By John Gorman
M scrubs the floor with a wet t-shirt, eyes peeled for bedbugs. She’d been bitten all night and ignored my comment that she has sweet blood. She has zero tolerance for jerkiness and shoves aside my pile of record albums and grabs the Windex. She squirts a spiral galaxy into the chafed pine floor then balls up the t-shirt and punches into every sneaky crevice.
“Dump some of this crap,” she says.
I pick up a handful of albums and shuffle through them. Aerosmith, The Eagles, Cannonball Adderley, and stop at Thelonious Monk’s Brilliant Corners slipping the thirty-three out of its sleeve and blow a sprig of lint off the vinyl. I’ve been collecting albums for years and once in a while like to listen to the scratchy tunes warbling on my turntable. Neil Young too has a great affinity for Analog over Digital. I’m aware of its shortcomings, they’re human. I’m not one who goes around coveting mint condition. I yearn for imperfections. [Read more…] about Bedbugs