Congratulations! You've Killed Your Fucking Business!
One doesn't have to be well connected these days to hear accusations that the music industry is dying. Gene Simmons has recently proclaimed rock to be truly dead due to illegal downloading and the evils of digital music. While one can't deny that the computer age is changing the way that we get our entertainment, I wouldn't liken it to killing music. And it's not only music that is changing, but movies and books as well. Some claim that books will no longer be produced in the next 20 years. Frankly, I couldn't really give a fuck, nor do I think that books or vinyl will ever really go out of style. Rather, it's the way that we choose to procure such items that has and will continue to change.
There are two stores in my area that played a very strong role in my cultural upbringing which no longer exist, and for good reason. One was a music store, and the other a chain bookstore. Amazon.com has both made them obsolete, but I'd like to think that I had a little part in their demise.
Let's start with the music store. Rewind back at least 23 years ago, when I got my first job and discovered music and girls. Lacking a vehicle to ferry females to restaurants, I wasn't blowing money on chicks yet, and my parents were always good about getting my 10 speed repaired, so all my money went to music, and later, to books.
The store had a pretty meager selection, but somehow managed to have at least a pair of Ice-T and Slayer albums in stock, both on cassette and CD. Parental advisories, outrageous cover art, and shocking song titles never kept the owner from shunning it from his clientele, because he probably understood that people bought this stuff and if people bought this stuff, his business would continue to grow and prosper. Even better was the fact that the store would order anything you requested, and trim off a bit of the price to boot. I usually only had to wait a week for it to arrive, except for the one time I waited a whole summer for Savatage's Fight for the Rock to show up.
All was good for about three years. On average, I was spending $20 a week at this guy's store, sometimes $50. I ordered a lot of naughty, naughty stuff that my poor mother or father had to collect and bring home to me, as I was a teenager and loved anything extreme. Hypocrisy's Osculum Obscenum. Body Count's self-titled album (with the hugely controversial song "Cop Killer."). The Lords of Acid's Voodoo-U. Morbid Angel's Blessed are the Sick. Look these albums up, look at their cover art and song titles, and you'll be surprised that my mild mannered parents never had a heart attack.
One day, my father was summoned by the owner of the record store because he was "concerned about something that little Nicky ordered." It was a compilation called Death is Just the Beginning Volume 3 (I had received Volume 2 from the music store a month earlier). No naughty song titles, no naked ladies, no pentagrams. It was a sticker that advertised this album as "the ultimate death metal compilation." Maybe it was the fact that it was January, and this fuckstick had nothing to do but peruse the stuff his customers were buying, but that little courtesy call cost him dearly.
My father came over there on his lunch break, and was irritated to find that it was nothing serious compared to all the other obscene shit I had been buying. And mind you, I was a 16 year old kid, driving around in a rattletrap car and fornicating my Swedish girlfriend on a regular basis. Dad had bigger things to worry about, such as me siring a child or plunging my car into a ditch, so the music store's owner was left un-thanked for his valiant effort to safeguard the island community's youth from death metal.
Death Is Just The Beginning 3's cover. oh, the horror!
Incensed, I stopped buying from the store. I didn't even pick up the other CDs I had special ordered along with Death is Just the Beginning 3, so the owner probably had to eat the cost of those. I still bought Death is Just the Beginning 3 through mail order, which was cheaper, but more cumbersome, because I had to go get a money order at the post office and wait a bit longer for the item to arrive. But it was worth it not to have to deal with the music store guy.
The bookstore was a similar situation. One fine day, after recently celebrating my 18th birthday, I stopped in to exercise my right to buy pornography. I grabbed a Penthouse and Hustler, and just for good measure, a copy of the Satanic Bible.* Why? I'd like to tell you that I planned on using it to scare people or something like that, but I think I was going to buy it just for shits and giggles.
The cashier, a local girl, nearly had a stroke when she saw the assortment of goodies I wanted to buy.
"Why do you want to buy this?" she practically screeched, holding the Satanic Bible between thumb and forefinger, as if it were some venomous reptile.
"That's none of your business," I replied.
"Oh my gawd, you can't, this is the Satanic Bible!" she growled.
She was ignoring the fact that I was an 18 year old, living in the United States of America, not some child in a backwards theocracy. Besides, this chain store was selling the goddamn thing, and I was more than willing to plop down $4.99 plus sales tax to buy it. Her role as enforcer of morality was irrelevant, and seeing as how there were two other people in the line behind me looking at the scene, I felt embarrassed. What if I were a true deviant, buying Cat Fancier magazine? These people, my friends and neighbours, would have known my dark secrets!
In such a position, it is necessary to not escalate the situation. I could have argued, but instead, I did what seemed best: I just walked out. Hopefully she felt really dirty, handling porno and the Satanic Bible. Maybe she began visiting her priest to cleanse her aura or blamed her stubbed toe on the fact she handled unclean literature. Whatever happened, I can only hope it was as unpleasant as the service she offered me. Awful wench.
The consequence was that I started using Barnes and Noble to buy books. No longer would I have to suffer the lingering eyes of judgmental prudes as I procured my entertainment. Over the years, mail order, and later the internet, have become a cheaper and far more convenient option, crushing small businesses like those I mentioned.
But these two had it coming. Any freedom loving American should despise morality enforcers who take it upon themselves to safeguard us from hurting ourselves. I loathed Tipper Gore and her sewing club turned musical experts (aka: the PMRC) back in the 90's for their campaign against naughty music, not because I felt she was imposing on the artists freedom of speech, or that she was criticizing artists I liked, but because I couldn't imagine that some overweight housewives in Washington D.C. could do a better job than my parents in deciding what was good for me.
In withdrawing my patronage of the music store, the owner lost hundreds, if not thousands of dollars of business. His demise was inevitable with the advent of the digital age, but I would have probably continued buying from him simply because I did enjoy perusing his store to the bitter end. I'm sure the bookstore, being a chain, suffered negligible damage, but just being mistreated by that lass forced me to become more independent.
*It should be noted that the Satanic Bible is not some grimoire bound in human flesh from Evil Dead. It's some pop-market pseudo-philosophy that is no more shocking or dangerous than Marilyn Manson or Madonna. You cannot summon demons with it, you cannot cast spells with it, hell, you can't even find a fucking recipe for banana cream pie in it. It's useless, apart from causing impressionable dickwads to piss their pants in fear.
