Downtown Record Store Early Weekday Afternoon Customer Archetype # 52: The Crack Whore.

The Crack Whore can almost always be instantly recognized by her stringy hair, parchment like skin, extremely low body weight, shifty eyes and trembling hands. Further signs are that she usually will be trying to sell you product that looks like it has been ripped out of the used, $4.99 bin at Blockbuster and then stashed in a dumpster until ‘the heat dies down’, roughly two to three weeks later. While participating in the transaction, she will haggle with the payment price relentlessly. She will then insist that she called ahead and that she was given a price quote over the phone that is higher than what you are offering (which your store DOES NOT DO). She will then insist that she spoke with whoever else happens to be working (even when there is NO ONE ELSE working at that moment in the day) and that they always give her a better price (which they NEVER do). Finally, she will accept what you offer and try to sell it without proper identification (which is illegal) and then claim she does it all the time at your store (which she does not). Following that, she will try to sell it through ‘her boyfriend’s’ account (which is also illegal, and probably worse). Often, she will leave empty handed, and you will be left to deal with the migraine her obvious attempts at double dealings always inspire.

You will get to know the Crack Whore very well. She doesn’t seem to ever remember you, even when you’ve dealt with her for years, and so never realizes that the scam she tries to pull has never and will never work. As such, she comes in almost every day and tries again.

On some days though, the Crack Whore is wildly entertaining and can be the highlight to your entire day.

Case in point, last Tuesday.

It is mid afternoon on a beautiful, sunny, warm day. The door to the shop is open, inviting customers to browse for the perfect tune to suit their mood as they walk down the street. There is a lovely breeze circulating the air. Suddenly a vague trace of scent wafts into the store. Stale urine and the saltiness of week old sweat, signaling the arrival of someone who spends more time than not out on the streets without showering. Today, it is the Crack Whore, looking as shifty as ever and carrying a plastic bag.

This bag is that semi-opaque milky white, and is made of a low quality plastic (you can tell by all the scratches and creases it has endured). You recognize it as one of the small bags pharmacy’s will give you when you purchase things like toothpaste, and you suspect that this bag has been stuffed in a drawer months ago and was only recently rediscovered and recycled.

This bag is full of water, and the Crack Whore is handling it carefully as she comes up to the counter. She stares at you and holds it out, seemingly implying that you should accept it. Confused, you do so and wait for her explanation.

“Can I leave this on the counter?” she asks, voice vaguely scratchy with dehydration “It’s a shark and it needs to stay upright.”

This is a true story. That wackjob brought a fucking SHARK into my store and wanted to leave it on the counter while she shopped.

Somehow, we came to the conclusion that it was a black market shark that had been raised in a bathtub and been fed kittens. We then tried to feed it aluminum cans, as apparently, sharks eat medieval armor.

Unable to come up with a suitable artist that avoided cliche, terrible music, overexposure as well as maintained an extensive catalog (I almost went with Billy Joel, but he's really fucking depressing), I've decided to take a different approach. I'm going with burn-out artists. Artists that have little to no catalog due to premature death but have developed cult-like followings postmortem (alright, still depressing but way more interesting).

Judee Sill was the first artist signed to David Geffen's Asylum Records. She released two albums during her life, a self-titled debut and Heart Food (1971 and 1973 respectively). What I find to be most interesting about Sill and her music is the juxtaposition between what she sang about (and how she sang it) against how she lived her life.

Judee Sill was old-school Hollywood royalty through her mother and step-father, she had everything but she hated it and rebelled. Through her youth, she got mixed up with the worst cats she could find. She used to rob convenience and liquor stores with her friends for a lark, and was a heavy drug user. Everyone is always quick to point out that at one point in her life, she prostituted herself to support a $150/day heroin habit.

She was eventually cought for the robberies and sent to a juvenile correctional center (did I mention she was still a minor at this point?). There, she was indoctrinated with the usual catholic bull and was taught to play the organ. The religious licks became perpetual undertones musically in her work, and overtones lyrically.

Her music was always about redemption, about love and about hope. It was uplifting, balm for weary souls. And yet the life she lived was so trampled in mud.

