I am writing this entry from a table at Aroma Coffee & Tea. It’s not exactly warm enough to be dining outdoors, but it’s not uncomfortable either. I’m waiting on a turkey and pesto panini, and making various phone calls simply because it feels like what one should be doing while eating alone at an upscale cafe in Studio City. I just finished buying some records from a guy who lives in Valley Village, and I was hoping to double-check some prices while enjoying my sandwich but alas, no Internet at this cafe. This might be one of the only remaining wireless-less cafes in the Los Angeles area. So I guess this post isn’t going to be published until I return to the relative comfort of my shitty apartment.
I knew it was a bad idea to contact an eBay seller specializing in vinyl because I had a bad feeling I would recognize him as a customer at my place of work. Of course, I use the identifier “him” because there’s absolutely no way women are selling records on eBay, unless maybe her husband just died and she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. Usually the widows opt for antique stores, thrift stores, or the Salvation Army.
Of course, as soon as the dude answered the door to his condo I recognized him. I don’t know if he recognized me. Although I know I’ve seen him before, I can’t remember if it was in my place of work, at a record store somewhere in the valley, or somewhere entirely different. Either way, it was a really uncomfortable greeting. I didn’t tell him that I technically am a “dealer,” nor did I tell him that I know many of the same people in Los Angeles record collecting community that he knows. Oops!
He had some cool titles. I think most of the great ones he’s already sold, or have been cherry picked from his collection. Still, if one of the titles is what I think it is, that alone could pay for the remaining 28 records I purchased from him. Of course, I’d like to keep that title, and sell most of the other 28 records, which will hopefully bring me an equivalent sum of money. Ah, the life of collector scum.
By the way, if you ever find yourself on the 101-South (or North, I guess, which would be the Ventura exit), take the Tujunga exit and get yourself a turkey pesto panini with a side cesar salad at Aroma. It’s so good you’ll ejaculate.
From the far East, as far as New York City, here’s a funny home video Nicci’s sister Sarah and her roommate (coincidentally named Evan!) made. They talk about farts and feltching, so you’ll probably get a kick out of it if you enjoy my constant references to deviant sexual behavior. Sarah also maintained a blog for a while (no updates since September, what the fuck?). You can visit What Type Of Facts Are Those, and make sure you find and read the post about Pizza Hut P’zones. As if that’s not enough free promotion, you can visit her immensely popular “In The Butt” website, right here! Sarah, I expect you to send Nicci and I some stickers to represent Los Angeles…
