a few updates

How to make West Columbia look pretty 101:

Take a photo in low light of the intersection of Meeting and Hwy 378. Use a shutter speed that requires a tri-pod, but don't use a tri-pod. Additionally, do not focus the camera. Finally, use iPhoto to vignette the image. Ta-da! West Columbia looks pretty.

1. My husband got me an awesome new camera. I love photography and have been interested for years, but I have never owned anything other than a point-and-shoot...until now. It's a Nikon D40--the entry-level digital SLR. I'm being tutored in the basics by my friends Michael and Toby, two different dudes with totally different methods. I'm very fortunate. I'm also reading books and just taking photos. Experimenting really. But also trying to apply some of the things I'm learning. Most of the photos I take are average, but at least they're not awful anymore. And occasionally I get it right. The photo above is not exactly what I mean by "right". I just put that in for fun.

2. I was feeling pretty grinchy about Christmas this year until this week. Christmas tends to stress me out. Also I miss my Dad at Christmas. Well, I miss him all the time obviously, but Christmas can be rough. He was very good at it, for a man of ordinary means. Man could throw together a family Christmas Eve party like nobody's business. I despise shopping and times are lean, but my heart is thawing since folks around town have started hanging Christmas lights. I'll be decking the halls of my modest ranch house this weekend. I have a collection of old Christmas decorations that I'm quite proud of. They are kitschy and silly, but the kids in our family seem to like them. One of my nieces asked me about when I was going to pull out the big plastic illuminated snowman the other day, and that made me feel pretty good.

3. I will do holiday cooking and baking for you and your family--great stuff for less $$ than your local caterer. Just email me if you have any requests. Last-minute cake or appetizer for that Christmas party you're attending? I'm your girl! Seriously, I do this for people---but you need to get in touch so we can talk about it before December 22nd. After the 22nd, I'm booked up---my sweet sister Leslie and her family will be in town from Texas.

UPDATE: I've got two "orders" already!

Turkey

For those of you who may be (like me):

-in need of a change of scenery, but just a temporary one

-stunned by the cynicism of someone a lot younger than you, but maybe getting over it...

-reeling at the thought of the coming holidays with a mixture of emotions

-finding that all you really need right now is a little more money in your pocket....and maybe that stuffed javelina you saw at the Charlotte antique show

-boondoggling

-kind of hungry in a remote way and unable to think of what it is you'd really like to eat

I wish you, and all the rest of you, a very happy Thanksgiving.

Calling all subjects...

Armed with a new camera and a burning desire to get a few choice photographs, I'm seeking volunteers to let me intrude upon their lives.

I'm interested in getting shots of friends, family, or strangers. If you are anywhere in SC and don't mind being photographed, please contact me at the email address listed on my profile page here.

No photos taken of you will be posted to the web without your permission, and I will provide you with digital prints upon request.

Ray

It is very rainy and chilly here today, and I have the day to myself. No work, no babysitting, nowhere pressing to be.

For some reason I woke up thinking about an old friend--a guy who was the chef at a restaurant where I worked for many years. I guess it's the weather, because I'm specifically thinking about comfort food--mostly because that was his specialty.

He impressed me with delicious food many times--as did his wife--also a chef, whose enchilada sauce was sublime and impossible to duplicate. I think about that enchilada sauce all the time.

One rainy, chilly day several years ago, we were at work and the kitchen was closing. I was starving but reluctant to request anything, when my friend appeared from the kitchen and placed a bowl in front of me at the bar. Wild mushroom stroganoff. Dear lord.

I don't have the recipe to share. Perhaps what makes this meal so alive in my mind is some combination of weather, context, and nostalgia. Not sure, but it was one of the best meals I've ever had in my life--just a bowl of egg noodles with a a creamy, wild-mushroomy, red winey sauce that appeared (unrequested but much appreciated) when I really needed something hearty to eat. And to have someone cook something just for me. That's a true gift, and it doesn't happen often enough--to any of us.

