For years I lived alone in a downtown bachelor apartment with bright yellow walls, hardwood floors, a quaint little kitchen that overlooked a church…and a bathroom that you had to share with the person across the hall.  That wasn’t always ideal, but $380 a month could not be argued with.  I filled every square inch of wall and ledge with kitsch.  Neil Diamond records tacked on the wall, this strange motif of old men with pipes, painted velvet, you can imagine–I was a mid-twenties theatre major, you just know there was a “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” poster up in there somewhere.  A place of pride in the flat was my red record player and stack of albums.  I absolutely loved that crackling sound of the record.  I’ve owned a record player since I was a teenager, after my dad brought one home for me.  I went on a school…