Saturday evening was spent cross-pollinating a scene from "Sex and the City" with a sequel to "High Fidelity" (the movie). The evening started with three of my girlfriends and I getting together for dinner. And, yes, we talked about sex and relationships. This topic of conversation is actually a rare occurrence among us, so I feel compelled to remark upon it. Normally, we talk about whether we'd bike or carpool to the revolution, or which lock is better to use when you chain yourself to a bulldozer slated to demolish that darling industrial space in Griffintown.
After a couple of litres of cheap red wine, we headed down to an acquaintance's used record store. It was full of boys. And vinyl. Being in a closed second-hand music shop at 11:00 p.m. is like being in a friend's basement when her older brother is gone. You get to rifle through his music collection (and stash of porn badly hidden between his box spring and mattress). You are overwhelmed by the music selection, but manage to boogie to 10CC ("I don't like reggae! I love it!") and realize that most of Black Sabbath should be played at a much higher speed (only possible on a record player). It was almost primal to browse the selection of LPs, pull a selection gently from its sleeve and admire the (mostly) pristine grooves that magically contain the rattles and hums of the artists.
Girls. Vinyl. Boys. Hum.
Recent Comments