I don’t recall if it was Thursday, July 6, or Friday, July 7, but I know it was 1978, and I do know what I was doing on either one of those two nights — catching Van Halen on their inaugural world tour.
If it wasn’t in July I’d guess it would have been the Friday night show, cause I wouldn’t have been allowed to catch Thursday’s show; would your mom have let you go to a concert on a school night? But it was summer vacation, and I had just finished 8th grade, and I was about to become a freshman in high school, and I was in a car with 5 of my best friends with someone’s mom behind the wheel (I don’t remember whose mom), and we were all on our way to our very first live concert.
We were so fucking cool.
Until we got there.
KDKB (93.3 FM) is a local FM station in Phoenix, and they were having a “$3.93” special concert featuring Van Halen; a band called Borealis opened. My mom gave me a ten dollar bill, which not only got me into the show, but got me a frosty beverage or two.
Maybe even a hot dog.
Ten bucks was a lot of bread back then, and I’m starting to sound like a grandpa.
I remember thinking it was cool that the stage at Celebrity Theater spun in a slow, lazy circle as the bands play there…making every seat a good one. I remember thinking why doesn’t everyone know about Borealis? I remember my mom wasn’t one of the moms who drove us to the show. I remember wondering why David Lee Roth would wear women’s make-up around his eyes. (Does that mean he’s gay?) I remember being convinced — beyond a doubt — that Michael Anthony was Gene Simmons sans make up. (Sound silly? Look at the credits on the back of the album for the obvious clue).
Other things I remember:
1) I spent every dime my mom gave me — not on food or drinks — but on a VH t-shirt.
2) There was a fist fight in the parking lot after the show which, to this day, is the most brutal fist fight I’ve ever witnessed.
3) My pal Brian got served booze (drinking age was 19 then, and checking ID’s wasn’t as prevalent as it is now) and after drinking up a few rum and cokes, Brian blew chucks all over the people in front of us…none of which were amused at all by his behavior.
So now they’re back, and Wofgang’s on bass, and their reunion is a big ol’ hullabaloo.
I like Dave way more than Sammy, but I understand why no one can stand being around Dave.
I just got back from traveling to see Wilco play in Berkeley last week. I caught their show in LA Wednesday night, too. I’ve never actually traveled more than, say, 30 minutes to see a band play live, let alone catch a band twice on the same tour.
Like all good jocks I scored points for my team so they’d win win win, and I’d practice hard, and I’d take my studies for granted because I didn’t pay for them, and I’d fuck around and never take anything seriously except for my sport, and I’d take “jock classes” cause they were classes for jocks cause they were easy and the professors were softies when it came to handing out grades to jocks while they were enrolled in their jock classes and it was in one of these classes for jocks I sat down almost every day next to Barry…well, I sat next to Barry when me or Barry actually decided to come to class, and when we both actually came to class on the same day.
Barry and me were cool.
We weren’t on the same team, but we were both jocks, and when we didn’t see each other in jock classes we’d see each other in jock places: locker rooms, training rooms, weight rooms, and bar rooms where the jocks hung out and did things like drink beer and chase girls.
Come to think of it, we didn’t see much of each other in class rooms, cause we didn’t go to class a whole bunch.
What a shame it is to look back on that foolish young man who squandered away a free college education so he could be the very best jock he could be.
Hey — at least I graduated.
My coach always said, “C’s Get Degrees!” and he was certainly correct.
Last time I saw Barry and he acknowledged me was at Costco, right after he signed with the Pirates. It was ’87 or so, and we walked right into each other at the check-out line, and we caught up on things, and he was with his chick, and I can’t remember who I was with, and I congratulated him on being a Pirate, and we reminisced about our jock days, and that jock class, and how he got booted out of jock class one day for bad behavior, and we laughed when I said something like dude, you’re the only guy I knew who was ever tossed out of class at the University level for acting like a jack ass.
Last time I saw Barry and he refused to acknowledge me was at the 1998 All-Star Game in Denver Colorado. I was standing about five feet from him during home run derby, and he had just struck out, and I was kinda drunk and yelling for him to come over so we could reminisce about the time he was tossed out of a college class for acting like a toolbox; he looked right through me before he descended into the National League’s dug out, and looking back at it now, I don’t blame him, cause in all actuality I was really drunk and acting like a tool box.
When I was a jock I took steroids and I don’t regret it…not for one second. I did what I had to do to be competitive and that’s that.
