Y'all Come!

Yippie ki yay, motherfucker! *skeee-douche!!*

When we were kids, the trip up to Dayton to see my Aunt was like a well-paced action movie--tho it didn't look nearly as good sweaty, barefoot, and bulging in a wife-beater ...

We drove up to Ohio for most holidays, and during the school year, we hopped directly from the school bus seat to the Chevelle back seat. Those times were the best, since besides getting to eat a drive-thru dinner with shoes off while watching the interstate "movie," we'd usually hit Cincinnati right after sundown. All those blazing colorful lights looked like a New York City Mini-Me.

Soundtrack music on the radio: Chicago's "If You Leave Me Now," Frankie Valli's "My Eyes Adored You," and later, Earth, Wind & Fire doing "After the Love Has Gone."

Outside of Lexington, there was a slow build-up of rural countryside; just enough memorized landmarks to keep us peaked: The massive Walton railroad bridge, the secluded office building with a lone switch track out front (sometimes with a blue Conrail diesel parked out front), and no end of Union 76 gas signs--my favorite.

By the time we hit the monolithic Florence water tower ("Florence, Y'all!"), the action built up to a fever pitch--four lanes became six, then eight. Daddy invariably told us to put our seat belts on. The two-story drain pipe elbowed out of the bedrock like rusty skeletal work. Then around the corner, and Cincinnati appeared like a brightly-lit mirage.

Even if we hit the city in the daytime, there was still plenty of bang for the buck: The beehive Quality Inn, the old-fashioned stadium-sized Pepsi logo, and of course the Brent Spence bridge: A double-decker, a backseat wonder, its size unfathomable. The river below looked like the most regal body of slow-moving chocolate milk ever.

There were so many bridges and trestles and water towers, it was like an overzealous teenager's model railroad layout.

By day was well enough, but at night the city was a Vegas strip for kids. Some sights were shrouded in darkness, but enough others were decorated with secular Christmas.

Once over the river, we were finally in Ohio. Up there, things were different: Bridges Freeze Before Roadway became Bridge Ices Before Roadway. Boron gas stations became Sohio. Even the railings of their bridges looked different. Just barely, but still ... different. It was almost like being in a delightful parallel universe.

After the river was a blitzkrieg of overpasses, underpasses, historic stone arches, and buildings so strange and wonderful, they may as well have been unidentified Egyptian artifacts. There was the Mead building, with its logo identical to the one on our spiral-bound notebooks. There was the endless overpass, which seemed ready to deliver us to the Pearly Gates (or at the very least, to zero-gravity), there was the GE plant with its Bionic Bigfoot-sized logo, there was the Fruehauf sign.

Outside of Cincy, this action movie stepped back and took a much-needed breath. Most days, Dad would have the radio tuned to WHAS, which played the Chickenman series. I couldn't understand a word of it; just more paradise heard by dashboard lights.

There were still landmarks: The Johnson Controls building, with its matching Johnson Controls railroad cars on its Johnson Controls railroad siding. There was a distant sign in an industrial park which said DAY-TON (on two lines). There were the green flappy fin-things sticking out of the concrete highway divider; an optical illusion, they looked cylindrical until you passed them, and realized they were actually flat.

At long last we'd hit the Needmore Road exit, and would finally leave the interstate for the third act. There was the railroad yard, with seemingly thousands of trains. There squatted the Cargil plant, which smelled like instant mashed potatoes. There were the stop lights, some of which were actually turned sideways.

And then we'd pull up in the driveway in a different neighborhood, and bright light would spill from the front door, and there were hugs, and smiles, and Yippie Ki Yay, motherfucker. It was fun.

Also, my uncle had a totally bitching quadrophonic stereo. Not that I was mainly interested in that, or anything. *cough*

Driving back, usually on the following Sunday morning, was far less of a thrill. There were still plenty of sights to see, especially those we couldn't see on the northbound trip. But coming back was never as much fun. It was more like watching a good action movie on network, with the good parts cut out; and knowing you had to go back to school in the morning. Bleh.

That Old Glenburn of Mine!

There have been more records in my life than squares of toilet paper. And considering how full of shit I am, that's saying something.

