The Sticker Shoebox
If there's one under your bed, that's probably why you're a subscriber
I’m sure there is more useful advice I could pass along to my younger self, about love and money and the arc of becoming less of a piece of shit a little faster. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t, given the chance, pass along this poignant tidbit to a skinnier, drunker, stupider me wandering the lands of Web 1.0 and Zima:
Just put the stickers on shit. Don’t save them in a shoebox. What the fuck are you saving them for?
Every band, store, label, comedian, and microbrewery has a sticker; only the network of distribution changes over the decades. Some came from fellow no-hope local acts and touring brethren, others arrived in packages with promotional CDs and pitches for reviews and interviews. Still others were stacked diffidently next to cash registers at record stores, next to show flyers and free cassette singles from marketing companies half-assedly disguised as street-team pals (“hey, fellow teens! Want $2 off an Unloco CD at Sam Goody?”).
Sometimes you even bought one for money, chosen like a deli special from a numbered board behind the counter, and if the clerks hadn’t fucked up their organizational system beyond repair already, they could find the one you wanted, and you got a huge glossy Fear Factory or Insane Clown Posse logo to stick on your car.
Or put in that shoebox. After all, there’s hierarchy. Is a band you heard once on the Concrete Corner sampler worthy of placement on the chariot that sputters and rumbles and takes you to work sometimes? What if you get a better car next month? Or a skateboard? It could happen.
