Today is Record Store Day. Remember when record store day was at least once a week? Definitely on Tuesdays which was the day new releases came out. That was fun.
I only ever worked in one record store. But it was THE one. Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. I once thought Flea was a random homeless person and wouldn’t let him use our restroom, and ridiculed Stewart Copeland for not being able read Japanese, but neither of those were my favorite memories of working there. This is: One day I was kneeling on the floor sorting through a new shipment of magazines when my hand got crushed. It was an intense pain and I looked to see a cowboy boot using my entire hand as some sort of steeping stool, maybe to get a better view of Playboy. I still remember this clear as day, and remember it happening in slow motion… I stood up to give this fucker a piece of my mind and rose while eyeing the outfit on this object of my rage. Acid washed jeans were tucked into the cowboy boots, and those jeans were being held up by a belt studded with turquoise stones. Tucked into that was a tight tank top that was stretched thin over rippling, tan muscles. Draped over the tank top was the mane of the Lion of Milan. IT WAS FABIO!!! FABIO ALMOST BROKE MY HAND. I was stunned into silence. My rage vanished. And I got his autograph. And thankfully my hand wasn’t broken because I needed it that night to rub one out while thinking of his cool blue eyes.