision. Let's get that straight and on the record. This decision came down from upstairs.

RW: So you had no choice?

CA: None whatsoever.

RW: So you're kind of like the victim in all this.

CA: I am very much the victim, but to be fair, I was pretty sick of looking at a lot of those people anyway. I was sick of looking at all of them actually. So when the boys upstairs at Giganta Corp. sent word down that they were dissolving the magazine, well, let's just say, I was game.

RW: Wait, let me get this straight, are you saying you were glad they were going to shut down the magazine?

CA: Yes.

RW: I'm shocked.

CA: Yes, the whole "shitty zine that nobody cares about" genre had gotten a bit stale for me. I'm quite bored with it really. I've been wanting to move on to greener pastures for awhile now?

RW: And start another magazine?

CA: And be a farmer, actually, raise cows or sheeps or llamas or something, bears, I don't know, what do you do on a farm?

RW: Grow stuff.

CA: Sure, maybe something like that. Maybe I'll grow chickens or something. That's always been my dream really.

RW: Wow. That's so noble.

CA: I should stop, I'm boring you.

RW: No, not at all. I find this all very fascinating, please continue.

CA: That's it actually, farming.

RW: Oh. OK Anyway, so that's it, huh? No more issues.

CA: No, actually, I guess I forgot to finish my story. The boys upstairs initially wanted to discontinue publication of the magazine but they had a change of heart.

RW: Tax write off?

CA: Bingo. But for that to work, they said we needed to cut back on distribution, they said we needed to cut back on quality and that we needed to have fewer advertisers.

RW: Cut back on advertising! Is it even possible for the Reglar Wiglar to attract fewer advertisers?

CA: You wouldn't think so, but we'll see. I think you'll be surprised at the lack of effort we can inject into a project when we put our minds to it. I think we're really going to take this thing underground.

RW: Further underground?

CA: Oh, yeah, that's the beauty of being underground, the Reglar Wiglar will still exist, it just might be impossible to actually find. For example, Reglar Wiglar #22 might be one copy written on a cocktail napkin left on the table at a Wicker Park bar some night. Issue #23 might be some graffiti written on the wall in the men's room at Millennium Park.--"Blow me" it might say. #24 might be stuck inside a fortune cookie or written on a blimp. You'll just have to keep your ears and eyes peeled for it.

RW: If you care that is.

CA: Right, if you even give a shit.

RW: Well all right. This has been an incredibly gratifying experience. I totally enjoyed interviewing you. I've really learned a lot.

CA: Thank you. You really blew my mind with some of the questions your were asking. They were pretty amazing.

RW: Well thanks, I appreciate it.

CA: Hug?

RW: Sure, why not.

#19

(2003)

Ten years of the Reglar Wiglar and what a long, hard slog it's been. Ten years and nineteen issues. That's something like 1.9 issues per year-in fact, that's exactly 1.9 issues per year. To celebrate this milestone in history you would think I would've tried to come up with something a little extra special for this issue's Idiotorial. You would think. I got Nathan' though. Sorry. But what I figured I'd do is, I thought I'd turn this issue's Idiotorial over to you guys and try to answer some of the questions that you, the audience, might have. So, let's get started shall we? Does anybody have any questions? Yes, you right up front there with the funny pants. What's that? Did I think that after ten years I would still be doing the Reglar Wiglar? Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Next question. Yes, you in the back with the Sum 41 t-shirt. Did I think the Reglar Wiglar would have come as far as it has in just a decade? No, I would have thought that this magazine would have gone much, much, much further than it has. Frankly, I'm a little disappointed. Yes, you with the garage rock haircut-looks like you got up on the wrong side of 1965. Ha! I'm sorry, anyway what was your question? Have I enjoyed publishing this magazine? Wow. Enjoyed. Enjoyed is a such a strong word. Next. Yes, Miss. Well thank you, I feel good. What's that? Shame on you young lady, that is not right, but I appreciate it, thank you. I'll be hanging around for a bit after the Idiotorial if you'd like me to elaborate further on that subject. Anyone else? Yes, you with the pierced...thingy. What's that? I have a face for publishing? That's very funny, sir. Let's say we leave the snappy one-liners to George W., OK? Now what was your question? How do I sleep at night? Like a baby, like a really, really tired baby. What kind of question is that? OK you in the front. Relax son, what's the matter, you got ants in your underpants? Oh shit, yeah that can be painful. You have to wash ALL your clothes and sheets? Yes, and shave everything. Next. Do I have any scruples left after ten years in this business? Yes. Do I have any regrets? Sure. Have I had the chance to listen to some really, really bad music? Absolutely. OK people, last question, please. What was that Ma'am, was it worth it? That's a very, very good question. OK, I see your hands but this has got to be the last question. Yes. What's the question? The question is, what's next? Is that right? I don't know, but I'd like that inscribed on my tombstone. Thanks guys.

#17

(2002)

Like many people alive today, things bother me. Big things bother me of course: terrorism, wars on terrorism (things getting blown up specifically), white collar criminals (greedy fuckers in general), popular music (P. Diddy in particular), but little things bother me too. I thought I'd share a few of them with you. It's much easier than offering any constructive solutions for the bigger things that bother most people alive today.

THINK INSIDE THE BOX

It's time for people to get their thinking back inside the box. I know many of you have good intentions. You want to go against the grain and do something different. You want to march to the beat of a different drummer and be a creative problem solver, etc., but please, what we could really use right now--what would really help all of us out--us if we all started thinking inside the box. We need to ask ourselves questions like: What is normally done in these situations? What is everybody else doing/ How would grandpa (wise man that he is) tackle this problem? How has it always been done--not perfectly, not uniquely--but what has worked before? Let's get back inside the box.

