Home Defense

A few weeks ago, perusing the racks at a local record store, I fell into a conversation about music with this kid named Max. Well, not exactly a kid, he’s twenty-four. Max is a multi-generational listener, meaning he can listen to everything equally and without much bias. It’s admirable, if ultimately unsatisfying in my opinion. Part of being a music collector is finding a niche and making yourself at home. Nevertheless, despite his refusal to draw a line in the sand, Max is a good guy.

He seems to like me. I think he considers me this crazy old coot who always smells of gin and eyes the young girls who come into the shop….which I am, of course. I was trying to unload some 45′s I had multiple copies of [it happens more than you think] so I invited him over to check out the records. They were mostly Doo Wop singles, which he seemed frustratingly unconcerned with, preferring a few of the Sun rockabilly and blues singles I was offering. I let it go. He wasn’t ready for Doo Wop. Doo Wop requires a lot of late nights alone before it can sink into your bloodstream.

I’ve made my home into my own image. When I die, I suppose I can ask my survivors to turn it into a Pop Culture museum. To most people, it wouldn’t look like much. However, to the trained eye, there are treasures aplenty in this hovel I call home. I’m proud of my collections. It is as close to having children as I will ever come.

In fact, that’s why my wife left me – because I preferred my collections over having children with her. She had a biological need to have children (i.e., all of our neighbors had children and she was tired of being asked why she didn’t have any by the miserable hags when they would congregate) . At least, that’s what she told me. Well, I had a biological need to not have children.

I couldn’t envision bringing a child into a world such as this. Seems cruel when you think about it. Not to mention the poor Earth currently sagging under the pressure of all these dilapidated fools running around in droves, starving by the millions, hurtling themselves desperately against their own eventual destruction. Yet, this wasn’t a logical reason to my wife. Women want what they want, no excuses. If it means personal or ecological destruction, so be it.

She left, but the collections stayed. She used to tell me I loved my collections more than her. In hindsight, I think she was right. I do love my collections. It’s a pure love, because it doesn’t require reciprocation in order to make it feel tangible.  These collections come from different times and walks of life, from my young days to these current events. There is a story connected to many of them. Like a time machine, each one can transport me back to when I first experienced it.

Max was suitably impressed with the place, though the poor bastard was almost skewered when he hit a trip wire for a booby trap that I had forgotten to disarm. It took a few drinks to calm him down. Fortunately he didn’t ask too many questions. It would have been difficult to explain to him that, aside from protecting the valuables in my home, I’m also protecting an unfinished manuscript that I believe is being transmitted to me from a higher power of some sort, and that there may exist a group of people who would like to use it for their own nefarious ends. I’m not sure he would have understood.

I wasn’t sure I’d see him again. After all, near death can be a social impediment for most people. Yet, when I ran into him at the record store a few days later, he acted as if everything was okay, though he seemed reluctant to make plans to visit anytime soon.

However, he did invite me to a party that he and his roommates are throwing. Fortunately, it’s on Saturday, not Friday. As I’ve written, Friday night is poker night. Regardless, I didn’t commit myself to attending. I’m not much of a party person. Anything that requires prolonged exposure to the human race makes me nervous. The goddamn fools are capable of anything, as our history continues to illustrate.

Plus, what is an aging fuck like me going to do at a 20-something party? Maybe I’ll let Moe go in my stead; he’d eat that shit up.

Continuing through the record store, I find myself becoming irritable. Independent record stores are biting the dust, and it’s becoming harder and harder to find anything good in even these stores. All they want to stock now are these smart ass bands with the cute or ironic names. You know, the ones who think they’re edgy and onto something because they have the audacity to use “Fuck” in their band name. Ridiculous.

Jan has introduced me to a lot of good music I wouldn’t have listened to otherwise because of the year in which it was recorded. But it’s few and far between. The sad truth of the matter is there is very little left in this world to be excited about.

I discussed this with Grace over dinner the other night. She seemed bored by the conversation, displaying the body language I’ve come to know from certain women who have spent too much time in my presence. All the charm in the world can’t improve your standing in a woman’s eyes when they realize you have little ambition for anything. I think Grace saw some kind of future in me, but I don’t believe in the future. You can be as honest as you want to be with a woman, it doesn’t matter. They decide from the moment they meet you what the future will be, leaving you with the terrible decision to play ball or tear their future down.

Women are ambitious, almost to a fault. It surprises me that they haven’t taken over the planet yet. Men seem bored with running things. That’s why everything is so brutally fucked up in the world today. When men become bored, they like to destroy things. For kids, it’s toys. For men, it’s each other.

Yet, I’m not sure women are the answer either. They’re very demanding creatures. Imagine a woman president. The first time her demands aren’t met, the ultimatums will follow. And I haven’t known a woman yet who takes no for an answer.