The Cold 75,000...
With apologies to Darth Ellroy who messed with my young mind. An homage to pervert stereo store salesmen, overpriced hi-fi, and how writing about technology for 27 years killed it for me.
For some writers, it’s exhilarating to find something that they wrote almost 25 years ago; they feel the need to see how much they have improved since then.
So much has happened in my life since I wrote this, that I find the descent into madness that is clearly showing itself rather troubling. How did nobody notice that I was struggling with bipolar disorder and allow me to concoct such a pathetic homage to James Ellroy. Yes — I love the writer and he influenced me in a profound way. Just not sure the bad things I picked up were so positive.
Almost all of the events happened in this twisted tale. I did almost get molested by a creepy hi-fi salesman at one of Canada’s most popular audio/video stores. I did have the instinct to grab a screwdriver and threaten to ruin a very expensive pair of loudspeakers if he came near me.
My father (who is currently waging a losing battle with Parkinson’s) was that scary back in the 1970s and early 1980s. He mellowed out.
All of those experiences did influence my chosen career path and it’s scary to read how much covering technology for that many years made me hate music/movies for awhile.
The obsessive usage of first person was from a lack of experience and desire to mimic Ellroy from some of his best novels.
Enjoy. And I’ve never hit a dog. Offered with sarcasm and for impact.
They sent me to the record counter to pick up a cleaning brush for my old man's Thorens.
He'd beaten the dog with it the night before for taking a Chuck Mangione LP. It was one of his favourites.
He had five other copies of the same LP but he beat the dog just because he could. My brother and sisters cried all night. I just sat and stared at my Father's stereo.
My Father loved his stereo more than he loved football on Sunday afternoon.
The stereo was a custom Marantz/Zenith/Thorens/Celestion system housed in a built-in cabinet made of veneered MDF. The two speakers flanked a mammoth color television.
We were dead if we ever touched it. It would crush our frail little bodies if it fell. My father came home every night from work and dusted for prints. I discovered new and wonderful uses for Scotch tape other than securing hockey cards to my headboard.
My siblings never touched that stereo in their lives. They got hit a lot for leaving their prints and a sticky residue all over the receiver's buttons.
I was a sneaky kid. I used to read Playboy in my grandparent's basement while their tenant showered in the washroom next door.
Six copies of MAD, one Sports Illustrated, one Popular Mechanics and the latest copy of Playboy.
I liked to read.
We used to listen a lot to that Mangione guy. It sounded like he was farting through a metal pipe. My old man called it art. I blew through a metal pipe. My old man threatened to hit me with it if I didn't stop. I called it art.
He called it an annoying kid trying to see if he could die young. My Mother had better taste. She swooned for Elvis. She liked Gershwin. She dug on Bela Bartok and that guy who never heard his own music.
She swooned over Gordon McCrae and Edith Piaff. My Grandfather called Piaff a Nazi whore.
My Mother dug on the Beatles. She loved George. She cried at the table when Chapman shot Lennon. She cried a lot.
I liked anything my Mother played. Except for the Nazi whore.
After all, my Grandfather had killed a lot of Nazis. Or so he said.
But he did love his neighbor's German shepherd. He fed Bruno scraps every single day.
He liked Lawrence Welk, Guy Lombardo, Doris Day and anything he could play on his organ. He played the same three songs.
He made us watch the Pro Bowler's Tour every Saturday on ABC. He cheered for Mark Roth. Mark Roth beat the German guy. He took us outside to teach us how to shoot.
He liked to get into fights. He would steal music and candy in front of us at Kmart while giving us the wink. The kid behind the counter earning $3.35 per hour threatened to call the cops.
Grandpa threatened to go back to the car and get his .308. The kid wet his pants.
We looked down at the floor.
I pointed to the record brush behind the glass. The man said that I was really brave coming all by myself to get a record brush. I thought he was scary. He asked if I wanted to see something cool in the back room. I shook my head.
"It's really cool."
"How do I know that you are not some sicko?"
"We're in a friggin' stereo store, kid."
I walked behind the counter to follow the man into a room. I was a curious kid. I grabbed a screwdriver from a shelf behind the counter and hid it in my pocket. I read a lot of scary crime stories. I walked into a really big room.
