you won’t see what’s in my bag. i just sweep the fucking floors and restock the goddamn shit long shelves. why do we carry fucking cassette tapes? i fucking hate restocking obsolete media. at lunch i went over the street and got food from a fucking truck. this is what it has come to i eat from a truck across the street.
the other day i had to wait for the vocalist from okkervil river to finish up his bag picks. earlier this week we had some other poser sweeping out store of braggable records. look at me and my acquired taste. i like vinyls with female songwriters on them woop dee do. just because you like joni fucking mitchell or carly simone or joan didion don’t make you a feminist dude. i read obscure shit all the time, and i’ve read sappho, and i must say she’s fucking lit. but yeah as i was saying this speccy dude from okkervil river came in and was all like i like this hip hop dude because he reminds me of post-modern writer dude. i think he meant don barthelme or something. there’s a lot of dust in amoeba, but i normally have to sweep shit from these try hard nerds after they’ve done the “what’s in my bag” type shit. during his stay the producer told me to take inventory of what he’d taken so we could restock them later. i just wrote titles i wanted, and purposely misspelled his name just to spite him and his corduroy face. i was all like “bert jansch”? he sounds like a muppet or something, so i wrote st. elmos fire, just to piss jackie off. jackie works in the cubicle back in the store and has to order in things manually as so many of our quality vinyls and fucking cassette tapes are special imports. who even makes cassettes anymore? i bet like jack white or someone in his posse would as they are losers.
“oy, riddick!” jackie yells at me. she calls me riddick for two reasons. 1) i’m kind of ripped as i actually go to the gym. i try to tone my body to get a fucking acting job in this fucking city of hell. 2) i have glaucoma and must use bono/jack nicholson-glasses. i look like a massive tool and what i can do is just live with it. i try to own my look sure, then again i look less weird than most of the clientele here. especially the giant joel haley osmont in okkervil. “imma need you to go and paint over some spatter on the color wall”. fuck me why? the ugly as fuck color wall back in the store. the one you’ve seen in the videos i’m sure. so yeah, i just go out there and i see some white specs as the brick is slowly disintegrating. i hope the staff breathes in speckles of brick dust. then i could say” your aqualungs are thick as a brick” and teach those phony fuckers about some real music.
when i was younger i listened to led zep, they’re a great way into music, but come on real fans of them, you know. i fondly remember being sixteen, eating shrooms and just being carried the fuck out to space with my main man rob plant.
“oi you speccy wanker” says a customer. he’s clearly british or welsh or some bs like that. “yeah mayt?” i reply as repulsively as i can. “where’s ur cap beefheart” it clearly was a question but he said it like it was a command so i politely showed him to our fuckboi-queue. “here he is somewhere man”. his eyes filled with rage as he flipped through stacks of vinyls not yet organized. looking at him looking at sting and eagles fucking filled me with justice jizz.
i pulled out of that whore that was work at 5, and welcomed the evening shift. he was exactly my build, had a craggy beard and probably got off on showcasing his hackeysack skills in the park, going after girls with colored armpit hair. repulsive af.
“getting lit” meant something else when i was in high school you preppy fuckers” i yelled at a group of teens casually smoking cigarettes outside a corner shop. they looked midwestern, and were probably here on a school trip. “see the hollywood stars on the walk of fame, kids! look at all these men who changed our perception on white men in the 50’s!”
shit shit shit, i’m so terribly lame. shoot me now.
i walk home to my apartment. i say apartment but it is a room with a matress. it looks like an ellen kennedy room. the one where she eats the portobello mushroom. this room is the fucking beigest you’ve ever seen ‘the beigeness’ was prolly written in this room.
i piss and i sleep and i go to work the next day. i have become routine. i have become castrated anger. i have become the jeb bush of ameboa music