After spending a delightful afternoon in the Laconia Antique Center we decided to continue the day by taking a stroll down the street to see what Laconia had to offer. It’s always a fun way to get to know the personality of a town. So, with nothing in mind we ambled aimlessly and found a sweet little record shop.
I love going into these places. They’re usually super small, cramped, dark little dungeons full of old records in milk crates. This place… it was quite a bit more modern. It was well lit with an open-air feel. Records were scattered in various parts of the shop but the rest had musical instruments, supplies, CDs, and other media. It was like a tiny musical Woolworths. With interesting decorating style as the walls were plastered with music posters and similar imagery.
I don’t know if this place takes part in Record Store Day but it should. It’d be a nice stop!
We came across the Record Exchange as we were walking down Market Street and decided to give it a go. It was larger than I thought it would be and oddly enough full of people! I say oddly because usually record stores are pretty unpopulated in the middle of the day. I mean you got to admit it’s a niche market but apparently one that was thriving in Frederick! This place was a’ hoppin’!
All three of us separated into our own individual corners to look at things – the heavy metal section, the used CD’s and DVD’s, and my choice of just wandering at random. My interests are too diverse to fit into any specific genre. I had apparently caught the attention of the cashier who I was aware was watching me. Maybe it was the bright orange hair, I don’t know. But I flipped through the “bargain” bin and found myself a John Sebastian record for $2. The last song on it was I Had a Dream which I never thought I’d find on a record. It’s one of my favs. So I was very happy. I wandered back over to my travel companion who was finding weird DVD’s and then conscious of the cashier still watching me I decided to thumb through the bin reading Hardcore Punk just to make him wonder. Also I’m rather fond of the adorable depictions of disease infested rats that tend to adorn the covers of these records. What can I say, once a rat lover, always a rat lover.
Everyone came back with something to buy. So we made our way to the counter.
“What’d you find?”
“A copy of that old slasher flick about the Texas Arcane murders!”
“Cool. That should be fun. As long as it just looks like exploding watermelons. The cheesier the slasher flick the funnier they are!”
The cashier made a funny expression, probably trying not to let on he was listening to this exchange. I handed my John Sebastian record to him – which is calm 60’s folk. He seemed confused. I left this place endeared and entertained.
One thing I had not planned on was coming across a number of vinyl record shops on our little walk through the city of Fredrick. But I mean how could we possibly resist? This first one wasn’t just a record shop it had an adorable name the Rock and Roll Graveyard. We had passed it on our first night in Fredrick and seeing it was closed we made a mental note to come back the next day. We were not disappointed!
Essentially we thought it was just another one of those cute off-the-street basement vinyl shops but this place actually had two floors and a wide range of music genres to pick through. Everything from folk to punk. And I even found a copy of Alice’s Restaurant for five bucks which I had to buy considering I have been torturing my travel companions with this song extra hard since it’s November and so close to Thanksgiving. I think we all won with this one. And it came with this cool new sticker…
One of my travel companions also made out with a few items selected from the heavy metal bins.
As we were out looking for shoes my travel companion got all wide-eyed and excited by a sign reading “used books.”
“Can we go into the used book store??”
“Uhhh… I guess…” I didn’t really see what was so exciting about this even though I have frequented many used book stores in my day.
“All we have is Borders back home! Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been in a used book store?!”
“OK, OK, I’m pulling over!” I mean how many people could possibly be frequenting a place like this? It should be relatively safe in this era of epidemics.
It was just a little place with three parking spaces in a tiny terrifying parking lot (which you had to back out into a busy street to get out of.) I was paying more attention to this than anything else as we walked through the doors. Inside we found not the promised books on the sign but instead a little record shop. Oooooh, this could be dangerous. I had left most of my record collection behind during a bad break up four years ago and had always wanted to build it back up again.
