I am in love with a dying thing. I am watching the last gasps from its heaving, metallic breast-shaped breast. At such a time, a moment of mourning is required. A passionate dirge should be played to mark the occasion. I'd blast the Arcade Fire's, "Neighborhood #3(Power Out)," from their aptly named Furneral album. Let's see ... I'll just pop it into the CD player and ... sob ... It's gone.
The nearest, honest-to-God actual compact disc player is 25 minutes away at Tim's house. Full disclosure, it also plays DVD's, but at least its hooked to 5.0 speakers that function independently of an active TV. Every other CD playing device within reason has a screen and 75% of the time allows me to input all the CD's info into its memory making the physical copy disposable. In fact, those same devices are networked to an even bigger memory that already contains the CD's info and offers immediate availability, cheaper pricing and scratch-resistance. But I feel like I'm forgetting something ...
Cd's are entirely responsible for East Buddha. My earliest memories are of family time in the den listening to a Sam Cooke greatest hits record (vinyl, mind you) on some old stereophonic sound system. As I grew, the player broke and the speakers were continually relegated to subordinate furniture holding positions. I don't even remember getting rid of them.
What's permanently etched into my psyche is the day the Mason's bought a CD player. Tearing open that massive cardboard box from Circuit City (believe it or not, not Best Buy) was comparable to opening the Ark of the Covenant. Deep within the plastic and packing peanuts lay the potential for new life and limitless possibility. I experienced a child's interpretation of an orgasm scraping at the theft-proof plastic restraining Michael Card's Joy in the Journey. Once fully settled in the den, the voice of God (or at least shitty-Christian-folk-God) rang out for months. Until, I ganked an Oldies 106.9 compilation CD from a radio station remote at a car-lot.
Our CD player was the shit. It allowed the owner to submit, not just one, but six CD's. Yet, until Oldies 106.9, all notes went to reformed theology (the aforementioned Mr. Card and GLAD). Oldies 106.9 led due south; it was Satan's music. I sold my soul and in return I received $30 in gift certificates to Satan's CD Warehouse, or formally, Magic Platter.
Its location in the same shopping center as the aforementioned Circuit City, gave my shopping spree a fortuitous feel. I left that musty, mystical palace with two used CD's, Dave Matthews Band's Under the Table and Dreaming and The Presidents of the United Sates of America's II, and one new, Pearl Jam's Yield. Suddenly, I was Pro-choice ... of music! I held the musical power, four of the six changable discs were mine. Random select was my bitch!
3 years passed before I revisited CD Mecca. In that time, I got a guitar, a job and the Internet. I tried in vain to emulate Dave's complex playing structure via tabs, I took a stab at Eddie Vedder's emotive song-writing, but with each venture the hunger grew. The gaping maw of musical experience widened beyond my peripherals; I needed to fill the void. In a flash of inspiration I darted my new Explorer across three lanes of Hoover traffic towards the quirky, record store sign.
I entered with solemn humility, almost crossing myself as I crept into the racks. The afternoon sun-light leaked though the half-opened blinds and the sales-floor reeked of incense, I was indeed, in the presence of holiness. The constant choir struck some interesting notes and I humbly approached the sales-Chaplin at the sticker-covered pulpit. "Who is this?" I supplicated. He gazed down upon me with wise contempt, "Swearing at Motorists. Its off their recording The Number 7 Uptown. We don't have a copy in stock, but I can order it for you. We'll have it in like 3 days."
I committed my life to CD's then and there, returning on the third day with $16. Gently unwrapping clerk-deacon shorn plastic I felt reborn. The penumbra of "the old self" I discarded in pebble inlaid alter outside the store and inserted the embossed shiny gospel into my car stereo. You'd assume I was experiencing Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" as I screeched the lyrics to, "Calgon Take Me Away" on the drive to work. I was on some Meta-thetan level shit!
... Now I remember, the car CD player.
