The invoice from the roofing company arrived, and I braced for the usual financial ambush. Instead, the number was only a polite nudge above the original quote. They’d had to perform some emergency surgery on a few rafters and replace a stretch of vinyl siding that had clearly been plotting its escape for years. Yet they didn’t treat the extras like an open bar. Refreshing honesty in a trade that often treats “change order” as a blood sport.
Cold weather is rolling in this weekend, which is less than ideal timing as I try to reclaim the man cave. Thankfully I never committed the classic bachelor-pad error of installing a couch or any serious lounging infrastructure. Had I done so, this would have been a genuine crisis rather than a mild inconvenience. I didn’t need a clubhouse; I needed a functional room that wouldn’t judge me for its current state of chaos.
Storage is the next act. There’s a folding table in there that once served as mission control for sorting records. It’s time to fold it up and roll in a few of those sturdy, wheeled wire racks from Sam’s Club—the same ones already proving their worth upstairs. They’ll handle the 45s and CDs with quiet competence. The albums, those gloriously oversized divas, are headed for a future of plastic tubs. Many, many tubs.
A few weeks ago I mentioned rediscovering a 45 I’d been forced to surrender twenty-five years earlier when my wife went on disability and cash became more important than catalog completeness. I always assumed it would surface again someday. I just didn’t expect “someday” to require a quarter-century of patience. A few other long-lost singles still haunt the want list.
What surprised me most about this particular issue is the sheer number of versions that exist. Motown’s subsidiary clearly threw everything at the wall trying to get radio to bite. Radio responded with the same enthusiasm Cooper shows toward his heartworm pill. This copy is an especially rare promo—same song on both sides, yet mysteriously free of the usual promotional markings. They tried. Bless their determined little hearts. And they had every reason to try.
Because Frances Nero’s record is pure choice. Sharp, soulful, and inexplicably neglected. Some records deserve better than the industry gave them. This is one of them.
No comments:
Post a Comment