I have no idea if Barry’s ever taken a steroid in his life, and to tell you the truth, I could give two shits; with all the juice I was on, I shoulda hit a baseball into the next county…or at least into the Salt River.
But I couldn’t hit a ball out of the infield, and that’s something people just don’t understand: steroids don’t make anyone a better athlete.
I just wish my undergrad GPA was higher than 2.02…but hey, C’s get degrees.
I haven’t been up this early since I had a “normal” job. Come to think of it, I haven’t been up at 4.30 am since I was head of the human resource department at a small stock brokerage firm over a decade ago. But I’m laggin’ man, as in Jet Lag, cause I’m back on home soil after my grand tour of France and Belgium.
What does a pornographer do on vacation? Perhaps the same shit you do: in Paris, I rode around the city in one of those open air tour buses with my headphones securely fastened while a pre-recorded voice told me all about everything I was looking at; I scoured the second-hand dealers that set up along with River Seine, looking for weird books and ephemera (scores include 2 copies of Jazz Journal from 1960 with great cover shots of Miles Davis and Julian “Cannonball” Adderley); I hit a few smut shops on Rue Denis and visited all my old friends whose faces are plastered on all the American Porno that seems to dominate the Parisian adult book stores; I ate a whole lot, too; in Normandy I took the D-Day tour and saw old German guns in old German bunkers while I ate a whole lot; in Bayeux, which is near Normandy, I walked around a medieval town and looked at super old churches and ate a whole lot; in Brugge, Belgium, I walked around a medieval town and looked at super old churches and ate a whole lot; in Leuven, Belgium, I walked around a medieval town and looked at super old churches and ate a whole lot; in Brussels, Belgium, I walked around a big old city and looked at super old churches and ate a whole lot.
Man there’s a lot of old churches in France and Belgium, and the food is really good there, too. Except, I think, the French have figured out food better than the Flemish have…although the chocolate and beer in Belgium kicks a whole lot of ass.
But there’s more to life than chocolate and beer.
Maybe not.
I think I’ll go clean my tiny little bachelor pad. It’s filthy, and what else to do at half past six in the morning but clean? And take my first listen to Sky Blue Sky, the brand new Wilco record; I’m quite sure it will be the highlight of my June.
Listening to Jeff Tweedy and his band mates, that is…not cleaning my house.
Klipsch Heresey: From the official Klipsch website: “First introduced in 1957, the Heresy, a three-way design, started out as a compact center channel speaker to accompany the Klipschorn® in three-speaker stereo arrays. In 1985, we made some changes and improvements to this model and re-released it as the Heresy II. Today, the new Heresy III has a more powerful woofer, a bi-wire network, and a titanium diaphragm tweeter with a larger magnet assembly. The midrange compression driver also features a new titanium diaphragm.”
I dunno anything about any of that…but damn, do those fuckers sound good in my front room with a Stooges record screaming in the background.
Iggy Pop and The Stooges: Speaking of Iggy and The Stooges, Iggy’s 60, which means in five years he’s eligible for Social Security and Medicare. You’d never guess that by looking at him, though, and this I know cause last month I sat next to Gia Paloma while Iggy and The Stooges tore it up at The Wiltern, which happens to be right down the street from my studio. I dunno if I’ll ever live to see a 60-year-old man do three stage dives into the audience (three in a row, mind you) or have a set of abs like Iggy has. What a genetic freak.
Trader Joe’s: I dunno what’s yummier — the frozen quiches or those tofutti ice cream sandwiches. Or the chocolate covered almonds dusted lightly with coca powder. Or 2 Buck Chuck. Or the organic blueberry waffles. How about those god damned Ritter Chocolate Sport Bars! And the tasty samples at the end of the frozen aisle! The doggy treats are manufactured in the US! Their coffee rules. The Thai Chicken BBQ pizza! The only drawback are the hippy crowds who don’t yield their carts in the often over-crowded aisle.
Miss Wolfe: Miss Wolfe is a smarty-pants teen slut who thinks she knows everything about almost everything, except grammar and punctuation. I’ll admit she’s wise beyond her years, and she’s hot, and she a total fucking slut. I often touch myself in inappropriate ways when she tells me stories like The BJ Train On Frat Row or doing naughty, naughty things during study time at her university’s library. Her blog’s a good read, but it needs more pictures, damnit. Hot ones.
Of you doing naughty, naughty things, Miss Wolfe.
