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Crate Diving in Modern America
First World Record Stores
Sometimes being oblivious pays off
That was a tease and an untruth. I’m not oblivious to the cult of worship around us, permeating us. Even if the adored one does something right, it’s hard to tell or admit it because whatever might be right is engulfed in the so many awful things he creates.
Once upon a time in a representative democracy far, far away, I wondered what music our home-grown ayatollah might prefer. That got answered by the pseudo-disco ball he threw for himself just before the 2024 election.
You know: the one where he “moved’ to the dulcet tones of “YMCA,” that cheerful anthem of a day when it might really have been fun to hang out there. I wouldn’t know, for in my salad days, the local Y smelled like chlorine, liniment, and something I would understand much later was the sweet aroma of stale urine.
I don’t know if it was ever fun to stay at the Bessemer, AL, YMCA, but at least it was pleasant to think that once, someone thought so. I'm not sure if DJT has ever entered a Y, and if he did, what on earth would he have been doing there? Taking a turn on the massage table? Basking in the sweat room? Having a meal with the other boys?
