It was Record Store Day outside Hymie's Vintage Records on E. Lake Street (but not at the likker store next door where I think it was Pucker Day) giving young people the opportunity to blister their fingertips flipping through bin after bin of vinyl looking for the Stones' Sticky Fingers album on which the functional zipper was indeed still functional. Unfortunately, the outdoor environment cannot allow an accurate recreation of the toxic record store funk -- a miasma of smoke (absolutely anything that could be rolled was set on fire and inhaled), sweat, teen angst, dirt that predated Buddy Holly and patchouli which was meant to cover it all up but instead acted as a binding and thickening agent so that the parfum de head shop stuck to your clothes and skin and nose hairs and sinuses pretty much for the rest of your life. So that's kind of an important element that was missing from this experience.
This hep cat (undoubtedly a Libra) amped up his look with a super groovy Peter Max-esque caftan and a truckload of irony, what with the jacket and all. Did I say caftan? You bet I did, because inside the jacket, the loose flowing sleeves of said caftan with mind-blowing ball fringe were peacefully resisting fitting inside the uptight confines of the armholes of the establishment. He thinks he may have gotten this love-in at a thrift store in California. Or something. He's a lot surer he's in a band, a band with no cards, a band with the name Cat in it. Like FogCat (a-thank you, you're too kind). Or CatrWall. Err, I dunno. Maybe one of us smoked some acrylic earmuffs by mistake. He was supposed to email me with the name so I could give proper credit but I guess he is a great big psychedelic liar. So, a Gemini then.
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