Photo by Kristy Walker


I dig for records. 

Not so much in the more conventional way that may come to mind for most music fans. If readers are picturing a nonchalant stroll through Kobey’s Swap Meet at 9 a.m., long after the sun has made its debut, thumbing through a stack of vinyl at the tempo of a Morphine song, then let me assure them that this not the case. 

Not to romanticize it, but there are moments when I feel like an archeologist participating in the last gold rush on the frontiers of America. On my most recent score, I found myself hanging off scaffolding from a height that could have compromised my existence had things gone awry. I was stretching my arms like DC’s Plastic Man, flashlight in hand, trying my hardest to reach a box of records. I wondered for a second if this was how I’d die. At the moment I finally reached that box, I’d misstep and fall to my demise. With my last exhale, I would open the box to find out it held Loggins and Messina records, disappointment punctuating my life with a sour exclamation point. 

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