Dispatch From the Cubicle of Icarus Oddfellow // No. 002
Goodness gracious, it’s incredible how time flies when Dr. V asks you crawl up into the attic, locate his old CD collection*, and digitize/categorize the entire inventory. Plus, most of the CDs were burned versions (unlabeled, of course) that iTunes couldn’t recognize and so I spent the better part of 2 weeks Shazam-ing each track in order to dig up the appropriate album information.
So where to begin…
The Friday before Labor Day weekend: Dr. V was in early – before me, as a matter of fact – and that almost never happens. I heard him rustling around in his office. He was opening and closing drawers and cabinets, and there were a few unsettling loud bangs that nearly had me sending for help of some sort. All of a sudden, after about 15 minutes of this ruckus, everything went quiet. Total silence. I listened for a long while at his door, but heard nothing. And when I finally mustered up the courage to go in and check**, I found the office completely empty. There were papers and random computer cables strewn all around, but Dr. V had vanished. The only trace he left was a handwritten note that said “SLEEP TIGHT, YA MORON! I’m off to PARADISE! P.S. You do NOT get the day off, Oddfellow.” He had left. Just like that. And to this day, I swear to god, I don’t know how he got out of that room.
The following Monday, Dr. V rolled in late still wearing swim trunks. He called me into his office and explained that sometimes he just needs to “get the fuck out of dodge,” and that in this particular instance, after drinking several high ABV kombuchas, he had had a vision. A vision of throwing his daughter the most extravagant birthday of all time (even though it wasn’t quite her birthday) and, thus, he high-tailed it to the Ritz in Palm Springs.
Then he told me about the CD situation and warned me about the number of rusty nails up in the attic.
The bounded, black folders that held the CDs were precariously overstuffed and weighed about 12 pounds each. Several pages had broken off the 3-ring-binders and had been carelessly stuffed back in. I had to use the old computer in the back of the office – the one that hasn’t been updated in years on the off-chance that Dr. V needs to access Final Cut Pro 7 – since none of our newer Macs had a disc drive. To say the process of digitizing this record collection was laborious is a gross understatement. And also, tbh, I really don’t understand the point of any of it because, you know, Spotify.
In any case, as it turns out it wasn’t a complete waste of time. Some of that old people music was quite good. Some of it I enjoyed so much that I asked if I could take over the MIXTAPE MONDAYS for little while (seeing as though they’ve pretty much fallen off the map at this point) and make some playlists out of my favorite discoveries. Which, to my complete and total shock, Dr. V emphatically agreed!
When I ask him what he does all day, Dr. V curtly says: “not that it’s any of your business but I’m working on some very important, top secret material for Netflix and in the outline stage of writing a children’s book that was commissioned by a major celebrity.” Whether or not that’s true, I have no idea. Because the only things I’ve seen him produce since returning from Palm Springs are these weird, nostalgia-trip montages that I’m certain we did NOT get paid for. (see below)
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* It took some digging but I found two black folders under a box of Christmas decorations literally bursting with shiny, circular plastic things that were once apparently called “compact discs.” These discs, I’ve come to learn, were how old people used to listen to music back in the day.
**I made sure to go extra slowly, making exaggerated coughing/wheezing sounds so as to give him plenty of time to “compose” himself if need be…
Signing Off,
I. Oddfellow