Wrecka Stow

When I came to, my wife was fanning me with a limited edition 12-inch single.

“What the…what happened?” I asked, already assuming the worst from the expression on her face.

It was Record Store Day, that day originally created to celebrate the rapidly disappearing independent record store, but which has latterly become a bonanza for speculators who buy up as many of the collectable releases made available that day as possible and then resell them on eBay.

“Well, let’s see…” she began, “do you remember the cashier with the dyed hair and severe bangs?”

“Sure. The one who accused me of ripping them off.”

“She asked if you had been in line before.”

“Same thing,” I said, brushing the free keychains out of my eyes.

“Well, you pointed out to her that she had misspelled Bettie Page’s name on her tattoo. She ran crying out of the store.”

“No doubt to seek solace in her collection of antique corsets and heroin. Then what happened?”

“You remember the other cashier?”

“The white kid with the dreadlocks?”

“Yeah, well, he accused you of crimes against Jah.”

“That seems a trifle harsh.”

“So you told him ‘I and I think you’re a moron’”.

“That was telling him.”

“Then, as he ran out to comfort the other cashier, you yelled ‘Keep fighting Babylon with your parents’ credit card!’”

“Jesus. That doesn’t sound like me. But that was it, right?”

“Oh, no.”

“No? Really?”

“Oh, no. With all the employees gone, you then got behind the counter and started just…giving crap away.”

“See? That’s the way to fight Babylon.”

“Then you hopped up on the DVD display and started playing air guitar to the limited edition Electric Eels single on colored vinyl. After that things got kind of Day Of The Locust.”

“Hmm. So how did we make out?”

She held up a tattered piece of paper and a plastic bag.

“We got half a single sleeve from a Ducks From Neptune 7-inch and a bag of Sonic Youth chocolate-covered pretzels.”

“Not exactly what I was hoping for,” I said, resignedly. “Still, better than last year.”