Once I bought half a dozen records at a shop. When I returned home I discovered inside two of the record jackets an index card with various dates written on it. I guessed the previous owner wrote down the date on the card each time he listened to the album, similar to a library card stamped each time the book is checked out. I felt an immediate affinity with him. After all, this is something I would do. (Instead I keep a notebook and now a blog.) Also, of the thousands of records in the shop, I happened to select two albums owned by him. As fastidious as he was about recording the dates he listened to an album, he had no inclination to leave his name anywhere on the album cover, the record or the card. So this kindred spirit remains nameless to me.
Then there was the time I brought home a copy of David Crosby's If I Could Only Remember My Name. When I opened up the gatefold cover, dried, almost powdery, marijuana leaves drifted to the floor. I shouldn't have been surprised.