So today I went to CD World to pick up Field Manual, Chris Walla's solo album. I'm listening to it right now, and I can already tell you I'm not sure how I feel about it -- but more on that after I've given it a fair shot to sink in, and I'm motivated by more than a terminal case of "What the fuck? This isn't Marten Youth Auxiliary!" Anyway, I seldom go to the place, because it's a bit of a drive from where I live, and I happen to be more a fan of House of Records for selection, ambiance, and amiability. While I was there I decided to dig through their bargain bin on the outside chance that a mislabeled Mission of Burma bootleg would have slipped in, or something else made of equal amounts of win.
After a minute, I had concluded that I needed to talk to the person who picked albums for it and ask them one simple question: Are you fucking crazy? My Bloody Valentine? (Loveless, none the less) Dinosaur Jr.? Hüsker Dü? Built to Spill? Modest Mouse? (Before they sucked ... the first time) Bad Religion? Lou Reed? UGH! WHY do you do this to me?
Their response to my question would dictate one of two actions by me. If they responded with a knowing smirk and a wink, I'd probably walk up and hug them -- or maybe even, if they were so fortunate as to be a cute indie girl or effeminate man -- give them a nice friendly kiss on the cheek and bum-groping. I'd then walk out a happy man. But, if they just stared at me blankly with a little bit of drool dribbling from their lower lip, they'd earn a nice quick punch in the balls. I'd then walk out a happy man.
I did neither though. See, lately my bank statement has been looking sort of like a sunburned zebra (penguin covered in jam? Menstruating newspaper? Portland Jail-Blazer game? Ah, whatever), so I decided I would hold off until AFTER I had thoroughly pillaged the bin on payday. CD World, expect to see me Wednesday. I'll have a wheelbarrow. Guard yr nutsack.