I sort of hate to tug the old heart strings and bring this up, but this friend passed away a few years ago. The mushroom stroganoff should be the least of what I miss about him, and in a way it is. But in a way, it isn't. It's very difficult to refine and describe memories of the deceased. The loss of tangible things, like a holy dish of noodles and mushrooms, is about the extent of my ability today. He wasn't the easiest person to love sometimes, but he was always interesting, and occasionally even brilliant.

No. Just....no.

This kind of lame shit really pisses me off.

and what have YOU been thinking about lately?

I've been slacking off again on posting, which is really no big deal, but does make it a bit embarrassing that I'm about to jump back upon the wagon with a post about another dream I had.

I've said before, and will now repeat: it is not always a good idea to (1) tell others, particularly publicly, about one's dreams or (2) to read prose about another person's dreams, even if you're bored at work or just trying to be polite. 

If you're the dreamer, chances are pretty good your dream is not as fascinating or funny to other people as it is to you.

If you're the reader, reading the details about someone else's dream might be--best case scenario-- mildly disturbing or amusing. Worst case scenario: excrutiatingly dull. Usually it's worst case scenario.

Be that as it may, the good thing about reading a blog is that you're probably by yourself and there is no reason, if you're bored, to keep it up. Just move on.

A week or so ago, I saw a commercial for a new movie called "Public Enemies", featuring Johnny Depp and Christian Bale.

It's a good guy/bad guy movie.

In any case, I mention the commercial because I'm pretty certain it's what prompted my unconscious mind to make its own little movie, starring Johnny Depp and Christian Bale. And co-starring me.

You might think a dream about Johnny Depp and Christian Bale would be relatively pleasant.

You'd be wrong.

You might find one or both of these actors uninteresting or unattractive, but even if you do, there's no denying that you are in the minority of the consuming public. Most people like Johnny Depp. People who don't like him are probably just jealous of him. It's not even a matter of his relative talent or looks. He's Johnny Depp, for Christ's sake. He's larger than life. He is burned into our collective unconscious. He's the Lone Ranger of my generation.

Christian Bale is another matter, but not entirely. He played Batman, if you care about that kind of thing. His charisma originates from a darker place than Johnny's. Playing a lovable bad guy does not appear to be his gift. He is not cuddly onscreen, and he's not warm. I've seen him in movies where he's supposed to be playing a basically decent guy, and in these movies, his performances are wooden and unbelievable. But given a vehicle or character that allows his black heart to take center stage and it's a very different scenario. The man can give evil a face and make my blood run cold. Obviously, I don't know what Christian Bale--the man--is like in real life. All I know, and the only fact relevant to the rest of my story here, is that he played Patrick Bateman. And I have a vivid imagination.

(If you don't know who Patrick Bateman is, you're probably better off. You could look him up I guess, cause lord knows I don't have time to go into that right now.)

moving right along...

It's nighttime.

I'm riding in the cab of a black pickup truck. To my left--the driver--is Johnny Depp. To my right, Christian Bale. At least he looks like Christian Bale. He might be Patrick Bateman. I can't tell if it's Christian Bale or Patrick Bateman. I'm nervous. I really hope it's not Patrick Bateman. This is all I can think about. There is no conversation between the three of us, and I have no idea where we are headed.

Christian, or Patrick, or whoever he is, is making a list of the greatest movie actors of all time. He is writing on a piece of motel stationary. He is chewing on the tip of his pen, and pulling on his hair with his other hand. The list says:

1. Christian Bale

2. Johnny Depp

3. Judy Garland

4.Robert DeNiro

5.

I am so tongue-tied and ordinary and nervous, I can't come up with one interesting thing to say to either of them. There is much awkward silence. My palms are sweating.

I look at the stationary again and notice that Christian/Patrick is now drawing a pen-sketch of the Columbia skyline.

I suddenly know the three of us are headed to a bar.

The first conversation in the dream happens at this point.

Christian/Patrick (to Johnny): "Hey, do you have any cash?"

Johnny (to C/P): "I have a ten."

I think to myself, I hope they have more than ten dollars between them, because I have no cash and I can't use my debit card until I deposit my paycheck.