ON THE HOOK

Let's get it back on the hook and keep it on the hook. Our clothes don't need to be off the hook. Our music doesn't need to be off the hook. Our cars, our hairstyles, our stereos--these things don't need to be off the hook. None of it needs to be off the hook. Not anymore. Let's get it all back on the hook. Let's get it back in the box and onto the hook where it belongs. Let's get organized.

LOGISTICAL NIGHTMARE

Logistics. I can't go a day without hearing someone, somewhere incorporating the word logistics into everyday conversation. Logistics according to the the American Heritage Dictionary pertains to the "procurement, distribution, maintenance and replacement of materiel and personnel." That's materiel: "equipment and supplies of a military force." It's a military word. They made it up, they can use it. It's not a word for you to use when you go a-blabbin' about the logistics of throwing a dinner party for twelve people or trying to get a keg of beer up the back stairs without the landlord seeing. Let's give that word back to the military where we heard it from General What's-His-Name on CNN eight months ago. This is a time of war and it's not helping our cause if every schmoe on the street goes around talking about logistics this an logistics that. Planning a wedding shower or a bachelor party is not a logistical nightmare, it's probably just a bad idea.

TURN SIGNALS

Somewhere far, far away, in a country ending in -istan, Canadians are accidentally having bombs dropped on them just so you can enjoy the freedom to make left turns in front of oncoming traffic at intersections. But your intentions to drive like a nutcase need not be concealed. I'm talking about turn signals, assholes, use 'em!

That's it for now but I'm sure I'll think of something else real soon. Until then . . .

Piece.

#16

We here at the Reglar Wiglar have struggled to get this issue out much as we have struggled to get every issue out over the last eight years. It has never been easy, or fun, or "worth it." It's a burden we take on for lack of anything better to do, like gainful employment, a fulfilling relationship, hobby, etc. While this magazine is always a daunting task and a horrendous waste of time and someone else's money, we somehow manage to carry on day after day after ever-lovin' day. There was something different about this issue however, and that difference was as noticeable as it was remarkable, coming as it did on the heels of the ominous events of September Eleventh. After this date, compassion, patience, restraint--virtues not usually associated with this magazine--found a host in the hearts and minds of all who toil for the Reglar Wiglar. Kindness, generosity, and understanding were all prevalent at this time of need, when never before had these qualities been so much as hinted at, alluded to, or even mentioned in jest among the rabble that take up residence in the Wiglar Compound. I had long been of the opinion that such virtues and emotions were completely incapable of impregnating the thick skulls and tiny, hardened hearts of this wretched, miserable crŸe. I was impressed, to say the least, by the behavior I witnessed in the days following "The Attack." To be perfectly honest, I never would have expected some of the people around here to rise to the occasion, as they most certainly did, every last one. To be more blunt, I always assumed the worst about this collection of assorted freaks and thoughtless imbeciles. And why not? Their words and actions up until this point have done nothing but reinforce these opinions, but it is in times of crises that one's true colors show. Times such as these. For that I thank them. As our leaders have called for a return to normalcy, so have the owners of the Reglar Wiglar (if you consider being told "get your shit together" to be such a call as I do now). It would seen that things have indeed returned to normal here. We have returned to our daily routines much like the rest of the country. Muggsy has fallen back into his routine of perpetual tardiness and procrastination. Malcolm has begun urinating on the office plant much to the consternation of Jayne Wayne whose complaints on this and other matters both trivial and inconsequential can be heard clearly across several county lines. Likewise, around the nation, criminals are committing crimes again, bullies are hazing nerds, careless teens are fornicating, drug-crazed fiends are roaming the streets searching for their next "fix," birds are shitting on parked cars and once again people on every road in the country are driving like complete assholes. Apathy has returned to the hearts and minds of a great many of us. The normalcy we crave, the normality we desire, the normalness has returned. Except of course for that lingering urge to kick someone's ass, somewhere, sometime soon, but perhaps that's normal too. As for your part in all of this healing. You can best help your country by helping the economy. Every penny you spend is a giant leap towards recovery. Spend as much money as you possibly can. Go to reglarwiglar.com and order t-shirts, buttons, back issues, please, whatever it takes. Spend all of it if you have to. Thank you, Americans. Piece!

#15

(2001)

First, let me apologize for last issue's Idiotorial. Let's just say that it was pathetic and leave it at that. I'm sure you're all concerned about what's been happening with the Reglar Wiglar lately. I know I'm not, but I'll fill you in at any rate. For one thing a much needed change of scenery was thrust upon us once again. We moved. Yep, packed up the mules and got the hell out of Uptown. Shit happens. Things change. It's a long story and has little to do with Starbuck's but I will say that I used to enjoy being able to kick back on the porch of the Reglar Wiglar Compound (that's really what it had become) and gaze out at the various derelicts congregating in the alley behind the building and ask myself, "What are those crazy crackheads up to today? They're not gonna set Tony on fire again are they? Yep, they sure are." But that scene changed from the downwardly trodden to the backwardly baseball capped, The Starbuckedly mobile, the kind of scum that has ruined many a good slum in this town. I'm being a bit cynical and exaggerating a bit, I suppose, but it's for effect so I really can't apologize. Actually, I wish them luck in Uptown, but it's folly to even think that you could ever completely gentrify that neighborhood. I guess it can't hurt to try. When the first thing you see in the morning as you climb the urine-stained steps to the Wilson el platform (ready to hop the train that will slowly whisk you away to work) is a steaming pile of shit, you'll know you have arrived. Savor it!

