paulie_one_man

ACT TWO: USED

B. WHAT DETERMINES BUY/REJECTION

 

(referring to previous film)

 

Pretty simple, right?

 

It takes a while but you get used to it.  Or you have a major psychotic episode.

 

It can get tricky.  These days, half the time you’re just dealing with folks who have ripped their CD’s to Mp3 and want a quick turn around to pay for more music.  But most of the time, they’ve just gotten the overdraft notice.  Or the power bill.  Or the fact that ‘Eviction’ is not Swahili for ‘Polite Reminder’.

Under these circumstances you are no longer dealing with a rational person.  They have crossed over into an amusing but dangerous territory I like to refer to as ‘Full Trip Twiggy’.  People in the throes of ‘Full Trip Twiggy’ have no use for reason.  Or logic.  Or the fact that no one really wants Shalamar’s first album.  Certainly not for 10 bucks.  Y’see, in their desperation, sufferers of FTT are capable of an imagination that would make Jim Henson look like a chartered accountant on phenol barbital.  In this world woven out of pure delusion it doesn’t matter that the art work is missing.  This is perfectly acceptable.  As are broken cases, CDR’s, and strange unidentifiable fluids allowed to harden to a thick brown crust covering every inch of the disc.  Along with the fact that in this particular alignment of deranged little planets Mantovani is hip, viable, and worth a king’s ransom. 

 

They cannot seem to understand that you (the used buyer) are not aware of all this. You are just doing this to be difficult and are yet another uninformed ignoramus they are now forced to educate.  Never mind that they got themselves into this situation and are on the wrong side of the counter to be schooling anyone.  Hence, the haggling that usually follows: 

 

“This is a very rare  Night Ranger live album and you and the 128 other people selling it for .36 cents on Amazon are utter fools.”

 

 “Listen to me mere mortal.  I am a dental hygienist and therefore am fully qualified to lecture you on the fact that this CD is not that scratched.  It just gives it… character”. 

 

“I know that’s a CDR but you obviously don’t know the time and effort I put into making that ‘Ultimate Booty Bass’ mix.” 

 

“I realize that The Proclaimers are not that hot right now, but they’re on the verge of a HUGE comeback and you are going to feel like a complete jack ass that you didn’t jump at this opportunity to take this off my hands for the low, low price of $18.”

 

“Look, I realize that I’m a complete gimp and have absolutely no taste but if I agree to bow to your superior knowledge of all things audio, will you please give me $20 bucks for this pile of unadulterated shit?”

 

You can’t begrudge me a little wishful thinking, can you?

 

 We’re not complete  pricks.

 

Well, not all the time. 

 

 You just need to understand that the whole phenomenon of buying and selling used products is supposed to be mutually beneficial. We give you money and we now have  stuff bought at a discount which we can then pass on to the public.  Problem is, this love train of symbiosis tends to derail when the crap we paid good money for sits rotting on a shelf waiting to be put through the inevitable cycle of:

 

Price drop

Second price drop

Tent sale

and ultimately

Give away bin

 

It doesn’t matter how out of print it is.  Or that it’s a limited edition. Or that its an obscure indie super group comprised of members from even further obscure indie groups.

 

I believe it was Camus who said:

“Shit is shit is shit”

And just ‘cuz you pour syrup on it don’t make it pancakes.

 

So

I leave you with a few tips to make the used selling/buying process a little more pleasant for everyone:

 

1. Make sure all the CDs/DVDs are in the correct cases.  Or are in the case at all.
2. Check their condition before you make the trek to the store.  If you know they are scratched, do not attempt to feign surprise when we inform you of this. 
3. Plan out your trip to the store.  If said store closes at 10pm, do not arrive at 9:48 with your 300 Cds and wonder why the clerk looks aggravated.
4. Maybe, oh I don’t know, be a little more careful with your money.  If you are forced to sell CDs and DVDs to meet financial obligations, then maybe don’t go out drinking so much.  Curtail your video game/weed habit.  Don’t buy that flat screen.  Cut back on the titty bar and Internet porn. Check your freakin’ balance every once and a while. Stop watching CVN, checking EBAY and jumping on anything that looks shiny.  Cancel the cable and Victoria’s Secret card.  Scratch that road trip to see the vortexes in Sedona.  Strap on your Big Boy/Girl pants and suck it up.  Get a fucking helmet.  And most importantly: Don’t take it out on us.  We only make 8 bucks an hour and wish we had these effing problems so don’t be surprised at our lack of sympathy.