It was filled with speakers. I had never heard of any of them. There were these tall silver-looking speakers. I though they were Amazing looking.
They were taller than the creepy man. They were attached to amplifiers from the same company.
Some lunatic who jumped up and down years later on Oprah's couch had the same brand stolen by a killer pimp named Guido.
I sat down in a chair and listened to some Mozart. I had good taste for a kid. Sharon, Lois and Bram were for sissy kids who cried snot and wanted their mommy to buy them an ice cream.
Mozart sounded ballsy. The music sounded big as a house. There was a lot of bass. It didn't sound natural to me. It was loud and annoying.
My father had to have these speakers.
I hated the speakers. The creepy man was disappointed. I asked to hear something else. He pointed to a pair of large boxes. They were ugly. They looked like coffins for midgets. I liked them right away. I asked him to play those.
They sounded nothing like the tall silver ones. They had smaller balls. The music sounded way better. I dug on that brand even though it would be thirteen years before I bought my first pair.
I dug on Spendor.
I thanked the man. He winked at me. I pulled the screwdriver and pointed at the tall silver speakers.
"You wouldn't dare."
"My daddy spends $50,000 here each year." I exaggerated.
He was an economist, moonlighting as a professor and radio talk show host. He had coin. We had a used Mercedes and a weekend Jaguar.
I inched closer to the ribbon panel with the screwdriver.
The pervert suffered from something called the "wood effect" and needed some quiet time in a pink room.
I could have loaned him one of my stolen Playboys.
He rose from his seat. He opened the door. He knew the owner would believe me and not lose such a good customer.
I turned and ran. My hand never lost sight of that panel. I cranked my head around screaming. "Carver is for gay lords!"
We had limited exposure to the real world in Yeshiva. We used to smoke fags behind the lunchroom until Dr. Nussbaum caught us and threatened to call our parents.
We threatened to call Mrs. Nussbaum and tell her about Ms. Spring.
Polaroid made such great cameras back in the day.
I took the bus home. I scanned the drunks and terminally depressed schmucks who blamed Reganomics for everything.
I gave the old man his record brush.
He made me listen to that Mangione fella until I wanted to beat the dog with the record brush.
"Listen to that Mangione blow! He's a genius."
"Mommy said that Mangione is garbage and that you secretly listen to Miles Davis."
"Your mother is a liar."
Daddy got mad. Daddy handed me the record brush. Daddy ordered me to start dry cleaning the stack of used vinyl he bought at an auction.
Daddy liked the same crap grandpa listened to.
I wondered if my father sucked at bowling.
"Hey dad, they had these new speakers down at the store..."
He cut me off. He waved his arms in the air. He ranted about not needing power-hungry panel speakers and that he didn't need anything in his house from that hack, Carver.
He said that sending us brats to Hebrew school was eating up all of his disposable income.
He wanted a Linn table. He wanted a big room with a solid-core door and a lock.
He said that we should appreciate our Atari and leave him the fuck alone.
He was saving for this new thing called CDs. He said he heard a Yamaha CD player that sounded good.
He said that when he really had some coin saved, he'd buy one from McIntosh or Marantz.
"What about the Nahamichi?"
"It's N-A-K-A-M-I-C-H-I: NAKA, not NAHA!"
I wanted to cry. I would have cried but I had my eye on the NAHAMICHI. It played audio tapes. It flipped the tape at the end of the side and looked mean.
As mean as a three-headed Rodan. I took it when I left for college. I pawned it in a NE D.C. gun shop when I needed some protection back in the days of Maid Marion.
It backfired and almost took my hand off.
Digital audio invaded my house. Dad worked in radio. Dad brought home Stereo Review. Dad ran to store and bought a $1,500 Yamaha CD player.
Dad came home with every CD the store had in stock.
"This is going to be so much more fun than when I bought the JVC Vidstar."
We had the first VCR on the block. Dad said only suckers would spend one nickel on Beta. Dad bought younger brother two broadcast-quality Sony Beta units for thirty Gs in 2000.
The family sat down around stereo and listened to CD. Nobody moved.
Dad scowled at us like prisoners of war in Hanoi Hilton. Dad pointed at me and asked.
"Well, say something. You're the only one who seems to care about any of this stuff!"
"It's hurting my ears. It doesn't sound anything like a record."
