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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Friday, February 20   >>

DEAR GUITAR CENTER

Dear Guitar Center,

Listen, I go to your miserable excuse of a music store once every, hm, nine generations because you're a big box brick-and-mortar store with the mental capacity of, quite literally, a brick.

I went in with The Mixmaster the other night. We, rolling in the G's, were prepared to spend some serious cash on hardware and software in preparation for our album that we'd been working on since, oh, January of 2008.

And, no, we're not power chording our way through some half-assed attempt at a record. No, we don't even remotely look like your target demographic. We, unlike most of your customers, have taste, chord vocabulary and, at the least, a remote sense of style. We also know good customer service.

Which is why I'm writing to you retards: Not once, but twice we were ignored. And not for other customers, but for your employees' taking lunch orders down.

Because I have the temper of a fucking fruit fly, I left the scene to check out your collection of keyboards.

I'm sorry, but when did you become a distributor for Fisher Price merchandise? What's all this baby shit you've got going on? Oh, I'm sorry, should I speak louder since EVERYONE IN THIS DEMO ROOM THINKS THEY'RE J.R. ROTEM PLAYING ANNOYING LEAD PATCHES OVER MORE ANNOYING PRE-PROGRAMMED BEATS?

Listen, this is all I want from a goddamned music store:

1. Appointments -- You start scheduling appointments, then I could actually demo the software, hardware, and instruments without some 31-year-old hack filling the entire store up with sounds of a hip-hop pipe dream.

2. A sales staff that doesn't look like Avril Lavigne's fucking backup band -- Don't insult me with your employees' universal sense of mightiness. Just because they all took the time to destroy the first 8 bars to Stairway to Fucking Heaven doesn't mean they're musicians, or rock encyclopedias, or merit the right to treat me like I'm some schmo who wants to know what kind of strap I should buy. With your kind of staff, I'm surprised you don't sell black nailpolish and hair conditioner.

3. A sales staff that actually knows what they're selling -- When I say I want to demo all the boards with organ emulators, I don't want some 18-year-old fart looking at me and saying, "Um, lemme see what I can do for you." This should be a prerequisite.

4. A limit to customer capacity -- IT'S FUCKING LOUD IN HERE. NO, REALLY. IT'S FUCKING LOUD IN HERE.

5. Stop. Just stop. -- Stop with the "COME TO GUITAR CENTER, WE'RE HAVING A SECOND-DAY-OF-THE-WEEK-FOR-THE-THIRD-TIME-IN-A-MONTH BLOWOUT SALE!!! WE'RE SELLING 5 PAIRS OF MACKEY CABLES FOR THE COST OF ONE! AND IF YOU COME BEFORE NOON, WE'LL THROW IN 2 TAKAMINE ACOUSTIC GUITARS FOR FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. AND IF YOU'RE THE FIRST 50 CUSTOMERS, WE'LL HOOK YOU UP WITH 20 PAIRS OF FENDER BASS STRINGS WITH EVERY $250 PURCHASE!!!!!!!! IT'S OUR SECOND-DAY-OF-THE-WEEK-FOR-THE-THIRD-TIME-IN-A-MONTH BLOWOUT SALE!!!!!!!!!!! *EXPLOSIONS*" commercials. They suck balls.

By the way, I didn't buy anything from your store, and I refuse to ever enter in one ever again, you poseur fucks. Stop killing the music.

Regards,
Hugo

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I'm getting too old for this shit.