I was at the Goodwill looking for just the right 33 vinyl records. As I sifted through the large collection of vinyl filled record jackets, many of them vintage, an older gentleman began to talk to me. He was one of those people that prefer a one-sided conversation, if you can even call it a conversation. He spoke to me, or rather; he spoke, with me in close proximity. He spoke of his vinyl collection, 10,000 records, all with special meaning. His better half wants to have a tag sale in the spring, to sell some of his collectables. He informed me, rather seriously, that he in fact would not be selling his 1967 Chavelle with 44,000 miles on it, all stock, mint condition. I am thinking it may be more important for him to inform his better half of this instead of me. Maybe he is practicing on me, building up the courage.
He pauses his monologue for a moment, as he seems confused about my approach for finding the vinyl I want. I interrupt his monologue with a brief brief. I share that I am looking for 33 records that are not too fragile and not too thick. I cook them in the oven on a pizza pan and shape them into unique bowls. He interrupts his monologue to comment on this. He shares his concern that I might destroy a true collectable, like an original Beetles album. I am thinking all albums must be true collectables to him, as he has 10,000 of them. Well, yes, in fact, my husband wondered about this aloud as my first vinyl pizza made its way into the oven.
The gentleman picks his monologue up where he left off. He talks about selling his Chavelle, the teens on his street asking him if he will ever sell it. This moves the monologue into a whole other direction about kids being lazy, always on their I-pads and I-pods, never outside playing. You know this drill. So, before me, I have vintage records, and in some ways, a vintage gentleman. No disrespect intended, so let me rephrase, a gentleman with a vintage perspective. Twenty vinyl records later, I politely shared I needed to go, and wished the gentleman a nice day.