Sound Effect

Last week I had a very strange and undeniable urge to visit Cheapo.

I cajoled my friend to hop along, dangling the promise of a sandwich and 'something to do' in front of him. It worked, and after a delicioso mexican flata sandwich, we rolled into the Cheapo parking lot, ready to peruse the vault of already-used CD's.

This is great, I thought, as we walked in, soaking in the sight of even, indescript isles of plastic and vinyl. The vista was accompanied by the click-click-click sound of patrons fingering through jewel cases. It sounded like a stenographer on speed. With no clear direction or inclination, I ambled my way though the store. I was looking for something.... something that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

My friend walked up to me as I was aimlessly clicking through CD's with something in his hand. The Who - It's Hard. I followed the faces of Roger Daultry to Pete Townshend, Keith Moon and John Entwistle all the way to the boy playing the arcade game under the neon green horizon line lights. That's when my memory goes blank. The last thing I remembered about the store was thinking... shouldn't he be playing a pinball machine?

That's when the world went black, and I entered into zone that can only now be uncovered by years of psycho-therapy and hypnosis. I snapped out Mr. Hyde fifteen minutes later while sitting the car and looked down to see myself clutching a bag with four LP's. What the? Crosby, Stills... The Who... U2... another The Who...

What the hell am I going to do with these? I thought. I don't even own a record player!

It wasn't until later that night, when I was browsing cnet, amazon.com, and ebay for a record player and speakers that it hit me. Something was wrong, very wrong. I needed to see a specialist.

"How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?" The record store owner asked me the next morning. I was sitting on a bench in his small store, nervously fidgeting.
"Just the past couple of days."
"Let me ask you something," he said, refering to his clipboard solemnly. "Can you hear the difference between a $100 and $400 set of speakers?"
"Yes."
"Do you set the stereo equalizer when you drive other people's car?"
"When they aren't looking." I said, blankly.
He gave me a grave look.
"Would you rather listen to a bad radio station with good reception, or a good station with bad reception?" I thought about this one for a second.
"A bad station."
The owner set down the clipboard, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a heavy sigh.
"What is it?" I said. But I already knew.
"These are all telltale symptoms.... symptoms of an audiophile."
It was all happening too fast. I needed air.
"But I'm so young!"
"I know, I know." he said. He looked pale. "It's a terrible sickness that starts to effect people once they reach your age."

I was reeling, flying through images of expensive audio equipment, alphabetized album collections, and music snobbery.
"But... But..." I was starting to get faint. "I'm so poor already...." Images of Rolling Stone covers were spinning at me now, faster and faster.
"Trust me, I know." said the owner, putting his hand on my shoulder. "What I don't understand is how you picked this up." He thought for a moment.
"I know what happened," I said, dejectedly. "I watched Almost Famous last week."
"A Cameron Crow film?"
"Yeah"
"And you didn't use protection did you." He said sternly.
"No."
"Goddamn it son! You know what happens when you are bombarded by his nonstop musical montage footage?" He looked at me incredulously. "You never had a chance."

I thanked the owner for his time, guiltily purchased a couple more albums for my collection, and took a pamphlet called 'Paper vs. Plastic; the speaker cone material war', and left the store with my head hanging low. The world would never sound the same again.