Yeah, so anyway, other than the obvious socio-political factors that make me such a radical (radically cheap!) more important economic considerations percolated the move west and so here we are tucked safely behind the Kennedy Expressway, close once again to the longest noncurving street in the world, Western Avenue, which once provided the demise of many a godawful CD, if you remember back in the days when this magazine used to run a little thing call Western Avenue, longest, noncurving street, etc., etc. I recommend getting a back issue and catching up on some of the twentieth century's most overlooked music criticism.

This reminds me, or rather a big yellow Post-It note reminds me that I must pay my respects to the office's Performa 200 on which I write this final epitaph and the last bit of writing for this issue. I must say to you (I'm talking to the computer here now, play along) that you have served me well these past eight years and I am proud and honored to call you my friend. You were quite an innovative little machine in your day weren't you? With your clever hard drive built right in to your monitor, your compact design was the envy of all those cumbersome external drive PCs and you knew it! I'll miss your nine inch black and white screen and those cute little whirring noises you make when you fire up, ready to show the world what you've got. You deserve better than the dumpster where you're headed but we've got no space to spare for useless and outdated--

(For the purposes of this gag that was originally in print, pretend that the rest of this Idiotorial is handwritten. Thanks 'Preciate it.)

Shit! Perfect timing. Kinda ironic, actually: my computer crashes at exactly the same time I was typing in a sentence about how I was gonna get rid of it . . . oh well. I've been meaning to give this zine a more personal, handwritten feel anyway. It's a lost art, really, but it just so happens that I was done with this thing anyway.

Piece.

#14

(2000)

I must confess, sometimes putting this zine together is enough to make me want to gag and puke. And so here we go again, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. Yep, here we are again, another year, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. I wish there was someway out of this. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around.

And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around but something really needs to be here to take up space. As long as it looks like there's something here that's not very interesting, people won't stop to read it and then I'll be totally off the hook. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around.

Don't get me wrong. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. It's very easy to spell check a thing like this. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around.

And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. This is the only thing keeping this issue from being done. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around. And so here we are again, another season, another issue and I don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around.

On a final note: You're right, I am lazy. You're right, I am lazy. You're right, I am lazy, but I just don't feel like writing an Idiotorial this time around.

#13

(1999)

Dear Freaks,

You may or may not have noticed, but there have been changes around here--big, sweeping changes--changes that will affect all of us for the rest of our lives. No, not really, but there have been a few minor modifications and a slight adjustment here and there--fine tuning if you will, but I've already forgotten what those changes were. Hmmm . . . did anyone happen to catch Ricky Martin on the MTV Music Video Awards?

Anyway, what I wanted to say was this: as we enter the twilight of this year 1999, and this decade that goes down with it and this century and this you-know, millennium (you have been paying attention!), I enter my own special twilight right along with it and that makes me somewhat reflective if not downright weepy. And what's with this Eminem guy, anyway? What the fuck is Dr. Dre smokin' this year?

Howard Stern. But that's not really what has been on my mind. What I wanted to express was; this will probably be the last issue of the millennium. Oh sure, despite the threat of the Y2K bug, I'll try to slap another pathetic issue together in a couple months, search the archives for some overused filler, scour the files for some clip art, hassle a few hacks and hit up a few deadbeats, review a couple of records, a seven inch, maybe even a Limp Bizcuit show, but we both know that it probably won't happen. So if I could just leave you with a few thoughts to remember as you enter this brave new era in the history of humankind, as we stumble blindly into the bright light, we must as a people unite and rise above our petty differences and forge a new society based on trust and respect. So what? George W. Bush put a hairy nostril to a few lines of coke, I'm sure he didn't inhale, besides he doesn't want to discuss it.

It is important that you bear in mind that these Idiotorials that you A) love or B) don't bother reading, come at a price. That price is the searching of the soul, the scrutinizing of the inner self, the forcing of the fingertips to strike the keys, almost at random, until an entire page is filled with tiny words that you must read one after another, after another,--words that really make no sense. It is on this principle that we function around here. That is the goal, that is what we live for: filling page after page after page with small words like Buck Cherry and South Park and for what? With everything being dot comed and merged and acquired and e-this and Internet that, where does that leave us? Where does that leave the printed word on newsprint? Who cares and who pays for it? And what would you bid on ebay?

And what do we know now? What did we learn from it all? Well, for starters, we know Marilyn Manson's ass needs a parental advisory sticker . . . a big one and soon. That's what has been decided and so on and so, though change is constant and as inevitable as pet dander, (and just as irritating to the ear, nose and throat) you are powerless against it. That is why we want to guide you. We ask that you lean on us. Wipe up a mess with us. Go ahead, throw us down, spread-eagled in a puddle of spilled beer or fresh cat vomit or a liquidy substance even more vile. Let our newsprint soak up the nastiness, the ugliness of life, Insane Clown Posse, use us to fan away an unpleasant odor, to ward off an oppressive blast of summer heat or throw us on the fire to chill your weary, wintered bones. For all of us are hurtling into the unknown and fast, and there ain't no support cables on this rickety old bridge to the 21st century, know what I mean, blah, blah, blah. And anyway, like I said, the whole point of all this was just to fill up an entire page with the little words and nobody should be reading this anyway and I'm not going to mention Korn or their new al bum, if they have one, and anyway I'm almost done, just a . . . few . . . more . . . words ought to . . . do . . . it . . . OK, I have fulfilled another duty and have done so without even mentioning the Blair Witch Project or anyone else I may have forgotten like Jennifer Lopez or N'Sync (pronounced In Sync)

Good bye, Freaks.

