Vinyl

Last year, I somehow got into vinyl, which is odd because I don’t really like music that much.

I still don’t really like music that much, especially since I don’t understand the lyrics of most English songs anyway. Half the time, I’m just nodding along, pretending. Carlyn, on the other hand, somehow knows the lyrics to every song. We're quite the couple that way.

But I like jazz.
And I sort of like chill, electronic-sounding music.
And Corbin got me into Charlie Crockett, which feels important to mention—though I mostly listen to him while driving in the mountains. Crockett, not Corbin.

But vinyl is cool.

And collecting vinyl is clearly a slippery slope.

The other day, I was at my favorite record store and noticed the same record priced three different ways. I asked why. Apparently, it comes down to condition (both the record and the sleeve) and which edition you’re holding.

Naturally, I bought the slightly more expensive one. Mostly because it was only slightly more expensive. And because my favorite record guy told me it was a “great investment.”

While walking home, I had to remind myself that records are not investments. That line of thinking is dangerous for someone like me and usually ends with spreadsheets and regret.

I do, in fact, have a spreadsheet.

Ugh.

What I actually enjoy is the ritual.

Putting on a record.
Making a cup of tea.
Or grabbing an NA beer.
Or a bourbon, just not early in the year, when I still have aspirations and good intentions.

I don’t want a vast collection. Maybe 50-100 records. Ones I actually enjoy and might play more than once. I used to say 50, by the way, but I somehow blew past that pretty quickly.

It’s been fun workshopping this with my favorite record guy.
And with ChatGPT.
Not a joke.

And honestly, collecting records feels healthier than collecting cigars.
Or bourbon.

I think.

For now, I’m choosing to believe this is still under control.