So I stopped by to browse some dollar CDs at the Book OOF, and was minding my business, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face this very nice black gentleman, wearing a white shirt with a checkerboard pattern on the collar and a white tie. He very much wanted to tell me about how he’d been buying music here for the last few weeks, and how it always seemed he left with one thing and its contrast: Like, an N.W.A album and something by the Beatles. I gave him my attention, as he carried on, because I’m nice, and the story took a loopy path around his very recent history in New York, how he is a drummer, self-taught, a skill he picked up when he was homeless circa 2002—he bought some big practice drumsticks from Sam Ash because they seemed so goofy, and on his way home grabbed eight copies of the Village Voice to bang on as practice pads while learning to play—but has also he’s been learning to sing, which he demonstrated in the aisle of the store. Now, on the one hand, I was very captivated by this yarn, you know, homeless man is saved by the power of music, getting his life together, but on the other hand, I was sort of waiting for the wheels to come off. He jabs his finger at the shelf of albums and is like, “See, I can’t sing Ricky Martin since he came out.” Aaaaand…there it is! But I don’t think he said “came out” actually, it was like, “since his announcement” or “revelation” or the like. Not that the phrasing matters. He was quick to be all, “I don’t judge anybody, you know, if that’s your path.” Which sounded sincere! If ridiculous! Obviously, the fork in the road here is to either be like, brow all furrowed, “Excuse me sir I am a homosexual and I find that comment offensive” or to just smile and nod, sensing the monologue—and it was a monologue as I only managed to utter a few uh huhs and sures and confirm I did indeed know both the O’Jays and the Scorpions during the ten-plus minutes we stood there—was gonna run out of juice fairly shortly. Discretion is the better part of valor when being an audience of one for a raconteur with a smidge of madness about him, so I kept mum. The thing he tried to impart about Ricky Martin, which is also the same reason he can’t sing “Macho Man” by the Village People by the by, is that you are perceived as what you put out. Whereby I guess you’re thought to be a gay if you sing Ricky Martin. Though somehow you are also what you consume, musically, too? So you give off a whiff of the gay if you listen to Ricky Martin? This, again, is where all four tires are in the mud, as far as narrative goes, so I’m not sure what the takeaway is. But! He was keen to inform me, that he will sing “I Will Survive,” but not in a girly way (!) because the lady artists help him with his vocal phrasing. Yeah. So after that, we said our goodbyes and he went to the register and I lingered, contemplating that whole interchange.
Oh, and then I bought Dead Or Alive’s greatest hits for a buck.
