In the age of the Tivo, MP3s, and iTunes, CDs, DVDs, and books are the ultimate albatross.
For a New Yorker with exactly one closet and two shelves, they’re literally the elephant in the room. Perodically, at some point, they have to be thinned. Especially when a move is on the horizon.
And so it was that Saturday afternoon found me sitting on the floor, surrounded by jewel cases, weeding through my CDs, DVDs, and books.
Huey Lewis’ “Sports” made the cut. Grant Lee Buffalo’s “Jubillee” did not.
“Lawrence of Arabia” made the cut. “Accepted” not.
Russell Banks’ “The Sweet Hereafter” made the cut. National Geographic’s “Everest Adventure” did not.
Afterwards, I dragged three shopping bags downstairs, and place them on the stoop. When I return from the corner store with a six pack of Harp, the songs and the stories are all gone.
Next up: old sweaters, that worn, red velour lounge chair in the corner, and that p.a. system in the closet that I haven’t used since the 90s.