I'm not saying that people can't be that confused about things, of course they can be. Everyone I know is a walking contradiction of some kind or other. But Sill is interesting because she explains herself. In the reissues of 'Judee Sill' and 'Heart Food', there are bonus live tracks where she talks about herself and her inspiration for her songs. Those interviews, coupled with others, paint the portrait of a woman with no natural sense of morality, which is why she attached herself to the structure of religion.

I always thought that you could feel it in the music too, the thought that this was how she was supposed to feel, and supposed to think, and that if she wasn't supposed to, she wouldn't feel anything at all. There was a fakeness, but and earnestness to it.

I suppose that's what I like about her. How hopelessly hard she was trying.

Sill died in 1979 of a heroin overdose. She was cremated and her ashes were scattered in the ocean.

( Private )

Man, I fucking miss sleep. I picked up this overnight gig at a liquor store downtown, this plus the Exchange gives me roughly seventy to eighty hours a week, plus the fifteen to twenty from Ink Spot and the six or so from the Art Institute. My credit card remains untouched, which is damn awesome, but I'm only scratching in about five hours of sleep a day, and normally as naps between shifts rather than all in one go. I've started just carrying around a thermos of coffee and swigging at will.

The jobs are cool though. The Exchange is real slow from a selling point of view, but strong on a buying one. Everyone's been getting rid of the crap they got for Christmas that they didn't really want, or already had, or never wound up giving away, as well as trying to recover financially. We've been getting some pretty stellar titles sliding through the doors, and most of them are in good condition too. I almost feel bad for most of the kids selling them, you can tell when it's come down to their fanclub-issue-only first press Beatles singles and eating. I pay them well though, so they can't really complain. Those things make us a mint online.

The nice thing about the Spot is that business never really changes, seeing as body modification is such a big deal, financially and personally. People usually plan ahead, and for a lot of ink work, need to save a lot before hand before they can start getting the work done. A lot of thought goes into the images that get picked and a lot of cash goes into the execution. It's comforting to know exactly what to expect every time you step through those doors. Yeah, the people themselves are all different and unique and interesting, but they're all fundamentally the same and the pace never changes.

Graveyard shifts are fucking brutal though, especially when booze is involved. The pay's pretty phenomenal for how little I actually need to work, I'm willing to bet that it's to compensate for the drunken assholes and washed up junkies that troll through at all hours. You really need nerves of steel to deal with them. There've been a few times where even I've almost flinched. On the upside, momentary weakness only strengthens my resolve to harden up in the long run.

Work in the studios is the only real break I have, I just need to stand around and not move. The trick is managing to stay awake despite the fact that you have no stimulation, mental or physical, whatsoever. All there is to focus on is the growing strain in over-extended muscles after keeping them in an extreme for a twenty-minute pose. I suppose that focusing on the spreading cramps and pains is kinda masochistic, but it keeps me from passing out so I suppose I can compromise on it.

Other than work, life stays pretty much the same. I haven't physically seen my brothers in about a month, and if it weren't for the occasional note on the fridge about something needed from the grocery store and the steadily depleting food supply, I'd start to think they'd moved out without telling me. I almost half think that anyway, they're just swinging by to eat here because it's free.

( Private )

I love how appropriate Ramones album titles are to my life. In this case, while I do very much wish it meant I was finally saying my final ‘fuck you’ to the building, it’s only another wasted year that’s getting the sendoff. Cue the sigh so heavy it finally smashes a hole through the pathetic attempt at a floor that we all know the landlord is not going to be using our astronomical rent hike to fix.

I think that’s a subject that’s already been bitched to hell and back though, so I’ll swallow the bitter taste that’s staining the back of my throat. But damn, if I had the time I’d follow up the legal action on this bullshit.

Ink Spot remained manageable during the season. We even had enough dead time for Kay (the piercer there) to stretch my lobes. She got me these wicked tribal wood earrings for Christmas, and she needed to make sure they’d fit. I’m a fan of them, they’ve got some really delicate detailing that you wouldn’t expect on something so…bulky.

The Exchange…well, it comes and goes. When we’re busy it’s always the locals who are shopping for everyone they know. The regulars who know how the store works, you know? The herds hit the mall, which I am more than ok with. Boxing Day was a fucking disaster area. Fucking bargain whores. They drive me mental.

I suspect that part of it was the culmination of all the pre-Christmas stress and the breaking point of a month of 70-80 hour workweeks between three jobs. Yeah, three, and not my normal three.

