Desert Island

So someone asked me what ten albums I would take on a desert island with me. I asked if there would be electricity. She said yes. A desert island with electricity? This is more Bob Denver than Tom Hanks, then? Just shut up and write the ten records. Jazz records? Well, if you must, then jazz records. I couldn’t come up with just ten jazz records, I said, I don’t do lists well. Then ten rock records. There must be ten rock records you like. Like enough to take to a desert island? Yes, like if you were going to be marooned on a desert island what ten records would you take with you? Marooned? Would there be native girls? Giant stone heads? Don Ho? Apparently I was no longer funny. I started on the list, came up with four records and got stuck. Not sure why those four. I gave her the list. Where are the other six? I could only think of four, I said. You’d take only four records? I travel light, I said, and someone will have an iPad. No answer. You said there’s electricity. Still no answer. I can think of six songs, I said. I rattled them off. She’d never heard of them. Not even Home is Where the Floor Is. But that’s one of my favorite songs ever, I said. It was HUGE. It wasn’t actually, of course, just in my head. What album is it on, she said. Some comp. I sold it. Then you couldn’t take it with you onto the desert island. You mean I have to actually own the record? There won’t be an iPad? Nevermind, she said. And somewhere, there’s a blog without my list of four records.

Five records. I just thought of another. Tables and chairs and TV and books and other stuff.

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