Tight Like That

Discovering Americas filthy little (recorded) secret

But I digress: Napster wound up making a record junkie out of me once more. I relapsed like Robert Downey Jr. in a hotel room with Courtney Love. In the past month alone, I've dropped about $1,500 on 78s and the aforementioned Victrola, which I love so tenderly that I've been known to hump the machine when inspired by the right mix of great music and liquid libation. This would all be well and good were I not a writer living paycheck to paycheck. Bills go unpaid. The dog eats generic food. They're threatening to turn off the cable, which would mean no more Tony Soprano, Sugar Shane Mosley or Bart Simpson, all of whom I love as much as Tampa Red, Peg Leg Howell or even Frankie "Half-Pint" Jaxon (a gay, transvestite blues singer from the early 1920s who warrants a separate study on his own). Once I passed the $1,000 mark, I vowed it had to end—the eBay bidding wars, spending all my spare time combing antique and thrift stores, pestering friends about the possibility that a box of 78s might be moldering in the garage of the house they inherited when Aunt Ludella died back in 1987—but I haven't been able to stop. I'm like a little boy who just discovered his penis: I can't leave it alone. The other night, so overcome by emotion while listening to a Ukulele Ike 78, I cried like a little girl. I'm a man possessed and obsessed, but I'll be dipped in dog doo if I'm not loving every sweet minute of it. Someone, please help me. I'm a very sick little monkey.

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