I succumbed to the lure of extra holiday cash and got a seasonal temp job at a Virgin Megastore. Why yes, actually, I do still want to kill myself over it. But I suppose it could be worse. Maybe.

It sure did make me savor all the times I got to say, “Do we look like the kind of place that has gift wrapping? Go to the fucking mall,” at the Exchange at any rate.

Anyways, so yeah, Boxing Day turned me homicidal, and then some. I suppose I’m sorry you had to deal with me like that Ichigo. And bros, sorry to have missed you but trust me, it was for the better.

On the upside, January looms. A barren wasteland in terms of sale but a sweet oasis to the overworked clerks. Surely I'm not alone in the sentiment?

( Private )

I need a new artist with an extensive repertoire to rip off for journal entry titles. One that doesn't suck and that hasn't already been abused by the microcosm of culture this building seems to breed. Maybe inspiration will hit tomorrow at work.

Note to self: do not wear new shoes in the rain. Especially when your apartment building has concrete front steps on which said new shoes will find no traction when said concrete is wet.

Also, I've decided that I'm going to be a Bond girl.

What's with people feeling the need to suck face on every fucking street corner of the city this time of year? God. They stop to wait at a light and it’s like they suddenly develop magnets in their lips. PDAs are one thing, I could care less about them for the most part, but I'm talking full out tonsil hockey. Goddamn exhibitionist assholes that get so into making out that they forget about the light and hold up traffic once it finally changes.

Seriously, it’s a pain in the ass. Especially since they all insist on standing in the middle of the sidewalk and then shoot you the dirtiest fucking look when you finally manage to squeeze past them.

OH I'M SORRY; SOME OF US ACTUALLY HAVE PLACES TO GO AND THINGS TO DO TODAY.

It’s always worse in fall than it is in any other season, too. The sudden shift towards the cold must trigger that 'desperate' hormone or something, convincing everyone that NOW is the time to mate and not a second later. It kinda makes sense on a primitive level, get pregnant now so that gestation happens during the barren months and the whelp is born at a time where survival is easier and more likely. Society has evolved to such a point where concerns like that are obsolete, and so I feel completely justified in objecting to being held up by spit swapping every where I turn for MONTHS.

If you all want to crawl inside of each other so badly, WHY THE HELL are you out in public instead of somewhere a little more private doing JUST THAT.

And as if reality isn't enough, it comes back to haunt me digitally. KUROSAKI JUST GO BANG THE MOUTHY CHICK ALREADY AND GIVE IT A FUCKING REST.

( Private )

This is for the coke-head upstairs.

[OOC Sorry its not an mp3 guys, I did my best with what the internet cafe had]

People are livin' and dyin' all over the world and all anyone here can bring themselves to comment on is the goddamn fucking weather. This place makes me sick.

Yeah, its RAINING. A LOT. WOW. So what? Its just water. We should all be GLAD that we even GET rain. We have a complete abundance of water, free water. In some countries, downpours like this are collected by some major water company and sold to the people in bottles. Stop complaining.

Tch.

I've been binging lately at the record store. Picked up some Robert Johnson, Nina Simone, David Bowie (where'd he go, anyway?), Bright Eyes, the Weakerthans, the New Pornographers...When I stop and look at the sudden influx in my collection, I'm seeing a lot more 'emo' music. Music that stems from pain and disapointment, from hopelessness and helplessness. How the hell did that happen?

I mean, individually, everything I've picked up lately is stunning. Truly amazing. But its heading in a weird direction. Guess I'm just in a mood. MAYBE ITS THE RAIN.

I picked up the Unicorns last night. They're fucking awesome. Weird indie rock shit, with guys who can just barely play their instruments and carry a tune. They have this weird obsession with ghosts and some really ridiculous songs. Not to mention the band name. I like the total geek approach they took, it makes me smile.

I need to get some Breeders (mmm Kim Deal) and the Islands (side project from some of the Unicorns' members). Maybe some Aquabats. Probably some Screeching Weasel, just to shake things up.

And before anyone gets in my face about how my entry is probably no more substantial than anyone elses', I would point out that at least mine is about something that actually matters to me, and isn't just some random commentary about things that'll hold no impact in anyone's psyche once the laundry room dries up.

