They have always been a part of my life: I carted them back-and-forth from college, then across the country and back again, and more recently, from the house I once lived in to one apartment and onto another.
My old place just wasn't conducive to playing music, much less spinning records. I had some bitchy neighbors and it seemed like it was just best not to play any music at all at that place. If I did choose to, I usually laid on the floor and donned headphones.
When I moved this summer, I moved to a much, much smaller place. Which in turn placed my vinyl records right under my nose in the living room. They are now hard to avoid much less hard to not look at.
So now the sound of a needle popping has become a familiar one again.
And shortly thereafter, something magical happened: my girlfriend Sonnie and I discovered an old portable turntable in a dusty corner of her parents' basement.
So we broke it out and dug through the record collection there. We spun Sly Stone, Steely Dan and The Ventures during our stay.
When we left for the weekend, we left the turntable behind.
A month later we returned for a visit to find that lonely turntable staring at us. Once again we answered the call. Only this time we couldn't find it in our hearts to leave the sucker behind.
"Dad," she said. "Can I take mom's turntable?"
He gave an answer that reminded me of Sgt. Schultz on Hogan's Heroes.
So now she is in possession of this lovely little creature, and now after her kids have retired to their bedrooms, we spin records and chat.
Good times.
Good times indeed.
