short attention span theatre brings you: Angel's record collection
"Some of these are mildewed," Cordelia said. She tossed a handful of LP albums into a cardboard box.
"I wouldn't do that," Doyle said, neatly stacking a pile of Architectural Digests back onto a shelf. "Just because Angel thought he saw a cockroach in your totebag, doesn't give you---us---permission to go through all o' his stuff. And who has old house magazines? Where's the vintage Playboy?"
"Hidden in the bathroom usually," Cordelia said. "Or so I've heard." She picked up an album with thumb and finger. "Look. Green spotty cardboard. Ancient moldy stuff."
"Classical music seems to be his thing," Doyle said. "The Barry Manilow is all on cassette. Why aren't you going through those?"
"They're dusted," Cordelia said. "All this old Mozart crap is just a front! He doesn't play them!"
Doyle looked upward, hoping for disturbance from TPTB, then took a deep breath. "Vinyl has a resonance that people treasure. And, the basis of a collection doesn't mean you use it all the time. Say you had thirty pairs of black shoes."
Cordelia frowned at him. "I'm listening."
"Black flats, black pumps, black strappy sandals---"
"Just get to the point and stop tormenting me," she said. "I haven't been to Nordstrom's in months."
"Well, you may not always need a pair of silver and black sandals, but when you need them, they're there. Angel may not always listen to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, but if he gets all broody, thinking of days gone by, it's there."
"He doesn't need music to remember people he killed!" Cordelia said, losing her expression of gentle melancholy.
Doyle was still involved in calculating possible birthdates when Angel walked in and bellowed like an ox, at the sight of all of his belongings pulled out of the boxes and trunks and cabinets.
"I wouldn't do that," Doyle said, neatly stacking a pile of Architectural Digests back onto a shelf. "Just because Angel thought he saw a cockroach in your totebag, doesn't give you---us---permission to go through all o' his stuff. And who has old house magazines? Where's the vintage Playboy?"
"Hidden in the bathroom usually," Cordelia said. "Or so I've heard." She picked up an album with thumb and finger. "Look. Green spotty cardboard. Ancient moldy stuff."
"Classical music seems to be his thing," Doyle said. "The Barry Manilow is all on cassette. Why aren't you going through those?"
"They're dusted," Cordelia said. "All this old Mozart crap is just a front! He doesn't play them!"
Doyle looked upward, hoping for disturbance from TPTB, then took a deep breath. "Vinyl has a resonance that people treasure. And, the basis of a collection doesn't mean you use it all the time. Say you had thirty pairs of black shoes."
Cordelia frowned at him. "I'm listening."
"Black flats, black pumps, black strappy sandals---"
"Just get to the point and stop tormenting me," she said. "I haven't been to Nordstrom's in months."
"Well, you may not always need a pair of silver and black sandals, but when you need them, they're there. Angel may not always listen to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, but if he gets all broody, thinking of days gone by, it's there."
"He doesn't need music to remember people he killed!" Cordelia said, losing her expression of gentle melancholy.
Doyle was still involved in calculating possible birthdates when Angel walked in and bellowed like an ox, at the sight of all of his belongings pulled out of the boxes and trunks and cabinets.