#12

(1999)

1999, ladies and gentlemen. Not just the end of the millennium, 1999 also marks the six year anniversary of the Reglar Wiglar publishing dynasty. Yes, it's true, the Reglar Wiglar, the magazine you are holding in your grubby little hands right now (Eeew, they really are grubby!) is six years old this year. I'd appreciate it if you would celebrate quietly to yourselves and keep the congratulations and the praise to a whisper again this year. It's worked so well in the past and I would hate to break such a long tradition with a bunch of unnecessary, though heartfelt, hurrahs and "for he's a jolly good this or that". But you'll have to excuse me if I get just a teensy bit nostalgic. You know, I remember way back before Reglar Wiglar was a household name, back in 1998. If I knew then what I know now, well I probably wouldn't have fared much better, sad to say.

It's not that we here at Wiglar HQ aren't proud of our accomplishments, on the contrary, we're besides ourselves with glee that we've been able to forage a living in this city for that amount of time. It's no big secret that Chicago has a wealth of crap committed to newsprint and that most of it is free. We're honored that we've had the opportunity to lie along side the best of them.

Good advice is rarely taken for what it is, however, and it's seldom free, but since it's you people I'm gonna be generous and share with you all a couple of things I've learned from this town. It has been said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions and this is certainly true (as a figure of speech, of course, 'cause the last time I was on the Dan Ryan it looked like asphalt), but underneath that pavement is a solid foundation of good ideas that have never come to fruition, if only because of the apathy and the--the--the frailty of the human host, or maybe those ideas are good intentions and what the fuck am I talking about? This is why these Idiotorials are limited to one page.

On a lighter note, I would like to personally nominate Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan for Perpetual Prom King and Queen of the Universe. They are truly adorable! They should make some law in Hollywood that says that those two have to star in every movie together forever and ever and ever.

Anyway, I gotta run, me and a couple of the Wiglar Eggheads are gonna troubleshoot this Y2K thingy, which I am just now learning about--what, they can't run a news story on this stuff every once in awhile to keep the public informed? You know, I am really starting to get concerned about the total lack of information and instant communication in modern society. If only someone would invent a portable phone that we could carry with us wherever we go. Oh well, I'm sure we'll be able to debug the office Performa 200 in time. I just hope the government can do the same with theirs. The thought of some yuppie not being able to pull a fifty out of his/her ATM on New Year's Day just scares the beejesus out of me. Oh the humanity! I'm not too worried though. I got my 9mm and I'm not afraid to use it. To be honest though, I'm still waitin' for Skylab to fall on my head OK people? Please.

Well back to my hole for another six, six, six years of pain and suffering. I think I'll fire someone today, or at the very least set something on fire. And in the meantime, this here is issue #12 of the Reglar Wiglar, I hope you get a good swift kick out of it.

Piece.

#11

(1998)

It's judgment day here at the Reglar Wiglar, people. What we've always suspected has been confirmed by the Corporate Big Wigs: this magazine is a sinking ship and something had damn well better be done about it.

The word came down from the head office that somebody had to go. Somebody's head needed to be put up on the chopping block. We needed to 'down-size' and 'outsource' and in layman's terms, 'shit can' some poor sap. But who? None of these people around here actually deserve to be employed. These people are sick. They're degenerates. None of them has earned the right to keep their jobs or the money they're paid no matter how meager their wages are.

This was all beside the point though--a decision had to be made and I had to make it. I was the one who had to flip the proverbial coin. Actually, I did flip a coin. After throwing two darts at the employee roster taped to the wall in my office, I came up with two potential scapegoats: P.C. Jones and Muggsy McMurphy. I quickly decided, heads McMurphy's out; tails, McMurphy's out. The coin was tossed and landed perfectly on its side. Amazing, a tie! Thinking on my feet, I quickly made up a new rule: in the event of a tie, McMurphy, OUT!

I felt bad, don't get me wrong. I'm not quite as heartless as I come off in these Idiotorials. Pretty damn close, but I'm not as heartless.

I got good reason for not feeling too guilty about firing McMurphy though. I mean, this is a guy who wears nothing but a loin cloth around his apartment. I know this is none of my business but to me that's just weird. This is a guy who's best pick-up line is, "If you have a boyfriend, I'll kill myself." Not exactly a charming individual.

I'm kind of surprised that a lot of these winos around here have lasted as long as they have and the only reason they have lasted this long is due to my own compassion . . . or stupidity. I haven't decided. But I had to make an example of somebody. I call it a sacrificial firing, a friendly firing if you will. This zine business is war and in war different rules of conduct apply. Sometimes you have to execute a couple of your own soldiers just to show the others what happens to deserters, traitors, or just the shiftless and lazy.

To be honest, there was no rational behind Muggsy being put on the chopping block as opposed to say, a Joey Germ or a Malcolm Tent, I was just in one of those, "I'm going to fire the next sorry son of a bitch I see" mood when McMurphy happened to traipse through the door with a sack full of White Castle Sliders and the biggest tub of diet soda money can buy. He was twenty minutes late for the fifty kazillionth time in a row. I wasted no time.

"Clean out your desk, McMurphy."

He just snorted that little stoner laugh of his. He thinks he's so goddamn cute.

"There ain't no gettin' this desk clean," he said, nodding his head in the direction of the most unsightly and dirty, fly-infested piece of office furniture in journalism. "Ain't no way."

"I said, clean it out McMurphy, not clean it up. You're fired.

That snapped him out of his purple haze.

"Fired, man?"

"Yeah, McMurphy, fired. You're unemployed. Good luck elsewhere. You're done."

"Fired? Why man? What'd I do? I didn't do nuthin'."

"You're late for one thing."

"Yeah, but I'm always late."

He had me on that one, but I had plenty of ammo.

"Well, you smell like Cheech and Chong for another thing, you write record reviews like Beavis and Butthead, you have absolutely no respect for your coworkers who have absolutely no respect for you, themselves or each other. This is a sinking ship, McMurphy, and the rates are the first to go.

