Not very long after my boyfriend and I moved in together, I was sorting out what had quickly become “our” collective mess of LPs laying on the floor in George’s man-cave.
Man-cave, music room, whatever. He’s a musician and needs a place to keep his guitars and small recording setup and microphone. And LPs. Tons and tons of LPs. Vinyl. Albums. And a record player. A “phonograph”, if you will. Or as a friend of mine in Texas has called it, “The Way-Back Machine”.
And yes, we both have plenty of albums. He is a music fan, I worked in a record store and got a pretty deep discount, and we both (still to this day) troll the used record/cut out bins for vinyl nuggets of cultural significance. These days I lean towards anything instrumental that may sound like Mantovani and his orchestra (horrifically delicious), or exotica (think Martin Denny), or something samba/mambo-ish, a la Perez Prado. But sometimes you stumble across that thing that’s far too craptastic to pass up, and it has to go in your collection.
Bear with me, it’s coming.
So I was alphabetizing my records and sorting them into the “my pile” vs. the “his pile”, and I saw…this one record…and inserted it in the proper place in my pile. Then a minute or two later I thought…huh…isn’t that funny, I thought I’d already put…this one record…away, but I shrugged it off and considered myself mistaken and went to the section of the alphabet where…this one record…belonged.
Only there were two.
[wait for it…]
[wait for it…]
That’s right. We both own a copy of Cybill Shepherd’s “Cybill does it…to Cole Porter”.
This is how I knew he’d be able to manage my weirdo love for exotica and mambo and Mantovani.
This is how I knew we were meant to be together.
This post is for the D! Challenge by Frizztext
Because I love a good alphabet challenge.