 

Remember these simple steps and then you can join the exciting world of

not being such a complete asshat.

(keep in mind, this is meant to voice over for a video portion of the show)

ACT TWO: USED

A. A QUICK AND EASY GUIDE TO BEING A USED BUYER

 

(voice over in the style of 50’s educational film)

 

Are you ready?

Are you ready to wield the awesome might of your newfound sovereignty?

Are you set to inflict your razor honed taste and snobiness upon the masses?

Are you prepared to hold the fate of the unwashed public’s rent/food/beer/heroin money in your clammy little hands?

 

Well then

 let us be the first to welcome you to the exciting, sexy, and dusty world

of used CD and DVD buying.

 

Welcome,

to flavor country.

 

EDUCO and INDIE AS FUCK, INC. PROUDLY PRESENT:

 

HOW TO BE A USED BUYER

(or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Absolute Power)

 

Only 4 steps now stand between you and total supremacy:

 

1. When inspecting used product, first check to see if you already have this title in stock.  If you have more than one, don’t buy it.
2. Check the condition.  If the CD/DVD is scratched to the point of you having to buff and clean it, offer .50 cents for it.
3. If the CD/DVD is not scratched and you don’t already have it in stock, determine what you are going to pay for it.  This can be done simply by checking its sales history or how current the title is.
4. Avoid laughing directly in the customers face while explaining that Josh Groban is certainly not worth 5 dollars.  Or another minute of your time.

 

See, its easy. 

Just remember these simple steps and in no time at all you will be receiving death threats every minute you are behind the counter.  But, more importantly, your indie street cred will be completely unfuckwitable.  And really, what’s more important than that?

 

Always enjoy what you do and remember that you,  are a God.

(voice over takes on hushed ‘end of car commercial’ tone)

 

A few quick footnotes:

 

When employing step 1 remember that not all titles will be in the system and you might need to check Amazon, All music, Google, and of course Pitchfork.  If you still can’t find it, its obviously pig shit not worth your precious time.

Step 2 is absolute, except some items are more scratched than others.  This is completely arbitrary and can change with how hung over you are on any given day.  But if you can see daylight through the item or it appears their cat which is stupidly named ‘Miffles’ used it as a scratching post, you are well within your rights to call upon your Ultimate Frisbee skills whilst screaming “Why didn’t I get into animal husbandry like Mom wanted?”

Step 3 can be overridden by a coin flip or employing the Zen Buddha Butt Method which involves reaching up into your ass and pulling out

 

(voice over increases in speed, pitch, and volume)

 

whateverpricehappenstocatchyourfancycuzwhothefuckaretheyanywaywhenthefuckislunch

godmynailbedssuckwhateverhappenedtoPeeWeeHerman…

 

(sound of film breaking and bursting into flames)

 

 

 

 

 

(this went a little off the idea of the subtitle, but I think it works)

ACT ONE(COUNTER/FLOOR)

D. GEEK-TASTIC(OR FINALLY PUTTING MY USELESS KNOWLEDGE TO WORK)

 

At this point, I will quote Bill Hicks by saying:

 

“Don’t worry folks.  There’s dick jokes comin’.”

 

I was called a lot of things when I was younger.  I think it was due to being the allergic, hyperactive, sickly, scrawny, socially impaired, dressed in my mother’s colorblind nightmare and glasses with an eye patch kid. 

That’s just my   theory.

It took me ‘till about thirteen to realize that most of the kids who cast these aspersions wouldn’t mean shit to me in 3 years and that most of them would wind up fat, bald, selling insurance with 9 kids living in their mother’s Doublewide anyway.  And that’s just the girls.  But these admittedly hateful, yet wholly effective(and 90% accurate) visions, could only carry me so far as the names still haunted me.  It wasn’t till I was about 20 that I had my epiphany:

I could spend the rest of my life being a victim of these words

OR

I could embrace and own  them.

 

Nerd: Present

Dork: Yup

Geek: You bet your sweet ass I am.

 

Now, the ordinary citizen might say “Don’t they all mean the same thing?”

Well, I’m glad you asked.

No.

A nerd is one who is well versed in scholastic knowledge, this being science, math, geography, physics and various what not.

