My favorite place in the apartment is a small corner in the bedroom dedicated to my love for all things musical. Most weekends include at least a little time sitting in front of the record player - albums I've pillaged from my parents over the years and ones I've collected from friends and garage sales are piled up in a heap underneath. The album selections range from credible (The Velvet Underground) to ridiculous (The Electric Prunes) and everything in between. Mostly, my record player belts out a steady stream of folksy Paul Simon or James Taylor. The crackling hiss of the album makes John Denver stop sounding like some Colorado-lovin' dweeb and turns him into something of a poet.
Sometimes, I spend time in the corner with Betty, my poor excuse for an acoustic. Those critters on the right? Meet my audience. I much prefer Kermit the Frog and Pokey to humans with refined musical palettes. If I played for a real audience, they would quickly spot my shoddy guitar skills or tendency to play songs primarily in the key of G. I don't need the pressure.
I'm sure they're out there, but I don't know many people who don't get at least some joy from music. For me, it's an infinite source of joy so it's nice to have a spot in my apartment reserved just for that. Maybe one day my living space will surpass 500 square feet and I'll have room to spread out my musical joy - but for now, a corner will do.
