Last night, after shopping at North Street Records in Normal, we had dinner with Marty and Danielle. Cristy explained to them that she was a “cheapskate” when it came to buying music. Which left hanging in the air the implication that became my confession: “I tend more to be, in Freudian terms, a bit anal-expulsive.”
I lived in Rosmarie and Keith Waldrop’s house for a year. They’ve got some books and CDs and records. When I asked Keith the naive, studently question what his theory was on book collecting, he shrugged. He said: “I don’t have a theory. It’s just that, where ever I stand, piles of books seem to grow around me.”
I subscribe to apocalypse thinking. I believe that I may end up being the last person alive, who inherits the responsibility for curating human coolness (or at least English-language coolness): rock and roll’s steward who must ensure that when the cats rise to claim the planet, they will learn guitar.
When the aliens land, and say TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER, I’ll be standing in my living room, with a foot of white beard, holding up a copy of Hopscotch, raving: “You got to read this book, man! … Here: listen to the Kinks!”
WE HAVE COME TO TAKE ALL OF YOUR PLANET’S WATER.
“Water? Wow. I don’t even know that band, man.”