Set Adrift On Memory Bliss

There are only three reasons people ring my doorbell in my neighborhood:

Jehovah’s Witnesses who want to help me get into heaven (too late. I'm hoping perhaps I am allowed a small box fan in hell? You know, for all of those Girl Scout cookies I've purchased to help better tomorrow's young women?)

A “troubled youth” selling magazine subscriptions (or candy, or wrapping paper or ... fruit. Yes, the day I buy fruit from the door-to-door salesman with dirty fingernails is the day you should take me to the "special place" at the hospital)

Someone whose car broke down "a few streets over" and just needs "$3" for the bus. (But if all you have is a $5, that's better)

But today? A guy pounded on my door and asked if he could take the rad collection of cassette tapes that were on my tree lawn awaiting their fate in the garbage truck.

And that’s when I realized that there is still one PM Dawn fan left in the world. And I shouldn't stand in way of someone who can truly appreciate a rap love song mixed with the smooth smooth melody of Spandau Ballet’s “True.”

I know this much is true.