How to fill a void? Well, if you're the members of INXS ("in excess," get it?) you get the Columbia Broadcasting System to help you audition a new lead singer for you - eight years after the unfortunate if not just a little tawdry passing of their former front man, Michael Hutchence. In a very precisely dedicated rip-off of "American Idol," rock star wannabes take turns flogging the Australian band's greatest hits. Here's what CBS's web site would like you to know about the show: Celebrated rock guitarist Dave Navarro and Brooke Burke are the hosts of ROCK STAR: INXS, a new reality show executive produced by SURVIVOR's Mark Burnett. The show combines the world of rock music with relationship-style unscripted drama, performance competition and a weekly contestant elimination. The last singer standing will become the lead singer of the internationally renowned band INXS, will embark on a worldwide concert tour with the band and will be part of the group's new album." I'm not sure about this, but I don't think Ms. Burke is a celebrated guitarist.
That's one way to go about it, I suppose. Another way might be to get Sir Bob Geldof to call you up and cajole you and your ex-bandmates into getting together for one more gig after twenty-four years apart (oh yeah - to end world poverty). That's what Pink Floyd did a few weeks ago for Live 8. Asked recently if he thought the band would mend fences and go back on tour again, Roger "I'm a bigger curmudgeon than you" Waters said that he couldn't imagine it, since there was still so much bad blood and litigation pending - but hey, thanks for asking.
So, what's more rock and roll? Whoring yourself out in the memory of your past glories, or keeping the hatchet deeply buried so no one will get hurt again? Tough to say, but I did notice an eerie coincidence: at the time of his death in a closet, Michael Hutchence was involved with Paula Yates. Paula Yates was the ex-wife of one Sir Bob Geldof. Paula made her own ugly exit from the planet in 2000 from a drug overdose. Both Yates and Michael Hutchence's father insisted that "Saint Bob" was to blame for Michael's accidental hanging from his own belt in a hotel closet. Maybe I just don't understand rock and roll, but if I were the members of Pink Floyd, I'd be careful about how I answered if Bob Geldof suggests they do a reunion concert on CBS.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Name Tag Jobs
First things first: When I think of name tags, my mind always goes back to a waitress my family encountered on one of our many station wagon treks across the desert southwest. When this young lady approached our table, my father - always one to chat up the help - said, "I couldn't help but notice - your name tag is upside down." Without missing a smack on her Doublemint, she replied, "I figure anybody really wants to know my name, they'll ask me."
I guess I've had fewer name tag jobs than most, only because for some unknown reason (stubbornness? fear?) I tend to stick with even the crappiest of jobs for years at a time. The one that stands out most prominently was my years (yes, you read that right) at Arby's. As is the case for most fast food restaurants, by the time you put on the scary polyester uniform, the notion of wearing a badge that identifies you by name is completely an afterthought. The best thing about the franchise that I worked at was this: They didn't care what your name tag said. They all but insisted that you have a funny comedy nickname. This helped take the edge off serving America's Roast Beef, Yes Sir! There was Rat, Waldo, Monkey, Buckwheat - and the whole thing was owned by a guy we knew only as "Cowboy." It only took about a week before the powers that be had determined the best possible name for my tag: Davo - to reflect my deep and abiding respect for the icons of New Wave, DEVO. If you got tired of your name, you could always make a new one on your break with the label maker. My moment of fast food ascension was when I received my cash register keys and engraved (on plastic) name tag - "DAVO Assistant Manager."
By working in the stock room unloading trailers I avoided wearing name tags during my stint at Target. The folks out on the floor were stuck in red polo shirts with their name tags prominently displayed. All the better to make it possible for customers to annoy you on a first-name basis. Later, when I moved on to the world of video rental, I felt assured that the specter of name tags was behind me. Little did I know that when I took the job in a hip, local video store that it would one day be bought and absorbed by a franchise. Uniforms and name tags had returned with a vengeance. As a manager, I had to field complaints from employees who were used to wearing their concert T-shirts and jeans to work that suddenly were asked to wear the royal blue colors of National Video - with a name tag that featured the visage of mascot Viddy O. Bear. Ironically, perhaps, that store was put out of business by mother of all chains, Blockbuster, where they don't issue name tags, but implant a chip in their employees' foreheads for easy identification.
It's been many years since my video days, and I find myself comforted in the notion that my students know me by the name I write on the board at the beginning of the year: Mr. Caven. Every so often, one of them asks me what my "real name" is. I just smile - and know that in my closet I keep my briefcase, upon which is lovingly embroidered "Davo."
