In the thrift shop, I stumbled upon a bin of old 33 1/3
records, dusty, dog eared covers with faded pictures with faded memories. Most
of the artists I recognized, but some I had no clue to who they were. Where did
these albums come from? Who owned them? Some forty, fifty, or more years old. I
wonder what stories they could tell. Did they play at anniversaries, sweet 16
or birthday parties. I bet they had some great stories to tell. They once were
wanted, but not anymore. Now they’re obsolete, vinyl dinosaurs in a new age
world, forgotten by technology and the changing tastes of the music listening
public, and the parade of life has left them at the curb. I look at them and
they look back at me with sadness. Change isn’t always pretty.
