You don't eat, you don't work, you don't grind, you don't shine

There are far too few joyous, triumphant (SP?) experiences in life that chance bestows upon us. Everyone has their faves. Here are ours:

1) Sucking titties. (Duh. Never gets old. Big, small, saggy, jouncy, whatever. Ask any man. Unless we are related to you, we love 'em.)

2) Really good burritos. (The Carne Asada with everything on it at the big La Pasadita on Ashland is as close to culinary heaven as we have ever come, apart from Antoine's in New Orleans when we were 16. Long story, different post.)

3) Record heaven. This is the most complicated and rarest joy of all, and it just happened again yesterday. To wit: you are walking down the street and your spidey-sense starts tingling. It's like a smell in the air, a haze of something in the breeze...records. You know they are close, and they are good. Who knows what it is? A chemical inbalance that corresponds directly to your nerddom? Pure love for the dig? Who cares. Go ask DJ Shadow. Or George Noory.

So there we are, walking down the street. And there it is, the brand new record store, all rough and unfurnished. We just kind of pop in. You know, to check it out. See if there is anything interesting to pick over. The first record we set eyes on is an I-Roy record on Virgin, an import we have never seen before. Oh, yes. The second is a copy of the first Run-D.M.C. record in dece shape, for a buck ninety-nine. Not a re-issue. Eric B & Rakim twelves for less than ten bucks. Eazy-E twelves we haven't seen since the Rose Records in Crystal Lake went out of biz. Not re-issues. More early house than you can stake a shit at. Farley Jackmaster Funk Jamie Principle Cajmere Instant Funk mixed by Larry Levan, it don't stop. Rack after rack of sweetness. This is better than sex, folks.

When the purchase is made, the owner asks us if we like reggae, seeing the I-Roy. Oh, yes sir. We love reggae very, very much, sir. He casually lets it drop that he has "boxes of that shit...dancehall, roots, everything" to bring out in the next few weeks. "Lots of rock, folk, jazz...I have thousands of records." Inside, somewhere deep and fragile, we start to whimper. A little bit of us is born again.

We have bills to pay. We have peeps we owe. So, we know the next few weeks are going to be a hard geo-political course of budget cuts, defecit spending and nerve-shattering financial self-negotiation. But we are so ready. 'Cause there are parties to be rocked in the approaching summertime, and the bad habits you have that DON'T kill you can be a privledge to indulge.




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