Alan: As some of you may know, I have made a couple of films that required me to interview a lot of record collectors. When I shot the first one, Vinyl, nearly thirty years ago, I was somewhat more judgmental about all the ways that people collected. I’m not judgmental anymore.
Which doesn't mean that people don’t surprise me. The other day, in a record collecting Facebook group, someone asked, “What record do you have the most copies of?” and I was shocked by some of the answers. Ninety unique copies of Who’s Next by the Who. Ninety copies of the same record, each with some aspect that distinguishes it from the others, like a Japanese pressing or a different…. I can’t even imagine.
Something you hear from a good number of record collectors is “What’s going to happen to my collection after I’m gone?” The answer is that the records will either go to the Goodwill or hopefully not that popular thrift store that gives almost nothing to charity, or one of our record dealers will buy them all from whoever is dealing with your stuff
That’s not the answer the collectors are looking for. They think that their collection should be kept together because it’s special and so they hope some institution will preserve it. There probably have been a few collections that deserved such treatment. But the vast, vast majority of collections are just not special enough. Most if not all the records people have, someone else also has, and there’s not enough room for all these special record collections in all the archives of the world.
Some of my artsy friends have donated their papers and such to archives, usually a university archive or one associated with a film festival. I’ve been told a few times that I should give my stuff to one of these places. If someone asked, I would consider it, but the truth is, I don’t really see the point. If someone, after I die, wants to know about me, they can google me or find links to the films. I can’t imagine anyone ever needing to do a deep dive into this guy and need to, for instance, read old scripts for films that were never made. And I don’t have much stuff left anyway. I get rid of it when I move, or when it gets moldy in the garage, like when mice make nests of old magazines that mention me.
I do have this one thing. Twenty boxes or so of Betacam tapes of that first record collecting documentary. I kept the tapes thinking I would someday make another film on the subject, and I might need the material. And I did need the material for a film called Records a couple of years ago. But for reasons that are too complicated to explain here, I didn’t get any of the material from those twenty boxes of tapes.
I don’t remember where those boxes lived for the first ten years, but it might have involved my parents. When I bought a house, they were in the cold cellar, then I took them to my producers’ office a few years ago, and then the producers decided to move to a smaller place, and I had a decision to make.
My first impulse was to throw them out. But people said “no you can’t do that” and I admit that the notion of dumping them somewhere and just walking away was challenging. It reminded me of m ex-wife’s story of a housemate who dumped the urn containing his dad’s ashes in a dumpster and disappeared. My ex retrieved that box and as far as I know she still has it. So I got a storage space. And that’s where the twenty boxes live, all alone in the smallest space you can find in a warehouse near highway 400. Somehow that seems relevant to this journey that Baņuta and I are on. But it’s not because I think about moving in there myself.
The Thursday before Xmas was the last day that our real estate agent was willing to show us places to rent. Mandy says we should wait till Baņuta gets back at the end of January, though I will find it hard not to look at all.
I hold out the fantasy that I while she is away, I could see a place that is so obviously perfect for us that I could take it. I’d send Baņuta photos and video and measurements and the like, but still, she would have to trust me.
I don’t think it’s impossible. Mandy disagrees. And I don’t feel like questioning her position. I’m not going to say “So you think I don’t know what my girlfriend wants?” because it would embarrass both of us and I don’t know how I’d react if she were to reply “that’s correct”.
Last week my daughter and I were at the Bay looking at clothes as a potential Christmas present for Baņuta. It was hard to find something I knew my girlfriend would want. On the other hand, on occasion I’ve come across stores that feel to me like they’re almost made for Baņuta’s style. And often I’m right.
Sometimes when Baņuta and I go out to what I might call an ‘occasion’ of some kind, it’s always notable and maybe a tad embarrassing to me that my girlfriend primps and preens, applies makeup and chooses from her closet of beautiful clothes and generally makes herself (more) beautiful while I pick clothes off the floor, pull them on, occasionally wetting a towel to rub a stain off a hoodie. If I see it.
