Snobby Record Store Clerk Therapy: Portland
I love the record stores in Portland. You should be jealous of Portland. We've got stores like Mississippi Records on Mississippi Avenue, where whitey wouldn't be caught dead, let alone buy a record 15 years ago. Thank god we gentrified this part of Portland! Mississippi Records is the fucking greatest. World famous, yet miniscule. J. Spaceman has wet dreams about it. Eric, the owner, is friendly. A little quiet, which is good. I hate when record store owners/clerks talk too much. That other guy who wears the hat is a fucking dick. I wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire. I don't care if he fucking reads this. He's the biggest dick of a record store clerk I've ever known. I overheard his dumb ass and a couple insufferable hipsters talking one day in the record store. They were talking about Jackie-O Motherfucker (throwing around the word “aesthetic” more than has ever been humanly necessary); a band I had been following for years. I chimed in with an innocent anecdote about the band, and that fucker looked at me as if I had jerked off in church during Easter Mass. I'm not a fucking tourist. I'm not from Gresham. I'm from Vancouver, which is slightly better. But I know music, you prick. Fuck you. I almost considered never coming back to the store. Instead, I found out he only works there on Wednesdays. I can handle that.
Moral: If you come to Portland, and want to do some record shopping, by all means, go to Mississippi. But if you see a fat, retarded looking, bearded moron with a hat, turn around and come some other time. Only he and his rarefied circle of stalwart insiders know ANYTHING about music. He'll let you know that really quickly. God this feels good to get off my chest!
Another record store that wasn't so lucky in retaining my patronage is... I forget the name. And I'm not gonna look it up to give it any publicity, because it sure as fuck doesn't deserve it. It's on Belmont. Good luck finding it. Hopefully, by the time you do look for it, it'll be out of business, and the fucker to whom I turn my attention to now will be out on his music snob ass, hoping to find employment at the nearest gas station, and failing miserably.
It almost seems surreal looking back on it now. I hate to use this comparison, but it's like High Fidelity, but not even sort of funny, like the movie. Just sad. I'm such a pussy in real life that I can't tell people off. I tell myself every time that next time someone is just blatantly rude to me, I'll give them a what-for they won't soon forget. But it never happens. I just tense up and ignore it.
I walked into this record store on Belmont a few years ago. I could tell it didn't have much that I'd be interested in. Mainly old used stuff. But hey, sometimes I need a Genesis record. The best thing they had was a way overpriced copy of Suicide's first record. I think the first time I came in, I got a really cheap copy of Willie Nelson's Red Headed Stranger. But that was BEFORE I had the audacity to ask the clerk if they sold new “needles.”
RED ALERT! SOMEONE JUST USED THE “N” WORD!!!! I'll bet this guy practiced in front of a mirror the response he gave me, and everyone else who dare use such profanity!
“Needles are something you stick in your arm,” came his response. Bravo! Shadowy, yet gets the point across. I'm a dumbass.
“I meant 'stylus',” I said. I don't even remember what he said after that. Because I fucking left, and have not been back since. One thing I really like about the death of the music industry is we will no longer have to put up with shit like this from people with room temperature IQs. The record stores that deserve to stay in business will stay in business, and the ones that don't, won't. Long live Jackpot Records, Mississippi Records, Music Millennium, Exiled Records, Anthem Records, and Record Room.
Everything you've heard about Portland is true. You should be really, really jealous.
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