eatnorthamerica

Elton John keeps playing on the radio when I use the washroom at work. It’s been three for three in the last two days.

My mother had a collection of songs by Elton John, recorded by various other people who were sometimes better and sometimes worse than Elton John. I remember being ten, eleven, poring over the CD cover insert, wondering about the stories that went along with each song, and why Wilson Phillips did a better job of singing Daniel than Elton ever did.

I hardly ever buy CDs, now. I don’t have sleeve inserts to read and admire anymore. The days of fingering glossy paper like it meant something significant are lost, long gone, dearly departed. It’s too easy, just like everything is these days, which is why if you don’t make a substantial effort to be entertaining or entertained, you end up really bored. Danger, danger. We’re so cool. 

My friend, a neophyte record collector, just drove off to somewhere nowhere in BC to pick up 2,500 records, the sum total of a man’s life in music. Imagine that, trading the songs of a lifetime for a mere 200 dollars, a paltry amount, less than 10 cents a record — what makes a man do that? I wonder if the old fogey who sold them bought an iPod to replace the records you can’t even find catalogued on the internet — the internet, for chrissakes. Some of them date back to 1905. Think about it. That’s older than anyone I know. It gladdens my heart that there are still people who worship the outmoded, that there are people who journey hundreds of miles to collect a pile of records that some people happily sell for a dime. It’s either low junk or high art, or maybe a little bit of both, and perhaps the stories we all leave in marginalia — those are all we are, after we leave, and pass on.