Phil Collins, Elton John, and Gloria Estefan dominated Adult Contemporary radio back in the 1980s and '90s, yet have disappeared from modern radio. Seemingly, the only time you ever hear them is at the grocery store or your local CVS. This blog remembers the music, the stories and the quirky characters from my days working in Adult Contemporary radio.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
The Police "Wrapped Around My Finger"
While battling the flu one January evening, I could no longer tolerate my sore throat and took action. After lacing up my snow boots, I braved the windy, icy night and headed to a tiny convenience store about three blocks from my apartment in hopes of getting some ice cream to soothe the razor blades in my throat.Upon entering the store, an older Russian man paid me no attention as he sat behind the counter watching a tiny black and white TV.With my head throbbing and nose running, I quickly moved to the large cooler at the back of the store, but found no ice cream. An aisle over, I stumbled upon a small freezer filled with ice cream, but a strip of masking tape stood guard over the freezer door.In my fevered state, my brain couldn’t compute why the freezer was haphazardly taped shut, so I headed to the counter to ask the indifferent Russian.He stammered in broken English something about the bureaucrats at city hall and that he did not have an ice cream license. I stood there confused and dumbfounded. Was there such a thing as an ice cream license? Seems odd, but then again it's Chicago. Did you have to stand in line at a DMV-like facility to get said license? Did I take too much ibuprofen? The Russian nervously eyed around the tiny store and finally broke the silence. “You’re not working undercover for the city?” he questioned me.
“No,” I replied as if it wasn't the first time I answered that question.
“OK. I sell you ice cream.”
"Alright," I said as my brain questioned whether I really wanted unlicensed ice cream.
As the two of us shuffled to the back of the store, the old Russian mumbled to himself before cautiously lifting the tape off the freezer doors allowing unrestricted access to the frozen concoction. Without any deliberation, I grabbed a pint of Butter Pecan, paid him, and trekked home. A few months later I happened upon the corner store and noticed a “FOR LEASE” sign in the now empty storefront. I can only assume the Chicago Department of Ice Cream Licensing shut him down.