I guess I've had fewer name tag jobs than most, only because for some unknown reason (stubbornness? fear?) I tend to stick with even the crappiest of jobs for years at a time. The one that stands out most prominently was my years (yes, you read that right) at Arby's. As is the case for most fast food restaurants, by the time you put on the scary polyester uniform, the notion of wearing a badge that identifies you by name is completely an afterthought. The best thing about the franchise that I worked at was this: They didn't care what your name tag said. They all but insisted that you have a funny comedy nickname. This helped take the edge off serving America's Roast Beef, Yes Sir! There was Rat, Waldo, Monkey, Buckwheat - and the whole thing was owned by a guy we knew only as "Cowboy." It only took about a week before the powers that be had determined the best possible name for my tag: Davo - to reflect my deep and abiding respect for the icons of New Wave, DEVO. If you got tired of your name, you could always make a new one on your break with the label maker. My moment of fast food ascension was when I received my cash register keys and engraved (on plastic) name tag - "DAVO Assistant Manager."
By working in the stock room unloading trailers I avoided wearing name tags during my stint at Target. The folks out on the floor were stuck in red polo shirts with their name tags prominently displayed. All the better to make it possible for customers to annoy you on a first-name basis. Later, when I moved on to the world of video rental, I felt assured that the specter of name tags was behind me. Little did I know that when I took the job in a hip, local video store that it would one day be bought and absorbed by a franchise. Uniforms and name tags had returned with a vengeance. As a manager, I had to field complaints from employees who were used to wearing their concert T-shirts and jeans to work that suddenly were asked to wear the royal blue colors of National Video - with a name tag that featured the visage of mascot Viddy O. Bear. Ironically, perhaps, that store was put out of business by mother of all chains, Blockbuster, where they don't issue name tags, but implant a chip in their employees' foreheads for easy identification.
It's been many years since my video days, and I find myself comforted in the notion that my students know me by the name I write on the board at the beginning of the year: Mr. Caven. Every so often, one of them asks me what my "real name" is. I just smile - and know that in my closet I keep my briefcase, upon which is lovingly embroidered "Davo."
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
The Comedy of Regurgitation
"...and I see people getting up at seven in the morning to go to work at the drugstore to sell Flair pens - but the most amazing thing to me is: I get paid for doing this." (insert banjo flourish)
Oh, there are vast regions of my brain that are crammed full with comedy bits for regurgitation. In the fall of 1977, I was one of the first in my high school to buy "Let's Get Small" by then up and coming comic Steve Martin. I memorized the whole thing. The happy part about this for me was that it cemented my reputation for being a funny (later "wild and crazy") guy. It took another three or four months for the rest of the planet to latch on to the record and make most - if not all - of it a series of catch phrases. But for those three months, I was the funniest guy in school. Thanks, Steve.
Later on I digested a series of National Lampoon records. The challenge with most of these bits is that they are generally dialogues and don't lend themselves to one-man shows. I didn't let that deter me. Probably the chief amusement gained from these records was the creative and very giddy use of profanity. Brian-Doyle and his brother Bill, better known as Bill Murray and that old guy, did an extraordinarily profane piece about confession. National Lampoon's "That's Not Funny, That's Sick" still plays in a loop somewhere in the back of my mind - I have to be careful not to turn on the external speakers.
Before that, in junior high it was all about Monty Python. I was "one of those guys" who knew (knows) every syllable of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." Finding this just a bit mainstream, I devoured their other records as well as the TV show to give myself an excuse to go spouting off in a high-pitched cockney accent. The Dead Parrot, The Penguin on Top of the Telly, The Cheese Shop - these were all staples of my personal geek show. I tried at times to enlist the help of my friends to do skits in repertory, but I could never get the same kind of enthusiasm from them as I had - go figure.
Winding the clock back still further, we find the genius of Bill Cosby. It occurred to me that Bill comes by his Jello cred honestly. He was flogging Jello as a means to keep monsters away and a staple of suburban dessert long before he started getting a check from Kraft Foods. He was also the voice of my childhood. I would do the Chicken Heart for my parents' friends, but I was never sure if they were truly amused or just patronizing me and my poor parents. Long before Kelsey Grammer was warbling his own scat theme song, Bill was jamming with Quincy Jones before each episode of Chet Kincaid, Physical Education instructor: "Got some ragginz, and some rollz, and some reezenfryzen - ah ha ha ha."
