tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post6647056245387148162..comments2024-02-20T07:40:36.196-08:00Comments on this wreckage: The Great Pretendchriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-4315993563124005512014-04-03T16:31:55.613-07:002014-04-03T16:31:55.613-07:00It's not about being old. Going to those old ...It's not about being old. Going to those old shops was often an experience, because of all of the events that would lead one to those locales and back. It helped make the investment into new music or literature more valuable - not so disposable. It is not the same. The mysterious anticipation that builds behind each dusty album or in those stacks in the back is exciting and only adds to the fun of discovery. Thanks for reading and commenting!chriswreckagehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-65633512329254907252014-04-01T19:50:06.227-07:002014-04-01T19:50:06.227-07:00I feel like that came out wrong.
I feel like that came out wrong.<br />Lola Novahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14215529779296867987noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-60007436173689188322014-04-01T19:45:47.673-07:002014-04-01T19:45:47.673-07:00I can recite the record stores of my life. Except ...I can recite the record stores of my life. Except for that great one in Coosbay, for the life of me I can't remember it's name. Oh, and the book stores! There were a few that will always make me weak in remembering. I have always had a small used bookstore and record store fetish, oh the stacks in the back! It not the same and I'm old. Lola Novahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14215529779296867987noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-44230248769755048972014-03-31T09:56:08.666-07:002014-03-31T09:56:08.666-07:00When I think of physical music, I always conjure u...When I think of physical music, I always conjure up the dark dustiness of Driftwood Mac. I remember the feeling of the plastic covers on my fingertips as I flipped each successive album forward to see what was behind it. kariohttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10150537989886423212noreply@blogger.com