A geek is someone that has a vast amount of knowledge about very finite topics, usually pertaining to pop culture.  Examples would include comic books, video games, and all the aspects of RPG’s.  That’s Role Playing Games to all you normal folks.

And Dork, is just an overall behavioral pattern usually exhibited through awkward silence directly followed by blind babbling at top volume and back to silence again.

.

.

.

Anyway,

while some of my retail hell brethren claim loyalty to only one of these groups, the truly dedicated like myself, see no need for division.  I am empowered by all  of these names.  But, I have a special affinity for geek.  I don’t know why.  Maybe it’s the completely modern redefinition as ‘geek’ used to mean the guy in the circus that bit the heads off of live chickens and then proceeded to devour them raw.  But it still retains the meaning of outsider.  Someone who did what they had to do to survive knowing the folks outside the cage were the bigger freaks. 

Yeah, I’ll cop to that. 

I went to school with a lot of genuine freaks.

 

Needless to say, I didn’t do a lot of dating back then.

 

But over the last ten years or so I’ve noticed the development of an interesting phenomenon.  It started simply enough, with the sighting of a very attractive woman clad in a tight black t- shirt emblazoned in bold print:

 

I (heart) Geeks.

 

Oh, did my  geek heart skip a beat.  I prayed it wasn’t some sort of joke cooked up by the demonic assholes of my past meant only to lure me in just so they could pants me again.  Have I mentioned I’m a little paranoid?  Its not without good reason.

For y’see the guy to girl geek ratio used to be about a million to… fuck no. 

But after extensive research and conversations, I have found that this is no longer the case.  With the advent of the internet, having knowledge of computers and all their related gadgetry no longer casts you down into the Black Pit of Eternal Virginity.  Women dig zombie movies. And graphic novels.  And science fiction.  And Devo.

 

It was if I was transported to some alternate dimension like in Star Trek where the only way you could tell the difference between you and the duplicate you was the fact that they had a goatee.

And if I made that analogy around a group of women, odds are at least one of them would know what the hell I was talking about and maybe even find it witty.  All I had to do was say these types of things to lots of women and eventually I would find the right one.  Drop a few Buffy or Firefly quotes and I would finally journey to the mythical land of “In There”.

Problem is I still can’t get the balls up even to talk to geek women. I just do the same shit I did when I was 13….and write them shitty love poems.

 

 

I think it would be fair to warn you

before this goes any further

that you got to me a little too late

 

It seems just 30 seconds ago, I was a romantic

But now a minute and a half has passed and I

sit bereft the the sweet concepts espoused by

Cyrano, Shakespeare, Neruda, and Charlie Chaplin

A daisy stolen and offered in passing

Mix CDs, wrapped in painstaking poetry and

appearing mysteriously in your mailbox

songs composed, unsung, and left

locked up in my windpipe 'cause

modern society has deemed

these types of affection  no longer romantic

and simply:

CREEPY

 

Well, guess what?

What the average person deems to be "CREEPY"

I call

HOT!!!!

 

Now let's just for a minute

forget about hair, height and body type

and get right down to brass bed posts

shall we?

I will know I have found the woman of my dreams

when she agrees to have sex to

the Imperial March from Star Wars

Bonus Points, if she throws on the hood

and does a little Palpatine for me

"I can feel your anger growing..

in your pants!!"

 

Oh my God!!!

Are these nipples hard or what?

 

She'll have seen and understood

every single nuance of Repo Man

can quote it religiously

and goes positively sterile everytime I say

"This is my BOOMSTICK!!"

That's right

She'll want to be a killer of

AND a zombie all at the same time

She'll have not only heard of

Black Adder, Monty Python, AND Red Dwarf

but will go goofy in the slacks when

I treat her to the "Half Rimmer Salute"

 

Our pet names

will be Optimus and Bumblebee

 

An intimate evening together would go

something like this:

After a sumptious meal of chinese takeout

washed down with a cheeky vintage...Coca Cola

we will then view and discuss the entire pantheon

of Kevin Smith

The eveing will take a turn

for the morose

when she adjourns to the bedroom

without me

somewhere during the technical commentary track of ‘Dogman”

then

sometime during the bonus features

she will break my revelry by gently

yanking on my ear and screaming

 

"YO!  POET BOY!!

