Collective Anger

Greg and I went road tripping to the Parramatta Record Fair today. We also saw two queens, but they weren’t specifically of the floating variety.

After venturing to the Collectables Fair two years ago, I was pretty sure that we’d find gold at least within the people who frequent these things. Sadly, this time there was no costume donning, but the bootleggers all wore their uniform of all black and a baseball cap. Whilst I was browsing someone’s collection a fellow came up to the stall owner and asked “So what have you got for me?” The seller leapt into action “Fresh, just in from Japan. Haven’t shown it to anyone else,” as he took the CD out of the paper holder with something unreadable scribbled on it. He held it up to the light with both hands as if displaying fine jewelry. “Haven’t seen one like it for a while”. The prospective buyer’s head ducked and weaved as he made sure he saw the light hit it from every angle. “Japan, you say? Hrm, okay then.” “Excellent choice. Three dollars please.” It could only have been more perfect if the seller had a jeweler’s glass and the buyer had a monocle.

One of the drawbacks of these gala events is the air circulation. Put simply, not enough. The smell of one man made my eyes water. It took me back to a day on the bus when a man had secretions that only the devil himself could have concocted and injected into his pores. It was at this point that a terrifying thought struck me: My fingers have been flicking through hundreds of CDs and records that these very same men had been contaminating all day, long before I had arrived to see the worst of it. I was paralyzed by the thought for some considerable time, and it was a while before I had to courage to even flick through the soundtracks sections (which, I figured, would have the least abused fingers scraping DNA across them).

Whilst Greg made shady under the table deals to obtain the latest Beatles bootlegs, I picked up quite a few bargains, including Australian cast recordings of La Cage aux Folles, Annie and They’re Playing Our Song on vinyl.

Afterwards we headed over to Westfield to grab some lunch. We chose a sandwich shop run by an Asian man who was every Asian character ever played by Peter Sellers combined and a Germanic woman who frightened us over and over. I kept getting nervous each time I asked for an ingredient and she would reply in an angry slur, “Of course you do.” When some small children starting making noise she said (or at least we think she said) “If they were mine, I’d take them home, lock them in a cupboard and pour scalding water on them.” Busy day, then? Greg had problems of his own when the man asked him “Father and son?”, referring to us. “Uhhh… not exactly” Greg replied before turning to me and saying “If you blog that I’ll slit your throat.”

It was a fun day, but if you’ll excuse me, I have to create a Facebook group called “If that security alarm goes off when I walk out of here, you’re giving it to me for free.”