Ray's Place: Vinyl Crisis, Midlife Shift, Juicy Machines

Hello Ray I've been spending a lot of money on my vinyl collection recently and I've got a sort of concern about it. Like I really enjoy looking at the album art and the whole ritual of placing the record on the turntable and letting it do its thing. But given how cheap and simple a Spotify subscription is, I'm starting to wonder if I'm really getting the most for my money out of the hobby? Can a person really justify an expensive vinyl habit when the music itself is already just scratching at the door, begging to come in for basically free? —Brian 

Hey, Brian!

Ditch the records, you kinky old noodle! I know, I know, I’m in the biz and all that, but stuff sounds fine on computers! Once I plumped for that new Jetstream speaker system from Ferguson Hill, and a self-leveling single-animal leather Buurambū listening chair, I never went back to physical media. Think of records and CDs the same way you think about magazines: They got maybe two pages you like, and the rest is just stealin’ real estate in your house. Did you know that a song on a computer drive is smaller than a molecule? They got some talented people up at Intel, and that ain’t no joke.  

Another thing a record can’t do is send you down rabbit holes of related artists...or go in the car, or go to the gym with you and help you wiggle that little tushy side-to-side like like it’s the sexy window wipers. (Incidentally, that last one also helps me loosen up this one ab that always suddenly cramps.) And for half the price of a record, you get pretty much all music ever. Havin’ records these days is kind of like relyin’ on your less-developed conjoined twin to whistle the one song it knows. 

-=Raë=-

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Dear Ray, Adjusting for inflation, what’s a reasonable investment for an orange juice machine? I’m not talking about juicers in general, but specifically for fresh tasty OJ. PS, is it even worth it to run some grapefruits through —Nikolai

Nikolai, 

I picked up the Welco Industries 2700-P, with the automatic pulp centrifuge. (Pulp centrifuge: If you know, you know.) I first saw one of these bad, bad girls in action at Whole Foods, and fell in love with her clear acrylic housing — you can see all that droppin’ and grindin’. I treated mine to a hammered brass hopper that looks like a really wide upside-down conquistador helmet, and a spooky little gas lamp on each side that flickers whenever she’s juicin’. (This might not seem like my usual way of aesthetics, but in this relationship, she tells me how she looks best, and she’s always right.) 

I think a classy lady like mine would do you out about $25k, dependin’ how hard you went on the hopper. Connato (the elderly celebrity lighting specialist) made me an offer on her for twice that, for his secret townhouse in Montecito, but she and I are inseparable now, and I was actually kind of pissed he had the gall to ask. 

Not sure what you mean about inflation adjustment, as it is the present.   

-=Coral Ray McDune=- 

(my name if I was the star in a boxing movie)

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Dear Ray, When I was a younger man I dreamed of fame and wealth and excellence and vanquished foes and the silly little dreams bright eyed youngsters have. The thing is, I sort of made those dreams come true. Now I am older and wiser and I have become very excellent at something highly competitive and profoundly meaningless. I feel a yearning to do something else with my life, but also a sort of golden-handcuff claustrophobia. What should a man do when the dream he caught no longer satiates his soul? How do you leave your most deeply-burned neural pathways and the security of the self that comes from excellence behind? How do you end and begin again? — Ben 

Yo Ben, 

I used to sit by this dude down at Quincy’s, the clubhouse restaurant at Seven Pines, after rounds. He was an older guy, and we all called him Fish, but not because of how much gas he could put back. (I think it was a lot, but he was one of those guys who never changed no matter how many scotch and sodas he drained.) He was always — and it took me a while to locate this word — circumspect. Like, he’d consider everything from many angles before speaking, or at least that’s how it seemed. He had that kind of wisdom that just feels good to hear, you know? And plus we all knew he’d had a heart attack, so his advice seemed to come from a Boss level we didn’t have yet. 

Somebody asked him your exact question once. His reply was, a man has to reinvent himself every nine years. I don’t know where the nine came from; maybe that’s a lucky heart attack number. But anyway, here’s what I have to add to that: ain’t there like a million things got you interested, in this world? (Be honest.) Daniel Day Lewis quit bein’ the best possible actor and spent a little time seriously pursuin’ cobblery! He probably just saw a fine shoe in a magazine, and was like, “What the fuuuck…,” and then proceeded to never tell himself no. (I actually got a little that way with a book about locks recently, but I forget where I put it, and plus locks are already all figured out.) 

So, I think you got to check in with your little boy voice again and see what draws your fascination, even if there’s no immediate angle of monetizin’ it, especially since you sound like you got cushy coffers in this minute. It may take a while to re-establish contact, but keep at it: that neural pathway is still down in the mix. 

The rest of the journey from this point shouldn’t be too rough for you, since by your question you show you already did the hard part, which was realize it was time to get started on it.   

Sorry this advice was actually helpful, everybody. Usually I just try to play with y’all, have some fun, and wait until the maid is done clangin’ and whuzzin’ around so I can get back to mixin’ some drippy ’slangles. 

-=Rayy-a-cuda=-

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Confidential to SoHo_MoJo: My nipples do not move around on my chest from year to year. Chris probably just thinks he's doing some "sick burn" on me in Photoshop, but I could not possibly care.