The joy of all this? My brain is generally a pretty funny place to be - though it gets a little crowded sometimes, since I'm still storing all of this stuff in analog form.
Oh, there are vast regions of my brain that are crammed full with comedy bits for regurgitation. In the fall of 1977, I was one of the first in my high school to buy "Let's Get Small" by then up and coming comic Steve Martin. I memorized the whole thing. The happy part about this for me was that it cemented my reputation for being a funny (later "wild and crazy") guy. It took another three or four months for the rest of the planet to latch on to the record and make most - if not all - of it a series of catch phrases. But for those three months, I was the funniest guy in school. Thanks, Steve.
Later on I digested a series of National Lampoon records. The challenge with most of these bits is that they are generally dialogues and don't lend themselves to one-man shows. I didn't let that deter me. Probably the chief amusement gained from these records was the creative and very giddy use of profanity. Brian-Doyle and his brother Bill, better known as Bill Murray and that old guy, did an extraordinarily profane piece about confession. National Lampoon's "That's Not Funny, That's Sick" still plays in a loop somewhere in the back of my mind - I have to be careful not to turn on the external speakers.
Before that, in junior high it was all about Monty Python. I was "one of those guys" who knew (knows) every syllable of "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." Finding this just a bit mainstream, I devoured their other records as well as the TV show to give myself an excuse to go spouting off in a high-pitched cockney accent. The Dead Parrot, The Penguin on Top of the Telly, The Cheese Shop - these were all staples of my personal geek show. I tried at times to enlist the help of my friends to do skits in repertory, but I could never get the same kind of enthusiasm from them as I had - go figure.
Winding the clock back still further, we find the genius of Bill Cosby. It occurred to me that Bill comes by his Jello cred honestly. He was flogging Jello as a means to keep monsters away and a staple of suburban dessert long before he started getting a check from Kraft Foods. He was also the voice of my childhood. I would do the Chicken Heart for my parents' friends, but I was never sure if they were truly amused or just patronizing me and my poor parents. Long before Kelsey Grammer was warbling his own scat theme song, Bill was jamming with Quincy Jones before each episode of Chet Kincaid, Physical Education instructor: "Got some ragginz, and some rollz, and some reezenfryzen - ah ha ha ha."
The joy of all this? My brain is generally a pretty funny place to be - though it gets a little crowded sometimes, since I'm still storing all of this stuff in analog form.
Monday, July 11, 2005
7-11
I will always remember the date of my friend's father's birthday. "Get it? Seven Eleven - like the store!" That's what the dimmer of his buddies used to say when the day rolled around. Why won't I forget it? Because I was supposed to start summer school two days after that.
To back up just a bit, in the spring of 1986 I had been in college for about half a decade, and it was about time for me to move on - fiscally speaking. I went to see an academic advisor (who'd have thought that a university the size of CU would have such people on staff?). His advice to me was to stop taking so many damn writing courses and take just a couple of sciences so I could graduate with some sort of degree. Did you know that after a certain point, the credits you take in your major start counting to an additional major, and you can't graduate without finishing both? Well, I didn't. I figured that someone would eventually just call me up and tell me that I'd attended enough lectures, workshops and seminars and they'd send me a diploma in the mail. Not so - they wanted me to take an active role in that process. To that end, Mister Academic Advisor advised me to take a couple of courses over the summer and I could be on my merry matriculated way.
I signed up for the courses. I even bought the books. I just never made it to the classes. The weekend before the summer session, I decided to have one last little fling with some friends of mine. Some friends - and a swing set (strike ominous chord here).
Life is a series of choices. Everything would have been fine if I hadn't been so dramatically altered when I jumped out of the swing at Scott Carpenter park. I would have graduated on time (give or take) - and I would have avoided physical therapy to regrow my left quadriceps. I might have moved on to other greater and more grandiose things, but instead I chose to leap at the apex of my swing - hurtling into the night without a serious consideration of how and where I might land. When I came down, I came down on my left leg alone. My left leg is a sturdy enough limb for most ordinary tasks, but what I was asking it to do was beyond the laws of God and Physics. An overly simplified version of the injury I sustained would be to say that I broke my knee - five of the six parts that hold one's knee in place were obliterated in one giant leap for mankind.
I spent that summer learning how to walk again. With a brace. With a foot-long scar on the side of my left leg. When fall came, I registered for a couple more courses and walked to class every day - on crutches. I graduated in December. I make a stubborn point of going for a run on the eleventh of July. It reminds me of my strengths and my frailty. "Seven Eleven? Hey - it's like the store!" Right.
