I woke with a start last night, and at first I wasn't sure why. Then it hit me: It was delayed remorse for my lost record collection. Which I sold over a year ago.
After lugging around 30 boxes from L.A. to the midwest then back again, and after much soul-searching, I decided that it was time to give up the vinyl. This was not an easy decision, of course, as those records had helped me find a wife (that's another story, but the short version is, she was the +1 of a party I was hosting, took a gander at the collection, and asked her friend, 'who owns THESE?' It's something they don't tell you about in those self-help guides.)
I thought it was the adult thing to do - to put away childish things and not cling to some pathetic vestige of my youth, which was mostly spent rifling through record bins around New York City. I had finally come to the realization that I wasn't going to re-purpose them by turning into some middle-aged DJ about town. And I had come darn near close to replacing the most cherished stuff with CD's.
Sold them for a song, I'll have you know. Maybe that's what's so painful. Every scratch and nick, every water-damaged cover... you remember, don't you? You always remember. But buyers don't put any sentimental value into some scratchy Dylan record that got you through freshman year; they just look at it as a depreciated asset.
I didn't really bother taking inventory beforehand, and that hurt me big time, because I DID have some valuable assets in there, like all of the Yardbirds albums in mint condition. Those alone were probably worth the money I received for the entire collection. Whatever. I can go on about this ( I didn't even take into consideration the fact that my kids, when they get older, might have derived a lot of pleasure from these pleistocine artifacts). They're gone, and they ain't coming back.
But c'est la vie, right?