The Beach Boys - "God Only Knows" I’m a sucker. Sitting on the curb in front of a record shop. Pet Sounds seeping out of the outwardly prominent speakers just at the soffit, in all it's vintage nostalgic glory. This is the most commercially-bent indie record shop in the industry, now inhabited by a Cold Stone Creamery, or a Baskin Robbins. In any case, now a polar opposite in the grand scheme. Sweet products, but offensive. Like some infuriated toddler, denied a treat or a toy. Screaming while maturity, the tortured mother of adulthood, looks on in dismay. Its closing time, the night is deep and boiling over with seasonal appeal, illuminated partially by the fluorescent lights within. Its companion; the soft red glow of
In 2007, a much younger me sits silently, perched on a black-lacquered stool in an awkward pose. His legs extend upward towards his chest, because, you see, the rungs of the stool are set a little too high, forcing the young man into a most un-flattering semi-squat. Refuge from tortured soles maybe, but most totally grotesque and unattractive. This particular furnishing is an antique, but uncharmingly so. Chips in the shiny black coating, reflecting in panes of silky even light, only to be broken apart by harsh chip marks, solid evidence of heavy usage and abuse, and apropos obviously, for the human condition. This skinny memory is the security guard for one of the many Madison Avenue Upper-East Side fashion-peddling installations.