Dad turned red. Dad made a fist. Dad punched a wall so hard plaster fell from ceiling.
Dad needed to see a psychiatrist.
"Bullshit!! It's PERFECT SOUND FOREVER!"
Mother shielded all four children. We awaited both barrels of the shotgun that would take us from this insanity.
But Dad disconnected system. Dad put the CD player on sofa. Dad grabbed me by the collar and pointed to his beloved audio system.
Dad blamed our lack of hearing prowess on the obvious limitations of his current system.
"Whatever you can carry up to the third floor is yours."
My siblings were too scared to understand the implications of such irrational madness.
I grabbed the Marantz and declared the Celestion speakers part of the Golan Heights. Annexed.
The siblings looked at me and finally knew that I was crazy.
Mother cried. Mother thought the dark side had finally won me over.
Took me two hours to schlep six components up three flights of stairs.
Took less than thirty minutes to get my system running perfectly. Just in time for the Super Bowl and Dr. Dimento.
Listened to KU Alumnus John Riggins break the Dolphins Dee and carry the Redskins to glory.
Made a cool $11 in Hebrew school pool that year.
Crashed listening to Kinko the Clown singing about getting sent to the joint for taking pictures with Jimmy Johnson.
No relation to the Jimmy Johnson.
Mother screamed at breakfast that I was spending too much time in the room.
Father said I was having fun with stereo. Father brought me home a pair of professional cans from the radio station.
Mother called it anti-social behavior.
Mother cried into phone with yenta friends that I was upstairs becoming a faygele.
Friends told her to divorce father and get the stereo in property settlement.
My parents never got divorced. They still regret giving me the stereo. Listening to the radio and music quickly became obsession.
I rolled coins and pushed snow back onto driveways that had already been plowed in the dead of night.
"Shovel your driveway for $5 sir?"
"Well, if the guy I am paying doesn't show by 8:30, you got a deal."
Made sure not to pull that scam in the same neighborhood twice. Had read Heraclitus after all.
Dropped a cold $75,000 between then and now on new and used systems.
Traveled the globe. Flipped through record bins in the Marais, London and Jerusalem.
Had a stack of primo black gold turn to mud thanks to the burning bush.
Bus driver frisked each passenger personally. Frisked female soldiers twice. He reeked of cigarettes and Turkish coffee.
Records went below. I pleaded. He smiled and told me to sit before he left me in Gaza.
$180 worth of LPs. Negev hit 120 Fahrenheit. Camels fainted. Mick, Eric, Pete and Ferry boiled.
I hung around Eilat. I spent 300 NIS on water listening to a jazz festival.
A female soldier swayed. We danced real close. Coltrane sounded surreal while gazing at Aqaba.
Doug S. and I flew Alitalia. Peasantry drank like fish and ogled the skirts.
Viva Italia!
Milan stunk like a sweatshop. Pollution made everything look dirty and grey.
Hotel was in the middle of nowhere.
I schvitzed. I swayed. I walked through a crack den looking for ice-cold bottle of Chinotto.
Press whores kissed up to Dan D.
Ken K. hocked overpriced watches to drunken Italians and sweaty Germans.
Italian beauties manned four rooms. Peter Q. and Peter S. had cool systems. Peter S. was spinning vinyl for 35Gs.
Peter Q. was paying for hard drinks. Peter Q. spun Eyes Wide Shut at two in the morning while whores paraded through the lobby.
Notes exploded in the air and decayed with remarkable accuracy.
Room energized like when Jack the K. used to speak to crowds back in 1963. Before Dallas.
Nothing happened in Dallas.
I shook, I swayed. Rock steadied me. "Welcome to the club, my friend."
Vegas broiled. Vegas sizzled. I stood in line at the In/Out. Pimple-faced teen cut potatoes and pushed through the press. Double-double sizzled. Double-double went down easy.
I cruised the halls of the Alexis Park. Ken K. was hocking overpriced watches and pens shaped like EL84s to drunken Japanese.
Manufacturers were pumping hard. Business was slow. I ducked into room "x" hosted by Mr. “UPS broke my stuff again" V.
Guy rambled. Guy made some poor schmuck who was enjoying himself get out of his seat so that I could have the sweet spot. Guy went on about their new drivers in his speaker this year.
