100

Well, One Man’s Problem, has made it to its 100th post!!!! Big fucking deal, right?!? Perhaps not to you, but for me, it’s like defeating that one level of Mega Man that gave me such a hard time as an adolescent. There were no significant changes in my life after the boss had been defeated, and it wasn’t like I’d beat the entire game; it was just a checkpoint that I could officially lay to waste. So, at this instant, if “wasting time at work” was a legitimate sport, I like to think that I’d be drafted into the minors, or at least on the radar of some respectable scouts. I mean there is something about the number 100 that is more significant and relevant than say 87. I’d like to say dignified too, but, I could’ve just dug up my 100th grave to have unprotected necrophiliac sex. So I’ll settle for significant and relevant.

On my way back from lunch, while brainstorming a topic to include on my 100th post, I was able to come across something a bit off topic, which I have to include, that I think holds true to many of the sentiments expressed here on the blog (mostly, how extremely depressing events [that don’t involve physical pain or destruction] that don’t relate directly to my personal life, often juice me up. I hate to say that I wallow in others’ sorrow, but if there is a certain sense of humor in that sorrow, where it becomes bittersweet, it just destroys me in the best way). As I just walked back to work from my lunch, I saw a bum in the corner of a packed parking lot, slumped over with his pants half off, singing (loudly and surprisingly in key) “Let’s Get It On” into a Schlitz microphone. I know it's messed up, but it couldn’t have made me happier: instant smiles, among a crowd of horrified tourists.

So, despite the fact that one of my least favorite holidays, Valentine’s Day, occurred over the last weekend, I was still able to have a relatively epic time here is San Francisco. V-Day is always, and I assume, will always, be a tough day to cope with, regardless of relationship status. It either affirms a sense of pathetic loneliness, creates guilt for any half-way, unfulfilling or strictly sex based relationship a person might have (which are either entirely doomed or pointless), and/or hustles one's brain and wallet in an intense rush to sheepishly meet any televised or government-ordained, neurotic Valentine’s Day criteria that has been consumed and accepted by lovers across this continent since birth. Regardless, I was able to spend some money on my true (and partially tangible) love at the KUSF Rock n Swap Record Fair. I could probably write a couple pages that outline just how weird I think these events are, and expand about all the record collector/reseller stereotypes and anomalies that you’d observe in the period of an hour. Perhaps I will in the future, and hopefully I can get that article published in Sweatpants Quarterly. I’m sure that I fit the exact mold of your common record nerd, with impulsive/feeble budgeting skills and odd neurological social ticks, and I could also expand on that. But, for now I’d like to just list a couple stand out moments from the two hours that I spent stimulating my eyes and ears with my so-called “peers”:
1. Watched a guy scratch his balls for a full minute while explaining his pricing system to me.
2. When I asked if the price could be negotiated for a particular record, some seller psyched me out saying he’d sell a $40 dollar record to me for $15 bucks. When I said “really?” with some excitement, he looked me dead in the eyes, paused, and said “No!” and snickered. For the record (not to get literal, waka, waka, waka) I’d never met or talked with this guy in my life before our little conversation.
3. Observing two nymphets (possibly aged anywhere from 15 to 22 years old) in short shorts and revealing tops pass by a table of ugly old men, and watching as all of them stopped whatever conversation or browsing was occurring, to focus their communal energy on staring at these girls' assess in unison.
4. The guy that told me that the DJs are the only ones who buy the “Queer” music off him.
5. The guy, who didn’t have a record under $30 for sale, who lectured me with a straight face (and without me even asking) that his definition of “VG” or “Very Good” condition trumped all other sellers in the building. To put it in his words, “My VG is everyone else’s Mint. Some of these guys wouldn’t know a Mint record if it was still sealed”. I assume he uses that line often.
6. Two jazz aficionados arguing loud and arrogantly about which label was the most relevant: Blue Note, Verve, or Prestige.
7. Lastly, the sweatpants/balding long hair combo, who dropped his piece of pizza, face down onto the dirty carpet (that everyone had been pacing around on all day), and then rapidly picked it up and ate it with no hint of remorse in front of everybody there.
The Three Degrees - The Runner (Loose Shus & Hotthobo Edit)
Incredible Bongo Band - Bongo Rock
Split Endz - Poor Boy
Dynasty - Here I Am
Dynasty - Revenge
Herbie Hancock - Magic Number