Why I hate summer.
A month ago, upon hearing that the Virgin Megastore would be shutting it's doors for good, upon hearing that everything in the store was 50% off, upon hearing my inner voice remind me that I needed to buy the new Grandaddy, Louix XIV, Wolfmother, some David Bowie and whatever else I wanted to Americanly consume, I took a trip to Virgin between Miss Margarida brush-up rehearsal and the show that night.
Summer had arrived. A 6'3" fat-and-salty man walking a mile from his car to a record store in jeans and a black t-shirt, which Miss Ivonne (not from Pee-Wee's Playhouse) had so accurately pegged as my South Park ensemble of choice, doesn't have much choice but to persperate. And anyway, I can sweat naked on an iceberg. I was almost tempted to spell that iceburg, for my Jewish readers. Hi Gregg. Oh wait you're probably busy on your phone. Tell Julie hi for me.
So summer had arrived but the heat wouldn't dampen my spirits. Afterall, what could make a music freak happier than shopping in a record store? Or a fat girl eating cake? Or an Irishman with a Guiness? Or a negro youth with grape drink? I digress. I open the door to Virgin and Behold!, rows of vast nothingness! Fuck me stupid I was over a week late and most of the good stuff was gone. The humorless 20-year-old-looking nymph standing behind the counter promptly informed me that the store had ceased receiving new releases a month and a half prior, so my main reasons for coming were destroyed. I must have displayed some profane form of subtle "aww shucks" rejection because I was then given that "Well what do you expect, idiot? Don't you gobble the knob of corporate ironically named whorish Virgin Megastore like all us cool counter-culture types? I bet you eat meat and call yourself a liberal, you hypocrite. And your t-shirt doesn't even ironically applaud your faux-love for Slayer or Iron Maiden! Fucker." At that pointed, I wanted to break a pen open onto a pointy rock and give the bitch a new tattoo.
So I hit the racks. I look high and low for the seven or eight cds on my list. Only two are there, Bowie's Aladdin Sane and Ziggy Stardust.
Amidst the disappointment and my constant shuffling around high and low and my body tempterature still not acclimated from the hot outside to the kind of luke warm inside, I'm perspiring like a fiend. It's not pretty, folks. I feel like a collander. And just when I start realizing it, Pretty Record Store Girl appears. You know the girl...You go record shopping and at some point you see a cute girl checking out some fairly interesting records. You start to watch her every selection from the neighboring row, your hopes and dreams hanging on every cd she reaches for. If she grabs the Radiohead, you marvel at how fantastic a catch she'd be. If she grabs 20th Century Masters: The Best of Poison, maybe that's one fish you should throw back.
I don't mean to sound stalkerish, but this girl was hitting all the right spots. Not two minutes after I leave the B section, she goes through the Bowie section and grabs Diamond Dogs like a fucking pro. A few minutes later I've moved my way into G and I'm contemplating picking up the Giant Drag album. "Do I like that single enough or not?" I decide to leave it there, but not much longer I see her holding the Legacy Edition of Jeff Buckley's Live at Sin-E.
Holy shit.
Sweat starts getting in my eyes. I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE ALL THIS FUCKING SWEAT IS COMING FROM, but I must impress Pretty Record Store Girl with my selections. My inner monologue screams things like "Yeah, I'm getting this Parklife cd because the old one I had got scratched. It's still Blur's best record." or "Did you know that Rufus Wainwright's sister Martha has a new record? You should check it out." I start to choke. I start thinking of stupid shit to say. Afterall, that's how Michael speaks to females. Even in his head. Even in his fucking head.
Then I don't know what happens. I get distracted. Some Brazilian tourist comes up to me and asks me for my opinion on which Eels record he should buy and I have no opinion. Eels is a band I just haven't had the chance to get into much. He explains that they had a song on the Shrek 2 soundtrack and I'm trying to kindly explain how Eels might not be the band he thinks they are. He shows me one of their records with an illustrated cover that I could see a non-English speaking Brazilian interpreting as a childrens album.
I'm losing sight of the girl.
I find myself sweating and angry, explaining the finer points of ironic record covers, like the Melvins' Houdini
or Helmet's Betty
to a Brazilian tourist who's already deadset on buying Toby Keith and Celine Dion.