To back up just a bit, in the spring of 1986 I had been in college for about half a decade, and it was about time for me to move on - fiscally speaking. I went to see an academic advisor (who'd have thought that a university the size of CU would have such people on staff?). His advice to me was to stop taking so many damn writing courses and take just a couple of sciences so I could graduate with some sort of degree. Did you know that after a certain point, the credits you take in your major start counting to an additional major, and you can't graduate without finishing both? Well, I didn't. I figured that someone would eventually just call me up and tell me that I'd attended enough lectures, workshops and seminars and they'd send me a diploma in the mail. Not so - they wanted me to take an active role in that process. To that end, Mister Academic Advisor advised me to take a couple of courses over the summer and I could be on my merry matriculated way.
I signed up for the courses. I even bought the books. I just never made it to the classes. The weekend before the summer session, I decided to have one last little fling with some friends of mine. Some friends - and a swing set (strike ominous chord here).
Life is a series of choices. Everything would have been fine if I hadn't been so dramatically altered when I jumped out of the swing at Scott Carpenter park. I would have graduated on time (give or take) - and I would have avoided physical therapy to regrow my left quadriceps. I might have moved on to other greater and more grandiose things, but instead I chose to leap at the apex of my swing - hurtling into the night without a serious consideration of how and where I might land. When I came down, I came down on my left leg alone. My left leg is a sturdy enough limb for most ordinary tasks, but what I was asking it to do was beyond the laws of God and Physics. An overly simplified version of the injury I sustained would be to say that I broke my knee - five of the six parts that hold one's knee in place were obliterated in one giant leap for mankind.
I spent that summer learning how to walk again. With a brace. With a foot-long scar on the side of my left leg. When fall came, I registered for a couple more courses and walked to class every day - on crutches. I graduated in December. I make a stubborn point of going for a run on the eleventh of July. It reminds me of my strengths and my frailty. "Seven Eleven? Hey - it's like the store!" Right.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Live At Red Rocks
Here's some more Colorado-flavored nostalgia:
There is a venue in Colorado that has been the site of many now legendary performances - Red Rocks Amphitheater. Each summer I would eagerly anticipate the list of shows that were coming to Red Rocks. The schedule would begin around Memorial Day, and the season would close before the snow began to fly in mid to late September. The magic of wandering into an acoustically perfect natural wonder and watching the lights of far away Denver come up as the stars came out was satisfying in itself, and then the shows would begin.
I saw Talking Heads play there twice. I saw John Belushi touring with the Blues Brothers not long before his date with destiny. I laughed along with a herd of other folks as Steve Martin recorded the second side of his album "Wild and Crazy Guy." It was a given that Jimmy Buffett would have a beach party (or two) there every summer. The first time I saw Bruce Springsteen was at Red Rocks - a transcendent moment for me.
A good portion of the experience of going to Red Rocks concerts was the pre-show entertainment. Sitting on the broad concrete and wood benches for hours before the music started, you could take the time to share in nature's wonders - and whatever you had brought along with you in your cooler or backpack. Probably this sense of community was felt most keenly in the marathon stand of dates that bands like the Grateful Dead and later Phish were able to block out during a long, hot summer.
But it wasn't always sunny. You could expect at least a brief afternoon shower, if not a full-on thunderstorm. Part of being in the middle of nature's wonders was this: "I wonder if I will be struck by lightning?" I never was. There are many stories of daring attempts to scale the rocks behind the amphitheater to get into a show for free - and just as many of not-so-coordinated folks who missed a show because they were being air-lifted to the nearest hospital.
The Beatles once played Red Rocks. U2 elevated it to a shrine. Acts as diverse as Indigo Girls and Incubus have played there, but the real attraction will always be the venue itself. I was part of a food fight with a few hundred of my closest friends at an otherwise forgettable Go-Gos show in the early eighties. There are other outdoor amphitheaters, most of them created with bulldozers and equipped with seats straight out of the local McDonald's - but there will only be one Red Rocks. Cheers.
There is a venue in Colorado that has been the site of many now legendary performances - Red Rocks Amphitheater. Each summer I would eagerly anticipate the list of shows that were coming to Red Rocks. The schedule would begin around Memorial Day, and the season would close before the snow began to fly in mid to late September. The magic of wandering into an acoustically perfect natural wonder and watching the lights of far away Denver come up as the stars came out was satisfying in itself, and then the shows would begin.
