Lala just sent me a CD, Amazon is sending me two, and I picked up eight more from a trip down to Spinnakers with DigitalD over the weekend.

When I go to a used record store, I like to go through every inch of inventory until I either run out of CDs or time. Because I usually run out of time, I try to focus on getting through as much inventory as quickly as I can.

Because D-Mac took on the A’s, I had to start at the Z’s. At somewhere around the G’s, I was approached by a large, unshaven guy in sweatpants who smelled a little too much like meat that had been left out in the sun too long.

“You gat any Sinatra?” he asked.

“I don’t actually work here, but… I think it’s right over on the other side of this aisle. Yea over there. Yup, right there. There. In the S’s.” He then grunted something and lumbered over to the other side of the aisle where I didn’t have to smell him going bad.

I continued down the aisle, working alphabetically in reverse, when out of nowhere, the same guy steps in front of me and says “HAHAHAHA Beatles!” and shoves a Beatles CD back in the rack in front of me, before abruptly walking off.

I wish that I could say that this was unusual, but years spent in record stores has trained me to ignore the fucking weirdos that seem to pervade them. Unfazed, I returned to my search and quickly polished off their alphabetical inventory.

Every used CD store has some sort of shit bin, but Spinnaker has an eight foot tall by six foot wide rack that is jammed floor to ceiling with some of the most ungodly crap to sport a $2.99 price tag. Most people merely glance at, or wisely skip it completely, but music junkies pour over it looking for some unappreciated, hidden gem. I stood on a stool to see the top, and I got as close to the floor as I could without actually laying down in the middle of the aisle.

While locked in a perfect, one-kneed, between song, 80′s hardcore singer crouch to examine the bottom of the rack, a chunky girl with a nose ring and an annoying little brother asked me if a T-shirt came in a particular size. She was my second customer of the day, and I was actually glad that she didn’t smell like she was rotting.

I don’t know what it is about me that makes people think that I work in a record store, but it happens to me every so often. Maybe it’s the pile of miscellaneous CDs that I inevitably carry around, or the acute tunnel vision that blocks out everything while I work through the stacks as if I were putting music in, rather than taking it out. Maybe music junkies have a particular feel to them that I’m not aware of. Or maybe, it’s the Vans and the music store T-shirt on a guy who’s a little too old for Vans and music store T-shirts. I don’t know.

Rather than be distracted with more customers, I retreated to Spinnaker’s METAL shelf, which is low and narrow, forcing anyone who wants to gaze upon it to do so upon bended kneeEEeeEEeeEE-agh! Whether it’s the lack of room or the subject matter, no one bothers you at that shelf. And thank goodness too, because that was where I found most of my scores for the day: Six Feet Under, Cannibal Corpse, Morbid Angel, and a Viking death metal band that I’m a little embarrassed to admit is my pick of CDs so far.

It’s death metal, which I find to be metallically respectable. Unfortunately, it’s also full of melodic tales about Vikings and swords, which I really should laugh at, but can’t. The fact that I actually enjoy it pushes my self image down the social scale at least one to two notches. I’m certainly not the coolest guy in the world, but the next two rungs of coolness below enjoying melodic Viking death metal are filled with capes and World of fucking Warcraft strategy guides. And for you younger folks, your coolness invariably slides down the ladder every year you get further from 21, so every step you willingly take down that ladder puts you one step closer to wearing a white belt and a “Who Farted?” t-shirt.

But I can’t help it. I now like melodic Viking death metal. I am now officially beyond ridiculous.

If I slide further and you see me walking around in giant black pants or any form of cape, please kick me in the ding ding and get me a glass of orange juice. It’s for my own good.

Posted in Music