Wax stax

Over the course of several years, Penguin Hall has been the happy beneficiary of a record wealth of records. Friends and acquaintances, long familiar with the Halls' philosophy of no vinyl left behind, have willingly donated or willed scores of scores, vocals, broadcasts and other recorded buffoonery. The catacombs at the Hall are bursting with technicolor covers and Mr. Hall decided it was time to do something about it.

"Break out the turntable, dear, and dust off the old digital recording software. I require fresh tunes for the MP3 player, and heaven knows, there's nothing on the radio these days worth listening to." Mrs. Hall was just about to open her mouth and offer a favorable opinion of Lady Gaga, but, thinking better of it, held her peace. While occasionally Mrs. H. would hear the lilting strains of Lerner and Lowe, or the Beach Boys rising from his computer at work, she knew that Mr. Hall primarily liked to have music in the big black car. The Halls were looking at a busy traveling schedule looming ahead for the next year and nothing filled the hours on the road like singing along with their old favorites.

It's common knowledge that anything composed after 1965 is suspect in Mr. Hall's mind, so she wisely headed for the section labeled "Oldies" "Classics". She returned upstairs, and brushing the cobwebs off her shoulders, offered up a few selections. "I found these right off the bat and thought you might like some of the tunes. Pick out whatever you like and I'll make sure they get to your player."

Mr. Hall perused her choices. "They're terrific. Get as many of the songs out of them as you can." Mrs. Hall blenched. "There's almost 200 songs just in those albums-" she started, but he cut her off. "Tut-tut! Our next trip's not til mid-October; you have a whole month. Get cracking!"