Well, it's funny that this thread came up, as it reminds me of the
way so many of us came to become familiar with 'intelligent' dance
music.
I couldn't find a spot near Other Music, so my wife and two children
took to circling the block in our new SUV. I'd intended to run in for
a moment and get the new Mariah Carey album for my eldest daughter. I
had no idea the place was any different from Tower Records, and was
confused at first when I couldn't find the Mariah Carey section ( --
and what was "Krautrock"?).
I asked one of the salespeople, this tall fellow who looked like he
hadn't slept for a few days running, and, judging by his slightly
musky aroma, hadn't bathed either. He paused for an awkwardly long
time and then looked me over with his dull blue eyes. He kind of
frowned and said, "oh yeah, I think we sold out of that one
but...uh...c'mere, check this out..." A cashier buzzed him into the
back and I followed him down a filthy corridor lined with boxes of
cds. As he led the way, I couldn't help dwelling on his scent, which
made him at once seem like a pathetic collage stoner and, at the same
time, strangely animal. I felt my dick stirring in my pants, forming
a casual, almost unnoticeable bulge in my pants. He pushed open a
door, and revealed a minuscule, disheveled office, strewn with coffee
cups, papers, and turntables in various states of decay.
"Uh...let's see, you know we don't usually sell those, but, uh...I
had one I got as a promo...uh..."
I stood in the hallway, waiting for Mariah. His digging was
apparently taking him awhile. I noticed a pungent smell of marijuana
smoke wafting from the office. It was all a bit ridiculous, but
there was something intriguing about this fellow.
"Oh gee," I said, "you know I don't mean to be any trouble. My wife
is double parked outside, I just thought I was running in for a
moment." When there was no answer but a few painful coughs, I
resolved to head back out to the car.
"No, man, just one minute" said the absent-minded voice, and his
slender, hairy hand lightly pulled me into the office, now blue with
smoke, and closed the door. I looked up and was astonished to see
that he had taken his shirt off. His chest was dark with long, thin
hairs, curly around his vaguely defined pectorals.
"Here," he said, stuffing a slightly moist joint into my mouth. He
looked at me for a moment and smiled a dilapidated grin. "You ever
hear that last Phoenecia thing?" he said, unbuttoning my shirt. I
didn't know what to say. He looked sheepishly at my firmly muscled
chest and fumbled gingerly with his nipple ring. There was nothing
else to do -- I wrapped my arms around his warm, damp body and stuck
my tongue down his throat, my body trembling with a surge of
affection and lust. Somewhere in the charged atmosphere, a primal
groove twisted and frayed, splaying out into a thousand industrial
colors, erotic, masculine, swelling my heart, my mind, my cock to
bursting fullness and reckless wandering....
Well, this is a roundabout way of getting to the fact that before I
knew it, I was walking out of the store with the entire Schematic
catalog, a Skam 45, a couple of the Studio 1 12"s, as well as a
beat-up promo copy of a Mariah Carey album. My daughter was
indignant about the condition of her Carey CD, my wife drolly
inquiring as to why my face was so red (my first brush with whisker
burn -- god -- what a good kisser that guy was...) and how was it I
smelled like a zoo all of a sudden.
I've been returning to this store and many others like it, now that
I've found them to be at the center of a sexually liberated society.
for me, IDM is the anthem of my awakening to love in the arms of men.
who cares if Boards of Canada are not themselves homosexuals? I say,
why not? Neither was Judy Garland.
k
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