Kush: OK. I’ll admit it. I’m a stoner. But hey, I’m not a social smoker, nor do I smoke out during my work day. Only before beddy-bye time. That counts for something, right? How about this: in California it’s legal, and the way I see it, I’d rather light up a bowl and drink a glass or two of red wine than swallow a Lunesta® or an Ambien® or a Restoril® or a Desyrel® or a Sonata®.
At least I sleep a full night now.
The FJ: I love my sled. It’s a VooDoo Blue Toyota FJ, and yep, it’s an SUV, and sure, I drive a 4WD, even though I never go off-roading, and it’s got Sirius Radio (which is another thing I love) and the sub-woofer extra in the back, and it looks fucking great with Bree Olson sprawled out nude on it. I only wish I could find the pics of Miss Olson sprawled out nekkid as the day she was born across the hood of my FJ.
LC: She’s my internet penpal, even though I don’t hear much from her lately. She just graduated college, and she won’t tell me what she got her degree in, and she won’t tell me what her future plans are, and she won’t tell me much of anything at all when we chat on the phone…in fact, when we do chat, I seem to be the one chatting while she does all the listening, but damn — she’s got great taste in music, and from what I can tell a set of fun bags that look like The Guns of Navarone, and she lives in a city I used to call home (briefly), in the same neighborhood I called home (briefly). And for a while it looked like I had a shot, but I think I dropped the ball.
Right around Iggy Pop time.
Adrianna Nicole: She’s my porno pal, and there’s nothing better that, at the end of the day, after making dirty, filthy movies, sharing a meal with Adrianna. We like to talk about doodies and gossip about porno; we speak of poop and porno gossip; we discuss turds and gossip about porno; sometimes we talk about our families and friends and music and always about boom-booms. When Dogfart edited this gloryhole scene I shot starring Miss Nicole, he told me there must be “something going on” between us, cause the way we talked to each other during the scene.
Nope…only friendship, gossip, and doodie talk.
Vintage Paperback Smut: Fuck the writing, it’s the cover everyone judges, right? And how about those titles! Recent scores from my trip to San Francisco include: 3 Gorgeous Hussies, Sex Goddess, Sin Driver, Sin Cargo, Substitute Wife, Shame Road, and Kill Sweet Charity Kill. God damn right. Fuckin’ A.
Score bonus points for vintage smut that was passed off as a “psychological study”. This was a way to dodge obscenity laws back in the day, and I fucking love the disclaimers these old-fashioned stroke rags come with; for example, on my latest San Francisco book scouting scores include “Wrestling — Female Vice” and come with awesome black and white pics of hot 70’s babes wrestling away in the nude, as well as the following warning: “THIS VOLUME IS TO BE REGARDED AS A PSYCHOLOGICAL WORKBOOK AND A STUDY FOR THE SERIOUS STUDENT OF UNUSUAL ASPECTS OF PSYCHOLOGY.”
Total stroke material circa 1972.
Ace Of Spades: Simply put, the greatest metal song ever written. Since I’ve never really been a metalhead, I just recently discovered the Power of Lemmy and The Boys:
If you like to gamble, I tell you I’m your man,
You win some, lose some, all the same to me,
The pleasure is to play, makes no difference what you say,
I don’t share your greed, the only card I need is
The Ace Of Spades
Don’t fuck with me via e-mail and say something like “Sweet Child O’ Mine” or “Sweet Leaf” or “Stairway To Heaven” takes the cake, cause deep down inside you know you’re wrong.
Playing for the high one, dancing with the devil,
Going with the flow, it’s all the same to me,
Seven or Eleven, snake eyes watching you,
Double up or quit, double stake or split,
The Ace Of Spades
I guess that, on any given night, I can head over to a local watering hole in Los Angeles and catch Lemmy drinking while pulling on the one-armed bandit. What for? So I stare? Maybe bug him? Ask him a stupid question in hopes that he’ll pay attention to me?
You know I’m born to lose, and gambling’s for fools,
But that’s the way I like it baby,
I don’t wanna live for ever,
And don’t forget the joker!
Remember The Young Ones? I’d add them to this list, except I watched that show 20 years ago, so that disqualifies it from anything “lately”. My favorite one was when Viv thought he was pregnant, and of course he wasn’t; it was nothing more than a large ball of gas inside him, and once he gave birth, Mike lit up a cigar to celebrate, and their whole house blew up.
Pushing up the ante, I know you wanna see me,
Read ’em and weep, the dead man’s hand again,
I see it in your eyes, take one look and die,
The only thing you see, you know it’s gonna be,
The Ace Of Spades
The hotel lobby is cozy, and there’s Americans all over the place. There’s a nice lady sitting down next to me now, and she wants to know where there’s “good coffee” around the hotel.