In the bar I realize he's Patrick Bateman, not Christian Bale. It becomes obvious to me. In the bar I look him in the eyes for the first time, and I can see that he's Patrick Bateman, and he's been pretending to be Christian Bale. There's something a little too tight and shiny about his cheekbones, and nothing, no light at all, in his eyes. Johnny Depp has gone to the jukebox, and I am alone at the bar with Patrick Bateman. I mean to tell you, and this is so ridiculous, "Sleepwalk" by Santo and Johnny starts playing on the jukebox. Patrick is going to do horrible, vile, unimaginable things to me later. I know this, and I am terrified. 

Now were are in a motel. JD goes to the bathroom. He thinks everything is normal. He has no idea what I know, because Patrick is still pretending to be Christian.

Now Patrick and I are alone together in the motel. He pushes me down on the bed and shakes me violently, by the shoulders. He rips at my clothes and slaps me around, and he's laughing the whole time.

But it turns out, all he wants are the two quarters I have in my pocket. Which he takes.

He stomps over to the mini bar and slams the coins down on the counter. He gets an orange soda out of the little refrigerator, pops the top, takes an enormous gulp, swallows loudly, and throws the can at me. Orange soda splashes out all over me.

He tucks in his shirt, turns on his sock-heels, calls me a "filthy f*#king whore" and walks out the door.

And that, my friends, is all I remember about the dream.

Interpretations? Anyone?

It's not easy being green.

I read something unintentionally amusing on a blog today. In case you aren't in the mood to click the link, allow me to paraphrase the article:

{Hi readers. There is a small plastic grocery bag stuck in the big majestic tree outside our window. It's distracting us and it's causing us some distress because we can't figure out what to do. What an eyesore! Garbage in a tree! We're scared! What should we do? Help! It's tainting our view. See? Everybody needs to use cloth shopping bags so that no one has to go through this.}

Yes, I took some liberties and exaggerated the tone of the post a little bit. I admit it. 

And I'm going to refrain from any further judgement or harsh criticism, because I love the Apartment Therapy blog and read it pretty much every day. But sometimes it's over-the-top and ridiculous. Like NPR. Like anything, really, if you think about it. Like my blog.

I have changed with my peers and other fellow humans over the last few years and started recycling more, shopping locally whenever possible, and generally consuming less. We bought a smaller, more fuel efficient car last year. I take my own bags to the grocery store. I make my own all natural cleaning products. Last summer I even recycled all my bath water and used it to water my flower beds. I'm not patting myself on the back for it, but none of this was a huge change for me. My grandmother used to carefully wash her aluminum foil and hang it over the sink to dry--with clothespins, no less--so that she could re-use it. She also canned her own food after growing it in the garden. Many of us had some very early lessons in reducing, re-using, and recycling. It was no big deal. It only made good sense. 

Having said that, I don't kid myself that I'm doing any of these things in order to "Save the Planet". Saying I'm saving the planet is a little bit like bragging, not to mention it smacks of delusions of grandeur.  My grandmother wasn't saving the planet when she washed her soiled aluminum foil along with the dishes. She was pinching pennies and avoiding wastefulness. I'm sure she took for granted that the planet would do what it has always done: orbit the sun, ambivalent to the minor nuisance of human progress.

With that whole "Save the Planet" thing, I think the basic idea and the intentions behind it are most excellent and decent and well-intended and necessary. It's the language and some of the trappings of "Green Movement" that ring a little silly to my ears. But every movement comes with its own pretensions, and I am as susceptible as anybody else. 

Except that I will never, ever say the word "gastro-pub" and even pretend to take myself seriously. 

Or "green", as in, "I've gone green". Thrifty I can handle. Practical. Cheap, even. But only Kermit the Frog can call himself green and be taken seriously by me.

With all due respect to the polite language of the "green movement", perhaps we should revise the phrases "save the planet" and "protect the environment" to "Don't shit where you eat". Pardon me for being uncouth, but it means pretty much the same thing--doesn't it? If nothing else, perhaps "Don't shit where you eat" would discourage people from using the term "gastro-pub".

I am very excited that Mike Judge's new cartoon comedy, The Goode Family, debuts tonight. I like Mike. His comedy is usually pretty solid.

The Goode Family is about a modern-age family of "greenies" who take themselves very seriously, apparently. 

