Vinyl retentive

I love shopping for records with an unbridled passion that is usually reserved for such primal activities as sexual intercourse. Its speaks to a baser need that is buried somewhere deep in my core. Something left over from simpler more barbaric times. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Sometimes you get rabbits and sometimes you take down the fucking mammoth but you rarely come back empty handed. If you did you would somehow be less of a man, unable to provide aural sustenance for your tribe. There is a certain moment when you’re out on the field of battle when things can turn vicious. Consider this: Your flipping through a record bin which has been filled seemingly at random. You must weed out the unworthy game from the truly amazing kill. You look to your right and notice another hunter. Most of the time (for myself at least) this doesn’t pose a problem, yet occasionally you realize that this fellow primate is hunting the same game as yourself. You realize your working your way through fields, which were once rich with the type of game that you and your tribe thrive on. However this hunter has picked the fields bare. You are at odds. There have been occasions where I wondered if I could take this hunter out and hide the body before an employee realizes that Ive just killed a man over a Kinks or Standells record. Perhaps I was born too late maybe I’m a relic from a time I never lived in. However, know this: If you see me in a music store don’t touch my records or Ill fucking kill you!