Quit mopin' around like your

inner child just slit its wrists and

get down on your knees 'cuz

I didn't get dressed up like Battle Angel

for nuthin'!!!!!"

 

It would be ungentlemanly

for me to elaborate further

 

Needless to say darling

if you think this sounds like you

seek professional help.

But, my buttercup

I will be waiting

upon your release from the asylum

and

after we giggle over the popsicle stick replicas of

the Firefly Class Serenity  you made in Art Therapy

we will  adjourn to the local art house

there we will  be wed

during the midnight movie presentation of

"Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me"

 

Now I ask you

how can you call that

creepy?

ACT ONE(COUNTER/FLOOR)

C. MULTI TASKING(HOW TO BE A SHRINK,PIMP,PUSHER WITHOUT A B.A.)

 

Used to be, a job title would very clearly define what it is you did for a living.

 

Lawyer

Carpenter

Tour Guide

Gynecologist

Coal Miner

 

You knew what you were getting into applying for any of these positions and exactly what you would be required to do. But over the last 60 years job titles have become a bit more ambiguous.

 

Executive Assistant

Fulfillment

Tech Writer

Cultural Liaison

Fluffer

 

These titles are vague for a reason. They do not imply exactly what it is you’ll be doing because woven into these deceptive syllables is a thoroughly modern and aggravating  concept.

Multi Tasking.

Put simply, you’ll be doing 5-10 jobs for the price of one.

How’s that for Orwellian Math?

 

And its no different down here in the salt pits of retail. What I was never told by any of the stores I’ve ever worked at was that ‘clerk’ also meant customer psycho analysis, pimp, and pusher.

For example, an average day might include updating a local band’s consignment deal, ringing up customers, checking off overstock all while simultaneously offering your opinion on the new Murs album and your advice to a 20 year old Hot Topic manager about going back to school. Arrgh. I got out of bartending to avoid these kinds of shenanigans.

 

 It is a little different in an independent store than a chain, though.  At a chain you’re pretty much expected to hype whatever the major labels are trying to foist upon the public like it was the second coming of Christ and not Leif Garret.  This isn’t much different from the brief time I was ‘pharmaceutical distributor’.  You didn’t care what it was you were selling or how adversely it affected your clientele, as long as it brought in money for you and your ‘superiors’.  But it would be far less hell worthy pushing bath tub meth cut with Sano Flush to pre schoolers, than say, the new Beyonce.

 

An indie store, however, allows you far more leeway with a far superior product, the criterion being similar to that of medicinal marijuana and ditch weed.  Being that one is analyzed, pored over with a microscope, and scientifically certified while the other’s quality is based solely on the hearsay of questionable sources.

I feel a lot less remiss about suggesting Apples in Stereo to a Beach Boys fan than saying :

“Fuck that emo shit, son. What you need is the new Young Jeezy!”

 

Quick Hipster Note: Young is the new Lil’.

 

I guess I shouldn’t complain, being that modern living has made multi taskers of us all.  No one just  goes to school anymore.  The economy has made damn sure of that.  So, beyond high school, when you hear someone refer to themselves as a ‘student’ remember that usually translates to student, barista, waitress, bar tender, furniture mover, and blood, plasma, egg and sperm donor.  All of them full time.  And that’s with Pell Grants.  Damn where you’re going to fit in learning, let alone life.

 

Another casualty of this, is the title of mother.  Now, that job description has always had its share of hidden duties, but nowhere near what they are now.  In a time not gone long enough to be forgotten it meant teacher, caretaker, confidant, sage… and martyr.  And in these scattered days, its that  one that holds.  This is a role that never lets slip forgiveness no matter how the sound reasoning.  Be it bad timing or destitution, regret or ill hands, this age of ours will show no lenience. No mercy, even from those claiming to be it’s disciple.  Men who will see the inside of a church only 52 times more than a clinic will dare to call God’s holy wrath down upon your womb. 

 

But not all hearths are holy. 

New life is not the glue to bind any house holding a cuckold.  Children born merely to bear the mark of ensnarement are never able to shake it from between their eyes.  Nor can they bestow the title of man, let alone father.  Family springs forth sown from roots tended by an earnest two, not the bitter dirt of obligation. 

 

Home is where I hang my head.