I think it would be harder to find a place with bad coffee. Anywhere in Paris has good coffee. I’ve already discovered that.
I’ve also discovered the Latin Quarter, and Super Ass. Gyros, and Shakespeare and Co., and a few medieval churches that are world famous.
I should say I rediscovered all that stuff, cause I was here a decade ago.
And I have no idea what I’m doing today. Just kinda going with the flow, I think. I might actually see if I can find a little porno shop to see what’s changed since the last time I was here: in ’97 it was “barely legals” (age of consent here is something like 16) and Bestiality (dogs and horses and goats Oh My!) as well as movies featuring #1 and #2 (oh! those whacky Germans!)
What will it be in ’07?
Here’s my pal Lorelei Lee. Here’s her blog. She’s showing you her nipple. Right before I shot her doing some black dudes.
But you see that now, don’t you?
(PS: Thanks MQ for all the dandy Parisian ideas…I’m taking you up on some of them!)
I am at JFK Airport, laying down near a Samsung “charging station”, and letting my iPod warm up for a 10+ hour flight as I bang out this entry. I’m out of Porno Land for the next two weeks. And I need it…bad.
Let’s see. Where do I begin?
An unnamed sister of an unnamed porn whore I shoot on a regular basis called me to say I’ve been feeding her sister drugs and alcohol in order for this unnamed porn whore to be a porn whore…or, in other words, enabling said Porn Whore to do whorish things while I roll tape.
This is, of course, complete and utter bullshit.
I’m not even going to get into details here, but suffice it to say that, more than being pissed, I’m hurt.
It’s easy to point the finger at Mr. Pornographer, isn’t it? Not only in instances like this, but just shit in general.
What a joke.
Time for people to stop pointing the finger at others and start pointing the finger at themselves…while they’re standing in front of a mirror.
Just about the time that dust settled, Fat Faggot blew his top.
I know…I know. Who’s Fat Faggot? Well, Fat Faggot is a charity case we’ve tried to help out at our studios. “Our studios” means there’s a few filthy dirty smut makers who work on the same floor of Our Building, and Fat Faggot was giving some work in exchange for shelter and, well…help.
Help to help himself.
Help to pull himself up by the bootstraps, to use the cliché, and get ahead.
I call him Fat Faggot cause he’s about 5’10 and he weighs 340 (or so) and he a homosexual. Don’t get me wrong…I hav no problems with homos, until they lose their job due to incompetence and then stand around and threaten and harass people cause they are such scumbags that’s all they know how to do. I’d call Fat Faggot Fat Straight Dude if he was straight and did the same thing…so it really has nothing to do with his Gayness.
Right about the time I had Fat Faggot arrested for his behavior (we gave him about 16 hours or ranting and raving and threating peoples’ lives before I called the cops…no exaggeration), The Barbie Cummings Situation went down.
There’s actually three Barbie Cummings Situations: one you already know about, one you might, and one you don’t.
The one you know about I’m all done talking about.
The one you don’t know about I’ll call the Cream Pie that went bad. And all I’ll say is this: the easiest thing to do for male talent on an adult set is the Cream Pie. Just blow the load in the pussy, like God coded into our DNA. Even easier is when the director (in this case being me) gives the male talent a green light to do it whenever they feel like blowing.
Think Homey could get it right? Even after I had him repeat my directions?
He blew his load all over his stomach, and I blew my stack.
And the third thing? While this was going down, another Homey stole Barbie’s cell phone. Now…why in the world would anyone want to steal a cell phone? I mean really…what’s the street value of a well-used cell phone? Unless, that is, it’s Barbie Cumming’s cell phone.
Then Barbie blows her stack, and I don’t blame her for that, and then I felt even worse cause it went down at my studio, which made me even more stressed.
Did I mention that Cherry Poppin’s wallet, with $350 in cash, was stolen the same way?
Actually, Barbie really didn’t blow her stack. She was sad, and that made me more upset.
Anyway, more shit went down in the last two weeks, but I don’t wanna go there anymore. If you’re still reading this, then you’ve let me vent, and I really appreciate that.
I’m off to France. Where the ladies wear no underpants. I’m gonna try to blog from there, cause I’ve really neglected my blog, and I think it’s time to start paying attention to I Shoot Porn.
