Decisions, Decisions
I went record shopping last night. As always, I was faced with a difficult choice: inflated prices at the Virgin behemoth, or bargain debasement at Newbury Comics. Opting to save a few bucks, I chose the latter, but not without trepidation.

See, Newbury Comics is the hipster equivalent of a high school locker room. There's no room to move, it's always really hot, and the cool kids lord over the proceedings. In this case, the store clerks are the football team, and I am the scrawny kid facing the corner while I change into my gym shorts, steeling myself for a towel to snap at my ass any second (which is pretty much the way it went for me in gym class, too). The funny thing is, looking at the people who work at Newbury Comics, I'm pretty sure they were also the downtrodden in the teen social hierarchy. Finally, they have their chance for revenge.

When did this reversal occur? One minute, they were getting shoved face-first into lockers, and the next they were smirking at everyone with a sensible haircut. We've all had high school revenge fantasies. Mine has always been to show up at my ten-year reunion wearing a suit tailored entirely out of hundred-dollar bills. At the rate things are going, I might be able to patch together a necktie from bounced checks. My point is, for most of us who were uncool back then, the chance to turn the tables will never come. Newbury Comics employees, on the other hand, are living the dream, and their wrath knows no bounds.

Anime Reference Ahead
It's kind of like that movie Akira, where Tetsuo builds up so much rage towards certain persecuting elements that his only recourse is to destroy the entire city of Neo-Tokyo with his mind, but not before turning into a giant baby and shouting a lot. I want these people to know I'm on their side, but I lack the necessary identifying marks, like giant belt buckles or an outfit comprised entirely of denim. How can I distinguish myself from the unhip guy walking in right behind me, the guy heading straight for the nearest copy of Results May Vary?

Simple: I need to buy the right music. Last night, I had intended to pick up the new Shins album, Chutes Too Narrow. No less than the hipster bible, Pitchforkmedia, had ordained it a must have. You always face the risk, in a situation like this, of running into the one second-level cool kid who disdains the party line and listens, quite ironically, to Justin Timberlake, but that's a chance I had to take. Surely, no one could look down on me for picking up a well-reviewed album on a respectable, mid-major label, could they? Or would I have that horrible accusation levied at me, that latter-day scarlet letter, poser? I really don't think you're supposed to think these sorts of things at a store that sells comic books.

Unfortunately, there was nary a copy of Chutes to be found. Which meant I had to spend more time in the store than I'd anticipated. At one point, a skinny employee asked me if I needed help finding anything. "Nah, I'm good," I replied in my most disinterested tone. We cool people don't care about anything. Only after he walked away did I realize that would have been the perfect time to ask if they had the Shins album hidden in the back or anything. I could only see an actual conversation with a Newbury Comics employee ending badly.

Open mouth, insert...
That's not without precedent. Whenever I approach the counter with my selections, I get nervous in a way I can only compare to stage fright. It's my trial by fire. When you buy CDs from Newbury Comics, you're exposing your musical taste to the tastemakers. They try to be subtle, but if you watch closely, you can pick out all kinds of facial tics and gestures indicating what they think of your purchase. My hope is always that the clerk will look at my CDs, slowly face me with an open-mouthed, slightly awestruck expression, and say, "This is some great music. Let's go get our eyebrows pierced together." I also have a more adult version for when the clerk is a girl. Only once, though, did anyone say anything about what I was buying, and I blew it.

Last summer, I was picking up On Avery Island by Neutral Milk Hotel. "Oh man, I love this album," the guy said. Finally! My in! A life of hipness, tight jeans, and Saturday nights at Start awaited me! I just had to say the right thing.

"Yeah," I attempted to say, only something was caught in my throat and I kind of gargled. I coughed and said it again, but the moment was gone. As conversational failures go, that was almost as bad as when I left a voice message for a girl once that started, "Hi, Mitch, it's Stephanie."

You have choosen...
I digress. Finally, I picked out some albums. I got Tom Petty's Greatest Hits, and Elvis Costello's My Aim Is True (only $9.99!). I brought them up to the counter, where a lady clerk wearing hoop earrings big enough for me to fit my fist through was deep in conversation with a coworker about lasagna. She was half turned away from the counter, but unless she had no peripheral vision, she could not have failed to see me standing there for thirty seconds, shifting my weight from foot to foot. Once her pasta-related concerns were satisfied, she turned to me.

"Hi, how's it going."

"Good! How are you?"

She didn't reply, even after looking at my CDs.

"Oh, I see how it is. Too good to talk to me. Yeah, that's fine. No need to waste valuable breath on a guy with no visible tattoos. Maybe I should have worn an ironic t-shirt to your store today - oh, wait, I was at the office before I came here, working a real job. Not that you'd know anything about that. You work at a fucking record store," I said in an alternate universe. In this one, I tapped my fingers on the counter and briefly envisioned the clerk naked. Another successful retail outing.

That's all folks!
It can't be normal to mentally engage in class warfare at Newbury Comics, but I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way. Truthfully, I envy record store clerks. They have found the one job that not only allows, but encourages their idiosyncrasies. They're not under the thumb of The Man. If they want to listen to John Zorn at work, they can subject an entire store to his unique brand of experimental sonic assault, and no one tells them not to. They have what we all want - total freedom.

Assholes.