We've been thinking about how loaded it feels to have spent the last several days consuming Old Records Never Die by the Eric Spitznagel, his new memoir about the search for his long lost record collection. Spitznagel is a funny fucking dude, and it seems impossible not to comment on that before recognizing just how touching his new joint is, as it explores how we grow apart from friends and siblings, even as we build families of our own, and make new friends, lose parents, especially fathers apparently, and try to figure out whether we have lost something along the way - our coolness, our curiosity, our desire to take chances, and our ability to sleep with anyone we want, assuming anyone wants, or wanted, to sleep with us in the first place. It's so much about being stuck, or thinking we're stuck, not knowing, and barely remembering the facts of our youth, much less if and how we got stuck in the first place. But that's just the book. Not to minimize why we're here. Because it is a book so Spitznagel - fast and funny, a journey jammed full of insights and Hornbyesque glory - that we do need to ask ourselves if Spitznagel should be repurposed as an adjective - the name, not the person, though maybe its both - and not merely a sexual position banned in any number of states and localities. It's just that what we have been ruminating on, if not actually been stuck on ourselves, is how in a time of tragedy and confusion, seeing old friends, reveling in music and nostalgia, laughing and crying, are all crucial for coping, not to mention keeping our shit together. Old Records Never Die is all of that, and if not sure to change your life at a time when life itself is more than enough, it is certainly sure to cause you pause, and make you want to hug those closest to you, reach for your closest ABBA album and dance until you can breathe again.