This twist of saying is now cross stitched across the mantle of so many houses we’ve taken it to be our crest.  Except that no one settles long enough to notice the decay crept round every corner.  Not until dusk casts its perspective through the cracks do we notice but only stop long enough to say:

 

“Ain’t my  job to fix it.”

copyright 2008-09  Paulie  Lipman

(as usual, poem is indicated by all italics)

ACT ONE (COUNTER/FLOOR)

B. I’M NOT PSYCHIC(BIGGER CONCERNS, WHAT IS WORTH DESPAIRING ABOUT)

 

There is an assumption that the general public seems to operate under about record store employees. And while it is flattering that y’all think us capable of having supernatural powers, it simply just isn’t true. So, lemme go on the record here:

 

We are not  psychic.

 

I know that there is evidence that would lead you to believe that we are  all  friends of Dionne Warwick. Like the ability to take the fraction of a band name, lyric, or melody you’ve managed to remember and in mere seconds magically put a CD in your hand.  Or being able to play the most fucked up version of 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon that leads to you to realize that the movie you really wanted was ‘What Happens in Vegas’. This can be explained simply by the fact that most of us… used to get beat up a lot, and as a result, were forced to seek solace in music. And the internet helps. Between our heightened geekery, IMDB, AllMusic, and Google, we can appear to be quite omniscient.

 

Given all that, we still  cannot read your mind. There are days where I have a hard enough time reading my own.  I don’t know about you, but my mind is not the kind of place you wanna visit, let alone vacation.  So, you’ll have to forgive us if we seem a bit snippy when you don’t have the most BASIC information about what you want.  That ‘its their second album’ or ‘if I could just see the cover’ or ‘it has that track with that one hot bitch on it’ doesn’t help.  Just a little research could save you from a puncture wound in the neck inflicted with a box cutter.

I’m just sayin’.

 

Now by research, I don’t mean calling us simply because you can’t dig yourself out of the Jabba shaped blob you’ve managed to smelt into your couch and asking the same questions you would in person. The separation of fiber optics makes it no less annoying.  Now, I would love it if I could determine the value of your first pressing Kiss albums or Doris Day collection over the phone, but being that I really have never met Miss Warwick or  Shirley McLaine, I’m still going to need to see them in person.

 

There is also the rare and infrequent occasion when we just can’t do…anything.  It happens. Either it just can’t be found or maybe it never existed and you’ve just pulled off the neat trick of involving other people in your hallucinations. Or maybe, you just don’t like the answers we can  give you. That its gonna take anywhere from 2 weeks to a month to arrive. Or it’s only available as an import and therefore will cost more than you were prepared to pay.

All I can say is: I’m sorry.

 I’m sorry that you needed it sooner than that.

I’m sorry if this ruins your day.

I’m sorry that your daughter will be disappointed.

I’m sorry if this completely wrecks your idea of a perfect anniversary.

I’m sorry if this was all you had to look forward to.

I’m sorry if you wanted to play his favorite song one more time before you put your boy in the ground.

I truly do apologize.

But aside from those few rare occasions, it usually just comes down to a matter of priorities. This is what you’re gonna get angry about? This is where you’re going to make your stand about every injustice you feel life has dealt you, that you’re mad as hell and you’re not gonna take it anymore? One thing I’ve learned through trial and error and hypertension is that not only do you have to know when, but where  you’re gonna pick your fights.  And with who. It’s a little hard to buy righteous indignation when its leveled at some poor clerk whose daily wage is worth less than your shirt because of a misplaced Neil Sedaka album.  Because, around every corner and headline and pettiness, there are things bigger than all of this worth getting angry about.  Hiding in the most unexpected of places. 

 

Now, you can call me a dork

but

I used to love school trips to the planetarium

When all the other kids wouldd to start whining the minute we got the permission slips

my mind would instantly drift to that moment before the lights would start to dim,

the projector started spinning, and the once white ceiling would run black, pull back

and reveal to me

the universe

 

In the days following I would find myself fighting with my parents to

stay out in the darkness for just one more minute just to try to

identify some of the night’s formations but

the only one I could ever make out was

Orion

Y’know

I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on him

He made me feel so…small

not just in size, but in significance

Unfortunately for me

insignificance in the face of all eternity was a feeling not longed to last

So quickly, my eyes tilted not upward but within

therein I fancied myself omnipotent

impenetrable

In my head I had made myself impervious to the pokes, prods, and criticisms that

these pitiful organisms who called themselves my fellow humans

could ever think to throw at me

This was my world

and I am GOD here

and I ruled over all I surveyed with a mighty right hand until events conspired

to pull me off this delusional Olympus

 

The death of my Uncle William

and then Benjamin

The passing of one of my best friends

The drowning of a one and a half year old infant

And finally, most recently

one of my closest carving out her wrists in another attempt to

put an end to all of this

This relentless descent found me not back down to earth

but embedded in it

in every sense

humiliated.