"The technology is so new, we can't even tell you where it is made."
I handed a CD over to the guy. He looked down at the label.
He started to schvitz. He shifted his feet as he made his way over to the CD player.
"Any particular track?"
"Four."
The drivers sounded shrill. The drivers needed hours. The system sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.
The guy grinned like a putz. As if we were watching his kid get a friggin' single playing T-ball with a bunch of girls.
The horns sounded like kazoos. The bass guitar sounded like a cello. The system had no soul, no life to it at all.
I smiled. I lied. I pumped the rep's hand.
"That was ... really something."
"Didn't I tell you?"
The guy was going to burst. He was going to plotz. He already had his new SUV picked out.
Reviewer X had them coming in a week.
The next "Speaker of the Year.”
This poor guy was one review away from the grave. What a total farce.
The ex-wife didn't dig on audio. She thought audiophiles were total losers. She didn't dig on electrostats, 300Bs and suspended decks with multiple arms, subwoofers or Kavi Alexander.
She bitched, she moaned, she said it all had to go.
Bye bye Duetto. Shabbat Shalom Sira. See ya later reQuests.
Be good to your new home BC6. Oh please don't leave me Orbe!
I schvitzed. I rode the elevator. I flirted with the girl serving me at the White Hen.
I made my moves. I bought and sold. I had little left to play with. I walked the aisles of the Jazz Record Mart in Chicago.
I cruised the bins at Joe's Record Paradise in Rockville. I hoarded what I could. I sold shares. I stashed Otis, Sam, Elvis, Bela, Ornette and Frisell.
Music was the key. I convinced myself that it would all work itself out in the end.
I would climb the heights again and have thousands of musical jewels to savor. I rented a locker.
Moved LPs in the dead of night.
Gorged on Peruvian pollo and Cuban rice and beans as I flipped through thousands of records.
Fixated on my lists. I bought and sold. I traded. I maxed out my credit card.
Had to sell my soul. I left her stuff. I sold the rest to pay the bills and divorce lawyers soon after.
I found myself. I started fresh with a pair of Abbys and Spendor SP2/3s.
Retubed Don's Fi X with mesh plates.
I discovered my old Audio Analogue Puccini in a box in my parent's basement. I mixed and matched.
I listened nearfield. I worked my ass off. I craved a pair of bigger horns. IM-Bens with much love from Terry C. and Jimi.
I drooled sunburst. I ate myself into a coma to hide my pain. I gorged on hot veals and multiple Chinottos in one sitting.
My empty soul needed nourishment. Then I tripped over my own feet crossing the street.
A shot of pain exploded through my arm. My back tore and kidneys exploded.
I punched the bed as they pumped electrolytes and pain medication through my veins.
I was a vampire. I was thirty pounds over the legal limit. I needed a musical fix to get me moving again.
A man called. The man wanted to discuss putting a home theater into his home. The man wanted high-end audio on every floor. The man had a lot of coin. A lot.
I schvitzed. I researched. I regrouped. I came up with a plan. I installed. I crawled across 150 feet of attic space in a space suit. I dropped thirty pounds of water.
I ran. I lifted. I ate bran and soy until my body shuddered. I watched Yojimbo.
I called Tiger Shulman. I started Karate. I almost died from the first class. I shed pounds.
I dropped 25 pounds. I became a lean, mean kosher eating machine. I could lift Watt/Puppy 7s with one hand. I could bend JPS cables around my wrists.
I took a trip. I got lost. I saw her eating. We looked at one another. I bumped my head and fell down in the street.
She rescued me and made me soup.
I wired an entire house. My house. She pulled wire as I crawled through our attic and cut beautiful holes in the walls. I painted NHT's Tiffany blue. We had a custom cabinet built to house the new living room system. Spendor monitors driven by Naim. Graham Slee and an old Systemdek IIX that I refurbished.
Terry's giant horns flank my desk. Don's beautiful X is the conduit. Apple and Audio Note have replaced the single CD. 2,000 CDs fully loaded.
Gordon sold me his used Nott Interspace. The Benz H2 that I swallowed before the lawyers could get it magically reappeared.
The little one loves to poke her finger inside Terry's horns. She digs on Michael Boobleeay. I have time to make her hate him.
All we need now is a dog. And a new record brush. Perhaps two.