As my companion wandered off to look at a few shelves of used books I got wide-eyed myself staring at one particular label – Phil Ochs – which seemed to have a bunch of records under it. Now, just to let you know, I have been looking everywhere for Phil Ochs vinyls since I got my record player some 10+ years ago. I’d been in shops in New York, Vermont, Massachusetts, and Maine. I’d sifted through hundreds of milk crates at yard sales, flea markets, and antique venues and had always come home empty handed. And here, in this quiet little practically hidden shop there had to be ten or so records, all different, from Phil Ochs. That was almost his whole discography for his intensely short life. I almost laid an egg. This was 1960’s folk heaven.
And it got better. They had a section for New Riders of the Purple Sage and had an album with Henry and Panama Red on it which I always found hilarious. Jefferson Airplane had a winner with all-too-relevant Volunteers, a replacement to one of the albums I left that I dearly loved, and then something unexpected. As I walked out to the back room there were sections for less well loved record genres but intensely interesting none-the-less even a whole section on international music. I’d never seen records from South America and other exotic locales. I wish I knew something about them but I just didn’t. And then there was a huge section devoted to comedy.
Should I? I already had an armful. But there could be some old George Carlin records in there… I started to sift through it, throwing Cosby aside with the proper amount of disdain. He was goddamn everywhere here but then I started finding gems. There was an old Carlin record. There was also a cache of Tom Lehrer records! I’d been listening to Tom Lehrer in the car on the way here! They had to go home with me. And then I found the most delightful random thing. It was a record by Lord Buckley. Who is Lord Buckley, you may ask, and well… he was a nudist and Beatnik in the 1950’s who had one of those waxed mustaches that made him look like he just got back from tying a woman to the train tracks. Totally bizarre human being and here was a record of his telling the story of Jesus in so much vibrant Beatnik slang as to make it nearly incomprehensible. It may not be everyone’s thing but I HAD TO HAVE THIS. I mean when would I ever see this again?!
And I wasn’t the only one finding treasures. Across the room my travel companion had a number of books and CDs including George Carlin for the car. Because you can’t beat George Carlin. And after we cashed out (with me parting with a painful $64) we realized there was a whole upstairs we hadn’t seen! So we headed up there. There were a lot more books up there and another room filled with dollar records. Helloooo Barry Manilow! We left before getting ourselves in further trouble but I shall be back! What a great find this store was!
For funsies here’s some YouTube clips of my finds. First up is Phil Ochs with the closest thing he ever had to a hit. A scathing ragtime commentary of the political climate sung with chilling sarcasm.
Next up New Riders of the Purple Sage also singing with cheeky sarcasm about driving certain illegal goods across the border.
And to continue with the spirit of protest is Volunteers – a powerful rock number from Jefferson Airplane.
And onto an older sort of humor that’s no less still quite political. Tom Lehrer’s My Home town always amused me because nothing’s changed…
And of course the weirdest thing you will probably ever listen to – a rambling recollection of Jesus’ story wheezed out in colorful Beatnik slang by Lord Buckley…
What did I learn from this collection of audio? Only that I am more political than I let on and comedy really is the other side of tragedy. I laugh so I don’t cry.
Tonight was a bit weird. I know, I haven’t been up to much to post on this blog. Truth be told I’m broke and busy with other things in life (but not unhappy!) Even so I still needed to get out… so I was more than happy to be a seat filler at the local theater when someone else couldn’t attend a show. What show was I seeing? I had no idea and didn’t bother looking it up. I felt it was more fun this way… ended up at the theater an hour early only to find we had an extra ticket after we got there. So I called the only person I knew in Keene… who turned me down… before looking on the streets to see if there was any soul out there looking like they needed a Pay It Forward moment. Alas, everyone was in couples or groups, no single stragglers about. A missed opportunity.
As it turns out I had shown up to see Scott Bradlee’s Postmodern Jukebox. If you’ve never heard of them don’t feel bad, I was just as lost. I flipped through the theater’s brochure awing at the dinosaur puppets that are apparently coming to town and daydreaming about another gig coming up – Arlo Guthrie. SIGH.
