Record Store Day

Thankfully the second weekend of the Coachella is not being televised or I would feel compelled to tune in through to the next early Monday morning again. That set me free to get out for enjoy Earth Day, which was coincidentally ‘Pot’ Day and Record Store Day. I thought I’d just slip into the one last remaining, though anachronistic, physical record store in my county: Greywhale Entertainment. I took a walk the long way through the mall to build the anticipation, but when I got there instead of an ‘On Sale’ sign I saw ‘For Sale’ and the store was gone. I admit waiting for a single fabricated calendar date to exercise support for my local brick and mortar record store was lazy, but today it was a heavy to realize the concept of a local, physical record store was dead. Other than Walmart or Best Buy, which don’t count, if I wanted to hold in my hand and look at a record before I bought it, I’d just be left to reminisce about the past. Continue reading

Aping The Original

I remember first hearing about Beck (Hansen) while I was at school loitering around the campus computer nerd club. You know that song, “I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me.” That struck me as really awkward, assuming Beck was literally some kind of mental case and was just briefly making it big as a pitiful target for ridicule. I’m not saying I could make that assessment from a position of critical authority, spending my days holed up in the basement of a science building. I felt a little ashamed hearing him on the radio, thinking it was a catchy, sarcastic joke. After the novelty and the juvenile laughs I thought for sure that would be the last we would hear from him. Though not long after, the surreal blossoming of his talent and personality dispelled any notion that he had been putting on an imbecile act. He was creeping up on us a genius free spirit. Continue reading

“Putting Out the Fire”

I am into my own imagined form of holistic medical treatment when it comes to headaches. I was on a flight to Maryland last month for work, and for some reason (not even a hangover this time) as soon as the plane went airborne the back of my right eye-ball started throbbing with a piercing jab to my inner cranium. From the wisdom of the David Bowie song, when it comes to a skull-splitting headache you can fight pain with torturous, driving pain itself. As I press firmly with the dagger points of my fingertips to my temples I can drill directly to the source of the pain, a congested nerve center, and cruelly torment my tormentor with a blinding surge of blood-curdling agony. After pressing, digging, and gouging that one single focus of anguish for a beat past despair I begin to feel the thudding pulse of the veins in my wretched skull opening wide to relieve my afflicted mind. Continue reading