Maxell C90 under the red light.
I've been debating about what to do with the mixtape project. I want to pursue it and make a big deal out of it. I do. But in order to do it right, I need a space in which to work. Sure, I can drive to the nearest coffeeshop, but it's not the same. I need my turntable and my box of records at my side. I need a physical space to call my own. A space in which I can blast Van Halen records and nobody will judge me.
And I need my record store boys. It was wonderful having that one day a week in which to speak geek. They'd give me all this music that I'd never heard and they were interested. They were a part of it. I was doing this for me, but they were there for me. They listened to my mad woman ramblings and crazy thoughts and I think that they were my muses--my inspiration--week after week. I'm sure they didn't think as much of me, but I cannot get them out of my mind.
Yesterday, I stopped at a record store on my way to yoga class. I'd been to this record store before, but never in the springtime. I walked in and, of course, I was made to feel like a chick in a record store. Two hipsters were having a discussion about The Clash, but the way in which they talked about The Clash, one of my favorite bands, was not the way in which I would ever discuss them. They were too busy trying to one-up one another by making comparisons to The Sex Pistols and talking about record labels and it was just stale corporate mumbo-jumbo. I wanted to talk about how I love Strummer's work with The 101'ers, but I wasn't welcome. The two braggadocios carried on and I went to yoga class in need of a good workout.
I'm going to try and work on the mixtape project, but I don't think I'll be stepping into any record stores in the near future.
