I ’ll be the first to admit, I’m something of a fetishist for the past. I studied history in college. I know my parents’ wedding album probably better than they do. Though by no means exclusively, I listen to a lot of old music. As I write, I’m playing 1968’s The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society — itself an expression of nostalgia for an earlier time.
One history that especially fascinates me is The Sun’s. On the wall of my office is a calendar the magazine sent to subscribers — all forty or so of them — at the beginning of 1977. It’s outdated and nonfunctional, but I hung it there because of its . . . well, grooviness. I like the horoscope-adjacent artwork and the handmade feel. It’s very much a product of its time, the kind of thing my brother would call “crunchy.” It is, I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit, one of several outdated calendars that take up space on my walls.
