News Flash: Vinyl is Officially "IT" Because I Say It Is
In my world, the illustrious title "seven inches" does not specify
penis inch, stomach circumference lost after taking infomercial diet pills, or any of a
million other arbitrary measurements; it, instead, encompasses something far better, the
splendor of the rekkid. To be infected with the "okay herpes to have,"
generously supplied, little of charge, by the wonderful world of vinyl, read on.
I sulk, rocking a conservative tunic, and stand in a too big airport
with horrible acoustics, waiting for no one at all. I turn up the speakers and, to a
crackhead's chaotic world, race-tracked arm and mother needle, once again restore order.
And I play my rekkids, and shake my head as all the kids these days snicker, and smile as
the old folks reap the dust of remembrance and my precious waves of sound bounce
precariously around the too modern airport. And, as is always the case, some
under-appreciated-heart-out-worker, placing a "Cuidado" sign ten feet from the
scene of the crime, catches our dust on the face of his mop before it can settle into the
ground. And those clock-like gears that everyone knows are inside heads begin to turn
within my own.
It is now that I remember that I have a job to do and a love to spread. And, for this reason, and even more for that of my own selfish benevolence, I, a humble servant of the lord vinyl, hereby request a moment of your precious time. To you I say "have you seen these?" and, after gently placing a withered yellow flower behind your ear, I shove rekkids into your hands, claiming "you don't have these ones" and, while silently pleading for money, whisper soothingly,"This ain't no cult. It's just a cut, back and forth and back and forth."
Hypnotized by my jingle, you run your rough fingers over the smoothness of my rekkids' rings, absent from your own discs, and paw through them curiously, although careful not to scratch them, as you cunningly calculate the absolute zero you will owe me upon returning them and, immediately thereafter, walking away, forgetting me. And you snicker and think how clever you are. Soon, however, you lift your eyes and slowly greet the mysticism of all the illest figgahs who pose for my backdrop: an everyday rip-off artist a la Sean "let me sample every classic R&B track before the Fugees get to it" Combs; a techno acidic housey housey "I entertain Eurotrash" big headphone rocker; an old couple, cutting a rug, breaking out the ole 45's and throwing them swing joints on the phonograph; a connoisseur of the latest in obscure punk rock; an indy nerd with greasy hair and cat-eye glasses; and all the other assorted fanatics of vinyl, worldwide.
Upon viewing my entourage, your snicker dissolves, and it hits you like the proverbial A.A. wagon; stunned, you realize that your world, consisting entirely of overpriced and impossible to find CD's, is as insane as you once believed me and my cut to be. You now comprehend that you want some of my family (and, as an unfortunate subtracted bonus, some of "The Family), and you recognize that the only way to be down (in addition to finding sometimes rare and, rarely sometimes, once in a lifetime tracks at insanely affordable prices) is to listen to rekkids.
Taking the rekkids from your fingers, carefully now because they are yours, and into your embrace, you inhale the sweet scent of the yellow carnation still balanced on your ear. Joining hands, we sway, chant punk rock hymns, and preach the gospel of legendary jazz vocals, and you give me all the money you have in your possession, now fully understanding that it's only on if it's on vinyl. Vinyl saves.
~Rachel Cotton