 

Why does it take horror

to draw us out of our sense of self importance?

We as the stars of our own series can’t quite conceive that

the story lines we work out in our minds never work out the way we want them to

Not until we start to be stripped of everything we’ve come to love do we

start to question our position in the universe

fly furious in the face of GOD and ask:

Why hast thou forsaken me?

 

See

the ego can only exist in this vacuum

which explains why we keep ourselves confined to the lines of

rules and logic and technology

inherently knowing if we allowed our heads to drift from between our shoulders and

released them to the sky do we find ourselves again as

insignificant

and realize that all of this exists despite

and not because of us

Or

are we so far gone full of ourselves that

constantly being slapped in the face by the vastness of space

can’t hope to pull us back from this brink we think we need

to feel alive

 

Y’know sometimes

I wish I was still this shiny eyed star child that could

somehow shout back at this now morose man of obscured city night that

if all the downtown lights block out these beacons of heaven sent humility

then maybe what I really need

is another trip back to the planetarium

and take another look

at Orion

ACT ONE: COUNTER/FLOOR

 

1. CLUELESS CUSTOMER (UNDESERVED SENSE OF PRIVILEGE, LACK OF CARE)

 

 

I seem to be afflicted with a particular disorder. It would seem I naively believe that all human beings are blessed with a certain amount of intelligence. That we have all evolved past the knuckle dragging, wife clubbing, shamelessly public masturbation behavior that defined our primitive forbearers. And yet every day I walk the dusty aisles, I’m am constantly reminded that this is most certainly, not the case.  Example:

 

“I’m looking for an album by _______. Where would I find it?”

 

And after I explain which section it is in, where that section starts, and that each section is organized alphabetically, I am greeted by the seizure inspiring question:

 

“So where is it?”

 

Of course, if English is not their first language, I can understand the need for assistance. I may be an intellectual elitist, but I’m not a complete asshole.  If however, you made it past, let’s say…5^th grade, you should be able to muddle it out. Of course one could argue that it’s the fault of the educational system in this country. And if this was a fair and balanced forum, I would be willing to listen to that argument. But, since its MY show, we will agree that a good 85% of people I deal with should be removed from the shallow end of the gene pool before they ejaculate in it again.

 

Funny thing is, it’s not even Mr. and Mrs. Droolcup that frustrate me the most. It’s the folks that seem to think customer service  means customer servitude.  Complete with genuflects and groveling, and offers to flog myself if I’m a bad little leper. Maybe I just can’t grasp the illusory premise that driving a mid range Sports Futility Vehicle and having little yipping light socket rats as pets means they can treat me like a complete and utter eunuch.

 

Fer instance: One night a gentleman asked me to check the availability of a coupla albums. When I confirmed that we indeed had the utter dreck he was looking for and told him where he could find it, instead of thank you, I got “Oh, I have to run next door real quick, could you fetch those for me and have them waiting when I get back?” I suppressed the urge to inquire if I could possibly shine his shoes or maybe give him a rimmer while I was at it.  Instead I comforted myself with the fact that I wasn’t his personal shopper, had the smidge of self respect a self loather is capable of, and stayed right where I was.

 

You can only imagine the shock and awe upon his return, when I explained that the 2 CDs he’d asked for were still right where I said they’d be. The look of bafflement stamped across his pinched little face spoke centuries through his polite silence. Of order and rules. Of ‘How dare yous’. Of how he’d made all the right decisions, done everything he was told, and therefore, shouldn’t have to deal with little misfits of the service industry like me, a cumbersome pebble thrown directly into the smooth stride of complacency.

 

I could see a few too many million’s agreement in the crow’s path around his eyes. The click in his throat echoed cobbled footsteps through the streets of Stalin, Mussolini, and every American king since JFK. Paths all too straight and narrow, paved with rewards lost with just one step outside their borders with the most Heavenly one promised at its end.

