Like a Fall

I am not a huge hip hop fan, generally speaking; however, the other day, I decided that I needed to buy Mr. West's newest effort. I went to the record store, bought Graduation, and, as I busily jotted down notes for the next day's test in the infamous Physics of the Human Body, gave it a listen. I was enjoying it to a degree, but something was missing. Gradually it dawned on me: I was not hearing nearly enough expletives.

I checked the cover of the album and, sure enough, it proudly displayed a Parental Advisory for Explicit Content; nevertheless, the record was clearly "clean." It was like listening to Hendrix with the guitars cut out. The discrepancy between the catalogue numbers on the disc and the packaging suggested some kind of mix-up.

The next day I returned to the record store and placed the defective product on the counter.

"What's the big idea?" I asked the girl in righteous fury. "There is no profanity on this album and there should be."

"That's weird," she said. "You can go get another one."

"Deal," I said, pleased as punch, and after a moment returned with another copy.

I opened it and saw that, once again, the catalogue number on the CD was not the number on the package.

I pointed this out.

"Let me grab a CD player and we'll listen to it."

A minute later we stood around a small CD player with her manager (an ugly, ugly woman) listening to "The Glory," waiting for the following lines:

Can I talk my _____ again?
Even if I don't hit again
Dog are you _____ kidding?

"This is unacceptable," I said, irritated and proud.

The manager and I went back to the rack. Her plan was to grab the oldest looking copy they had and, finding a good one (she placed great stock and comfort in the fact that the "CPU [was] slightly yellowed"), took it back to my friend behind the counter.

By this time, there was a line of people waiting to check out as well as another employee who had decided that his aid would be indispensable to the task of listening to filthy language (evidently we were "kickin' it, listenin' to Kanye" - this dude was even whiter than I am) congregating around the counter.

I was no longer feeling righteous, furious, irritated, or proud. I was actually beginning to feel ashamed. It was something akin to what I imagine it would be like to take back a pornographic magazine because there were missing pictures in it or something. It was embarrassing, and there was the nicest looking mom (she had to be a mom) that I had ever seen waiting first-in-line and, I imagined, looking a little disappointed (in me).

We opened the new copy and the girl put it in and pushed play. It seemed so loud.

Can I talk my shit again?
Even if I don't hit again
Dog are you fucking kidding?

I was so confused: I was relieved and anxious at the same time. The manager was saying something about how this situation was so much more preferable than the reverse: an angry mother yelling at her because the "clean" copy of an album she had bought for her son wasn't "clean" after all. I nervously glanced at the nice-looking mother in line. She was holding her items close, the third season of The Cosby Show most prominent among them.

I thanked the employees for their trouble and quickly walked toward the door.

Something had just happened there, and it felt like a fall.