my mom told me that when she was a kid in Cleveland, they'd fluoroscope your foot as you tried on new penny loafers so you could make sure the shoes fit your bones, which must've been cool to see your foot skeleton every time you bought a pair of Hush Puppies or PF Flyers, but X-ray radiation is bad for you even in the rust belt they figured out so we didn't have fluoroscopy at Meijer's Thrifty Acres or Okum Brothers Shoe Warehouse where the Winches bought their Converse hightop irregulars, but when I was kid back in Michigan, some garages did have boneyard burial-sized holes in the cement floor that you covered with a horizontal door made of planks of oak, and uncovered to crawl down there and work on the undercarriage of your chariot, or crack open cans and change your oil and if you didn't want to catch the oil in a pan, it would just sink into the earth.  And outside the garage, some houses were set up with cement silos where you could slot your Oscar-the-Grouch style garbage can (they hadn't yet thought of curbside recycling) and keep the cylinder tin cans underground and out of sight and yank them out on rubbage collection day.  Good times.  This album by the Retail Simps reminds me of all that.  -- winch