An open letter to my ol’ bong buddies at Darla Records Mailorder

Dear Dudes,

Salutations and felicitations from N. Cal. Sending only the choicest of vibes to my pals nigh unto Oceanside. I hope you’re getting some time away from the distribution grind this weekend to hop some mackable swells?

Gotta say, you and me been through some seriously tribulational life experience in this biz we call music, right? And you’re still at it. That, alone, earns you some legit props from me and my ilk. Color me erstwhile, but I totally value the oppo to urge you to keep on flying the flag, o my brothers and sisters.

Oh, and while I got you here — I wanted to know if you could, like, y’know, do me a solid?

Got some sides from you today, for which I am, ordinarily, most stoked. As you are more than aware, you’re the sole US connection for Crepuscule, Les Temps Modernes, and Factory Benelux, three of my favorite import labels. I think we can both agree that overseas shipping costs sucketh majorly, and having stuff show up in one piece is a better bet from a US address.

So what I guess I’m saying is the mailorder wonk in me honors the mailorder wonk in you. That sort of thing.

I was, however, a tad bummed this pm when I opened your cardboard LP mailer (see photos) and found you’d stuffed it with, well… trash. We both been doing that mailorder thing for decades now, and you and I know that crumpled-up paper doth not constitute effective packaging, especially when Cali’s seeing temps in the mid- to high-80s. Great surfing weather, yeah, but it’s hell on vinyl, especially when the discs aren’t adequately el securedo en el boxo.

Luckily, Kate grabbed the box from the hands of the postal employee before it could sit on our front porch — southwest exposure, since you asked — yet one more reason why I love the lass.

Just glad I forked over the $9.45 for priority. I mean, media mail would’ve had this chestnut bouncing around hot postal vehicles for at least twice as long, and the precious object might’ve showed up a limp biscuit of forlorn former-playability. And nobody wants that, right? You don’t have to answer, man; I feel you grokking me.

Anyway. I got a line on 12.5-inch square cardboard flats that my brethren on Discogs seem to dig, and are willing to shell out extra for. Three or four of those cradling the Durutti Column relic would’ve shut me up pronto. I can connect you direct to the source; just say the word.

Hoping this doesn’t derail your stoke this fine weekend, but I figured that some direct wordage among brahs is always worth its weight in vibe.

We good?

Groovy. See you at the beach.


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