 

In his high held stride I could make out his Orwellian dedication to lines, station, and stricture. The unflagging belief that obedient sheep in a need to keep order do half the work of the shepherd. But if too many stray from the path he has seen fit, he shall bring forth the staff. And its might shall silence any deviant movement and the herd shall stay whole even at the cost of its skin.

 

And the bleat goes on and on and on….

 

..and with him on out the door.

 

After closing that night, I found the Gordon Lightfoot and Kylie Minogue sections a complete and utter mess. Yes, that  is what caused this particularly nasty scenario of master and servant.

 

You might think he did this out of some infantile sense of retribution. Or maybe its just another way of inflicting his idea of social order upon the world. And you may be right. But this kinda shit happens with the nicest of folks. In every single section. Some of my fellow winged monkeys say it happens more in one section than others. But every night, from jazz to rock, Avant to R&B Classical, Metal and back, I am constantly cleaning up after supposedly grown adults. And I’ve got no theory as to why this is so. No. I know exactly  where to lay the blame.

 

The parents.

 

I don’t know about you, but my mama raised me to clean up after myself. Maybe she was a victim of my same disorder, but she reasoned that I was intelligent enough to know she wouldn’t always be there to clean up my messes. And she cleaned up more than her fair share of my shit.

So, when I had reached the point of adolescent cognizance and motor skills, I started to do just that. And ever since I reached employment age, all my jobs have involved doing what my mother did out of love and blood…. which is worth light years more than the shit wage I settled for.

 

One of the little heard fizzles in the fallout of the Baby Boom was the utter abandonment of teaching children the most basic of precepts of interacting with the billions of other people on this planet. Clean up after yourself. Respect yourself and those around you. Be polite until you are given reason not to be. If you want something that belongs to someone else, go out and get your own.

 

These are century old ideas passed down from Jesus, Buddha, Ghandi, Deepak Chopra, and Dr. Seuss. And I think if this guy’s parents had exposed him to the teachings of these fine folks this incident, and many more like it, could’ve been averted.

 

Or maybe, just maybe, deep down this particular gentleman….

 was just a fucking douche bag.

(This is the introduction to the show. All poems used in the show will be designated with italics)

OPENING

 

I’ve got the type of skill sets you never  wanna put on a resume.

Thirty three year old male.

High School graduate…barely.

College dropout with a major in Pharmaceuticals and a minor in Distribution.

Interested in short shifts, flexible hours, and minimal contact with the general public.

Skillful at pouring drinks, tossing drunks, cleaning toilets, and mopping….jizz.

Not exactly middle management material.

This makes job hunting a little difficult. Especially if the only thing you show aptitude at is memorizing film dialogue, trivia, music minutiae….and writing poetry.

I couldn’t tell you the current political climate in Zimbabwe, but

if you need to know who produced Nirvana’s 3^rd album or directed Time Bandits,

I’m your man.

 

Steve Albini and Terry Gilliam, in case you’re wondering.

 

Luckily, there is 1 type of employer that sees these things as attributes and not a sign of complete social retardation. That values the knowledge and opinions you’ve accrued spending most of your free time poring over liner notes and special features. That doesn’t mind your complete lack of dress sense or the deathly pallor you refer to as your “moon tan”.

Or that you’re ‘bathing impaired’.

 

Your friendly neighborhood independent record store.

 

That sweet utopia of hard to find figurines, rare vinyl, Criterion Collections, and your favorite smarmy ass t-shirts. Ramones onesies, Sheperd Fairy, and Neutral Milk Hotel 7 inches, oh my!

And yeah, there is a bit of status with working there.  People recognize you and will buy you drinks, even if the only name they know you by is ‘David Lynch dude’. Or ‘White Hip Hop Encyclopedia’. Or ‘Fuckwad who busted me shoplifting 15 Hello Kitty bracelets, I told you those were for my fucking girlfriend…guy’.

 

Then, of course, there’s the free shit. Promos, shirts, concert tickets, and the mysterious Pan Galactic legendary object of lore: the discount. Which is sweet.  And is usually the only kind of  enticement most of us counter jockeys need. For you see, armed with this mighty 20% equalizer, we mere mortals can finally touch the kind of spoils only available to the gods!!