For the past few days I have been blaring obscenely happy music. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, the Squirrel Nut Zippers, and random selections of old favorites like Ducks on the Wall by the Kinks. You know – obnoxiously off-the-wall deliriously joyful or just blatantly bizarre songs. Maybe I was doing this in an unconscious effort to prepare myself for tonight.
Scott Bradlee’s Postmodern Jukebox is apparently a swing (?) band that has a number of singers performing modern songs to the backdrop of… the 1920’s! Yep, can’t say I was expecting that… but you know how I have a soft spot in my heart for anything so totally random.
The thing is I haven’t paid any attention to modern music since about five years before my birth. I will always be a die hard Summer of Love hippie when it comes right down to it. Being such I never listened to modern music as it was coming off the radio, at least not intentionally. Only in the past year have I gotten around to listening to and enjoying a few random tidbits from the 90’s. Suffice to say because of this quirk I didn’t recognize almost any of their renditions. I could figure out the first – Call Me Maybe and the last, All About the Bass only because I hear them at the grocery store when I am shopping. One of the middle songs was Creep, probably the only song I actually knew… and it was sung by a brassy bluesy woman who belted it out in a most unusual fashion. Did it still creep me out? A little less. I must admit.
The ensemble was wildly enthusiastic, accompanied by an assortment of unlikely instruments, (though not enough brass, if I am to offer the smallest of critiques.) The singers were quite good at hitting those sultry depression-era chords and there was even an ecstatic tap dancer doing the Charleston through much of it. This left the entire theater in a positively vibrant glow of joyful energy… and I think I saw Dick Tracy!! He was dressed in a full on zoot suit, feathered hat to match, shuffling about with a cane in the front row. I think he was about 180 years old but absolutely darling. How long was that stunning outfit in his closet?! Was he waiting for this music to come back around?! BLESS. Just fucking bless! I love people like that. Seeing them just be themselves gives me faith in humanity… and since we’re talking about some guy who was clearly pimped out to the max I feel it’s appropriate to mention what I learned tonight from my dictionary. Jukebox originated from a bastardization of Juke House – apparently what a certain French tainted dialect of the deep south called a brothel at the time. And now you know!
Anyway, had a great time. The theater is also currently playing Loving Vincent so don’t miss it if you haven’t already gone! Peace, love, and music, everyone! I’m leaving a video here, though is not the singer who serenaded us tonight, I figured it didn’t matter that much. Enjoy it anyway!
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Las Vegas is the birth of human depravity, or at least the continuation of such. But you know… when in Rome, might as well fiddle while it burns. Wait, I think I got that one wrong… anyway!
The place was as to be expected, there were tacky glitzy casinos galore, and in between them there were tattoo parlors, strip joints, wedding chapels, and pawn shops. Whatever. I could care less. Though there was one place that I thought would be funny to go… the pawn shop… but not any pawn shop, the pawn shop on Pawn Stars. I had no idea the place was so tiny! And packed! Half the store had been turned into a souvenir shop for people who watch the show. There were far more people buying T-shirts than jewelry. There wasn’t much here, some old guns, a few sabers, lots of jewelry, a few odd things here and there. I left sans magnet. Too embarrassing…
I took some photos of the strip. I stopped by the world’s largest gift shop and got a magnet. The cashier was the most adorable four and a half foot tall elderly woman I have ever seen. She wore HUGE glasses, smiled, and spoke with a very bronzy voice. I thought that was great… probably the only thing here I thought was the bees knees… the rest of the time was spent dodging crazed drivers who clearly lost a ton of cash gambling and were bent on taking that out on… the Jeep! Damn that unlucky Jeep! How dare it make them lose!
On a side note, I saw a big bulletin board advertising a concert for Vanilla Ice. Really? I mean I know Vegas is where old singing stars tend to go to die but Vanilla Ice? I kind of figured he’d be living under a rock or calling himself John Smith or something….
