So I’m at the Canadian National Exhibition. Pre-teen years. The smell of trouble and those mini-donuts that float down the river of oil is in the air. And I yearn to be cool in a way that those girls who wear jean jackets with those feathers clipped onto them are attracted to, but before I discover smoking and underage drinking in parking lots.
Records. Records are cool and you say I can win one at that game of chance on the Midway? Take my money. Did I throw a dart? Turn over some floating duck? I don’t remember.
But I walk away with this – Poor Boys ‘Ain’t Nothin’ in Our Pocket But Love’. Fitting.
Possibly still unplayed – and no, Reader, I don’t know who they are either. But coveted in my small collection as if it were an Iggy Pop autographed Stooges album.