Something the Boy Said

Moving about from SF to Tahoe to LA, then back to SF and then back to LA again - with storage units both official and unofficial in Sacramento and my hometown up north - I have stuff strewn about the better part of the state with little idea of exactly where anything is at any given moment.  I did empty out the storage unit in Sacramento recently - this being the 'official' one and not the one where, say, I store my bike, i.e. my brother's garage - and came back to SF jazzed to have been reunited with two large boxes of CD's.  At last!  Music!

Harrumph.

The boxes are full of CD cases.  It's as though a music fairy had gone through my entire collection, deemed that only so many of them did not suck, and then plucked the CD from the case, leaving only the scuffed carapace of a jewel case behind, for me to find, YEARS later so that I might open the case and scream in rage something like, WHY IS EVERY SINGLE LYLE LOVETT CD CASE EMPTY?!   

The Pantera albums a cousin gave me for Christmas one year and which remain in their original packaging - they're all here.  Weezer's excellent green album is missing, while Maladroit - a substandard Weezer offering - is here, thumbing its 2 star nose at me.  Pretenders' Learning to Crawl?  AWOL.  Pretenders' Last of the Independents?  Present and accounted for. 

I'm so frustrated.

I'm considering hoisting a boxful of empty CD cases out to the curb to watch as passersby - by which I mean members of SF's hobo class - come by and thumb through the jewel cases, at first elated - 'hey, it's Moby's 'Play'!'*** - and then disappointed as they see the case is as empty as my dear, dark heart (incidentally, the name of a Holly Cole album which I actually DO have).    

***I also want to note that this is an eclectic mix of empty cases. Not into Moby?  There's Carol King's seminal 'Tapestry.'  Folk not your funk?  How about some Fugazi?  Some Rage Against the Machine?  No?  Then you must love some Liz Phair and her Exile in Guyville...  I am beyond bummed. 

Saving grace is that Jeff Buckley's Live in Sine somehow managed to make it through to the other side, but unfortunately did so along with that paean to self-indulgent, twat-twisting, twee mandolin playing - I give you the source of today's post title: Ten Summoners' Tales by STING.  STING!   What sort of Windham Hill-listening, drunk-on-estrogen moment made that purchase okay?  Ugh.