CDs Of The Stone Age.

 

October 31st 2010.

I don’t know why it is, but sometimes I’ll go for days without writing a word and then other times something will just click in my head, a word or a phase that someone may have said on X or someplace else that I frequent, and it's as if they turned on a faucet. The ideas just start flowing and won’t stop until I make them. Funny how that works, but it happened recently as I was chatting with a friend on X, she mentioned something about her daughter not knowing what a record/record player was, I got this line in my head, and I couldn’t get it out, I knew I had to do something with it, but it wasn’t coming to me. Records: CD’s of the Stone Age. Damn, that was too good not to use on my blog somehow. I tried to write a post around it- several times in fact, nothing worked with it though. It somehow made me picture this older guy, maybe in his late 50s, completely disconnected from modern technology, still has everything stashed somewhere up in the attic. I figure he has two sons in their mid-teens, and probably a daughter maybe a year or two younger than the boys, or maybe she’s in between them in age. He has a decent paying job, is forced to use a computer at work, but really can’t stand it. He fights it every day, won’t buy a cell phone, etc. etc. etc. If it weren’t for his wife and kids, he probably would be totally lost when forced to use any of the modern technology.

He comes in the front door one day after work and stares at his two teenage sons, one is in his recliner, the other is sprawled out on the sofa. Both are wearing these things called ear buds and are plugged into their iPhones. They are both jumping around like a couple of frogs that have been thrown on a lit hot plate. Their eyes are closed, and their heads are bouncing back and forth almost violently. He stares at them for a time with a look in his eyes that has long since crossed over from one born of pity and has bloomed into full-grown disgust. His eldest son opens his eyes, at sits up straight, removing the ear buds and setting the iPhone down on the table at the end of the sofa.

“Hey pop! Got home early, huh?” He says.

He nods slowly, all the while eying the curious contraption suspiciously.

“What the hell is that you're listening to there son?” He asks.

“What? This? This here is an iPhone pop, It plays all of my music.”

He bends down and picks up the device and carefully begins to examine it.

“Music?”

The boy nods.

“How do you fit a CD in this thing?”

Now the other son has removed his ear buds and both boys are giving each other confused looks, the youngest looks up at his father, and then at his brother. Both are now smiling.

“Geez Pop, these are phones, not CD players. Cd’s are a thing of the past, pretty much.” The oldest son says.

He gives them both a cold blank stare. Before looking back down at the device.

“I just bought both you and your sister brand-new CD players. What happened to them?”

The confused looks return on the boys faces.

“Geez Pop, that was 10 years ago.”

“What did you do with the CD’s then?”

“We downloaded them onto our computers hard drive, then put them on iTunes and then synched them onto the iPhones, then the music is stored in the cloud. We put the CD’s away a long time ago, Pop.”

CDs were obsolete now too? All this time he was still trying to figure those out, and now they went ahead and made something new? He is never going to catch up, he thinks to himself. He sets the iPhone back down on the table, and now the confused look is all his. He slowly walks past them but says nothing further, just when he figures out how to use one thing-they go ahead and spring something new on him. It isn’t fair.

He finds himself almost unconsciously heading towards the entrance to the attic, he climbs up into the dark dusty room and locates a chair and begins to mull through some old boxes that he and the wife stashed up there years ago. He finds some boxes filled with old LP’s and when he picks up the Iron Butterfly album it brings a smile to his face.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. Lord, it's been years. He hears a noise that pulls him back to the present and turns to see both of his sons staring at him.

“Whatcha doin Pop?” They both ask.

“Reminiscing.” He tells them.

The boys both appear at his side, looking down in amazement at what he’s holding in his hands.

“Wow, Pop, you still have some old records? That’s kinda cool!” They both say.

He turns in their direction and gives them a surprised look.

“You know what records are?” He asks.

The oldest son smiles proudly.

“Sure, Pop, we were talking about them in history class just the other day. I bet you still have one of them antique record players too, doncha pop?”

“Yeah, there’s one around here somewhere, my old stereo is long gone, but I think your mother put a portable one in that old trunk over there.”

He rises to his feet and walks over to the old trunk and opens it, there are old magazines and several 45’s laying on top, and the smile slowly reappears on his face, as he digs deeper, exposing even more hidden treasures, an old varsity letterman’s sweater causes a memory to resurface. And then there just underneath the sweater he sees the old portable record player and pulls it out of the trunk. The boys both circle around behind him.

“Hey Pop? you don’t suppose that old piece of junk still works, do ya?” The youngest says.

He opens the top and closely inspects it.

“I suppose with a little tinkering I could get it working if it isn’t already.”

The oldest son is now holding the Iron Butterfly album and carefully slides the record out of the jacket and marvels at the shiny black disc as though it were a relic from a dark distant past.

“Just think Pop, these were like the Cd’s of your day, and that was probably YOUR Mp3 player.” The oldest says.

He slouches back down in his chair, suddenly feeling very old. Until he sees the youngest pull a familiar looking cigar box out of the trunk. He stands and hurriedly takes it away from him, almost acting as if he is somehow embarrassed.

He slowly opens the cigar box and looks inside to see some old Zig Zag rolling papers along with a couple of roach clips, and remnants of a half smoked Marijuana cigarette. The boys lean forward and manage a peek. They give each other a look.

“Mmmmmm. Hmmmm. Doobage.” They both say in unison.

He wants to be concerned as to how his sons seem to know exactly what doobage is… But somewhere deep inside, he is secretly relived to know that at least there are some things haven’t and may never change.

~Scratch.. A.B.T. Copyright © 2010~