So, someone broke into my car and stole my stereo.

I don’t think there’s much I could have done to prevent it. My car doesn’t have an alarm, one of the windows is held in place by duct tape, and the driver’s side door doesn’t close all the way. When I got into the car and saw the gaping space in the console where the stereo would normally be, my reaction was more one of annoyance than shock—″Oh, come on!” I seem to remember myself saying. Because this has happened before. Twice. And the first time, the loss was much greater. So I suppose I should be grateful.

But what really pisses me off is that they took the CD holder from my sun visor. The thieving jackass who took them probably threw them out upon realizing they were mostly just CDRs, but there were a few original copies in there, albums of personal importance like The Fawn, and Hinterland, and Three—seminal albums I was keeping in my car because they’re such classic spring/summer listens.

In today’s FutureWorld, where I rarely buy actual CDs anymore but instead possess hundreds of digitally-encoded albums burned onto pieces of plastic, the actual albums I do own take on a little more importance; at the risk of aggrandizing, they become musical artifacts, scratched-up and sun-faded. I remember buying that little yellow Fawn disc in college. It spun faithfully in my DiscMan during the era before CDs were purchased only to be ripped onto hard drives and reshelved in nearly-new condition. I’m smitten enough by nostalgia in enough other regards that I brook very little excess sentimentality when it comes to material possessions, but there was a palpable pang when I was halfway down the block in my newly silent car last night and realized I had lost the original copies of cherished albums I bought three, six, or eight years ago. Fuck them; they can keep the stereo. But I want my scratched-up William Orbit CD back.