If the round table of Olympus spent their time vying for Joy Division white vinyl and Godard box sets, that is. But you get my point. We’d break our already meager Ramen budget if forced to pay full price for these things. And I know what you’re thinking. “You could afford all these things and more if you got a better paying job, silly”.  True. And maybe a car. And a better wardrobe. And a 401K. And a house. And a bad back. And hypertension. And acid reflux. And Tivo. And nothing to look forward to but ‘Law and Order’ and…death… and no reason to control the rising urge to stab everyone within arm’s reach in the neck with my new pen that costs more than my old apartment!  Oh, can I?!

 

That is to say….not for me.

 

I had a sales job once. And all I can remember is the feeling of my meager little soul oozing out of every orifice on my body coupled with the sensation of hell’s eternal space heater prickling at the back of my neck, while simultaneously chugging two of Satan’s 8 prodigious cocks.

 

Which is why I can put up with some of the lesser aspects of record store life. The ever shifting schedule. The early morning calls to cover someone who is suddenly stricken with the flu. Flu, from the Latin meaning ‘hung over’. The pay that is only rivaled by that of an 16 yr old KentucaTacoHut register troll. And, worst of all, Tuesdays. If Wednesday is ‘Hump Day’ then Tuesday is ‘Amateur Colonoscopy By A Blind Epileptic Day’:

 

One day

just this past week

I looked up from my register only to see

a trail of bodies stretching from here

all the way back to Baatan and they

don't want service

they want retribution

and blood but

one look at my hour glass induced anemia

sends them shuffling hollow bones on out the door

and I wake up screaming:

"Next!"

 

I hate New Release Day

 

Y'see

every Tuesday

in record stores all across the U.S.

lined up long before opening are

legions of 18-80 year olds clutching

carefully compiled lists off of NPR

and Pitchfork

and vague memories of something they heard

on 'I don't know what station' sometime last week

or month

interspersed with random jazz nerds

jam band bros, avant snobs

and Grumpy McSadhaired hipsters about to

bust out of their sister's too tight vintage denim

all because you don't have the new one by that

Ironic/Post Pop/Crunk/Neo Psychedelic band out of Kenosha

that only they've ever heard of!

 

And its moments like this ya gotta

pause

take a deep breath and in the sweetest possible way

tell them:

 

"Oh, get off your indie high horse, Captain Bright Eyes!

 You read about those guys in Spin, just like the rest of us!

 .......but I'd be happy to order it for you."

 

And yeah

it might be a bit hypocritical to

lift my nose at anyone's musical taste

coming from a guy who can recite all the lyrics to

every power ballad to ever squeeze its way out of a

studded black leather jock strap

but that's only because.....

I'M RIGHT!

I

am a highly trained professional

and by highly trained I mean

underpaid, neurotic,

and with a shitload of free time on my hands

Look at the name tag, Grandma

You're in my world now

Okay

I don't even wear a name tag!

But you will know my name is the Lord High Ruler

of this here dusty little counter

and I'm sorry

I cannot give you 5 bucks for this

scratched to shit copy of 'Xanandu'

might I suggest

chopping out your cocaine on the CD case, instead!?

 

Music

used to be

everything

from Primal Scream therapy

to zen liquid meditation

Coyote moan

Tortured whisper

Direct transmission to the most

lecherous chambers of my hips

The soundtrack to the morning after

and

my only form of prayer

 

And now

its just stacks of plastic

endless statistics

digital echoes stuck perpetually in back order

and

YOU

red ears quivering

pinched voice rising

comb over unraveling further and further

with every patient recitation of:

 

"The Deepak Ram, Kitaro, Steve Roach, Enya,

 and YANNI CD's you ordered are not here yet,

 Buddha McBitchyFace!

 Might I be so bold to say that maybe the mediation music

 JUST ISN'T WORKING!!

 Let me hook you up with the new Slipknot

 and we'll call it good."

 

How can I help you?

No, we're not selling tickets to that.

Kid Robot toys are to the front.

We're not buying any used vinyl today.

Y'know, I don't know why we

stock MXPX in Hardcore and the Sex Pistols in Pop.

Mark David Chapman and Ed Gein really liked that album

What?

Nothing.

Here's the bathroom key.

We're out of Obama shirts.

That's not out until September 22, 20Armageddon

Are you getting it?

Oh, Armageddon It.

In the name of Robert Johnson, Balkan Beat Box,

and KRS-ONE

Gloryblowmehallujah!

 

NEXT!

copyright 2008-09 Paulie Lipman