When McMurphy turned on the water works I gotta admit I got a little choked up myself. I'm a sucker for that shit, but once I had him physically removed from the premises by security, his sobs were barely audible.

I don't know, you'd think that maybe one of his so-called friends and allies here at the office would go to bat for him, stick up for the guy, but hell no, mums the word form those fickle bastards. They're just happy it's him and not them. They know here's nuthin' keepin' them from gettin' the ax. I tell yah the whole thing makes me a little sick to my stomach. Where's that frickin' whisky bottle? Shit! McMurphy, you son of a bitch!

#10

(1998)

A New Year: a New Beginning

New Year's resolutions, we all make them. We all make promises to ourselves that this year will be different than the last. This year we'll really lose that beer gut. This year we'll quit smoking, eat better and drink less. This year we'll make our loan payments in a more timely fashion. "Why do we do this to ourselves?" I often exclaim out loud at this time of year. "We seem to enjoy setting ourselves up for failure!" We seem to revel in the revelation that once again we won't finish anything we start and that our will to change is nil. See if you have enough will power to turn page four and read Jayne Wayne's interview with the reigning rock diva, Annie Baldwell.

But that's the whole point in starting a new year: starting fresh with a new perspective and a clean slate. The past is behind us and the future is ours and it lies ahead of us, waiting for us to grab a hold of and make the most o , molding it to fit our needs, our desires and dreams just like Skatastrophe, the latest ska sensation from South Dakota. Turn to page six for Joey Germ's interview.

Not only does the beginning of a new year usher in a new year of new experiences, new friendships and new opportunities, by the same token it bids farewell to the old year---the year gone by with all its old joys and old pains and sorrows, shattered dreams, goal just missed, regrets and the endless parade of "if onlys" marching through our consciences: if only I would have tried harder, if only I would have fought more for what I truly believe, if only I could find something to believe in, if only I would have not settled for less, if only I would have not made material wealth and the advancement of my career at the expense of friends and family my only goal . . . to see what goals rappers White Bred and Honky MC have set for 1998 turn to page ten.

So whether you're contemplating the year gone by or eagerly anticipating the coming months that lie ahead on the horizon before us, you'll want to turn to page sixteen and read Matt Champagne's, "Weeds the Dope Dog".

As far as human achievement is concerned in the arts, sciences and the humanities, the new year is also a time to reflect back on the best of the previous year. Who was hot last year? What got praised? What got panned? Turn to page eighteen for our Writers' Top Ten of 1997.

So whether you are at a crossroads in your life or at a fork in the road, whether you are looking into the future with open eyes or into the past with regret and shame, turn to page twenty for the usual crop of hilarious record reviews from some of this country's least competent record "reviewers" and keep reaching for the stars at the end of the horizon that stretches out before you like an open, endless road.

(1997)

Chose your own Idiotorial

ONE: For the Realists

It's Friday morning here on the north side of Chicago. I'm on my second cup of coffee and the sun hasn't dared to show its shiny ass yet. Looks like rain again. My lawyer just called and said it looks like the libel charges will result in a jury trial. There seems to be a serious shortage of people who can take a joke these days. The landlady has been around a couple of times this week in her bathrobe with a suggestion or two on how I can cut my rent in half. I'm tempted, but I'm not a whore. Maybe she can work something out with the half dozen or so bill collectors that have been on my ass since January. That would kill two birds with on rock anyway. Fuckin' vultures. Well, the deadline is two hours away and if I gave a shit about anything in this world I might be able to say a clever word or two about it, but it just doesn't look like that's going to happen.

TWO: For the Optimists

Hey Everybody! Welcome to another fantastic issue of the Reglar Wiglar Magazine! I hope you all had a terrific summer. How couldn't you, what with all the summer activities available? In Chicago, we have Bluesfest and Jazzfest and Taste of Chicago, in addition to dozens of neighborhood festivals celebrating the unique cultural and ethnic diversity of urban life. There was a ton of cool music stuff going on too. There was Horde Fest and Lollapalooza and even Ozzfest for you headbangers out there (I know you're out there). Let's face it, you really have to try hard not to have a good time in the summer time. There's just too much super cool stuff going on.

THREE: For the Socially Aware

As I was doing the final layout for this issue, I couldn't help but be irked thinking about the current situation in Bosnia. What's the solution to this problem that has been brewing for centuries in the Balkans? Can we afford to be optimistic? Do we, as concerned fellow humans dare to hope that this situation can ever be resolved peacefully without the senseless loss of human life?

FOUR: For the Pretentious

As I was crossing Clark Street on an unusually chilly August afternoon in the slight drizzle that hailed from a blackened sky, I noticed a withered figure approaching me from the opposite side of the street shore. It was a woman, old and frail, hunched like the aged, carrying the weight of her years on her like a heavy sack. She was clutching a book to her chest with veiny, wrinkled, liver spot-bespeckled hands. The book looked as old and worn as its caddy. I tried to read the title of this antiquated tome but could not because of the women's peculiar carriage. I could only hazard a conjecture as the genus of the manuscript. Perhaps it was an anthology of poetry from an age long forgotten.

(1997)

Hey Wiglar Fans, how ya'll doin'? Great! Ummmmm, first let me just say, real quick here, that I did not win the $11,000,000 Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes that I said I won in the last issue's Idiotorial. Yeah. Apparently, in my drunken excitement, I forgot to affix the necessary postage on the reply envelope and well, shit happens, it just happens to me more often. Lucky for me, however, the devoted readers of this magazine have such a highly developed and finely tuned sense of humor as to be able to take the nasty and vicious things I said about them with a grain of salt--a salt lick, actually, is what I would prescribe. And our advertisers of this publication who I denounced and belittled, well, they don't read this publication so that hasn't hurt us any.

