Say It Ain't So...

Dear Tower,

I have recently received word that your health has been failing over the last several years since we parted ways. I know that your illness is terminal and soon you will cease to exist in physical form. I wanted to take this opportunity to gain some sort of closure.
Throughout the duration of our five year love affair, I experienced both the euphoric highs and the vomit-inducing lows. Towards the end of our relationship, I began to see the writing on the wall and realized that staying together only harmed us both. But oh, how hard it has been to not be a part of the greatest sociological study ever: the record store.

So many CDs to choose from! I can't think of many places where every single culture and subgroup are artistically (more or less) represented, Acid Jazz to Zydeco. Thinking about all that music still makes me smile. No longer will anyone experience the dizzying din and youthful exuberance of the Pop floor or the quiet refuge (and shoplifting opportunities) of the Classical/Jazz room. Gone are the days of entertaining the amusing questions of wayward customers, "Do you know that song on the radio? I think it's about love/death/God/drugs/insecurity/etc." or "You know that song with the drum that goes ba-boom ba-boom ba-boom boom?" Gone are the days of making dudes with porn squirm by ringing them up e x t r a s l o w while a number of mothers, wives, and daughters line up behind them. Gone are the surreal moments like helping Alonzo Mourning find Eric Benet's and P. Diddy's latest CDs. Or witnessing my college psychology professor stroll in one Saturday morning and proceed to purchase 'Black Tail' and what's the name of the Asian one, 'Oriental Honeys'? Wow. Guess I'll see you in class next week, Doc!
There were some dark times of course. You made me stay up late on Monday nights for people who couldn't wait till morning to see how Madonna reinvented herself for this CD. You made me take inventory twice a year (We sold how many copies of Jesse Camp's album?!) You forced me to sell concert tickets to Jimmy Buffett fans who started lining up hours in advance all the while singing every word to every song from every Jimmy Buffett album. You crammed 5 years worth of summer anthems into the very depths of my mind. Do you remember "Steal My Sunshine" by Len? Good. You do not want to. What about "Mambo #5", the song that gets my vote as the most horrid song ever song ever? You paid me wages that indentured servants would scoff at. I have images of customers behaving like escaped zoo animals during the holiday shopping season that still keep me up at night.
So what the hell happened Tower? Things used to be so good and cool. But then it started to suck. Was it the $18.99 price tag for CDs? Was it too many discounts (of the employee and 5-finger variety)? Was it having a "you can open your CDs, burn them, then get a full refund" return policy? More than likely, you became a victim of the Internet and the iPod. There was no way to compete. CDs became almost obsolete. I can barely remember the last CD I bought rather than downloaded. Because of this, you became a shell of your former self. Part of me resents what technology did to you, but the smarter part of me knows I'll be first in line to get that USB port installed in the back of my neck. You will always be a part of me, Record Store.

Such is life.

Much Love and Disdain,

Scrap Heap Pete-too