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03.30.03 - 4:46 p.m. Over the weekend my mom and dad cleaned out the attic in order to make room for a bed that was finally upsized by a king sized monstrosity that they will die in. They threw some things away but for the most part all of our old lives ended up in boxes and mine were stacked at the bottom of my bed. Trophies and remote control cars and care bears and all of the things that i used to remember. Im trying to go through them now but i got only as far as the record player that i never used as a child (you couldnt play new kids on the block on a phonograph after all...) "A record player, huh..." I plugged it in and was pleased to hear that warm thunk of speakers checking in and that deep hum of the turntable turning and creaking. So, man, of course it was the most exciting thing. I dont know why record players feel so important to an entire generation that went without...I disappeared into the coat closet to unearth all of my parents old records (Could anyone own MORE Jackie Gleason records?) on top of a chair pulling down the abbey road and the mamas and the papas and simon and garfunkle. All of the sweet tunes my mom wore corderouy and turtlenecks to. Its warmer from that record player, i know what my dad means. With West Side Story i thought of my wedding (One Hand, One Heart) and with the Beatles i couldnt help but think of my apartment in washington dc, and that no matter how small will have this phonograph and a bit of my parents past with me. Open windows and John Williams; the creak groan of something older and deeper than me. � 
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