Mike Judge is not beyond reproach. NPR has already criticized The Goode Family.

(What a surprise!)

So has The New York Times.

(Another shocker.)

Maybe we aren't ready to laugh at ourselves yet.

Well, maybe ya'll aren't. But I am. Bring it on.

(Obviously, I do hope the show is funny. I fear, though, that it will fall short. And that it will not stay around for long. I am cynical, you see. Plus, I saw Idiocracy.)

on the west side.

Lost somewhere in Georgia.

More William Eggleston

Just got a book I've been waiting impatiently for--"William Eggleston: Democratic Camera--Photographs and Video 1961-2008". It was worth the wait. Heaven.

one unnamed "contemporary companion" of Eggleston says of the man:

"Bill was always wearing a real severe suit. It was like he was the fucking count. Voluptuous and corrupt. It was unreal; what an image."

Channeling my inner Fred Sanford

You never know what you might find if you keep your eyes open. Or what might find you when you didn't even realize you were searching. Once in a lifetime you might find a six foot rabbit costume, pay $2 for it, and loan it to an antique mall for an Easter display. And after Easter you will be the only one on the block with a giant rabbit in your attic. I'm thinking "Harvey" for Halloween.

The chair was a SCORE. I'm not sure what to do with it. Maybe the question I should be asking is WWFSD? (What would Fred Sanford do?)

Things I see

A couple of details from a series of strange murals I saw painted on the back of a mostly-abandoned strip mall. Folly Road. James Island. No idea who the artist is. 

Hilarity...... and then some.

Whoever said "Brevity is the soul of wit" obviously never read GoodSandlapper's blog.

Possibly the funniest wordy minimalist in all the land.

Read him here for FREE while you still can. You might be paying for his books one day.

You're welcome.

Question:

Does anyone have any technical advice or theories on why the videos in the previous post have that big black area on the side?

Is it a flaw in the video or something I did wrong while editing my post?

The videos appeared normal on youtube. Now they're messed up.

Any help would be most appreciated. I am so clumsy with stuff like this.

UPDATE!!

My husband, who is smart and capable of anything and savvy--and quite different from me, incidentally--says the problem is my blogger template. Something about parameters and column width, and, er, um, something else I forgot, and something else I don't understand. Ah well, never mind. I like my blogger template, so the screwed-up video stays.

Craig Ferguson is not really my boyfriend.

He just plays my boyfriend on t.v.

Disclaimer: I'm married, and I love my husband more than I like Craig Ferguson. But I am a really, really big Craig-fan. I officially like him even better than my other television boyfriend, Jim Halpert from The Office, but maybe just slightly less than my first television boyfriend, Adrian Edmondson.



He's cute. He's funny. He's Scottish. He's kind of a bad boy. He's fascinated with Michael Caine. *dainty sigh*

Dear Santa,

I know Christmas is 8 months away and you're probably on a cruise to Jamaica at the moment, but, I've already started my Christmas shopping, so I figured it'd be okay to make one tiny request. I would like to have this bullet planter. I've been stalking these online for a few years and they never go on sale, and they never appear on Craigslist, and they never ever show up in thrift stores. I'd like the largest one please, either in Rattan, Black or Chartreuse. If this is beyond the capabilities of your talented crafts-elves, or if you prefer not to work with fiberglass, the planters are available here.

I recently saw a Philippe Starck stool like this listed for $50 on Craigslist, thanks to some eagle-eyed scout on the Apartment Therapy blog:

I could use this stool as a plant stand, if necessary, because I personally think it's love-sexy, but my split leaf philodendron (Seymore) prefers the more expensive bullet planter. And I don't want you to feel pressured or anything, but Seymore is quite large and has been making demands on me lately to accessorize him stylishly. He's a bully, if you must know the truth, and I'm pretty sure he once ate a kitten.

Thank you for your time, have fun in Jamaica, "Mon", and don't do anything I wouldn't do (wink wink, nudge nudge).

p.s. I lied. I haven't really started my Christmas shopping yet.

Changes

yep, I refreshed the "look" of the blog. You like the blue better than the green? 

