Don Williams

I don’t remember a time before being aware of my father’s record collection. That’s not only because the collection predates me, but because I don’t remember a time when there wasn’t a record player in the living room or dining room, when my father or my mother weren’t playing something.

My father is a country music fan, and I grew up listening to George Jones and Waylon Jennings and Tammy Wynette. I sorted through my father’s albums more times than I can remember. There was a lot of Johnny Cash and Bobby Bare. There were a few, pre-Bocephus, Hank Jr’s. There was Sammi Smith and Tanya Tucker.

I remember in kindergarten one day that the teacher asked us to write the names of albums on pieces of paper, and how I had no idea who Peter Frampton or ELO were. I pretended to know what Grease was. I’d heard of the Beatles but I’m not sure if I knew which songs were theirs. Many of my classmates had older siblings, and many of them probably had parents who listened to popular music. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. Maybe that was the beginning of the feeling out of step. It’s a feeling that has never quite left me.

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Master of None S2

You’ve had this happen, right? You meet someone and you connect. And when I say connect I mean you see them for the first time and they are already familiar even though there is no possible way that you could have seen them. I don’t know if it’s a chemical level or a psychological level or a karmic level, but you are certain they are meant to be part of your life, and the conversations that follow only support that idea. Somehow it feels like it was meant to be.

Of course there can be complications. Maybe you’re married. Maybe that someone is also married. Maybe you live in different countries or cities or (in New York) different neighborhoods. But you can’t shake it. And to make everything worse — painfully, awesomely worse, that someone feels the same about you.

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