This ‘80s revival is really starting to get on my nerves. I can’t wear skinny pants anymore because everyone is wearing them. I even need to start styling my hair differently, everyone seems to have the crazy messy overly dramatic look right now. Ugh. I am not some trendy hipster and refuse to be associated with them.

As such, I’ve moved ahead a decade by pulling out my shredded jeans, worn out docs and plaid. That’s right, I am going to be the first to bring back grunge and garage punk.

To get back into the mentality of the early nineties, I’ve been going through my old records, having finally banished the Cure and the Smiths from my playlists. I’ve been having a pretty awesome time rediscovering some old sounds. Elastica’s been at the forefront, Oasis, some late Pixies stuff and of course, Nirvana have also been cluttering the counters.

As such, I’m bringing you guys an album of the moment for the first time in a little while. Elastica’s self-titled debut was released in 1995, and contained several singles that had been floating around for a couple years before they were signed, like any good first album should have. They were Brits, they outsold Oasis to become the fastest selling debut album in the UK at the time and managed to find commercial success across the ocean as well, despite lawsuits with the Wire and the Stranglers regarding supposed copyright infringements.

The track of choice is ‘Stutter’, originally released as a single in the UK back in 1993. Officially dedicated to a Mister Shikamaru of Apartment 17.

I fucking hate this place. Especially in September.

Ichigo, I need your fall timetable so I can rewrite the schedule at the Exchange.

( Private )

I'm officially in my mid-twenties and have spend damn near a quarter of a century on this rock.

Yet it remains a day like every other one. I hit a milestone theoretically, and what do I do? I go to work of course. I'm opening at Ink Spot and closing at the Exchange then probably passing out for a couple hours before doing it all again tomorrow.

Hey little brothers, its damn near September. Have you gotten your classes in order?

( Guess I had a lot of rambling to make up for. )

But that leads me to my album of the day.

Tendonitis was the cause behind the two year break we had between Ani DiFranco's beautiful ‘Knuckle Down’ and latest offering, ‘Reprieve’. 'Reprieve' showcases far more mellow playing on Ani’s part, I guess she’s taking it easy and I’d rather she did that than injure herself more. The mood is very heavy, sorrowful more often than not and very steady, dependable. There’s also a marked return to feminist messages that were always very present in earlier years as well as some more politically charged statements. Both things that were a little scarce on 'Knuckle Down'. Lyrically, I think she may be at her best yet, each piece on the album wrenching my soul in a way that only select tracks on her former recordings managed to do.

The track of choice is ‘Decree’. It fits well with my grievances towards the world today.

[OOC So, good news (I hope >.>). I have a home computer and internet again so I have taken up my favorite, though most demanding, character once more. Any and all wanting to plot or log with Tem (seeing as we've had a few cast changes since I've last played her) hit me up on AIM (catevaporated) or email me (banana.soap@gmail.com). Also, sorry for not posting the mp3 directly, my connection is sloooooowww and not a fan of uploading :/]

Somehow, this turned into a fucking long entry with a lot of rambling and unfinished thoughts. Guess I'm tired.

( Fuck it. )

So, I picked up a third job. I know, insane, especially with rent and bills completely under control. I didn’t put any effort into getting it, it was offered to me while I was walking home from the Exchange a few weeks ago. The hours are flexible, the pay is good, it's indoors, has no heavy lifting, and it's something completely different from everything else I spend my time on. It’s refreshing, like a hobby but with a paycheck.

Aside from that though, life has been uneventful. No bodies, no injuries, no trips. Just my regular grind, fueled by black coffee.

I’m sending you guys a Canadian band today. Three piece, female punk/garage rock with a lovely operatic lilt to the vocals. Personally, I’m a big fan of the lyrics. They effortlessly prove that there is no need to compromise on vocabulary or content when it comes to writing good songs.

Magneta Lane formed in Toronto back in 2003 and toured the local scene. They cut their first EP (‘The Constant Lover’) in 2004 and released it on Paper Bag Records, a small label housing many of Canada’s best (such as Controller Controller, whom they’ve toured repeatedly with). ‘Dancing with Daggers’ is their first full length album and was released in Japan in November of 2005. The Canadian release happened just last month (finally).

I find it to be a more polished version of the gripping raw sound of ‘The Constant Lover’. A step more into ‘rock’ and away from ‘punk’ labels, if you will. It took a little while to grow on me, but its one of my current favorites and on regular rotation down at the store.

