"Did ya hear?" Mike Jeffers spoke to me outside his practice space in the basement of Discovery records, puffing on a cigarette. On the wall behind him is a picture of a man who looks somewhat like a caricature of George Carlin naked. His penis is, proportionally, 34 inches long and is dripping with love mayonnaise.

The underbelly of Discovery records, the mainstay Tonawanda record store, is something special. Graffiti is scrawled everywhere. All the graffiti is of penises or penis related. The manager tried to paint over the graffiti with yellow and red paint, so it looked like a McDonald's from Newark. There were boxes of lyric sheets and porn, mostly foreign, near the shelves by "The Control's" practice space ("Gay Choir Practice" and a man bent over receiving a cookie in his rectum are scrawled on this door).

Anyways, I was talking to Mike before practice with his metal band. "Did ya hear? Discovery Records closed today!"

"What? No shit! Why?" I asked.

"I don't know!" Mike responded.

A couple of days later I drove up to 45 Main Street in the city of Tonawanda. Antique furniture and home furnishings were in the display window. The posters were gone. It was a little gratifying to see that the new tenants had trouble hiding all the life that the store once had: some of the stickers bore tattered white edges in someone's futile attempt to remove them. There was no explanatory sign or apology. It was as though Discovery had been kidnapped.

The music community was startled. Not so much that the records store closed, but the manner by which it did. Nobody heard anything from Earl Roeneker, the owner, 1988. There was no rumor beforehand. There was no sentiment of distress that the store was doing poorly or in threat of going under. There was no sale or punk rock records blowout. What about a benefit gala, or telethon (a la UHF), or concert? The bands could have, would have done that. Hell, the basement below Discovery was probably the only reasonable place for ambitious local bands to practice. Snapcase used to rock in the first room years earlier. They surely would have extended their hand in support for Discovery.

Eric Ellman, the ex-manager, demystified some of the riddles for me. "The antique store (next to Discovery) did swoop down with a bag full of money, making Discovery disappear." And that's that. Earl just didn't want to do it anymore. "Plenty of people bought shit there. The store was making a modest amount of money, for a d.i.y. Record shop anyhow."

I want to say something like "Don't forget Discovery" or "Discovery lives on in fond memories and strong hearts" as if a politician just died and a sappy slogan is appropriate. But I won't, because nobody would listen. There's no need for drama where drama does not exist. The bitter disappointment of the situation seeps in fully realizing the legendary store's anti-climax. It's a vague feeling of anger and defeat; too helpless and/or unmotivated to do anything about it. It's the story of Buffalo, New York's fucking life.