It’s a spring morning. Wrapped in a down quilt, I snuggle in the passenger seat of our old Subaru Forrester, sipping a cinnamon-laced latte and breathing in the velvet tones of Mr. James Taylor.
The album ends. I eject the silver CD, holding it like a priest lifting a communion host. Lightning strikes. I realize I’ve been hoodwinked and bamboozled – wool has been pulled over my eyes. I’ve been conned by the wolves of modern technology. I am not alone.
Why listen to Mr. James Taylor in a Subaru? Well, it’s the only CD player left in my life. We lost the radio/CD in our last move.
The CD in my hand is one of 60 that I own. These discs survived a long line of tragic musical mistakes—mistakes I lay at the door of technological ‘innovations.’
Where did I go wrong? My stomach twists, my heart aches as I confess my role in the tragic demise of my precious record player.
My record player. Lord, I adored that turntable with its diamond-tipped needle dancing on top of a Carol King vinyl.
My loyal companion spun at my side night and day. The soundtrack of my life performed while I concentrated on statistics, tackled research papers, cleaned my apartment, and kissed my boyfriend.
I lived in a private bubble. Tapping into a mood or perhaps under a spell, I’d glide across the room, pluck an album from the bookcase, embrace it, slip off its tight-fitting jacket, blow softly on its exposed vinyl, and lay it down for play. Love.
I memorized every album, and the music flowed from one song to the next as if it were one long melody. Thanks to my record player, I learned entire albums, side by side
She fed my brain with melodies that rolled around in my head as I rode the bus, attended class lectures, and worked the checkout at Jewel. Always – music humming in my head.
But as Joni Mitchell warned, “Don’t it always seem to go. You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone?”
I paved paradise while I drank the Kool-Aid. What Kook-Aid? A hypnotic cocktail served up by the testosterone-drenched techies in my life – a husband and two sons, guys who duped me into hopping on the gerbil wheel of technological musical ‘advances.’
Did you know that 84% of imprisoned women are in jail because they followed the advice of some man they loved? Just saying, the road to the dark side is a slow boil, and the chef with the flame? Nearly always some tech guy with a ‘great idea.’
Fine, I accept responsibility. I sold out. I went against my gut instincts, and while dubious, I did not resist. (Ignoring gut instincts is where women go wrong; just saying).
I wept from my core as I placed my priceless vinyl record albums into milk crates and hauled them over to Goodwill – nearly wresting them back from the mitts of that drive-through donation collector guy. But Goodwill won.
The worst sin of all? The truly mortal sin? I handed over my precious record player—my turntable with the diamond-point needle. I cried an ocean of tears, but I did it.
How could I not know that my record player would be one of the great loves of my life? I have the genome of a Canadian Goose. I marry for life. Yet I dumped a treasure?
A repeat nightmare followed the dumping. In the night terror, a techno-savvy nerd lurks in a moldy, cluttered basement and plays my albums on my turntable. The nerd sneers at me, one hand holding up Carol King while the other fondles my precious record player.
Albums-less, turntable destitute, and emotionally rattled, I confessed, I cannot live without music. So, what did I do? I listened to my tech guys hawk the latest ‘great idea,’ and rebought every one of my treasured albums in ‘state-of-the-art’ tape cassettes.
Tape cassettes? A total crap experience compared to the magnificence of vinyl records spinning on a turntable.
Tapes melted and warped, with artists sounding like drunkards. Worst of all, the ribbons got stuck in cassette players – especially in the car. There, kids gleefully pulled out and crushed them into mounds of ticker-tape spaghetti – spaghetti I’d spend hours, number 2 pencil in hand, rewinding into cassettes.
So, hating tapes, I re-embraced the radio – AM and FM. Sure, no turntable, but the radio I bought included a cassette player if I was desperate enough to play one of those crappy tapes. During this period, I got way into NPR.
To my credit, I ignored techie pleas to ‘get with’ mp3s and nab some Napster. They had to nab without me. Saw that one coming.
Then came Spotify. Pete hooked me up to minimize my temper tantrums. But to listen to a few Ed Sheeran tunes, I had to endure multiple Geico trailers, four Tide Pod commercials, and eight to ten Viagra ads. Spotify tortures music lovers, hoping we’ll surrender and buy the Premium version. Ha!
