As I went over the past two pages of this thread I had an olfactory flashback to the Nogales public library. It smelled like Officer Brad X's balls and poo casserole! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Right, Fakepunkers?
Seriously though, the library had a very distinctive and plesant smell, a mixture of old paper, institutional furniture, thick plastic record sleeves, old wooden furniture... A bit like my elementary school only cleaner and more austere.
You know what smells really terrible? Dog puke. Last night my doggie, Jose Luis Rodriguez, puked twice, once on the sofa and once on our comforter. Poor fella. I thought it might be the new "holistic" dog food we've been feeding him the last couple of days, but Mrs. Acapulco thinks Junior has been feeding him people food and that's what did it. It was pretty alarming -- I woke with a start in the middle of the night to hear him hacking and coughing and ultimately regurgitating a thick yellow gruel right onto the comforter (or duvet cover, or whatever it is, you know, that thing you put over your comforter in case the dog pukes on it or the baby shits on it or whatever). This morning he was fine, though, ate a hearty breakfast and drank lots of water. Is it possible that Jose Luis got into the tequila last night? Yes, it is.
But it isn't likely. How would he get the bottle open? Poor stupid fucker doesn't even have fingers, let alone an opposable thumb.
The library smell in my mind's nose sparked a reverie about those innocent years when I was first finding out about music and I tried to think about other sources where I picked up clues, little bits and pieces of information that led to other things. Thrasher magazine had lots of cool ads in it. Mail order record catalogues. The "import" section of certain record stores in faraway Tucson. There was something evil and nasty and alluring about "import" records, even when they weren't actually imports: Butthole Surfers, Dead Kennedys and GBH records, Bauhaus and Joy Division LPs and cassettes that came in weird cellophane outer sleeves instead of shrinkwrap and cost twice as much as normal records.
The CD Hotline: Does anyone remember this? Between about 1988 and 1990, this was a service based in NYC where you could call their 1-800 number and ask for a band's discography on CD and they would read it to you over the phone, including song titles. The Residents were one of the first bands to release their entire back catalog on CD, so on more than one occasion I called and had a guy on the other end of the line read me the Residents discography in chronological order from start to finish as I jotted down the titles. This company also published a small digest called DDD at irregular intervals, dedicated to the reissue of catalog titles on CD, reviews of high-end players and arcane products like the "CD damper," an acrylic ring that you were supposed to attach to your CDs to make them sound better.
What is all the fuss about Guy Debord?
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