I've only done it twice.
Once, two years ago, during my first stint at Green Noise Records. It was early spring and I was ringing up another regular customer, a young man with short blond hair and rectangular eyeglasses. He came into the store a couple times a month and only bought vinyl. We never introduced ourselves because there's a threshold of time where we could have done that and awkwardly avoided it.
As I swiped his credit card through the slot, an idea sprung into my big boxy head. I surreptitiously made a mental note of the dude's name.
The second he set foot out of the store, I MySpace'd him. (Yeah, I used it as a verb. Don't pretend like you don't either.) Turned out he was in a loving relationship with a girl who was not me and I moved on. Until yesterday.
Another regular, with longer shaggy hair, brought two 45s to the counter. His card was approved, he signed the slip, I slid it into the cash drawer and read his name. I logged onto MySpace, but he was not to be found.
Maybe I should just try talking to him. There's an idea.
I wonder how long it'll be before our local news station does an expose on a new type of identity theft.
Tonight at ten.
You just wanted to buy that Compulsive Gambler's Live LP, but what you didn't expect was that someone was going to MySpace you. Stay tuned to learn about the latest threat to your e-life as record store clerks log on to check you out.
And more about Lindsay Lohan's cooter.
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