What’s shakin’, bongo players?

I had an ultra fun afternoon yesterday.

I went to a local record shop I’d been meaning to visit for a while, and it was a fabulous experience.

Is there any comparison between downloading music, and crate digging? None whatsoever. As I went through one bin after the other, looking at albums, I felt a serenity that’s hard to describe.

All was well with the world. Life was good.

When I was younger, I used to go to a place called The Record Runner. It was sublime. Aisles of records. You never knew what you might stubble across. Discoveries around every corner.

This was the case yesterday afternoon when I uncovered four New Wave gems.





And I’ll say it again: watching the album on the turntable, listening to the rich sound of vinyl… It’s so deeply satisfying and excellent.

These albums are beautifully in and of themselves. The covers. Holding them, gazing at them. Downloads can’t do this.

It’s like books. Some of my paperbacks, I’ve had since I was a teenager. The smell of the paper, the sound it makes when you turn the pages. The notes sometimes written here and there. How can eBooks come close? They can’t. My yellowing paperback is precious. It’s a treasure.

Coming home with my New Wave albums, I felt that maybe there’s still some hope left for this planet.

These past few years, I feel like I’ve been getting my life back in just about every conceivable way. This has been due to decisions I’ve made, major changes, and unexpected drastic events.

I feel like I’ve been making expeditions to my past and taking back everything that’s ever given me joy and comfort. I rescued it for myself. It’s like saying “This is mine, and you can’t threaten to take it away, you can’t sully these moments anymore. I am stealing my shit back. You can’t have it anymore. It was never yours. And you can’t harm me or those I love now. You can’t have my moments. I extract your poison from my life.”

Many of my toys symbolize moments of happiness with loved ones, moments that made it possible to get through and survive the rest. Moments like an island refuge. That’s why the haven where I display these objects is what I call my PTSD decompression chamber. Favorite music, books, pens and notebooks all come into play as well.

As the song goes, it’s my life, don’t you forget.

I live my life, my way.

Surf’s up.


tip the barman

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