If you are enjoying Catching Marbles please consider adding a dollar or two to my limited gas money fund so I can continue going on adventures and sharing them with you! Thank you!
Good old New Orleans, how could I forget America’s home to Voodoo, ghost tours, beloved vampire writers, and Mardi Gras? I decided to start my little journey by heading towards the famous French Quarters, a magical place where diaper-wearing horses pull carts around the streets. No no, I ended up parking comfortably near the French Quarter for $14 and I walked around. I was in search of a skirt… you know one of those airy ankle-length ones that they apparently don’t sell in the South… and to be quite frank they don’t sell skirts period down here. Whhhy?! It’s so frickin’ hot you’d think everyone would be wearing them! I would settle for an ankle length sundress of course but all the ones here went to your knees and were made of hot materials. It made no sense. I weaved in out of Voodoo shops as a reward for sticking it out and trying to find a skirt, a abysmal activity if there ever were one. Skulls abounded.
I stopped wherever it looked interesting, or just air conditioned in the case of the Magaritaville, apparently a whole parrothead-inspired margarita-flinging bar. I only stayed in its stoop for a few minutes so I could go on. In the meantime mules and horses clacked by with their tourist carriages telling of pirates and voodoo priestesses. I passed by the Voodoo priestesses’ bar and her little voodoo shop. I may have gone in there if a bunch of locals weren’t in the stoop debating something.
After I walked around the main part of the French Quarters I meandered up to Bourbon Street for shits and giggles, figured it’d be interesting people watching if nothing else. That was interesting to say the least! The first thing I stumbled upon was a seedy cabaret with a barker out front. I looked him dead in the eye to see if he’d still make his pitch and laughed when at first hesitated but then actually did! I walked by, obviously. I had no idea the States even had cabarets. Seems such an odd thing to me, bet you they probably named it such to make it sound more interesting than it actually was. In any event I walked past a lot of little strip joints and whatnot, a great deal of them with cutesy little names like The Cat’s Meow. I passed by pubs, bars, and other liquor friendly little nooks, some reading, “two drink minimum,” which seemed more than a tad bit odd. Apparently there was no room for responsible drivers here.
It was a scalding hot day and I had to take time out to lather myself up with sun screen in a public courtyard. I was melting. I ended up back in the French Market scouring the area for a cold non-alcoholic drink when in the spirit of trying new things I also bought a praline. Good thing I only bought one… it was really rather sweet, to a fault. Will not be trying that again.
I had a lot of fun just wandering around. The streets weren’t that busy, the people were friendly, and there was a lemon piper playing classic jazz on sax down at the piers. Every time a dollar was donated this hilarious musician would holler, “Thanks big guy! Have a great day!” before going right back to the same note he left off on. I didn’t come by anyone with a thick New Orleans accent either, which was fortunate as that’s probably the only US accent even I can’t translate.
If you are enjoying Catching Marbles please consider adding a dollar or two to my limited gas money fund so I can continue going on adventures and sharing them with you! Thank you!
I drove to Troy Alabama to see the world’s largest catfish, apparently some sort of stature or clunk of folk art, not really sure. Either way when I got into Troy I realized I did not have an address for the elusive big fish and Google was not being of any help, just teasing me with photos and leaving me to guess. Eventually I came across a forum post which told me which main road it was off of and that this same road had a giant metal cow and some other crazy things so off I went, finding the giant metal bull first. Damn thing was outside of a rodeo place and as anatomically correct as the artist could have done with his personal talent. Poor thing had a sweet doleful cow face and a set of giant tin balls to boot. Strange, I continued onward and somewhere down the road in front of a closed art gallery I found a giant metal rooster. Again it was constructed out of spare parts in a rather artful manner. Its face was cute and I stopped to take a photo. I continued on to find the catfish but had to leave that day without finding it, though I am sure I could make up another big fish story about it…
I drove on that night into Mobile where we decided to stop at a Cracker Barrel, as was suggested by someone I’d talked to before the trip. We just don’t have these places in the North and a name like Cracker Barrel, not to mention the appearance of the place is sure to make a great many of us Northerners a bit skittish. Still I walked in. A kid came up to me asking for money to buy baseball team uniforms. He was a black kid, acting very skittish himself, I am not entirely sure why. I gave him $4. I figured if he was skittish from social anxiety then I helped an awkward kid with his fundraiser, and if he was skittish because he was being put up to his first con (I was in a rather ghetto-ey area), I didn’t care either. It was only $4.
