Well, last night's checklist was a bust. I bought two new pairs of jeans, then walked over to the Borders to complete it all in one fell swoop. I knew something was up when I saw suspiciously empty DVD shelf space in four New Releases bins and the "K"s were literally wiped clean from Action/Adventure. My fears were confirmed by the ubercool and uberapologetic clerk: "Oh, hell, yes. We got those in this morning, and they were all gone by lunch. It was scary!" I shoulda guessed that in a town where Scarface is king, Kill Bill Vol. 1 didn't stand a chance. But then, DeAnn tells me to wait, so I must wait. So stock all the damn Kill Bills you want, you nasty Borders, because I'm not fingering Uma's exquisite form laid flat under plastic until it's adorned by the Special Edition band. I found solace, however, in a consolation grab of one of my favorites, The Sunshine Boys, with Walter Matthau, George Burns, and Richard Benjamin.

The Borders didn't have the new Tears For Fears either (OR the They Might Be Giants EP), but that's OK. I'm typing this blather to the tune of The New Pornographers, who kinda remind me of The Move ca. "Fire Brigade," but with digital equipment and without lines about "lesbian rage." But can the Pornos singe my mind with something as exquisite as "Blackberry Way"? It shall be seen.

And yes, Tears For Fears are freakin' old. But what y'all gotta remember is that I'm pretty old myself. Why, I remember when Andy Kaufman and John Belushi were still alive. I remember when Richard Pryor did stand-up comedy. I remember teenaged girls bringing Air Supply records to school. I can recollect most of the 1970s in random bursts of color, beginning with my father (then about 10 years younger than I am now) telling me that the nasal "Hi" uttered at the crackling outset of The Beach Boys' "The Trader" (from the notorious Holland LP, my rather auspicious introduction to the Wilson Gang) came from a little boy who lived in the speakers. The 1980s I can remember in stoopid-dope clarity, especially the years 1985-1986, when a certain masterpiece by the name of Songs From The Big Chair kept my heart warm with new teenaged lub. I can't hear "Head Over Heels" without remembering Heather Bass absent-mindedly twirling a black lock of her hair while reading a magazine, a simple, innocent quirk that turned my brain into cotton candy. "Everybody Wants To Rule The World" finds me in Home Ec, enjoying the countdown to summer freedom. "Working Hour," "Shout," Listen," "Broken"--can't nail a dud. The duo of Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith followed a few years later, long after everyone'd approved their application for the One-Timers Club, with the brilliant Sowing The Seeds Of Love, then Curt left, and everything got fucked, then Roland left (though he dropped a decent solo record a couple years ago), and the Tears and Fears and everything that was once good and pure trickled through the openings of the pop-culture manhole and ran like tainted blood into VH1. Gone was the focus on their melodic sharpness and symphonic majesty, and--ah, fuck it. In any case, Curt is BACK, Tears For Fears are BACK, Heather Bass is probably twirling her hair somewhere, the new album is called Everybody Loves A Happy Ending, and I'm a sentimental old cuss with disposable cash. BRING IT!