But the whole thing got me thinking, you know, the excitement of my prospects of winning the $11,000,000, the sheer exhilaration I got from phoning relatives and telling them off, maxing out my credit cards, quitting me jobs, it was all a sensation unparalleled by any monetary reward. It's not winning the money that counts, it's the feeling of superiority you get when you think you are rich and better than everyone else, because come on people, when you're rich, you are better than everyone else.

That's when this idea hits me, I need to start a contest in the pages of the Reglar Wiglar! I want to bring that same feeling of intense joy to someone else. I want to share that feeling of finally, randomly and undeservedly winning an insane amount of money to someone else. That is why am so happy to announce the christening of the first Biannual Reglar Wiglar Everybody's a Winner Sweepstakes. That's right, you read correctly, a sweepstakes: any of a series of lotteries in which the entire prize may go to one winner (Websters). Here's how you enter: simply write your name (first or last or whatever), on a dollar bill, stick it in an envelope, printing your return address clearly on the outside of the envelope (if you chose) and mail the winning entry form to Reglar Wiglar Everybody's a Winner Sweepstakes Contest Event, PO Box XXXXXX, Chicago, IL 60657. The entry forms will be placed in my bank account and one lucky winner will be notified of their prize winnings. Please indicate if you prefer 8-track tapes or promotional cassingles. Enter as many times as you like. Remember, the more you enter the better your chances of winning.

Another item of note, you may or may not have noticed that this issue is sixteen pages thicker than previous issues. This doesn't improve the quality of the publication. Nope, it just makes it bigger.

Also, it is with a tear in our collective eye that we announce the resignation of Wiglar co-founder, one time publisher, co-dependent and real live, flesh and blood contributor, Tom Ziegler, from his post here at Reglar Wiglar. With Tom's departure he takes with him Tara Tattle, Oscar the Slouch, Larry Leffert, Lollipop, The Budget Movie Critic as well as a shoestring beer budget and a penchant for cheap hops and Lucky Strike unfiltered cigarettes. Good luck on all your future endeavors Tom and I would like to remind you that (because someone broke the lock) the door is always open but Malcolm Tent has urinated on your old desk thereby claiming that particular piece of office furniture as his own/

What else (only about three hundred words to fill here, that shouldn't be too much of a problem). Oh yeah, the staff party.

We tried a staff meeting once, back around issue #4 and if you remember correctly--and I'm sure you don't, but I'll tell you anyway--it didn't go down so well. The only thing that was really, concretely decided at that meeting was that "No WIglar function shall ever take place in a bar or anywhere near where alcoholic beverages can be consumed or even thought about."

Well, of course history is destined to repeat itself and that was two years ago anyway. I was sure that the staff had matured somewhat since then. And we have seen the hazing of a few new staff members since that fiasco anyway and some of these people actually have addresses, so I figured, what the heck. Instead of trying to hold together some kind of rag-tag editorial meeting, fuck it, let's just have a goddman party.

To make a long story short

(1996)

Holy shit, I did it! I finally broke through to Level 4! I always knew I'd strike it rich someday. I've always been searching for that cash cow for years all the while thinking I had to rely on my cunning, savvy, my slightly dishonest nature to turn a buck in this town and what do they do? They mail me a couple million dollars. Sheeesh! I haven't actually gotten a check yet but it is "guaranteed and holding".

It does me proud to see my name up there in big bold letters and to know that I am thee first person in history to break through to Level 4. Don't get me wrong, I know my children's children probably aren't going to be reading about their old Granddad's contribution to American History in their school text books but I can't help it if it makes me feel, well.... feel a little special.

Looks like this might very well be the last issue of the Reglar Wiglar. No point in going on with this old rag. I'm not gonna retire from publishing though, not yet. I'm thinking about starting up a full color monthly. You know, one of those glossy cultural/fashion type magazines with an emphasis on graphics and visual arts with a very hip, very urban, very fresh, very now kind of feel. Look for me to be dumping a lot of money into that project. It's tentatively titled Full Blast.

Whatever happens, however, the money changes my life and me as a person. I just want to say a couple of words to express my feelings to all the little people I've met on the way to prosperity: Fuck you! To say I couldn't have done it with out you would be a gross understatement. Of course, I could have done it with out you, I did do it without you.

I would also like to say, to all the people who have supported us by advertising in the Reglar Wiglar over the past couple of years: Ha Suckers! What were you thinking? People don't read the Reglar Wiglar guys, and the few individuals who do read this publication don't have any money to spend on your crap. Hello? Business school might not have been such a bad idea.

Speaking of our readership, in all sincerity, you people are the most special to me. Honestly, it is you who have made the past several extremely long and uneventful years only slightly less long and uneventful and I just wanted to say that you can fuck off as well, both of you. I don't need you or anyone else anymore. I have $11,000,000 "guaranteed and holding", I could melt you all down and wear you around my neck if I wanted to.

Ahhh, I don't have time to be vindictive, I just want to enjoy my new found wealth and live out the rest of my life in peace. I gotta get to the post office and mail this entry form to Dick and Ed. They need it in the mail by midnight tonight or it's no deal. I'll see ya later. Enjoy the magazine--zine, I'm sorry, it's a zine. Enjoy the zine.

$$$

(1995)

A lot has transpired here at the Reglar Wiglar in these many months past. There has been a lot of soul searching among the staff, a lot of spiritual journeys taken. A couple people got shit-canned. All par for the course in the heavy hitting, no holds barred, take no prisoners kind of journalism that we aspire to here at the Reglar Wiglar. It's a rough neck, cut throat, back stabbing business this paper business we find ourselves slashing through day in and day out. Just last week I had to fire Joey Germ's kind-hearted old grandmother for pilfering out of the whisky fun. That shit doesn't fly around here. Take it to New City for god's sake, we're trying to run a "freebie" here, not some charity for aging alcoholics.

