In the thrift shop, I stumbled upon a bin of old 33 1/3 records, dusty, dog eared covers with faded pictures with faded memories. Most of the artists I recognized, but some I had no clue to who they were. Where did these albums come from? Who owned them? Some forty, fifty, or more years old. I wonder what stories they could tell. Did they play at anniversaries, sweet 16 or birthday parties. I bet they had some great stories to tell. They once were wanted, but not anymore. Now they’re obsolete, vinyl dinosaurs in a new age world, forgotten by technology and the changing tastes of the music listening public, and the parade of life has left them at the curb. I look at them and they look back at me with sadness. Change isn’t always pretty.