Track of the moment is ‘Secrets Aren’t so Bad’. I really love the layers to the lyrics, the word choice and the juxtaposition of the subject and the delivery, serious in a playful manner.

( Private )

Tequila. Ours is an affair of passion that is only found in dusty French plays buried in the back of high school libraries. When we get along, I’m so in love I could soar. The nights are endless and bright. But the mornings...in the morning, we hate each other. Our discord is of equal if not worse intensity, tying my body into knots and pounding pain behind my eyes. It takes me hours to get over its treachery and come back to some semblance of myself.

Valentine’s was spent with what I suppose qualify as the loves of my life, my brothers and a bottle of tequila. A bottle that was depressingly empty come daylight. We made popcorn and watched movies. I didn’t break a single thing. In fact, the worst behavior out of me was throwing popcorn from the balcony at the couples down in the street. Remarkably tame.

I had to set a good example for the boys, after all.

I don’t know why I let it get under my skin so much. It’s a stupid holiday that’s only so widely celebrated because consumer product creators exploit it and condition society by bombarding them with advertising and the allure of promotional sales. I almost find it cruel how they prey so mercilessly on the biggest insecurity of North American citizens. But at the same time, it’s wickedly clever and effective so I respect it.

The tenants this year seem to have taken it particularly to heart. Or maybe it was just the excuse they needed. I don’t care enough to judge. Thank you to everyone who sent things our way, they were truly appreciated.

Giving has always been a strange thing to me. I think its mainly because its always misinterpreted. People always seem to feel guilty about receiving anything from anyone and I don’t understand why. Does that mean they give things because they expect something in return? I give things because I want to, it makes me feel good to surprise someone else and make them happy. That’s my ulterior motive. That pride is unique; you can’t get that rush from anything else. By insisting on giving me something in return, you’re cheapening that feeling, robbing me of that pleasure. It’s not selfish to receive, it’s selfish to give. But you feel no guilt for it, it’s great.

Work has been getting easier as the staff seems to be filling in (glad to have you back Shino). I’ve been able to spend more time focusing on cleaning up the stock and placing orders now that I don’t need to worry so much about general maintenance and helping the customers out which will help the all around health of the store. I was up front this morning though and made a pretty interesting buy.

The album of the day is ‘Who killed…the Zutons?’ by the Zutons. They’re a Brit pop rock band with a really fun sound and some damn quirky lyrics. I like to think of it as surfer garage rock. It really did it for me this morning while I was alphabetizing. Up enough to keep me interested, light enough for me to simply enjoy it while still focusing on something else.

Intro track of choice: Zuton Fever

Happy Singles Awareness Day

Full entry to come once I've gotten my thoughts in order. Or some alcohol in my system, whichever comes first.

Living in fear. I don’t understand it, never have. There’s just no point to it. The constant anxiety poisons your body and makes you sick, the constant paranoia keeps you locked up and suspicious of everyone, and the fear…the fear just paralyses you.

I guess I’ve just always felt that the good experiences in life make the bad ones worth the risk. I can’t say I have any concrete evidence to support the belief, but there it is anyway.

Nevertheless, caution is something I wouldn’t discourage around here. There was a self-defense class flyer on my door. Seems like a good idea for a lot of the people here. Personally, I don’t have the time and am confident that I can handle myself. Not to say that some extra help in that department wouldn’t be useful, and if I felt it was necessary rather than just an addition to a solid base, I’d make the time, but right now I think I’m good. Maybe if work slows down, or when the bills drop so I don’t need as many hours.

I booked an appointment while I was at the Ink Spot today to get some work done on the inside of my forearm. The piece will be an extension of the two I already have rather than something different. I like the uniformity of it and the classic simplicity means I won’t outgrow them. Which, you know, is important when it comes to tattoos. So kids, if any of you are thinking about getting inked, keep in mind that you’re going to be old and leathered and still have them so they’d better be damn spectacular.

I forget about my other two pieces as I don’t see them on a regular basis. That was actually one of the things that had me hesitating so long about my arm, the fact that I’d be constantly aware of it. But, I’ve been thinking about it for about a year now and I think it’ll be subtle enough that it will become common to my eyes quickly enough. I’m excited for next week.