Still in the driveway, I stare at the James Taylor disc. This cheap plastic wannabe is no substitute for a sturdy vinyl record. It’s a cheesy knockoff – yet…
I joined the CD craze- slipping on yet another set of digital handcuffs. I waved goodbye to tapes and opened the door to CDs.
And as you’ve already guessed, I re-bought my favorite albums in CD format. This craze went on for a few years. Sure, music was back at my side, but my heart still longed for my record player and albums.
In our latest move, my CD player/radio disappeared. That’s when I turned to the Subaru in the driveway.
Rattled by insight, I am aware of two things. I need music, and I’ll be damned if I donate 40 CDs to Goodwill.
I glimpse a path ahead: I’ll re-buy a radio/ CD player and exit the driveway.
I open the car door, wrap myself royally in the down quilt, march into the house, and shout for my husband, Pete, who is gleefully installing software on his media rack.
“Honey,” I say, “Today, I’m buying a radio. One with a CD player.”
A techno-caveman’s response floats out of his cave. “Babe, you don’t need a souped-up radio. You got me! And we’re going all Connect-4.”
“Right, I got you, Babe. And that is precisely why I need my own equipment.”
Just a few words about Pete. Pete is an engineer with a career in aerospace. Tall, muscular, enormous brown eyes – adorable, yes, but every molecule of this guy screams technology.
Sure, you can count on any object he’s launched into the sky, going where it is supposed to go and returning when it is supposed to return.
The downside of Pete? In our home, it takes a blood pressure spiking 27 steps to get to the music. Steps that involve his computer, a TV, a receiver, three control panels, lists of secret passwords, HTML I, HTM II, VPN, and Windows 11.
When we built our home, Pete wired it with CAT-6. Blue, white, and yellow strands of electrical spaghetti threaded through its guts.
“CAT-6, we’re the envy of every guy I know. Six-foot-tall media rack, and we’re going all Connect-4. Rewiring all media to a central system. Babe, how about I wire up the lights and drapes?”
I scream, “No lights. No drapes. Maybe when I’m ninety or ninety-five, right now, Babe, I need the exercise. Walk to the light switch, snap it on. Pull the drapes. Think of it as toning my legs and upper arms.”
“Babe, you’ve got to consider the lights and drapes – it would be as easy as pressing a button.”
Sure, it would, after I waste an hour hunting for the control panel.
Pete’s got us wired, wifi-ed, blue-toothed, and ZIGBEE’D. This technology is not remotely understandable even after I have asked for and received several in-depth lectures.
“Well, Babe,” he says, “it’s all electromagnetic energy. Each type of device operates on a different frequency – they’ve divided up the frequencies.”
“Who are ‘they’” I ask, squinting suspiciously. “And does this electromagnetic energy go around us or through us?”
“’ They’ are engineers,” he explains, “and yes, the electromagnetic energy goes around us, and some of it goes through us.”
I flail my arms. “And you think this is safe?”
He offers no response.
Enough already about my over-wired environment.
What is important is my quest for music—music I can control with the touch of my finger, music untinged by Viagra commercials, music that lets me save those 40 CDs and get out of the driveway.
I usher Pete into our electric car. This guy cannot resist a trip to Best Buy.
We enter Best Buy and are immediately greeted by a rail-thin, handsome, 16-year-old giraffe of a guy with ‘Jamal’ pinned on his bright blue shirt – right over his heart.
Jamal eagerly engages Pete. I have to re-direct Jamal to myself.
Joy on my lips, I announce, “Jamal, today, I want to buy a radio/CD player.”
Startled by this request, Jamal rolls his gigantic brown eyes, “A radio?”
“Radio and CD player,” I smile.
Jamal looks to the ceiling for inspirational retrieval and finds an empty information cloud.
“A radio/CD? I don’t think… we probably don’t….”
I explain, “Jamal, it’s usually a black box about this big.” I illustrate the product with hand gestures. “It has a fold-down antenna, AM and FM stations, and a CD player – you know, the lid flips up for the CD. And here is the best part – using one finger, you press play.”