The most recent development has been a move for us. That's right, we lost our lease. Lost our lease, got evicted, you know, whatever. Bottom line is we had to get the hell out of the area. Since being forcibly moved from our comfortable headquarters on scenic Western Avenue, we have secured a suitable substitute to serve as the basis of our operations: a quiet and spacious alcove tucked into a tree-lined street of a clean and courteous north side neighborhood (gang disputes are settled by ten o'clock on school nights.

The move itself brought about substantial change as well as growth. A new trash can was purchased for the northwest corner of the office so that the garbage needs to be taken out less frequently than in the past. Muggsy McMurphy's desk has been moved closer to the door so his co-workers don't have to smell him as he comes and goes and Malcolm Tent's long and hard fought battle for toilet paper coseys for the employee bathroom ended in a concession on management's part. (They really do look nice.)

Some things have stayed the same, however. Complaints, for example, still fall on deaf ears as do requests for raises. Hints at certain people's resignations were again unheeded as the attempt to get some new blood (lower salaries) into the ball game was once again aborted. Big heads remain inflated, their egos constantly being self-fed bullshit to sate their voracious appetites (a thesaurus was procured as well).

Other than that, for you nostalgia buffs, here's the same old bullshit.

Enjoy!

(1995)

Hey Wiglar Fans. At long last issue five. Sorry it took awhile. We we're advised by our agent, Bruce Noodleman, that we should hold off on the street date for the new Wiglar until the street buzz had built up a little more: "Make 'em sweat like junkies waiting for a fix." (Bruce fancies himself as having somewhat of a clue.) We here at the Wiglar Braintrust found a little bit of wisdom in Bruce's wizened words. "Bruce is right," we all agreed. "Make 'em wait. After all, they ain't payin' for shit. And what do they get in return? QP, that's what; Quality Product. That's what the Reglar Wiglar is; Quality Product."

Ahh, but then Bruce had a change of heart. God bless I'm. He told us, "You guys gotta get the new Wiglar out. Kid's wanna see it. They need it. If all you care about is testing the loyalty of your reading public, then you might as well just toss in the towel right now. The Wiglar isn't a fucking product, man. It's for the kids, about the kids, by the kids. YOU CAN'T PUT A PRICE TAG ON THAT!"

That gave us pause for thought. (Enough pause for a couple of cases of that new Red Mutt shit--5.5% alcohol, man. I love the '90s, they make the '80s look like a picnic at the tot-lot.) Bruce was right. We knew Bruce was right. I mean, what the fuck? The Wiglar is for the Kids, not for the Man. That's what "Alternative Music" is all about: bucking the system, going against the grain, swimming upstream and critics be damned. Bands like the Gin Blossoms and Stone Temple Pilots aren't out there sweatin' it in the arenas for their own personal gain. They're out there takin' it to the next level, testing the boundaries of what's acceptable, pushing people's buttons and pushing the envelope. They're not about commercialism or cashing in on a trend.

Artistic integrity doesn't keep the wolves from the door, but it sure as shit sounds good after a couple of beers. Then Bruce pointed something out. "You know, the Wiglar's got kind of a DIY feel to it," Bruce said. "And, hell even if it isn't DYI, it still looks like a do-it-yourself operation. People don't know if you're backed by Urban Outfitters or The Gap, man. As long as you look like you're going against the mainstream and convey that with enough conviction to make even the old school purists out their clench their fists and say, 'Hell yeah, Wiglar, sell it to 'em, baby!', then like the man said, 'Cash in now, honey!'".

Sell out. Cash in. Just Do It. Don't jump through hoops.

So anyway, this Wiglar's late. Fuckin' Bruce.

(1994)

Being somewhat modest when it comes to the Reglar Wiglar and the obvious influence it has had on the local cultural community has made me somewhat reluctant to write this issues Idiotorial. I would just as soon forget all about the fact that this issue marks our one year anniversary as a reputable, cultural publication, and just keep on working full throttle to get this magazine to the streets where it can educate and enlighten the masses. The Reglar Wiglar staff, unable to understand my unique nature has insisted that I am simply too selfish to devote any time or this magazine's space to write about them and the hard work they've done to help get the Reglar Wiglar to where it is today. They were also quite vocal in complaining about how seldom it is that I recognize, much less compliment anyone who has contributed time, initiative or hard work to this production. They say that, besides being hopelessly cheap, I am also one of the most unappreciative, megalomaniacal individuals to grace this planet's presence. To the staff, I can only say "fuck you". None of you are indispensable, or talented for that matter. In fact, all of you can be bought or sold for pennies or less. When and if, however, any one of you do start returning my phone calls and showing up to meetings (scheduled weeks in advance) and, god forbid, write something worthy of newsprint, then and only then will you be recognized, paid or even complimented. All that I can really say to you is quit whining and for god's sake sober up, you dropped out of college years ago, it's time you started acting like it.

I'm sure the same goes for our readers as well. Yes, I can afford to belittle our readership, you sail boats don't pay for a goddman thing. I don't exactly open my P.O. Box everyday and exclaim: "Oh golly gee, another fat check from the adoring public! How will I spend it all!" Where's my appreciation for time and money spent? Where's my reward? My goddamn kickback from kissing the asses of record companies and their parasitic label whores? You know what I earn form publishing this bullshit? Headaches, ulcers sexual dysfunction and early morning telephone calls from bill collectors and other Nazis I've been forced to borrow money from.