Tribute bands are funny.

The band in the picture at the bottom of this post is Beatallica. The picture is the property of Scott Harrison.

I've never seen them in person, but I admire them. From afar. John stumbled upon this website which features several hilariously-named tribute bands from all over the place (scroll down and pay special attention to "Mini Kiss"). Check it out HERE.

I lack any musical talent whatsoever, but sometimes I like to make up band names. I have to live in my imagination because (a) I wasn't born a guy, and guys seem to have cornered the market on stuff like this and (b) I'm not a particularly cool female, like the women in "Lez Zeppelin" for example. I especially enjoy thinking up tribute-band names. I may have previously mentioned "Big Finger", my imaginary Big Star/ Badfinger tribute band. Well, our friend CT, who is pretty much a genius at this game of naming bands, suggested I re-name the band "Star Finger". I can't decide which one I prefer. But it's okay because the band isn't real anyway so I have plenty of time to weigh the pros-vs-cons.

CT is so talented at this he once made up the best band name of all time. I'd love to tell you, but it's so good I can't even publish it on my blog (my cautiousness, not CT's) because, rumor has it, he might see the band to fruition some day and, well.......you know how people can be. If people get wind of a great idea prematurely, they sometimes try to take credit. And that can be annoying. It's crazy, but what can you do? I'm sure when this happens there's no intended malice, but still, people often act out of self-interest. Some ideas are just so good, there's always one grifter who wants a piece of them. And sometimes an idea is so clever, some people will just insist they thought of it first. Think I'm exaggerating? I think this scene from the so-called mockumentary, "The Rutles", demonstrates this odd and often amusing human characteristic and drives the point home better than anything I could ever say. (Pay attention to Ruttling Orange Peel's better-half, that old naggin' ball and chain, at around 1:10):

We have to be careful with these things, and fly under the radar until it's time to unleash the power. Just between you and me, I've been waiting for 10 years for the debut of CT's next project, and I'm getting impatient. But trust me, when it hits, it'll be big. Bigger, even, than Big Finger. Meanwhile, I'll just have to be happy, living vicariously, through bands like this:

BEATALLICA:

Effing up, and fessing up.

Kind of an add-on to the previous post.

Far be it for me to get all preachy about stealing. I stole a mood ring from Kmart one time when I was about 8. The same year I stole a set of Playdough from the drugstore where my Dad was the pharmacist. Pretty ballsy, huh? I got busted both times by my Mom, and the punishment for the second offense was I had to return to the store accompanied by Mom and confess my crime to the manager--in front of other people--apologize, and pay for the Playdough out of my allowance. It was the most humiliating experience of my life. Had this been the punishment for stealing the mood ring, I wouldn't have stolen the Playdough. It was even more embarrassing than when, in 4th grade, I slipped on a seedless grape in the cafeteria and landed in a full-on straddle/split in front of the whole lunchroom. In a skirt. I had no choice but to think of the Grape Kerfuffle as my punishment for the Mood Ring Incident--a year late, but still very effective.

It was excellent rehabilitation for my thieving ways. I didn't relapse until 8 years later when I "borrowed" my sister's prized, brand new, never worn J. Crew swimsuit (bright-white and turquoise with a kicky, matching twisty belt). She had forbidden me to touch it, but there was this teenagery lake party I had to attend, involving cute boys and other cool people in fashionable swimwear. I intended to sneak it, wear it once, wash it in Woolite, and return it to her drawer as if it had never been touched. Unfortunately, I snagged it on the dock and tore a hole in a conspicuous place (near the posterior) and stained the pristine white fabric a rusty, lake-water brown. The swimsuit thus fouled, I had no choice but to confess and save $40 (a fortune in the 80s, for me anyway) to replace it. My sister, typically gentler and kinder than me, accepted my apology and didn't make me replace it, as I recall. I'm sure I had to perform some low, menial task of retribution but I don't remember what it was. You see, kids? It never, ever pays to steal.  So I guess, Ms. T, I still kind of owe you a bathing suit. I'm no angel. I've done my share of lying and scheming, just like everybody else. Well, almost everyone else. 

but still, a full-grown adult stealing a whole collection of records? That's just effed up.

