Requisite Statement to Criminal Records Guy
We had a deal: You don’t look up at me or say anything as you ring up my cds.
I give you money.

Hey, I didn’t set this standard; I only agreed to it.

And so when I brought my purchase up to the counter this time, it seemed we were going by protocal.
“That it?”
“Yeah.”
“Credit or debit?”
Etcetera-blah.

But then, right there in Cooler Than Thou Record Shop, you tried to get all freaking upsell-y me. Not very well, either, I might add. When I declined the ten-dollar DVD that accompanies Medulla, your subsequent “Fourteen-ninety-nine, then,” came with a sneer.

I used to work at Waldenbooks, where we had to try to sell people more stuff, and I can tell you: it will not work if you don’t make an attempt—even if it’s a lie-- at rising from disdain at some point in the transaction.

Oh well. I know why you tried: you’d thought me one of those Bjork fans. One of those Bjork!xoxoxo-Bjork fans.

Nah. This cd in particular had just been a find. Spoke to me from the listening stand, and all that. Promised to get me through the months ahead - that I’d just found out the forecast for, earlier that evening: Harder and harder.

And there was Bjork, singing to me in her Lars-Van-Trier –ingenue against-adversity-voice: I’d get through it, I would, I would, I would! And be ever-so-much-stronger, tra-la!
Tra-la to you, punk.