Frozen in concentration, I sense Jamal is visualizing the item.
“Oh, yeah,” Jamal jumps back to consciousness. “Like in my mom’s Toyota!”
“Right, Jamal, a radio and CD player, just like in your mom’s Toyota, but only not in the Toyota – in a small black box.”
“Ah,” he smiles softly, then frowns, concerned about delivering disappointing news, “I don’t think we have any of those.”
I am crestfallen.
Jamal picks up on my despair. Eager to please, he pulls out his last thread of hope.
“Let me just double-check with Isaac. Isaac is our man. If we have such a device, Isaac will know.”
Jamal presses the walkie-talkie clipped to his breast pocket and raises the earphones that hang limply over his ears. A minute or two of static, buzz, shush, hum, and it’s Isaac on the line. “Hey, Buddy, what ya need?”
“Isaac, I have a customer here who wants a radio/ CD combo, a small black box, antenna, AM FM channels, and a disc player.”
“Ah, buddy, I don’t think. Let me check. I’ll get back to you.”
Jamal smiles at me. I tell him that he has gorgeous hair because he does. Soft, silky, small corn curls like Rotini spring gracefully from the top of his head.
“Thanks,” he touches a lovely sprout. “My mom cuts it, styles it. She uses a special cream.”
Pete drifts off in search of something called mesh WiFi. I sense an opportunity for confession with this receptive spirit.
“Jamal,” I whisper, confessing my deepest wish, “Jamal, what I most want – actually desire – is my old turntable and vinyl albums. Real music.”
“Ah,” Jamal says, his voice laced with admiration. “That is the true music lover’s niche – often the request of our high-end customers. We do carry that kind of equipment in our Magnolia Department. Unfortunately, we don’t have Magnolia at this store, but I know what you want.”
“Jamal, you do understand.” I take a moment to bless his mother for creating such a divine young man.
Jamal reaches into his breast pocket, retrieves his business card, and hands it to me. “If you want, I’ll look into the turntable / Magnolia option. Call me – we’ll make a plan.”
I wave his card. “Jamal, you bet I’ll call.”
The walkie-talkie squawks to life, splitting and buzzing. Isaac is back. “Jamal, you there?”
“I’m Here, Buddy.”
Isaac directs us. “Jamal, check B34-1 bottom shelf, probably in the back.”
I follow Jamal to B34-1. Jamal kneels and searches the bottom shelf.
“Ah ha,” he squeals, “I got something.”
He pulls out a box covered with dust and gingerly erases the powder with a sweep of his graceful fingers.
“There we go,” he sings, as if he just delivered a baby.
He inspects the box. “Look at that, will you? A Sony radio and CD player! Nice.”
“Nice,” I sing.
Jamal places the treasure in my arms. “Madame, your device.”
Isaac sputters back to life on the other end of Jamal’s earphones. “Boombox, baby. That’s what we called it, Jamal. Boombox.”
“Yes, Boombox,” I cheer, remembering that Spike Lee movie.
As Pete and I walk out of Best Buy with me hugging my boombox. I wave at Jamal, his business card floating between my fingers.
He winks back. I mouth the word, ‘Magnolia’ Jamal nods, giving me a thumbs up.
Of course, the tsunami never ends. As we get into the car, Pete launches into his latest technology dream.
‘Babe, I been thinking, we have got to cut the cable cord – go all streaming. Cable – total waste of money – huge monthly bills.”
I am ready for this one. Like me, our daughter Jennifer knows her father’s tech addictions and has already clued me into the latest streaming trend.
Plagiarizing Jennifer because I do not know what the heck I am talking about, I respond, “Right on, Babe, we’ve got to go all ‘Roku.’”
Pete turns to me, eyes glazed with admiration. “Roku, so you’re on board, Babe.”
I smile as I hug my boombox.
I cannot resist squinting at the whole TV thing. Why? Because I remember. I used to have a TV. I did not pay money to watch that TV. My TV had three channels and sometimes four if I wiggled the antenna just right. But don’t get me started. I’m not going there.
With Jamal and Magnolia, I got a shot at getting that record player.
MARY-FRANCES SCHNEIDER 