Last week was my birthday. Not a particularly important one so we didn’t go in for anything fancy, just a delicious dinner and an early turn in. The perfect evening for a couple of Olds.
Also, the Gentleman Caller can melt ice and butter and large blocks of chocolate and my tear ducts with the power of his amazing gift giving. He gives good gift.
For the five years I’ve carted my record player around from apartment to apartment, it hasn’t worked. It just sits cold and dead in the corner, uselessly taking up space. This particular record player is a hi-fi from the 1950’s, about eight feet long, three and a half feet tall and weighing in at 350 pounds or more. So that’s, you know, humongous. And it’s just the turntable and speakers. That’s it–no drawers, no storage, nothing. It is a poetic monument to human inefficiency, and also my very most favorite piece of furniture. I’m not giving up on this thing.
Obviously, our inability to play records cramps my flawless hipster style. How am I supposed to experience all the intricate drama of the Original Cast Recording of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat using an iPod? Duh, I cannot.
So I asked the Gentleman Caller to resurrect the hi-fi, somehow, as my birthday gift. He used Boy Magic and screwdrivers to take the turntable out of its nest and brought it to a vintage music store, where they used Boy Magic and screwdrivers to give it a facelift and a hug (I’m fuzzy on the details).
It was ready just in time, and I came home from work on my birthday to this, all through the house, sounding exactly how accordions, trumpets and sepia-toned voices deserve to sound:
Best birthday ever.