Emptiness is godliness through the Law of Syllogism?

I was twelve years old and dying at the same rate that I am now--one day at a time--though the money and the maidens didn't matter then, or at least didn't play as noticeable a role. Cash received in Christmas cards and other tax-exempt sources was thoughtlessly squandered on whatever tickled my fancy right out of my nylon and velcro wallet. One such investment was "The Aeroplane Flies High, Turns Left, Looks Right" or a similarly pompous title conjured by the conveniently tortured mind of Billy Corgan: lead guitarist, lead singer, founder and CEO of 90s-rock alternagroup The Smashing Pumpkins. (To what the genre was a self-proclaimed "alternative" I'm still not sure. The stuff hit you as often as a middle-schooler's cheap cologne.) His feminine whine assaulted the airwaves for almost ten years of viable commercial success. One of the band's many logos, a small heart with the letters "SP" brilliantly incorporated into its center, soils my left bicep to this day in the form of my third tattoo. And unsurprisingly, since my first favorite band happened to fall into my lap at a time before the existence of rent or car payments, much CD-binder real estate is occupied by said group.

My first musical purchase had come in the form of the CD single of "1979", a minor lie of a radio hit released in the year 1996. That disc still sits in its case on one of my shelves to this day, the four original band members walking out of a roller-rink in some sort of drugged-up stupor, pastel make-up and silk and leather attacking the dizzy lens. I listened to the six songs on that disc until they became a part of my heartbeat. It wasn't a matter of "playing them out" as can happen when something is listened to too frequently; I simply didn't hear it anymore. Everything was alright if I heard Billy's tinny pleas. The songs became home, the status quo soundtrack to my life in homeostasis.

But home too becomes tiresome for most. After several months of repeated play I decided to move on to bigger and better through acquiring the entire album. This proved difficult, since the confused Wal Mart employee had never heard of "Melancholy and Infinity Sadness", partially because it didn't exist. My mother tried to aid in the search, but her role as liaison was limited due to the error on my part to give the correct title. Alas, the internet had yet to be invented (and not by Al Gore, despite what he'd have you believe). A few more desperate attempts at conveying the correct title to the slightly subhuman employee of Satan led to a positive response from the almighty computer: "Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness", a double-disc to my delight, was out of stock but could be ordered for the mere price of $23.99, which I gladly forked over to the boy in blue. A week later and it was in my hands, in my room, in my ears and the ears of my mother and pet rabbit, neither of which had much say in the matter. More and more singles kept being released off the record, more and more music videos were made, and each time I felt like an old friend was succeeding. Billy and I would conquer the world, so long as I and millions like me kept buying posters, pins, patches, shirts, and compact discs bearing the name of his creative baby. There must be a specific date for when Rock-n-Roll was reduced to Capitalism in purest form, but musical historians will have to duke that one out on their own time and dimes.

It came as no surprise that I sought out the ultimate in geek-level fan merchandise: a six-disc box set--complete with 124-page booklet of lyrics, liner notes, and general egocentric babble--of the band's six singles off "Mellon Collie". Sure, it cost between fifty and sixty dollars and I already had one-third of the songs in my possession (the six singles from the record, plus the B-sides from the aforementioned "1979" CD), but could a pricetag truly be placed on fanhood and dedication? Yes, folks--you've come to the right assumption: music collection was one of my earliest forms of obsessive compulsive behavior, though not my first. A fixation with even numbers (Freud might say as an attempt to bring fairness to an unfair environment) and repetition to achieve them to achieve them came at an earlier date, but I won't bore bore bore bore you with that.

My mother's Sears-bought stereo could not be accessed fast enough. I sprang into the condo and loaded its six-disc changer with the entire overzealous collection, then plopped myself down on the beige rug in front of it, watching the digital seconds and tracks tick by in orange block lettering. By the end of the musical marathon I was sprawled out on my stomach and barely able to keep my eyes open. It seemed as though one song, the last one in line, had been playing forever without making much sense. I came out of my quasi-coma and glanced up at the time display indicator. The track had been playing for forty-three minutes and counting! Thumbing through the pounds of paperwork provided in the package led me to the name of the "song" in question: "The Pistachio Medley". Upon closer investigation I realized what I'd been unfairly subjected to. The entire track was simply a string of totally unrelated riffs and snippets that'd been taped in the brainstorming process for the album's composition, most of which consisted of heavily overdriven guitars poorly recorded. Not one word came from Mr. Corgan's mouth. Not even a bassline could be heard. It was simply a guitarist or two jamming with a drummer for ten seconds at a time, only to be copied and pasted between two totally different pieces of metallic trash. It was a vain man's display of true power, a sad way to take advantage of an impressionable young mind. I hit the power button and stormed up to my room. If I hadn't paid eight dollars for each of them those two posters would've been instantly ripped down. Billy Corgan had cheated me. Later lackluster releases over the course of the following eight years would prove that it wouldn't be the last time. But what's that they say? You never forget your first?

For nostalgia's sake I popped the telltale CD into my truck's stereo last week and forgot about it. When that disc finally came on last night I turned it up and rolled the window's down on Eighty-Seven since no one could hear me anyway. But that last song, that piss-poor "Pistachio Medley" hit my ears like a ton of ancient aural bricks, so I stopped playing air drums at eighty miles-an-hour to do the only appropriate thing: I pictured myself and my first taste of disillusionment there on that plush carpet and laughed.