When I came along, my folks lived in a duplex in the north end of town, in a very old college neighborhood. It was the perfect place for a boy: There was a service station on the corner, with no end of trucks pulling in and out, and best of all, a railroad track just across the street.

I have only vague memories of my folks' first console stereo, a munchkin box from W. T. Grants, which was little more than a faux speaker grill on stubby legs. After that Hobbit delight passed came Big Sears--a seven foot behemoth, awash in fake oak laminate, with the obligatory plastic sunflower designs on the front panels.

The turntable was a Glenburn, and despite its Michael Myers-treatment of records, I'll always have a soft spot for this player. With its ridiculously-thin tonearm, cork turntable mat, and springy sounds during the change cycle, it was the first player I can remember watching on a regular basis.

In those days, the family TV set was still just a plastic Ford-Philco on a roller cart, with a speaker the size of a transistor radio--so Big Sears dominated, and rocked every hour. I knew good times were coming when Mom took down that brown paper sack of 45s from the hall closet--all records from her high school and college years: Mostly Beatles, Herman's Hermits, and "Georgie Girl" by the Seekers.

I liked watching 45s play the best; without regard to my fruit fly-attention span, you could really SEE the records as they played. The fact that the Glenburn used a crooked 45 adapter, and that its spindle faced bottom left instead of the universal upper right, certainly helped. How many hours did I spend, watching that orange-yellow swirl spin around and around? I'll never know; a lot!

There were albums, of course, but since you couldn't see them being played (only the top record in the stack, waiting for its turn), those had to be appreciated strictly for musical content, and not just the carnival aesthetics of spinning: Bobby Sherman, Tammy Wynette, and Leroy Holmes doing an album of western themes.

There were also 8-track tapes, but they were mostly blasphemous. At least with albums, eventually you could watch the top record as it turned. With tapes, there was only the occasional blip of the blue channel light as it jumped from one to four. Boo!

By the time my sister was born, the neighborhood had taken an unfortunate turn for the worse, so we moved further south to Red River. Despite its name, Red River was just a clump of very modest one-story brick houses; there may have been snooty aspirations, however, since instead of numerals, the house numbers were spelled out in a gaudy black font. So it wasn't "170," it was "One-Seventy!" Snooty. Or worse, Wanna-Be-Snooty.

I was immediately disappointed with the lack of railroad tracks. However, there were plenty of deep rain gullies in the field out back, and these became our trenches, hide outs, and secret trails. And there were enough wild blackberry bushes to keep our fingers purple all summer.

Around this time, the Ford-Philco was traded in for a big floor-model Quasar TV, and this spelled doom for Big Sears. During this time, I can't ever remember my folks using the stereo, except to placate me, and usually with Dad's old Bill Cosby albums.

By this time, most of Mom's 45s had passed down to me, which was exciting, but also unfortunate: Once records were played on my little Imperial machine, they couldn't come anywhere near Big Sears again. I suppose Mom thought the Imperial did bad things to records, maybe akin to wiping one's butt and then not washing one's hands. But in fairness, the Imperial hadn't widened the center hole of Barbara Streisand's "Stony End" to pre-1920 Harmony 78 size. Whatever.

For Christmas I got a GE Wildcat (in the bile-gray), my first ever record changer. Never mind that the automatic function didn't even last until my next birthday. Later I got a console of my own. Poor Big Sears.

By the time I started 2nd Grade, we had moved again, and Big Sears was relegated to the basement family room, where it would languish, used only occasionally by me--at least until an unfortunate incident in the early 80s.

My folks had bought me a big box of 1950s records at a garage sale, among them a nice set of Golden kiddie records. While playing "The Chocolate Cowboy," I noticed the 78 speed on the Glenburn was a little slow. For some reason, I thought this could be corrected by FORCING the speed switch further to the left.

Not only did this brilliant home remedy NOT work, it had the opposite effect: The speed knob snapped off in my chubby little hand, and the switch itself became forever lodged on 16 rpm. Sixteen, that pointless mystery speed; it couldn't have been 33, at least--I had plenty of 33s. No, 16--the least-seen records ever, in those pre-internet days.

Oops. I removed "The Chocolate Cowboy," turned the Glenburn off, and closed the lid. My only saving grace was that since nobody ever used the stereo anymore, maybe they wouldn't notice.