Also, that show. I got the dates wrong. For the record, I’d just been looking for a band that’d be around soon, not specifically when, and Living Things caught my eye. On the upside, because I had some time before the show, I talked to the club manager and got free passes, as the Exchange is selling tickets.

One of the many perks of working in an indie record store.

So the record of the day is ‘Ahead of the Lions’ by Living Things in anticipation of the show. And I really want to just sit here and describe it for you, and I tried to, but I just can’t seem to string the words together without sounding like I’m ripping off allmusic.com. You’ll just have to listen to them. If nothing else, they sound like a damn rockin' show to me.

I think all those extra hours I was putting in at the record store have been catching up with me. I’ve been sleeping through my alarm and so getting up late. I haven’t actually shown up late, but that’s only because I’m a damn fast sprinter and keep my ass in shape.

So yeah, sorry I haven’t dragged you along for the walk yet neighbor boy.

On the upside, I actually have a day off coming up for the first time in two months so I’m going to catch up on sleep. And then I think I’ll clean the apartment.

How sad is it that the highlight of my day off will be cleaning? Fuck, I need a life.

I’m working on it though, and working on getting some other people one too. We’ll be hitting a show Saturday night. Don’t know what show yet, but I’ll be there which will automatically make it awesome. So if anyone wants to tag along, let me know and I’ll drag you out.

( Private )

Well, normally I’d get to the album of the day, but I’m too fucking tired. So I give you this. I found it on my computer.

Ichigo, why the fuck is your name on it?

There’s something about January. Everyone is selling everything. Christmas gifts they don’t want and can’t exchange, or they suddenly discover they didn’t like that impulsive buy after all, or their credit card bills are crushing them and they need cash from something.

Consumer holiday backlash.

Whatever. The shallow and materialistic tendencies of the rest of the misshaped chunks of meat walking around aren’t my problems. Besides, it’s good for business. Means we get a ton of new shit, a lot of it being pretty damn good. A silver lining? Something like that, sure.

Speaking of work leads to speaking of home, funny how the two are so intertwined. Especially since I live in the same building as half my staff (yeah Kurosaki, that includes you).

Things have been messed up though. Half the doors are badly painted red (not mine, which is damn lucky for whoever did it) and I swear, I felt a draft in the hall today. It was amazing. The sounds at night have gotten stranger though. I’m hearing things that sound suspiciously like cats meowing. It kept me up half the night.

I sure hope there aren’t any cats around, because that’s against building policy. And I would really hate to have to complain about them. I hope the noise stops before I decide to confirm my suspicions.

Moving on to auditory annoyances, and tying it in with the awesome new things at the store and neighbours, let me tell you about the album of the day.

Released in 1989, ‘Doolittle’ by The Pixies one of the best albums, from one of alternative pop/rock’s key players. Though milder than ‘Surfer Rosa’, one of the most compulsively listenable college rock albums of the '80s, ‘Doolittle’ presented a more accessible sound and tighter song craft, each track managing to worm its way into your brain and steal your attention. In 2001 they released their first B side compilation, on which can be found the UK Surf edition of my ‘Doolittle’ track of choice, Wave of Mutilation. This track is chosen in tribute to the mutilated doors, this particular version is dedicated to the angst pouring through the walls next door.

I am…exhausted. I pulled an eleven and a half hour day today. I can’t fucking believe that idiot owner didn’t schedule someone for the evening shift. How can you fucking forget your store needs to be closed? And where the hell was he when I needed help? He’s gone skiing for the weekend. And none of the other idiots who work there could be bothered to cover a few hours.

I’m just glad I wasn’t scheduled at the Spot today. The Exchange would have been closing if I had been and it would have been the boss man’s own damn fault.

And of course, I wore heels today. I wound up kicking them off at six. But damn, my legs are sore. And I still need to clean the kitchen. I need a fucking cup of coffee but if I drink it I won’t be able to pass out at all later. Work again in the morning so sleep is kinda important.

Alright, the album of the day. I saw something about zombies, not really sure, my eyes aren’t exactly focusing, but fuck it. Zombies.

Local, punk, three man…yeah, no one cares. The Creeps, sophomore album, Gamma Gamma Ray.

In the Graveyard (they’re coming for me)

...fuck the dishes, I'm going to go pass out.