I saw Talking Heads play there twice. I saw John Belushi touring with the Blues Brothers not long before his date with destiny. I laughed along with a herd of other folks as Steve Martin recorded the second side of his album "Wild and Crazy Guy." It was a given that Jimmy Buffett would have a beach party (or two) there every summer. The first time I saw Bruce Springsteen was at Red Rocks - a transcendent moment for me.
A good portion of the experience of going to Red Rocks concerts was the pre-show entertainment. Sitting on the broad concrete and wood benches for hours before the music started, you could take the time to share in nature's wonders - and whatever you had brought along with you in your cooler or backpack. Probably this sense of community was felt most keenly in the marathon stand of dates that bands like the Grateful Dead and later Phish were able to block out during a long, hot summer.
But it wasn't always sunny. You could expect at least a brief afternoon shower, if not a full-on thunderstorm. Part of being in the middle of nature's wonders was this: "I wonder if I will be struck by lightning?" I never was. There are many stories of daring attempts to scale the rocks behind the amphitheater to get into a show for free - and just as many of not-so-coordinated folks who missed a show because they were being air-lifted to the nearest hospital.
The Beatles once played Red Rocks. U2 elevated it to a shrine. Acts as diverse as Indigo Girls and Incubus have played there, but the real attraction will always be the venue itself. I was part of a food fight with a few hundred of my closest friends at an otherwise forgettable Go-Gos show in the early eighties. There are other outdoor amphitheaters, most of them created with bulldozers and equipped with seats straight out of the local McDonald's - but there will only be one Red Rocks. Cheers.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
This is a test
This is a test of the internal liberal reaction department.
Are you sitting in front of a computer right now? If so, how many other windows are presently open? How many of them are affiliated with some liberal cause/affectation? If these windows include clicking once for peace or food, go ahead and close them right now. Instead, go out and buy a can of Campbell's Chunky Soup and then walk the three blocks it will take you to find a person who would be more than happy to have it for their only meal. Or you could write a letter - in your own words, no fair using a copied boiler plate - to your senator or representative telling them how you feel about the war in Iraq.
If you are planning a weekend activity, why not find some time to volunteer at your local library? Do you think all those books just walk themselves to the shelf - or all those overpaid civil servants (librarians) will probably get to it right after their cappucino break. The opportunities for volunteering don't stop there. You could give your time away for free to any number of worthwhile places or causes. Teach a kid to read. It takes a little time, but most kids seem to like it - even if they just look at the pictures.
If you have any disposable income laying around, you could hand it over to a person or group who really needs it. Some people don't have their own homes - they are homeless. They don't have to refinance their mortgages because they don't have one in the first place. The people that make art in your community probably need money too - even if they have their own homes. Paint isn't free.
In fact, very little in life is free. That's the problem. Free time and free money don't really exist - there's some cost connected to all of that, so just giving stuff away doesn't seem all that clever after all.
This has been a test of the internal liberal reaction department. If this had been an actual emergency, you would have been instructed by your conscience where in your area to turn for guilt and moral reflection. We now return to our regularly scheduled blog.
Are you sitting in front of a computer right now? If so, how many other windows are presently open? How many of them are affiliated with some liberal cause/affectation? If these windows include clicking once for peace or food, go ahead and close them right now. Instead, go out and buy a can of Campbell's Chunky Soup and then walk the three blocks it will take you to find a person who would be more than happy to have it for their only meal. Or you could write a letter - in your own words, no fair using a copied boiler plate - to your senator or representative telling them how you feel about the war in Iraq.
If you are planning a weekend activity, why not find some time to volunteer at your local library? Do you think all those books just walk themselves to the shelf - or all those overpaid civil servants (librarians) will probably get to it right after their cappucino break. The opportunities for volunteering don't stop there. You could give your time away for free to any number of worthwhile places or causes. Teach a kid to read. It takes a little time, but most kids seem to like it - even if they just look at the pictures.
If you have any disposable income laying around, you could hand it over to a person or group who really needs it. Some people don't have their own homes - they are homeless. They don't have to refinance their mortgages because they don't have one in the first place. The people that make art in your community probably need money too - even if they have their own homes. Paint isn't free.
In fact, very little in life is free. That's the problem. Free time and free money don't really exist - there's some cost connected to all of that, so just giving stuff away doesn't seem all that clever after all.