But I think I’ve gotten to know her by the things she’s said yes to and the things she’s said no to, and I do think I could rent a place we’d both be happy with. But I probably won’t try. I’ll take a vacation from looking, await her return and hope that rents don’t go up again while she’s away, and we won’t have to write too many entries in our blog before finding a place in the Spring, a year after we started looking.
Baņuta: I called a real estate agent the minute we were given notice (not Mandy). This was in May. I told the agent I’d like to move before Christmas. “That should be do-able,” she said in that particular ‘I’m-driving’ voice, and then I never heard from her again. She got busy. Life happened. Life just keeps on happening.
And if life wasn’t happening, I wouldn’t be talking to you, so I guess that’s a good thing.
I hope your holiday season has been lovely and that the ground under your feet isn’t shifting. Because it sure is shifting for a lot of us. Toronto Life even featured the out-of-control market in its latest issue. I wonder why they didn’t get in touch — maybe they called while I was mulling the wine? Hanging the gilded grasshopper in the tree?
The funniest gift I got was a baseball cap with the words ‘hate landlords’. But, ahem, it’s the season not to hate. (Though, given the war in Ukraine, the executions in Iran, the awfulness of the Taliban, Greg Abbott’s vile pranks — it’s hard not to.) But I want to celebrate peace and goodwill to all men and also other people. And some of my best friends are landlords. I’ve been a landlord, too, except that was a long time ago when people like me thought that the rent we charged should be ‘fair’. Not ‘what the market can bear’. Not ‘let me gouge out your eyeballs, please’. And I used to like our landlady. Until she wanted more money, because somebody else was getting more money. And then she wanted even more, because somebody else got even more. And then…more… and then…more…
And now I don’t like her.
Actually I don’t want to be negative about landlords. I really need you, landlord, landlady, landfolks! Please mount your magic steeds and gallop my way!
I’m leaving for Australia for three weeks. I sure hope the rental prices won’t go up by the time I return. Alan mentioned that I might pack up my room in case he finds something and has to move house without me. That won’t happen, I’m sure of it, but starting to chip away at my belongings sounded like a good idea. I was encouraged by a friend who is being expropriated by the city. Like me, she doesn’t have to move until the summer; like me, she is moving against her wishes, and so we share a little weep; and like me, she has lived in her house for ten years. “Taking apart a decade of our lives will be tricky,” she said, “we might as well start now.”
Of course I was way too busy to really pack. There was this thing called Christmas, this thing called Hanukkah, this thing called end-of-term. But I did empty one chest of drawers. Yes, Marie Kondo, I don’t need three flimsy tripods for a small photo camera which I no longer use. I threw one out. (The other two I stashed in a different drawer. Don’t tell anyone.)
I tried so hard to get rid of things that I tossed a hard drive in the garbage by mistake. It contained ultra-precious archival material. Luckily, I retrieved it at the last minute. I know, I should save those files somewhere else. I’ll do it right away — oops, something’ s boiling — oh, there’s the cat — ow, banged my elbow — be right back —
what were we talking about?
— this packing thing. I ordered a roll of bubble wrap and labels. They are so pretty. They are so theoretical. I feel inspired.
This is just to say
I have eaten the plums
you left in the living rm
and the ones in the family rm
(we have a study?)
I know you hid the peaches
which you were probably keeping for the master bath
forgive me
I found them
in bed rm #4
they were so clearly labelled
and so sweet
Yes, it is the end of the year and Alan and I are not dressed up and there is no place to go (except Australia). The good news is we’ll be dropping a few more blogs in 2023. Alan and I will argue as to whose turn it is to write first and who is funnier.
I think that last question, at least, has been settled.
May you all stay wherever it is you want to stay and thanks so much for reading!
[and thank you William Carlos Williams]
P.S. Speaking of reading, Baņuta has started a second bloggy thing. This one is about her bookish habits. Join her there if you like!