Happy Collecting. And Happy Record Store Day.

(lights rise on empty set. woman enters stage left, dressed in boots, spurs, holster, red bandanna, and cowboy hat, and walks to center stage. woman raises a cap pistol and takes aim, but instead of firing, delivers the following monologue):

"Everybody collects something.

Shoot, based on the way I'm dressed I bet ya'll think I collect relics from the law-less old west.

But no, nothing quite that valuable for this gal.

I once knew a guy who had a dead Bic lighter collection. He had a huge pickle jar full of them, and he palavered me into guessing how many lighters the jar held. It was kind of like a strange twist on the jar of jelly beans contest we all probably played at our grade-school Halloween carnivals, the one where you could win a ticket for a free Sno Cone by coming closest to guessing the number of jelly beans in a big mayonnaise jar. Except, instead of a free Sno Cone, all I got for guessing the number of lighters was a peek at a sheared, six-inch rattail from the early 1980s the guy had formerly sported but now kept in an envelope, stuffed between some old college textbooks on his book shelf. Not a rat tail, as in, from an actual rodent--because that would've been, well, just plain gross--but a rattail, which is slightly less gross, but in my opinion, weirder. I'm sure I didn't guess the right number of Bic lighters in the jar, but he saw fit to show me the rattail anyway. Collectors and hoarders are strange people, but they're full of wonderful surprises.

Just last week, I read a true story about a woman who collected so many nylon umbrella sheaths, she started her own umbrella-sheath museum, open to the public (for a small admission fee).

I know a guy who collects koozies and cardboard boxes, another guy who collects porcelain Staffordshire dogs and Edgefield pottery--he's wealthier than the cardboard/koozie collector--and a woman who collects holiday-themed chocolate molds. I have known fanatical collectors of baseball cards, postcards, bottles, books, vinyl records and....

Records. Ah, yeah! That reminds me. Today is the 2nd annual National Record Store Day. I know this because I got a package in the mail today: a vinyl album and a postcard from my friend who works in a used record store in another town. There was a nice note hand-written in tiny, perfectly blocked letters on the back of the card. The front of the postcard was a promo/advertisement from the store, announcing that Saturday, April 18, 2009 was National Record Store Day, and inviting people to come out and show support and enjoy free refreshments, a record-listening party, and an in-store performance by a local band. It all sounded like a really good time, and if I lived close enough I might've attended--and I certainly would have dropped in to deliver thanks in person for the album, and to buy another album. Or two.

The friend I mentioned is one of those fanatical collectors--the type who works more to feed their collecting habit than to put food on the table. I have some records--but my collection pales in comparison. Mine is paltry. Anemic, really--compared to the crates of albums this nut has amassed over the years. I am but a small-time collector. Speaking of anemic, I have never sold plasma to buy records. But I know people who have.

Getting the package today is significant, besides it being Record Store Day, because it marks the end of an era for me: the era during which I slowly, systematically replaced my original record collection which disappeared under mysterious circumstances (was stolen from me) nearly 16 years ago. I made a list of all the missing records I could remember, spent the last few years re-acquiring, and today I was able to mark off the last one on my list because it arrived in the mail. Don't even ask.

Oh, alright-already! I'll explain to the best of my ability--since you're so insistent.

I didn't have that many records, and it wasn't a priceless collection. There wasn't a single rare record or first-pressing in the stack. Some of them I had inherited from my dad or my grandfather, many had been gifts from friends, roommates, an old flame or two. Others I had purchased from record stores, or pilfered from thrift shops because I liked the covers. A few were down-right embarrassing. With the exception of two Big Star albums on white vinyl, none of the records were particularly unique, really. And even the Big Star records were re-issues. It was a small collection, compared to some, but it was my collection. It meant something to me. A representation, if you will, of my musical fascinations over a few years, and a reminder of some of the people I knew who had shared theirs with me. They stayed with me for a long time, and for a while they were stored at a dear friend's house, and after that--long, discombobulated story short (and details unnecessary)--one day they just disappeared. Poof. Gone. History. As if they never existed. And I've asked around over the years, but nobody seems to know what happened. So eventually, I chalked it up to water-under-the bridge. 

