Ilove all-nighters.

I love that I get so desperate for a distraction that I’ll read everything Pandora.com has to say about The Pink Spiders. I love that, the night I wrote my capstone paper for INTL 190, I reviewed most of the new Scorpions album on my Twitter.

But other than all-nighters, I spend about 90 percent of my time listening to the same stuff. Back in high school, I scratched the shit out of my sister’s copy of Meteora by playing it on infinite repeat. I like to stay in my little musical nest, all comfy and familiar.

Of course, as associate editor of the Guardian’s Hiatus section, I’m supposed to be a music expert — little bit of a problem there. So, on Saturday, I went to a few album emporiums armed with $40. The initial idea was to experience Record Store Day — which celebrates indie music stores with cookouts, fat sales and limited-edition releases from Jack White — and write a column about it.

Or maybe I’d write about the shrinking group of people with a hard-on for vinyl records. When I arrived at my first stop, though, I found a couple of folding plastic tables, covered inch-for-inch in cardboard boxes of $1 CDs.

So much for that plan.

At 10:45 a.m., I snagged a parking spot just outside of Hillcrest, less than a block from M-Theory Music. Even that early, the cheapo CDs were already being picked over while “Evil Woman” played on a portable turntable. I took station between a couple other magpies, in front of what used to be the ‘F’-through-‘I’ section of someone’s CD collection.

The first grab was Faster Pussycat’s Whipped — for the simple reason that I recognized the name — followed quickly by Wilco and We Were Promised Jetpacks, for the same reason. Camarosmith goes into the buy pile for merely sounding ridiculous. Final score: six albums for $6.53, and the cashier even knocked the pennies off the price tag.

So what am I listening to in the wake of my victory, after making the great leap out of a familiar nest? Oasis’ (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?, from which you may have heard a little number called “Wonderwall.”

Yikes. Given I know the story of how the Gallaghers chose who would sing the title track by heart — and occasionally use its title as a pickup line — it’s hard to pretend I’m branching out. I’ve got a Da Bears CD still in its cellophane and a hot little LP of indie rock that’s never been spun before, both waiting patiently for me in my the back seat of my Corolla — but here I am, listening to the Gallagher twins.

My name is Matthew, and I have a problem.

So for you brigands ‘n’ bastards still reading this (all three of you), I’m throwing down the gauntlet. Give me shit on my Twitter (@off_the_rails) if I’m still jabbering about Oasis, or better yet, send me more primo tracks. I guarantee I’ll listen to anything sent to me.

Just remember, if you’re the asshole who sends me anything by Muse: No jury will convict me, and no K9 will find the pieces.