But my conscious got the better of me, and I confessed my sin to Mom. To my surprise, she wasn't even mad. The following summer, Big Sears was sold at a garage sale for two dollars, to a woman who only wanted it for the radio.

And with that went the last console stereo my folks ever owned. Granted, one of my Magnavox consoles spent a good amount of time in their living room (which, to my chagrin, my old man actually used on occasion). Now Mom has one of those blasphemous Crosleys, but I've never actually seen her use it. In fact, I don't even think its been plugged in, which is surely a blessing, considering it would be more Ridley Scott's "Alien," than Micheal Myers, on unsuspecting vinyl.

I miss Big Sears! But more than that, I miss the days when people actually used it because they wanted music, and not just to "simmer that boy down."

eBay VD

You don't kiss a hooker with a cheesy scab on her face, and you don't buy records from people who don't know what the hell they're doing. In the fifteen years that I've been shelling out good money for records on eBay (and kissing hookers, apparently), I've learned a few things.

I never buy records from somebody who doesn't sell mostly--or better yet, only--records. People (nay, non-collectors) who sell all kinds of things sometimes think records will survive in the equivalent of a paper airplane thrown from an upstairs window.



No--they won't. You can't drop a record into an envelope and think its going to arrive in anything more than pieces. One "seller" charged four bucks for shipping and handling, and sent the record in just that--an envelope. Not even a padded envelope. I asked the "seller" exactly what my four bucks bought, since it surely wasn't this dollar-store envelope. He said "gas to the post office, and my valuable time." He also advised me to "enjoy my purchase!" The cheap fucker. I told him I'd feed my penis to worms in hell before I bought anything else from him.

Exhibit A: In the 1920s, Pathe began pressing "mottled' records which were a striking blend of black and brown shellacs. I love these records. Maybe its because I never could find any when I was a starving kid, and had to settle for red Columbias. But now, thanks to the internet (maybe that should be "thanks"), I can have them!! Or so you would think. Witness every mottled Pathe 78 I've ever won (and I do mean EVERY one): Sandwiched between thin cardboard squares (some of which weren't even as big as the record being mailed), sans packing materials, shards of shellac jutting like broken teeth, and with the obligatory FRAGILE written in red on the outside. As if FRAGILE was some kind of Expecto Patronum that would depants every careless postal carrier betwixt here and Oregon.

Exhibit B: In the 1940s, Majestic began pressing red vinyl records. If you don't have any of these, they sound excellent--highly recommended! That is, from a reputable seller. Another example of something I wanted as a child, but couldn't find among all the Eddy Duchins and Hawaiian 78s at the garage sales or flea markets. I found one on eBay a few years ago, from a woman who barely knew what records were, and bought it. I paid for the record, but what I actually received was an empty cardboard box with tape on three of the four sides. I asked her if she was a little short on tape, and big on hope. She insisted she taped all four sides, even her boyfriend could vouch for her. Unfortunate that her boyfriend hadn't been on the Warren Commission: With convincing testimony like that, the history books might have ended differently.

Exhibit C: One day I realized I didn't have a copy of "White Sport Coat" by Marty Robbins. What kind of namby pamby noob collector was I? I found a mint copy on eBay for 99 cents, from a guy who was selling his recently-deceased grandfather's collection, and turned down the seller's kind offer of insurance. Maybe I should have--the record arrived in a flimsy padded envelope, in more than one piece. I asked him about his choice in packing materials, and his only response was that I should have bought insurance. Insurance? Really? For a goddamn 99-cent record? Surely; Helen Keller could have done better with oven mits duct taped to her hands.

These people are also sometimes very subjective on grading. If it says VG+, but the label is ripped half off, and the vinyl looks like someone stored it in a box of nails, then its probably not VG+. Sometimes these "sellers" think that just because a record is "rare" (or better yet, "rarish"), then it deserves a higher grade, and never mind that it apparently went through a rock tumbler.

Best advise I can give--check feedback. Its just like sexual partners: If you see a rash of red, through the door you should head. Even more telling if the seller has a beef with every negative comment. Its always someone else's fault. He can't help it if it was lost in the post office. You didn't buy insurance. Right.

Be safe--find reputable sellers. Don't wind up with eBay VD.