Convenience sucks: it’s why we throw so much crap out at Starbucks, at McDonalds. The single-serve American dream of instant gratification. Email thank you notes, Tom Riddle’s diary: “friends” guiding you through a phantom-life with a divining rod, by remote control. The mimicry is better than real life if you’re not careful.
My iPod is a closet over-stuffed with outfits, and I can’t find the right one. But it feels good to play an album as it was intended, now. They have a beginning, middle, and an end. They have pictures and lyrics and like a book, you can admire the worn edges; they’ve been with you through the years and fade from the angle of the sun, just like us. The crackle is like a campfire and so is the warmth, in analog.
Some day when my kids have boyfriends I’ll have to show them how to wire speakers to the stereo unit, how to bite the ends off the plastic to get the copper wire to come out, and wrap it around the terminals to get the polarity right.
Of course I could show them this over a beer in the garage, or they could just look it up on Wikipedia.