So last night I started making a music playlist, trying vainly to subdivide the swollen stinking mass of music that’s in the archive, slice it down into manageable chunks so I could address all this new stuff on a case-by-case basis. Right? And as I sifted through the 12,000 songs I found myself choosing the ones that seemed the most familiar, that seemed fun to listen to instead of work, you know, that basically had a sweet nostalgic kick, and after a while it only took a second or so to decide if a given track fit the necessary criteria and when I was done I had 2,000 songs and I put it on random play and every single thing it served up was a delight. It was no longer about trying to set aside time to really you know absorb a new album and hope to unwrap its various hidden treasures. Instead I was just sort of chilling with already-unwrapped treasures and enjoying the whole thing. OK. Which is when I realized they were the songs I listened to between the ages of 0 and let’s say 26 or 27. Let’s call it 20th Century Music. And then I realized I was officially Old because isn’t this what happens? There comes a point where you’re all: OK fuck it I am no longer keeping up with the hip new music, I’m just going to listen to the stuff I listened to when I was a kid over and over, or maybe just turn on the golden oldies radio station that will play that stuff over and over for me because I am a viable demographic. My playlist is called “OK” and it is sorted by song title, and it begins with ‘39 by Queen and ends with the Ziggy Stardust cover by Bauhaus.