For the next two weeks that’s the last thing I’m gonna do, or even think about — shooting smut. Instead I’m going to look at the French Girls and go to Art Museums and turn my cell phone off for the next 14 days and not think about anything at all…cause soon, it’s gonna all start up again, very very soon.
In the meantime, here’s a pic of three naked chicks filling out their model releases for Manojob and The Dick Suckers. They all did great work, and if you join up for one site, you get them both!
In order to protect the innocent, I’ll refer to her simply as “LC”.
LC is my pen pal from myspace, and it’s fun having a penpal, right? Especially one from the opposite sex! One you can flirt with, and know, with quite certainty, that no matter how much I offer her, she’ll never fuck a stranger on camera while I hold it.
The camera, that is…
Which creates a somewhat warm and fuzzy feeling for me.
Her last message was short and sweet — the part I’m going to show you, anyway.
—————– Original Message —————–
Date: Mar 28, 2007 3:40 PM
Right now I’m just being thankful French Surrealism did not survive as a genre of film.
What’s your favorite record right now?
The only background information I’m offering up on LC is she’s a college student, and taking a film class, and I’m laughing as I type this, cause she’s a college senior without a declared major, which, in my book, ranks her as a freshman at best.
Now, let’s see how long I feel like writing, cause it’s been a long, smut-filled day.
My favorite records, at any given moment, change all the time. Over the past however long I’ve been listening to music, there are a few that always seem to make the Top 10.
Then, there’s “period” records — for lack of a better term. Just so I don’t come off like a total dork, let me (briefly) explain:
Middle school was a period, right? And like all adolescent boys my age, I listened to a whole lot of Ted Nugent and Led Zeppelin (II and IV) and Blue Oyster Cult and Boston and Peter Frampton and that sort of fodder.
High school was much of the same (sans Boston and Frampton), but, for some silly reason, more metalesque and all horribly embarrassing: Judas Priest, Ozzy, Aerosmith, Ted Nugent, and Led Zep, and Blue Oyster Cult, and the Scorpions (gasp) and UFO (gasp) and Cheap Trick and I could go on and on.
I’d like to add, that at night, when whatever girl I was dating would sneak into my window at night would sneak into my window, I’d have the blacklights on and it was Genesis (only the records in which Peter Gabriel was still part of the band) or Pink Floyd or Kraftwerk or David Gilmour’s solo record was playing, and I’d pray to Jesus for a handjob.
All of these bands had records that, at one time or another, were “favorites”.
11th grade Pat Crane walks up to me in the parking lot, hears what I’m playing in my car, calls me a name, and hands me London Calling, and it totally changed my life, and the things I listened to, which is, of course, a totally clichéd thing to say.
Sex Pistols and Ian Dury and Klark Kent and Dead Kennedys and Sham 69 and Sex Pistols and Clash and Sex Pistols and Clash and Sex Pistols.
Did I mention Never Mind The Bullocks?
Or London Calling?
College meant X and REM and Suburban Lawns and Wall of VooDoo and Oingo Boingo and The Jesus and Mary Chain and The Replacements and REM and any band on SST or IRS: Fleshtones, Meat Puppets, Minute Men, Husker Du…all of these bands had records that, at one time or another, were “favorites”; the only difference between the college favorites and my adolescent favorites is some of those college favorites are still favorites…except Zeppelin.
It was about this time that I completely dismissed Zeppelin, as well as Pink Floyd. But I realize now how silly that was.
Is any of this making sense?
I think I shall copy and paste this blabber and call it a blog.
I (think I) figured out jazz about a decade (or less) ago: Miles and Coltrane and Coleman and Dizzy and Stitt and Rollins and Thelonius Monk — Monk being my very favorite.
And sure, a decade (or so) ago it was Nirvana and Super Chunk and Hole and The Chili Peppers and Pavement and The Butthole Surfers and Stone Temple Pilots and Archers of Loaf and all the rest of them.
Wait a sec. The Red Hot Chili Peppers happened two decades ago…while I was still in college. Put them in between The Replacements and REM, and place them as the very best live show I think I’ve ever seen…1985, playing Hendrix with nothing but socks over their wieners…the only show I’ve ever seen the cops shut down.
I’m on a Wilco kick at the moment, and it’s very embarrassing, cause, really, it’s all I listen to; specifically, A Ghost is Born (or the live record from Chicago) is all that’s ever on my stereo.
Which, of course, is a lie.
Why didn’t I mention the Velvet Underground? Or Big Star? Where’s The Gorillaz? The Beastie Boys? How about Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music, which I’m obsessed with (another lie…I’m obsessed with Harry). And how can I blabber about Wilco without once uttering the words Uncle Tupelo?
