Hey, it’s Evan. It’s Monday and I’ve been at work all day, slaving away in an attempt to get all our 45s alphabetized in the great push to get them out for our customers as soon as possible. I spoke briefly with our store’s newest favorite customer, a young man who used to work for Matador and grew up about five miles from me back in New Jersey. He’s been slowly selling off his record collection to us and it contained some cool gems. Not more than an hour after he left, another longtime customer came in and we chatted about his work with folks at Warner Music, Matador and Sub Pop. Learning “inside” industry information and chatting about rare albums is always more fun than filing pricing or processing web orders.
I’m not in the mood to troll the Internet for funny news stories or something relevant to write about tonight, so I’m just going to wing it and write about whatever comes to mind without hitting the delete key. Whatever stupid thought crosses my mind will be committed to TextEdit, until I grow tired of this exercise and decide to play Wii or something. Ready…go!
I’m listening to Scott Walker’s “The Escape” right now. That demonic Donald Duck impression — or whatever that it — gets me every time. I cannot stop laughing whenever I hear it. No matter what shitty thing has happened to me on the worst day of my life (hyperbole), if I listen to that track it’s like everything wrong in the world is instantly righted. Not many things in life make me feel that good. Ah, yes, here it is. The Donald Duck. I wonder what the hell he’s singing about, or if he’s actuallying saying anything in that silly voice of his. I wonder how the folks over at Maoist Record Reviews would treat a Scott Walker record. I wonder what’s going to happen tomorrow, or tonight, even. The Science Fiction channel has started airing LOST reruns, beginning with the pilot episode. If you haven’t seen the show, just buy the season one DVD. It’s way more entertaining to watch that show on DVD than it is to watch it on television. Too many commercial breaks. In fact, all television shows are fettered by commercial breaks. About the only thing I can watch these days without getting frustrated with breaks every eight minutes is a baseball game. Speaking of which, what…the…fuck…is wrong…with the Mets. I swear to God, if they fucking blow it again this season I’m going to puke. I’m going to puke, and then I’m going to photograph it and then I’m going to post it here and caption the photo, “See, I told you I’d puke.” I was planning on having postseason baseball to keep me occupied through October, but now I’m going to have to find some other hobby to keep me busy when I’m not at work or sleeping or hating my life. Come to think of it, I don’t hate my life that much. Not nearly as much as I let on here. I only mostly hate it. But, then again, doesn’t everyone? Someone was telling me the other day that on a radio program they enjoy (on NPR, I think), a radio host was talking to folks on one floor of an office building about their inner monologues and the kinds of thoughts they have. Almost all of them were feelings of guilt or anxiety about something, and almost all of them were way worse or way more intense than the thoughts that pass through my head on a daily basis. Until that moment I thought I was unique in that regard, but it turns out that I’m not only normal, I’m somewhat sane by comparison. Can you imagine how great it is when you realize that you’re not a total fucking nutcase? You should try it out sometime. I imagine that the type of person who reads this page is somewhat similar to myself — either that or you’re the kind of person who comes to a complete fucking stop when you’re driving past an accident on the side of the road. Either way…Okay, I feel like I’ve written enough. I’m going to disappear now. The LOST episode “Walkabout” just started, and I kind of have to watch this. It’s the one that got me hooked on the show. Nostalgia. She is great, no?
