In high school, I had two great record-store crushes. The first has become a music writer, and when I looked him up a few years ago, I was disappointed to learn that his flirtation with becoming a cad had mutated into a full-blown love affair. He was condescending toward me in a way that amused me more than anything else. So I'm happy to keep him filed away in the mental box of happy teenage memories.
And then there is Derek, who everyone called DVG. He was one of my favorite people back in Kalamazoo; he was always drawing on scraps of paper, and I still have a tiny post-it note with one of his scrawls on it. Some drunk guy had come into the store where I worked, and as I told him the story, he drew a hilarious caricature of the man. I loved it. And so I was so happy to open the New York Times and see his work next to letters about Wagner's ring cycle. (Which, of course, reminds me of Marc, and brings two good people together in one happy thought.)
And then there is Derek, who everyone called DVG. He was one of my favorite people back in Kalamazoo; he was always drawing on scraps of paper, and I still have a tiny post-it note with one of his scrawls on it. Some drunk guy had come into the store where I worked, and as I told him the story, he drew a hilarious caricature of the man. I loved it. And so I was so happy to open the New York Times and see his work next to letters about Wagner's ring cycle. (Which, of course, reminds me of Marc, and brings two good people together in one happy thought.)
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