Now, as to my negligence in recognizing the contributions of my staff, unfortunately, we do not have the space in this issue's Idiotorial for such pandering like, "Jane Wayne has done such a neatsy-poo job for our magazine and she's such a talent and she's so fucking insightful and we never could have taken our first shit without her" (Relax Jane, it was just an example, no more memos, OK babe?) Maybe in our Second Anniversary issue we can thank all the losers who, because they aren't gainfully employed, have plenty of time and talentlessness to donate to "the cause". Maybe I'll print up a couple thousand flyers just listing the names of these people and mail them all over the world, but don't hold your breath, you look dumb enough as it is.

In addition, (you guys are gonna love this) due to a lack of submissions this quarter, we're rerunning some previously published interviews and other tired old gimmicks and gags for ya'll, but don't think of it so much as the same old recycled garbage that stunk enough the first time around, think of it as a sort of greatest hits compilation. Yeah, think of it like that.

Piece.

(1994)

It seems like the Reglar Wiglar is all you hear about these days. People in the clubs, on the street, even on the subway trains, are all talking about the Reglar Wiglar. They're saying it's thee hippest, coolest, cutting edgiest, most alternative, grungy-type magazine around. Truth be told, we here at Wiglar HQ are a little embarrassed by all the attention, but that's not going to stop us from continuing to bring you the kind of hardcore journalism, in-depth record and film reviews, insightful editorials, and of course, plenty of what has become know around town as the "Wiglar interview", considered to be quite a prestigious honor among several local artists and at least one musician.

As for the Reglar Wiglar Benefit and Second Issue Celebration Party at the China Club... none of you showed. To those on the Reglar Wiglar mailing list, hey, my fault. I think I may have put the wrong date on the invitations. I thought for sure they were RSVP, which would have saved me one helluva headache, but I guess we do operate in a PDZ (Postal Danger Zone) according to that recent postal probe they did, which would also explain why I haven't gotten a Hustler in months. The party, had anyone shown up, would've been a good time. There were many local celebs there, which weren't cheap, and for legal reasons we can't mention their names, because under their current contracts, we can't use them as an endorsement for a magazine whose benefit party was not attended by one member of the general public--except my cousin Dave was there.

We were also planning on running a photo essay of the whole sordid affair but we couldn't afford to pay the photographer twenty bucks an hour, plus film and developing costs, to snap photos of celebs mixing it up with absolutely nobody, except my fucking cousin Dave, who most of the local celebs found to be absolutely repulsive to at least three of the five sense.

Fuck it, these things happen and I just want all of you to know that I hold nothing against any of you people who agreed to be on our mailing list. Even if you purposely didn't show up just to snub me and The Reglar Wiglar and to cost us piles of money that we could have used to cover the production costs we were trying to cover by having the benefit party in the goddamn first place! Get it? Benefit? Worthwhile cause? Hello? Are your brains turned on? Do you spend all your money on Fugazi CDs?

I am not bitter, nor am I spiteful, nor do I believe in that "eye for an eye, pound of flesh mumbly jumbly. I simply hate all of you.

Anyway, we got some new shit in this here Reglar Wiglar. Underground writer and poet, C.F. Buchanan has agreed, posthumously, to let us reprint some of his provocative and relevant works of fiction, and a poem or two, in our new literary supplement, "Rain Drops". We have an interview with the reigning Queen of Rock, Annie Baldwell, conducted by the always intriguing Jayne Wayne. There's a new record review section focusing on local talent and we also have the first installment of Joey Germ's most recent artistic foray. The rest is pretty much the same old bullshit for you nostalgia buffs so enjoy it 'cause ain't none of us gonna be around forever.

Piece.

(1994)

We needed a theme for this issue of Reglar Wiglar--because I took this seminar over at the Discovery Center on how to start your own magazine, and Kevin (that was the instructor) said that a theme-oriented issue is sure to generate reader interest. Kevin said it needed to be something fresh, something now, something that will reflect the worldview of our readers.

Mr. Germ and I bantered around several ideas during one of our late night think tanks over a twelve pack of Old Style King Kans (the official beverage of Regler Wiglar--and endorsement deal is in the works, look for our upcoming ad with Dennis Farina!) Anyway, we came up with a few ideas.

A SWIMSUIT ISSUE

That idea was nixed. Mr. Germ and I only own a couple pairs of cut-offs and although photos of our svelte, fishbelly white torsos would certainly generate reader interest, we felt that through objectifiying ourselves, we would only compromise the stringent editorial standards we wrote on the back of a Burger King napkin one night. Besides, we figured we'd probably end up looking like Pauly Shore. Eeeyew!

THE CHICAGO SCENE

No way. Who wants to look at another picture of Billy Corgan shaking his fat can in a pair of velveteen jeans? And Billboard has already compiled an exhaustive guide to what's hip in the windy city, unless you disagree with their conclusion that Wicker Park is the cultural nexus of the Midwest.

70s NOSTALGIA

Ixnay. Done to death. Besides, we here at Regler Wigler are already cultivating the next big trend: 1870s Nostalgia. That's right, relive the days of the Reconstruction. You think those sideburns you got are big? Take a look at these mutton chops, grunge boy. Now if anyone could tell me where I could get my hands on a good carpet bag...

SEX

Always a sure-fire winner, but not yet. I've signed up for my next seminar at the Discovery Center; The Art of Sensual Massage, so look for it in an upcoming issue.

We finally decided that big issue #2 will be just that Big Issue #2, the theme being that every article is a separate theme unto itself, just like Big Issue #1. Helluva concept. Such a neatsy-poo job on the printing (howsabout a little discount for the plug there, Big Clyde?) Thanks to all the people who expressed a note of friendly condescension when we got the first issue out. Thanks to all the fine merchants who allowed us to drop of copies at their establishments (the women at Booksellers Row on Milwaukee said it would be OK as long as the magazine didn't contain anything "illegal or offensive". I wish).

(HOME)