Dear Hipster at the Record Store

I have bought two records, I mean honest to goodness vinyl records, in my semi adult life.  Both were bought on a senior class field trip to Philadelphia.  We were told we couldn't leave South Street, and that under no circumstances should anyone on this Catholic school field trip be caught entering or leaving the three story Condom Kingdom store, so my friends and I sought refuge in a Tower Records.   I found a vinyl section and grabbed up two before those goons I called friends could sully them with their fecal covered hands.  I was seventeen then, and the novelty of playing two of my favorite albums on the record player outweighed the hassle of only being able to play them on the record player.  Sixteen years later, I realize my folly, around the time that you and your ironic facial haired comrades have raged an analog war on this digital age.

My sister's birthday just passed.  Recently, she had dusted off the family's old LP's and took to using a turntable.  She also spent three hours in line on Record Store Day because she somehow thought that was worth three hours of her life so, when I heard her lament that a record store she likes had just gotten in a Smith's album and that she couldn't make it out there to get it, I decided her gift had been found.

Morrissey would have smiled, if only his tortured face remembered how, if he saw how I drove to the store in a dismal rain, only to have to park three blocks away for lack of parking.  When I made it to the store, dripping wet, I found a stereotypically disinterested bearded clerk ignoring me from behind the counter, and one other person, you, the rotting, festering hispter roaming the stacks.  The clerk, who could have clearly been ripped from a 1995 episode of the Simpsons, offered no greeting, and said nothing as I floundered around the store, trying to find the section for overhyped, self important English jagoffs who whine more than sing.  I was able to find Coldplay, but couldn't find The Smiths anywhere.

Having dispensed with any sense of pride years ago when I dispatched my sense of decency and decorum, I went to the plaided goon at the counter and asked where to find the album.  I was rewarded with an effete wave towards the back of the store.  You, you filthy, eavesdropping hipster, perked up, but I dismissed you for the moment.  Looks could not kill on this day, so I left my still living guide and moved towards where he vaguely had motioned.  As I did, you followed.  You began to pick up speed, but my superior reach foiled you, and I grabbed the entire stack of Smith's albums from the rack.  I tried not to smile as you stopped five feet from me and stared as I casually thumbed through the stack of records I clutched in my arms.  Smiles are like poison to you, and I didn't want to bring out the big guns yet. 

"You aren't going to buy all of those, are you?" you mumbled from behind your lopsided bangs and  infinity scarf.

"Nope" I mentioned, as I slowly cycled through the stack again. 

"Can I have Hatful of Hollow?" you said, reaching out your hand

"Nope.  That's the one I want." I finally put the rest back, holding onto the one record.

You ran over to the stack "Is there only one?"

"Yup." I said, turning to the front of the store.

"That's not cool man, I was going to buy that."

I turned and looked to you, "You heard me ask about it, and you were going to snipe the damned thing before I could get to it.  You know what, I hate the friggin' Smiths too."

You stared at me, realizing that perhaps people other than you and the acquaintances that drink PBR at your parties might not be the only people capable of cruelty towards others.  "Then why do you want it?"

The answer was obvious.  "So you can't have it."

I paid and left.  It only strikes me that you enjoy feeling alienated and jilted, so I probably made your day.  It also strikes me that I inadvertently gave Morrissey money, which he will use to transpant more baboon fur onto his head, but the moral victory was still there.

I rule.