Amoeba Records. A Friday. Evening. In search of that James Murphy Fabric Live disc. Lost in a sea of Fabric Live collections. The Cut Copy mix is grabbing my eye. I am more than familiar with it. My girl T-money put me up on that shit a long time ago. I’m just grabbing, reading, scanning the tracks, refreshing my memory and reveling in the good times that are now associated with the disc. All of a sudden I feel a warm presence behind my back damn near breathing on my neck. No sweat. I’ll move out the way. This is a record store after all. Fffing Amoeba. Carousing a section someone else wants to browse as well is expected, except this cat doesn’t want what the Fabric Live section is selling. He wants to simply get my attention, and say : "Aww man. That Cut Copy mix is the best one. No doubt," to which I replied [without turning around completely], "yeah I know , isn’t it?" But it’s a waste of breath for when I finish my reply and turn around, said Cut Copy enthusiast is gone. Vanished. Off. Like a thief in the night. As if his sole purpose that night was to go to Amoeba, [briefly] wax poetic about Cut Copy, and bounce. I couldn’t help but think of him and this situation when I read this :
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