Mr. Oswald, Connie's twelfth grade English Lit teacher, had a record player in his room. We would hang out there during lunch and have an unofficial book club where we read short stories and plays because, well, my own English teacher had us watch "Airplane!" when we were studying satire and "Frankenstein" when we were studying romanticism.

I never noticed the record player until one lunch period when we were discussing Kafka's "Metamorphosis." I hated it so much and tried to distract myself any way possible from concentrating on the conversation. I suddenly noticed the record player in the corner.

"CLIFFORD!" Oswald bellowed, clapping his hands mere inches in front of my face.
"Is that a record player?" I asked.
"Yes. Now focus on the insect," he said. I sighed heavily and muttered something about how I just didn't get it. "You're not getting it because you're not trying to get it," he said.
"This story sucks," Connie whimpered.
Oswald rolled his eyes, annoyed at our lack of focus. "I'm going to my office to dig up something else for us to read. Put something on the damn record player."

I was psyched to put "Metamorphosis" behind me, and I jumped out of my chair towards the record player and the small stack of records underneath. "What do you want to hear?" I asked Connie.
"I don't care," she replied. "Something good." I shuffled through the albums and found a four-track Aerosmith album. Hell yeah.

I slid the record from its bright orange cardboard sleeve and turned it over in my hands, examining the grooves. I realized I'd never held one before, and I smiled. This was cool. I approached the player, reaching the record out towards it.

"Have... uh... have you ever played a record before?" I asked over my shoulder.
"You're the one who knows about all this music stuff," came the distracted response. Yep, I was. I fit the album to the player and hit the giant yellow "ON/OFF" button. The record started to slowly rotate. I grabbed the arm and lowered the needle into a groove.

All of a sudden it was blaring the middle of "Dream On." I yanked the needle off. I looked to an amused Connie as we both realized that I had no idea what I was doing. "Try again," she said, with a daring smile. I tried a few more times and failed miserably.

Oswald returned empty-handed, with a renewed determination to have Connie and me appreciate Kafka. I cursed my luck and deemed the session unsuccessful in more ways than one.

Did I ever mention what I got for my birthday?

My grandma gave me her record player and speakers and the whole system.

My brother got me two vinyl records -- a live Bob Seger album (including my all-time favorite, "Katmandu") and a sweet Sly & the Family Stone album.

Today my mom brought up a stack of records and said "Take what you want." This includes "Abbey Road," "Revolver," "Let It Be," and "Rubber Soul," the "Easy Rider" soundtrack (holla at me "If 6 Was 9"), and a live Tom Jones album.

Now I just have to figure out how to operate it all and my music snob factor will skyrocket.

(I still hate "Metamorphosis." And I'll god damn bet that I always will.)