Which will lead me to the most embarrassing part of this whole deal: I’m stuck on a desert island, and I’m all alone, and I stub my toe on the bottle that releases the genie:
Immediately looking at this list makes me think I need to rework the entire thing, or to delete this all and forget I ever thought about it.
Sometimes I think revealing your true musical tastes is a lot like stripping in front of a stranger and hoping for the best possible reaction there is to expect, which could range from laughter to true love.
I’ve clicked through a lot of blogs, and it’s common to see writers apologizing for their lack of updates. And let’s face it, once a blog hasn’t been updated in a few weeks, it’s as good as dead.
Which is to say you’re only as good as your last blog, right?
I dunno. But lately, I just haven’t had much to say: my health is fine, shooting’s going as expected, and my personal life is as good as it gets.
I put on Velvet Revolver’s first and only record for two reasons:
1) as nothing more than a test of my patience…
and
2) to hear how loud I could crank my new speakers!
I’m stoked.
I scored a pair of vintage Klipsch Heresy’s off eBay. My old speakers were about the size of refrigerators. My little house is a total bachelor pad, and the first clue anyone got when they walked through my front door were the speakers that used to take up my entire front room. I have no idea who made them, but my pal J gave them to me before he hauled ass to Hawaii. They were so gargantuan he didn’t want to deal with shipping them.
I loved those speakers, but I’ve wanted Heresys since I can remember. Since I started listening to records. It was about the same time I had black light posters lining my bedroom walls, and whenever my girlfriend would sneak in late at night, I’d have all the lights off — except my black light, of course — and something like Pink Floyd’s Animals playing softly. That, or, say, an early Genesis record…the ones when Peter Gabriel was still in the band.
Once inside my room, we’d make out, and if the Gods were smiling upon me, I’d get a handjob.
It’s so fucking nice to spend time at home. My new porno studio had consumed so much of my time since October, I almost forgot how nice my little Arizona bungalow is…and how many records I have. Cause I’m looking at them now, scattered all over the place.
I’ve always been a collector. In 5th grade it was beer cans. Then records. And books. And it’s pretty much been books and records ever since the beer can craze ended, in, say, 1979. Oh! Don’t forget vintage smut! I collect that, too.
And since I’ve got some time on my hands, and no dirty movies to make, why not clean up my place a bit? Get the records off the floor, mainly, and since I lost my gigantic speakers, everything off the tops of them have to be put away, too: CD’s, pictures of my family, my anti-static record zapping gun; a handful of reader’s club book cards from a local used bookstore, assorted pens and pencils, loose change, and last month’s ARTFourm.
It’s been less than 10 minutes, and my patience is tried. Isn’t it funny that The Velvet Revolver isn’t even 1/10,000th as good as The Velvet Underground, even though both lead singers were junkies?
I don’t remember buying Coltrane’s A Love Supreme, but there it is! And what a reprieve from Scott Weiland. And sure enough, here’s two copies of R.E.M.’s first EP, to go along with the one that’s already been filed away. But what’s a Sonny Rollin’s record doing in the REM section? And how in the world did The Fabulous Poodles get smooshed in between The Feelies?
I got my record shelving from IKEA. (It’s my corporate guilty pleasure, surpassed only by Starbucks). Thinking I’d outsmart the folks who designed my shelves, I attached 6 wooden coasters (also an IKEA purchase) under the shelving, so my cleaning lady could move it around to vacuum behind it. The problem, of course, is the shelves weren’t designed to have coasters under them, and with all my records shelved, the bottom started to bow…and it bowed so much my little brother had to pull all the records off and remove the coasters. Creepy Q, our editor, helped out. With all my records all over the floor, they decided to put them in ABC order! Isn’t that nice? Except there’s a Solly Rollins record in with REM, and all my spoken word records got alphabetized instead of grouped into one section, as did my soundtracks and compilations. How in the world do you alphabetize a reggae compilation, anyway?
I shouldn’t bitch though; and, in fact, I’m grateful.
How did I end up here? Oh yea. There’s more records on my floor, but as I’m putting them away, I realize I’m totally losing any sort of long term memory I’ve had, cause no way in hell 10 years ago I’d buy three copies of anything REM made. They’re OK and all, but 3 copies? Of Chronic Town? My god! And here’s an unopened Postal Service, on white vinyl no less, with an extra 12″ and a booklet! When did I buy this?
