Tuesday, March 29, 2005
I Ain't Got Nothing To Be Scared Of
My cd player died the other day. In truth, I killed it.
Every now and then, a cd would get caught in the back, and I'd have to jigger it out after an hour or two of poking, pulling, and very patient prodding. This happened again the other night, and a it was a good cd caught back there. A good 'un. I just didn't have the patience anymore. That, and the damn thing simply would not come out. So I ripped it out.
Cd lives; player dies.
I remember buying it, going to the store with my friends, thinking we'd split the cost, then finding out that it would just be me. That's fine. Other than a broken neon sign, it was my first "big purchase" of college. A bit unnecessary, but it turned out to be a fine purchase.
It held 60 cds, which made it great for parties we threw, but then . . . no one ever liked our music . . . . But then, that never really bothered me, so I guess it's a wash. The music was good for me and the people that mattered. I used to put in these programmed acoustic sets to get me to bed. Later, my soon-to-be-wife would fall asleep learning to like Bob Dylan. I remember laying on my bed one night, with one long song on repeat, over and over, until I could find a way to relax. I remember sitting on the bed, coarse live music pulsing out of the speakers, waiting to have a conversation neither of us wanted to have. It provided the music to nearly all my drum sessions from '96 forward. It had been carried, climbed over, dropped and protected.
The crazy thing is how I never would have thought, standing in Best Buy that day, that it would end up dying all the way up here in my attic on Indiana Avenue, far from its roots but still full of good music and all the solace and bombast that can bring.
"I know I'm not all there, but I'm getting, getting, getting there."
Every now and then, a cd would get caught in the back, and I'd have to jigger it out after an hour or two of poking, pulling, and very patient prodding. This happened again the other night, and a it was a good cd caught back there. A good 'un. I just didn't have the patience anymore. That, and the damn thing simply would not come out. So I ripped it out.
Cd lives; player dies.
I remember buying it, going to the store with my friends, thinking we'd split the cost, then finding out that it would just be me. That's fine. Other than a broken neon sign, it was my first "big purchase" of college. A bit unnecessary, but it turned out to be a fine purchase.
It held 60 cds, which made it great for parties we threw, but then . . . no one ever liked our music . . . . But then, that never really bothered me, so I guess it's a wash. The music was good for me and the people that mattered. I used to put in these programmed acoustic sets to get me to bed. Later, my soon-to-be-wife would fall asleep learning to like Bob Dylan. I remember laying on my bed one night, with one long song on repeat, over and over, until I could find a way to relax. I remember sitting on the bed, coarse live music pulsing out of the speakers, waiting to have a conversation neither of us wanted to have. It provided the music to nearly all my drum sessions from '96 forward. It had been carried, climbed over, dropped and protected.
The crazy thing is how I never would have thought, standing in Best Buy that day, that it would end up dying all the way up here in my attic on Indiana Avenue, far from its roots but still full of good music and all the solace and bombast that can bring.
"I know I'm not all there, but I'm getting, getting, getting there."