The girl is gone. I don't know what became of her. I don't know where she is or what she bought. The flurry of activity with the tourist and the sweat in my eyes and me worrying about my parking meter, well, it all caught up to me at once. The sweat, the heat, losing sight of Pretty Record Store girl. This is why I hate summer.
Summer had arrived. A 6'3" fat-and-salty man walking a mile from his car to a record store in jeans and a black t-shirt, which Miss Ivonne (not from Pee-Wee's Playhouse) had so accurately pegged as my South Park ensemble of choice, doesn't have much choice but to persperate. And anyway, I can sweat naked on an iceberg. I was almost tempted to spell that iceburg, for my Jewish readers. Hi Gregg. Oh wait you're probably busy on your phone. Tell Julie hi for me.
So summer had arrived but the heat wouldn't dampen my spirits. Afterall, what could make a music freak happier than shopping in a record store? Or a fat girl eating cake? Or an Irishman with a Guiness? Or a negro youth with grape drink? I digress. I open the door to Virgin and Behold!, rows of vast nothingness! Fuck me stupid I was over a week late and most of the good stuff was gone. The humorless 20-year-old-looking nymph standing behind the counter promptly informed me that the store had ceased receiving new releases a month and a half prior, so my main reasons for coming were destroyed. I must have displayed some profane form of subtle "aww shucks" rejection because I was then given that "Well what do you expect, idiot? Don't you gobble the knob of corporate ironically named whorish Virgin Megastore like all us cool counter-culture types? I bet you eat meat and call yourself a liberal, you hypocrite. And your t-shirt doesn't even ironically applaud your faux-love for Slayer or Iron Maiden! Fucker." At that pointed, I wanted to break a pen open onto a pointy rock and give the bitch a new tattoo.
So I hit the racks. I look high and low for the seven or eight cds on my list. Only two are there, Bowie's Aladdin Sane and Ziggy Stardust.
Amidst the disappointment and my constant shuffling around high and low and my body tempterature still not acclimated from the hot outside to the kind of luke warm inside, I'm perspiring like a fiend. It's not pretty, folks. I feel like a collander. And just when I start realizing it, Pretty Record Store Girl appears. You know the girl...You go record shopping and at some point you see a cute girl checking out some fairly interesting records. You start to watch her every selection from the neighboring row, your hopes and dreams hanging on every cd she reaches for. If she grabs the Radiohead, you marvel at how fantastic a catch she'd be. If she grabs 20th Century Masters: The Best of Poison, maybe that's one fish you should throw back.
I don't mean to sound stalkerish, but this girl was hitting all the right spots. Not two minutes after I leave the B section, she goes through the Bowie section and grabs Diamond Dogs like a fucking pro. A few minutes later I've moved my way into G and I'm contemplating picking up the Giant Drag album. "Do I like that single enough or not?" I decide to leave it there, but not much longer I see her holding the Legacy Edition of Jeff Buckley's Live at Sin-E.
Holy shit.
Sweat starts getting in my eyes. I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE ALL THIS FUCKING SWEAT IS COMING FROM, but I must impress Pretty Record Store Girl with my selections. My inner monologue screams things like "Yeah, I'm getting this Parklife cd because the old one I had got scratched. It's still Blur's best record." or "Did you know that Rufus Wainwright's sister Martha has a new record? You should check it out." I start to choke. I start thinking of stupid shit to say. Afterall, that's how Michael speaks to females. Even in his head. Even in his fucking head.
Then I don't know what happens. I get distracted. Some Brazilian tourist comes up to me and asks me for my opinion on which Eels record he should buy and I have no opinion. Eels is a band I just haven't had the chance to get into much. He explains that they had a song on the Shrek 2 soundtrack and I'm trying to kindly explain how Eels might not be the band he thinks they are. He shows me one of their records with an illustrated cover that I could see a non-English speaking Brazilian interpreting as a childrens album.
I'm losing sight of the girl.
I find myself sweating and angry, explaining the finer points of ironic record covers, like the Melvins' Houdini
or Helmet's Betty
to a Brazilian tourist who's already deadset on buying Toby Keith and Celine Dion.
The girl is gone. I don't know what became of her. I don't know where she is or what she bought. The flurry of activity with the tourist and the sweat in my eyes and me worrying about my parking meter, well, it all caught up to me at once. The sweat, the heat, losing sight of Pretty Record Store girl. This is why I hate summer.