Sweet friggin Jesus, all I wanted to do was to read the paper with my girlfriend in Borders. Seriously. That's it. I can deal with the hyperactive ankle biters flailing around, their nannies/parents who don't give a crap about how atrocious their spawn are acting, the emo bastards shuffling through life, and the ultrafabulous (and clueless) meatsacks who are bitching about shit to no end on their ultrafabulous cell phones. Hell, I can even deal with the bloated gelatinous mass of recycled Cheetos, Yoo Hoo and Jolt reading comic books, because I like comic books, HOWEVER, I don't leave a wake of junk food and armpit musk for all to enjoy. Goddamn, how expensive is Old Spice now?
I can deal with all of that, but when my girlfriend starts to ask how does a books & music store determine what music to play in the store, I figured it was getting on her nerves. Then when I realized that she wasn't reading as much as holding her head in her hands trying to drown out the sounds of mediocrity that I figured she was gonna lose her shit. Let's put things in perspective for a moment. When I lose my shit, people generally know within a few feet at least. It doesn't surprise some people when I go off like an overcaffeinated Lewis Black (my inspiration and hero). But when I see my girlfriend lose her shit, I know it has to be really fucked up.
We both wanted to ask a clerk what cd was playing, slap the holy bejeezus out of the clerk, rip the cd out of the player and shatter it. We had no idea what the buggery bollocks it was, and all we remember was that they didn't so much as cover a Beatles track as they raped it with slack key guitar. I love real country music (Randy Travis is the shit), adn this wasn't country. A track or two later, the "artists" saw fit to do a simiilar raping of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Throughout this audio torture, my girlfriend pleaded with me to shut up and stop with the potty mouth. Ummmm.... nope. At this point in time, the football has been passed to the President, and it's on like muthafuckin' Donkey Kong. If some smarmy little clerk comes up to me and asks me to shut up, I'll ask him to put on some friggin' Van Halen (NOT Van Hagar) or Kiss to drown out the crap.
Another point to understand: my girlfriend and I share a masochistic love of shitty music. When we started dating, as a gag I got her a couple cds loaded with some heinous covers like Cassius Clay singing "Stand By Me," and William Shatner singing "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds." I told her that William Shatner did an album called "The Transformed Man," and she made me hunt for it. This is one reason why I love her. She couldn't bring herself to listen to Pat Boone's collection of Heavy Metal covers ("In A Metal Mood"), nor will she listen to David Hasselhoff. However, if William Shatner is coming to New York, we're there. I paid money for a David Koresh (Yes, that David Koresh) cd. You gotta love an album title like "Voices of Fire." This album, "Volume One" by She & Him was worse than all of that. Apparently I'm supposed to be impressed by the fact that Actress Zoey Deschanel thinks she can sing. I will not link to this album, because I hope in earnest that this album goes down quicker than Elliot Spitzer's career. If you see this album in a "staff picks" section, Inquire as to the mental health requirements of their staff. If you are curious about this album enough to listen to it, wash your ears out with some Madeleine Peyroux, BT, or Hapa.