How Ryan Got His Groove Back

Wildcat File Photo Arizona Daily Wildcat Ryan Chirnomas

At this point we emerge from packed boxes, amazed that we own so much stuff. The stuff seems to multiply like the Andromeda Strain.

Surely, this is true of my treasured CD collection. During the past several years, my collection has grown consistently, thanks to the accessibility of used CDs and a bit of strategic joining-then-quitting of the mass-market CD clubs. And a good collection it was. I drew comfort from Springsteen to Sinatra; Pink Floyd to Pearl Jam. Almost a hundred CDs strong.

That is, until The Day the Music Died. Or more appropriately, The Day the Music Disappeared.

So there I was, eagerly loading my rickety jalopy of a car with a bunch of stuff to bring to my new apartment. And there, in broad daylight, in a quiet unsuspecting neighborhood, occurred The Crime of the Century. More disturbing than the Kennedy assassination, more shocking than the O.J. murders, more appalling than the Lindbergh baby kidnapping.

Some worthless bastard stole about 50 CDs from the trunk of my car.

I was pissed. I wanted justice, preferably of the vigilante sort. Any old unconventional crime stopper would do: Batman, Robin Hood, a crazed mob equipped with torches and pitchforks. Unfortunately, none of these heroes could avail me that fateful Friday evening, so I had to resort to the Tucson Police Department.

So I dialed up Tucson's Finest, to report this heinous crime. Although they were a bit less shocked and outraged than I was, they did offer some valuable advice. The fuzz recommended that I make up a list of the CDs stolen, and give it to used CD stores, where the scumbag was likely to sell back his ill-gotten goods for some quick cash.

I'm no dummy. I know good advice when I hear it. I did what the cops said, and spent the next hour or so compiling a list of all my musical lost loves.

This was, by far, the most arduous part of the whole ordeal, since I not only had to rack my brains to think of each CD that was missing, but also lament the fact that I would probably never enjoy the euphony again. Alas, I was able to hold back the tears long enough to make a concise list of my lost treasure.

Armed with the "Used Records, CD, and Tapes" entry ripped out of a Yellow Pages, dozens of copies of my list of "hot" CDs, and a chip on my shoulder, I set out on a mission. Accompanied by my faithful sidekick Shanna, I drove my rattletrap of a car to nearly every record store in Tucson, all the while cursing society in general. At each store, it was the same procedure: I explained my woeful situation to the clerk, they sympathized, and added my list to "the file," which no doubt was an abyss of stolen CDs.

Dejected and discouraged, I returned home after my crusade, thinking it more likely that I sprout little purple wings and fly to Saturn than get any of my CDs back.

However, much to my surprise, the very next day, I experienced the sensation of sky rockets in flight. The vermin that stole my CDs attempted to sell them back, half of them anyway, at Bookman's Used Books Music & Software. And thanks to the eagle-eyes of an employee named Ethan, the forces of good prevailed.

Unfortunately, the rotten scoundrel got away. But the police came and dusted for fingerprints on the recovered CDs. So I got about half of them back, although the rest are still missing in action.

Better than nothing, I suppose. And the good guy won in the end.

Friends, what good is an epic like this without a clever and philosophically worded moral? Jerry Springer of "Final Thought" NBC fame, has his "The More You Know" series. GI Joe had his "Knowing is Half the Battle" lessons. So here, for the first time ever, is "Ryan's Big Ol' Honkin' Mama of a Moral." Bookman's is good. Thieves are bad. Moving is the root of all evil.

Ryan Chirnomas is a molecular and cellular biology senior and can be reached via e-mail at Ryan.Chirnomas@wildcat.arizona.edu. His column, In Hasselhoff We Trust, appears every Friday.