Mobile… what can I say about it… other than I learned of it so many times not in a positive light. I had only known anything about it because of all the atrocities committed in and around it in the turbulent 50’s and 60’s during the Civil Rights Movement. I expected the people here to be a little off because I know scars like that do not heal in an area overnight. Though the people here who could still remember these ungodly events are now getting old and dying off they still had children and grandchildren whom I am sure they told. Like I said, it takes time to heal. All this going through my head didn’t make me any more comfortable going into a place called Cracker Barrel. Oh well, so the black attendant was giving me the evil eye for a good five minutes as I waited, that was to be expected, right? Then again the clerk who I paid my restaurant bill to acted totally normal, maybe she just had personal issues. This place confused me and set me a bit on edge. It’s so much easier when you can just treat everyone as if they’re people and leave it at that. SIGH.
I went in and was served by a waiter with a sweet farm boy accent. He asked if I’d been to the local music festival. I told him I just got into town, pondering if this fraternizing with customers was a normal thing down here. In any event I ordered the catfish, I just had to… and I ate until I was stuffed to the gills. It was good! It was fried and another new southern food. I was happy when I left.
I ended up in Miami to meet a new friend, Keren. I was told she had an autistic four year old son and just to expect that. I didn’t mind, of course, I’ve dealt with plenty enough children and special needs people to know how to behave around them comfortably.
Miami was… exactly how I thought it’d be… It was big, city-like, sunny, boiling hot, and there was loud Cuban music playing everywhere. I don’t mean there was loud music playing out of clubs and whatnot… I mean you could hear people’s cars a mile or more down the block and private residences? She had the misfortune to have a neighbor who cranked his music so loud that we could not hear each other talk. We were literally yelling at each other at the top of our voices, “HI! SORRY ABOUT THE NEIGHBORS! THEY’RE A BIT OBNOXIOUS!”
Keren was a funny woman, vibrantly opinionated, full of piss and vinegar. Her son was sweet and took a liking to me. He chatted up a storm and I played games with him and exchanged corny little knock knock jokes. We ate pizza and stayed up into the wee morning hours talking to her father, a rabbi, telling us about the state of Israel, which was oddly enlightening to a gentile such as myself.
I think Keren was just as amused by me as I was of her. She kept calling me adorable and polite because I waited to be invited to sit at her dinner table. She says Miami is full of brash mannerless people and I was just… different. I slept over at her house and took the most amazing hot shower there before I left. I’m a bit embarrassed to say it was the first shower I had taken since I left and I was getting tired of the baby wipe sponge baths and my hair being so greasy I could hear my brush squicking through it. In the morning she fed me grits. I’d yet to get around to trying any southern foods so this was actually something I was up for. They were awesome! Buttery and delicious and I just don’t know why I haven’t had them before… I’m so getting some when I go home. I left a half a bag of S’more marshmallows, apparently something they don’t sell down there. “Why are these marshmallows so huge?!” Funny how much discussion those marshmallows have been giving me lately.
If you are enjoying Catching Marbles please consider adding a dollar or two to my limited gas money fund so I can continue going on adventures and sharing them with you! Thank you!
For the past few days I have been blaring obscenely happy music. Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, the Squirrel Nut Zippers, and random selections of old favorites like Ducks on the Wall by the Kinks. You know – obnoxiously off-the-wall deliriously joyful or just blatantly bizarre songs. Maybe I was doing this in an unconscious effort to prepare myself for tonight.
