Note: I decided since my initial publication to cut this hellish fest up into three parts (making it a wee more manageable for you silly folks and your funky short attention spans). You’re very welcome.
Yesterday was weird. That’s all I’m gonna say.
Oh wait, I guess I’ve decided to say more. Damn it.
So I fell asleep on my mega comfy couch late Saturday night (so it was actually early Sunday morning…you technical bastards you) and awoke several times in the night from beyond horrible nightmares. These weren’t of the usual fantasy/science fiction variety, but of the hyper-realistic variety. Like have you ever dreamed someone died and you’re completely crushed and things are the worst and then you wake up and are the happiest and most relieved you’ve ever been? So I dreamed that this terrible realistic shit happened (no death was involved…just other things I don’t really feel like getting into) and I was at this point where I had no idea what I was going to do, my life was over, I was screaming/crying/moaning “No, no, no” over and over (as I said, disturbing) and then I woke up to realize it was all thankfully just a horrible dream. But it was so realistic that I was still pretty disturbed and had to spend a lot of time convincing myself that none of the stuff that had happened was real at all. And then I’d fall back asleep only to have some other bad dream (are you kidding me with this shit?!) and it was all super sucky and horrible.
I finally gave up on the peaceful sleep and got up at like 10:30 to prepare for a day of record collectors expos, B-52s concerts, and getting my car towed (boo).
So we had to drive all the hell the way up to Northglenn (is it Northglenn? I have no real clue…it was just hella north and hella far away) for the record collectors thing. On the way there we had to take a detour to get some suburban lunch (always an experience) and we came across this crew of bikers on crotch rockets that were pretty douchey and scowly. One was a chick with a boob job, I think (the “think” applies to the boob job, not her sex…for the record). She had her own bike and all, so at least she wasn’t the stereotypical chick on the back of a crotch rocket…though she was a stereotypical choadette. Anyway, seeing them gave me the idea to make an updated version of The Warriors (minus the insanely offensive depiction and treatment of women throughout) in Denver. Like a crew of hipsters is gonna have to make it through all the choady motorcycle crews in the northern suburbs to get back to Cap Hill. And somehow they’ll have to go through the preppy emo crews in the southern suburbs too…I don’t know why they’ll have to go north and south…and east and west too…but I’m gonna figure it out. I’m pretty excited about the whole deal, really. And if any of you fools lay a finger on this idea (or any other ideas recorded in this blog), I’ll totally come after you and you’ll regret it for the rest of your days…you may not be afraid, considering my sweet as pie exterior, but just trust me, you don’t wanna mess with this. Especially when it comes to stolen ideas, plagiarism, etc. So you’ve been warned.
On to the record collectors expo. I hoped there would be some huge turnout (like I was envisioning some mega huge convention at the convention center…which I like to pretend I know a lot about because I once worked one for this temp agency I was at and I get a kick out of referring to myself as a convention girl even though that’s pretty much a big lie…darn it, this blog’s getting too damn revealing), so that I could go about my record searching in peace and quiet (without anyone looking at me like I’m from another planet for being a young female that’s into records…which occasionally happens). But then it was in this smallish convention room at this weird Ramada and there was a fair turnout, but nothing like the hundreds I had hoped for. It was, however, crowded enough that it was hard to search for records. You had to elbow your way in at booths (which I don’t do being that I’m ever so polite) and then try not to get edged out by super collectors (most of which are old dudes). Eric and I spent a lot of time walking around in circles, sneaking in when we had a chance…and I don’t know, it was weird I guess. I had my eye out for some rarities I’ve really, really, really been wanting for a while…which, in all honesty, would most likely have been snapped up long before we arrived, or be really freaking expensive if they were there…which they probably wouldn’t be because they seem to be that rare. Blah. So I didn’t find any of the things on my unrealistic wish list…and I kept forgetting stuff I meant to be looking for because I have a bad memory so we had to keep going back to booths and it was all pretty tiring and vaguely frustrating. Oh and it was awkward to look through most of the boxes because I had to stand up on my tiptoes and lean way over and I was hoping that the old fellows respected me and my pursuit of awesome music enough not to look down my shirt…but who the hell knows. Ah well, I suppose; I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, being a girl is a strange experience. Like I don’t normally mind being looked at because really, what does it matter if someone gets a thrill out of glimpsing my bra? I’m not going to be one of those girls that freaks out every time someone happens to glance at my body because looking and lusting is a normal part of the human experience (we all know that, yes?). However, sometimes I’ll be going about my life and doing something all relaxed like and I’ll look up and notice some gross looking person staring at my ass or boobs or something and it’ll completely skeeze me out. And then I’ll feel bad for being grossed out because of the person’s ickiness and bad hygiene (because who am I to decide who is ok and not ok to look at me?)…but hey, I’m just as grossed out when clean appearing choads look at me. So it’s all cool, I figure. And did I mention how weird it is to be a girl? Yeah? Well it probably needs to be said again and again because it really and truly is.
And what else? Um, it smelled really strongly of permanent markers and dust and a little body odor, but not as much you’d probably expect. I ultimately found a Fairport Convention album I’ve been looking for (it was like fourth on my list of their LPs to get, but I was happy to find it nonetheless) and a new copy of Sleater-Kinney’s Dig Me Out (a record I was going to buy months ago at Twist & Shout but then put back at the last moment, with my patented “I’ll get it next week”…but then, completely unexpectedly, someone else bought it in that week’s time and made me a very disappointed and sad Sarah the following weekend…and damn, I’d been coveting that record ever since), the first Electric Light Orchestra album (I’ve been obsessed with ELO for the last few months and had been trying to find this album for the last few…well weeks, actually. Not that exciting, eh?), and Speaking in Tongues (the last Talking Heads album I’m probably going to buy on vinyl for a long while…I own all the good ones on vinyl now (the ones I don’t are all the ones after Little Creatures) and I don’t really love Speaking in Tongues or anything but I was sick of it always being a lesser option for me to buy…so now it won’t be! Ha! I guess). All in all, I think we spent like $26, an amount I was quite pleased with (until I remembered the amount we spent on gas to get up there. Shit).
Continue on to Part 2.
Skip to Part 3…and lose your fucking $200 in the process. What a lovable loser you are!
I'm a writer, music freak, pop culture critic-at-large, natural born lover, and professional crayon drawer.