This has been a test of the internal liberal reaction department. If this had been an actual emergency, you would have been instructed by your conscience where in your area to turn for guilt and moral reflection. We now return to our regularly scheduled blog.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Hunting and Gathering
I miss touching every record in the store. The record store of my youth was Rocky Mountain Records and Tapes. Their initial store was located on the pedestrian mall in Boulder, Colorado. There was an apocryphal tale of a scruffy-looking character who came into the store one morning and spent a good long time poring over each and every one of the bargain cassettes. At long last this fellow brought his purchases up to the counter and pointed to one tape in particular - "Greg Kihn does one of my songs on this one." The name on the gold American Express card: Bruce Springsteen.
That might have happened - it certainly seems within the realm of Rocky Mountain Record and Tapes reality. The records were all stored in vast wooden bins, and the new releases were displayed on a stack of railroad ties near the front of the store. This is where I headed one fall afternoon, the week after my friend Darren died. I went there for the comfort of the sounds and smells - always a whiff of patcouli oil and "incense" drifting from the back room. That October day on the new releases rack was an album by one of Darren's favorite bands, Oingo Boingo. The name of that record was "Dead Man's Party."
They had a ticket outlet downstairs, with the cassette tapes (and for a time, a selection of "smoking accessories"). Rocky Mountain was my one-stop music connection. But mostly I enjoyed flipping through the stacks of vinyl. The enormous variety they maintained in an age before superstores never ceased to amuse. It was very seldom when I didn't leave with at least two new records - sometimes more. When I was in college, I tried a few different places - "King of the Hill" had a nice selection and their sign featured King Kong hanging from the Empire State building, waving an LP. There was a used record store called - inspiringly enough - "Albums." It was there that I found my first bits of obscure vinyl - picture discs and 45s. But I always found my way back to Rocky Mountain.
I can remember when things started to change. There was a row at the back of the store in which the bins had been separated into two - providing storage for the newfangled compact discs. I bought my last Van Halen album on vinyl ("OU812") and my first CD (INXS "Listen Like Thieves") the same day. Soon the vinyl became the ghetto, and the CDs pushed their way to the front of the store. I still have dreams about trying to find records - 45s by DEVO, and being happily surprised when I find something on the Stiff label.
Now I buy a song or two at a time on the Internet. I order CDs from Amazon because it's cheaper than buying them in a record store (music store?). Tonight I'm going out to dinner with my family. While they're busy shopping for Power Bars and soy milk, I'm going to wander across the parking lot to Tower Records (I've seen all thirty pieces of vinyl they have to sell) - and I'm going to touch some music product. I may just buy something - if it's on sale.
That might have happened - it certainly seems within the realm of Rocky Mountain Record and Tapes reality. The records were all stored in vast wooden bins, and the new releases were displayed on a stack of railroad ties near the front of the store. This is where I headed one fall afternoon, the week after my friend Darren died. I went there for the comfort of the sounds and smells - always a whiff of patcouli oil and "incense" drifting from the back room. That October day on the new releases rack was an album by one of Darren's favorite bands, Oingo Boingo. The name of that record was "Dead Man's Party."
They had a ticket outlet downstairs, with the cassette tapes (and for a time, a selection of "smoking accessories"). Rocky Mountain was my one-stop music connection. But mostly I enjoyed flipping through the stacks of vinyl. The enormous variety they maintained in an age before superstores never ceased to amuse. It was very seldom when I didn't leave with at least two new records - sometimes more. When I was in college, I tried a few different places - "King of the Hill" had a nice selection and their sign featured King Kong hanging from the Empire State building, waving an LP. There was a used record store called - inspiringly enough - "Albums." It was there that I found my first bits of obscure vinyl - picture discs and 45s. But I always found my way back to Rocky Mountain.
I can remember when things started to change. There was a row at the back of the store in which the bins had been separated into two - providing storage for the newfangled compact discs. I bought my last Van Halen album on vinyl ("OU812") and my first CD (INXS "Listen Like Thieves") the same day. Soon the vinyl became the ghetto, and the CDs pushed their way to the front of the store. I still have dreams about trying to find records - 45s by DEVO, and being happily surprised when I find something on the Stiff label.
Now I buy a song or two at a time on the Internet. I order CDs from Amazon because it's cheaper than buying them in a record store (music store?). Tonight I'm going out to dinner with my family. While they're busy shopping for Power Bars and soy milk, I'm going to wander across the parking lot to Tower Records (I've seen all thirty pieces of vinyl they have to sell) - and I'm going to touch some music product. I may just buy something - if it's on sale.
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