But I never forgot. It always bugged me. Sometimes I would hear a certain song and remember (with a little sting) that I used to own the album. Small things served as reminders. And every time, I'd get pissed off all over again. This happened so often that eventually, I just decided to replace the albums to the best of my ability, and to try and let the whole mystery disappearance roll off my back. It's counter-productive to carry baggage like this around.

Think I'm making a big deal out of nothing? Imagine how you'd feel if your collection of Star Wars figurines, old bottles, designer shoes, random human teeth, porn videos, dead Bic lighters, or whatever--suddenly up and disappeared.

So writing about it is rather cathartic, actually. In fact it's only just now that I finally realize how much I have needed to vent. 

Maybe the person who "found" (stole) them, or you know, whatever--- eventually put some of them on eBay. And in an ironic twist, unknowingly sold a few of the records back to me--the person they borrowed (stole), or, you know, whatever--them from in the first place.

Or maybe the lucky person (thief) who ended up with my records was just a garden-variety coveter, a dishonest opportunist who seized a chance to take credit for a collection they didn't have the intuition, passion, or ambition to acquire on their own.

Maybe the records now sit gathering dust in some closet, not even displayed or shared since the wrong person might come over and see them. It's a small world after all. It's a helluva lot smaller than it was 16 years ago when my albums disappeared, were lost, or, you know--whatever (were stolen). And as the Internet grows, so the world shrinks more every day. Everybody is related to everybody else somewhere down the line, and eventually, worlds collide. Isn't it only a matter of time before anybody with access to the web will be able to witness crimes being committed in real time, simply by subscribing to the right channel--just like in one of those prescient, futuristic novels?

Isn't it?

Careful, thieves. Your future is almost here. It's so close, we might safely assume "tomorrow's just your future yesterday".

It doesn't even matter anymore. Whoever it was, they may have the records, or the pocket change they made from selling them, but they'll never have the fire or the particular experiences and fortuitous accidents that went into collecting them. Not in a million years. I still have those intangibles, and I have the records too, or most of them anyway--finally--again, after 16 years of collecting--for the second time. Including the Big Star albums on white vinyl, and even that Rutles album with the booklet inside. Maybe I paid twice for some of these records, but it was worth it. Maybe I'll never see another Happy Rain album, but that was collateral damage. I never lost the context, the memories, and the experiences--only the records, temporarily. And records are really just pieces of plastic and can always be replaced. A collector is obsessed. A thief is a just a thief. And a person who boasts a collection they stole from someone else? Well, I'm not sure there's a word for that particular level of desperation. Poseur comes to mind, but I don't think that really begins to describe it. I'm open to suggestions, though. In fact I might run a contest: Make up a word for it. The winner gets a feature post and a copy of Sports, by Huey Lewis and the News. What the Hell, I'll even throw in a dvd of Purple Rain. C'mon people, get crackin'.

(snaps fingers)

>Feel free to leave your submissions in the comments section of this post.<

But enough of my sour Moby Grapes. There was a time when I would've fantasized about exacting a little citizen's arrest on the jackass who ripped me off, ** whoever they are**. But I have since mellowed. People who steal from other people get their come-uppance, eventually. Who am I to try and interfere with the laws of the natural universe? And besides, the pen (computer keyboard) is mightier than the sword." >end monologue<

(woman fires toy cap pistol into the dark, then raises toy cap pistol to her lips, and calmly blows across the smoking barrel. stage lights fade...>cue Ennio Morricone's "Theme from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly"<... credits roll...hey wait, is this supposed to be a play or a film?)

Thank god for friends who work in record stores. And for record stores, thrift stores, the Internet, sympathetic husbands, djs, former roommates (it wasn't your fault, W, and thank you for your help, and for generously storing my stuff all those years without charging me rent), other bloggers and pen-pals who helped me replace some of the albums, and fellow collectors.

Whew! Much better now. Thanks for letting me vent.

(Names of individuals have been omitted so as not to embarrass the innocent. Or the guilty, as the case may be.)

                                                 The End.