I Won't Go Gentle Into That New Millennium

Two and a half years ago I wrote about my disdain for a cute Asian girl who showed up on TV claiming "I'm a PC and I'm 4 and a half," while she showed off her deft technology skills. This little tyke put me to shame. At the time I was "37 and a Walkman."

I just--finally--got my first iPod this Christmas, exactly 24 years to the day after I got my first (and only) Sony Walkman cassette player. Last night I spent two hours trying to set it up. Download this program, register this gadget, create this account, autosign this legal agreement, oops you're due for updates (really, Apple? three sets of updates in one evening??). And every step contained several subsequent pop-up boxes with various options that required checking and unchecking tiny little boxes.

I don't like this kind of commitment, mainly because I will NEVER find my way back to any particular set of checkboxes. Basically, the choices I made last night will stand forEVER.

It's not that I don't embrace technology, I simply don't want all these blessed questions. My Walkman had the following instructions (in 8 languages): Pop in a cassette and push "play."

DONE.

That is why I kept it for 18 years.

Don't get me wrong, I love my iPod. I'm so glad to finally be caught up to 2001. I'm just a little awkward with it. I found myself listening to it while walking around the house, holding the thing in my hand. It's what, an inch and half squared and weighs all of one ounce? I could clip it to my earlobe and barely notice it, yet I felt like I had to CARRY it because that's what I know. Even more embarassing is that I *almost* needed to put my glasses on just to read the miniscule touch screen on my nano. I didn't have to READ my Walkman, it had four buttons.


So while I try to reconcile the fact that my entire iPod nano is smaller than the mere belt clip on my old Walkman, I'm reveling in the ease and speed at which I can now search for, find, purchase, download, and listen to songs I haven't heard in years, without having to buy nine other unwanted songs on an album. And without having to sit there while I re-record them onto a tape, hoping the tape doesn't run out in the middle of a song.

Ohh, 2001, you've got your hooks in me.

Is it Love, or is it Memorex?

A conversation on Facebook yesterday reminded me of a Gen X mainstay of teenage emotional angst: the mix tape. In the intervening decades since my high school days, 21st century technological advances have relegated cassette tapes to packed boxes in the backs of closets, and even a mention of the words “mix tape” to anyone under the age of 20 induces perplexed reactions. A friend said, “You know, our word “mix” is gone, it is very sad. Now I guess it is a playlist? I liked mix better.” Today’s young’uns probably think “mix tape” is an assortment of sticky substances of masking, duct, and scotch.

But I fondly remember the forethought, effort, and emotion that went into creating the masterpiece of the mix tape, seemingly unrelated songs brought together to express secret crushes, unrequited love, or remembrance of crazy times. Hours were spent coming up with the list of songs, getting the sequence of tunes just right to configure the most perfect segues, and in the process of finding all the songs on your albums or borrowing them from your friends. Sometimes it even required the biggest time waster of all…waiting for hours for a song to come on the radio with tape recorder in hand so you could record it from speaker to tape player. That was some quality remixing there!


The final product felt like you had poured your soul into this little plastic container of magnetic ribbon. All the words you could not compose yourself were now neatly packaged for your beloved. The only thing lacking was a title for the tape. “Good Stuff” was common, or “My Faves.” You didn’t want to be too committal on the title, it was crucial to leave an air of mystery as to what was inside. Once named, all that was left to decide was the mode of delivery. Would you sneak it into their school locker? Trust a friend to give it to them? Leave it on the windshield of their car for them to find on the drive home? It was imperative that no one other than the intended recipient got their hands on your masterpiece. The embarrassment of someone else learning your true feelings was to be avoided at all costs!

And when somebody made a mix tape for you--especially someone of the other sex--it was as if Casey Kasem was sending out a long-distance dedication just to you. That meant undeniably that not only did they LIKE you, but that they THOUGHT about you, a lot, or at least for an hour or two it took them to make the tape. Yes, the mix tape was tangible proof you could show your friends to prove that somebody liked you.


But occasionally there was that uncomfortable moment where you reached a song on the mix that seemed questionable, even inappropriate. “Ohmygod, why did he put that on there? What does that mean? Is he kidding? Is he mad at me now? Should I ask him about it?” Mix tapes often ignited more questions than they answered, thereby not only sustaining teen angst, but firmly securing it into a long-term seat on the emotional rollercoaster.

The worst mix tape to receive was the I Like You But Only As A Friend mix. I got one of those once and it only had, like, 3 songs on it. See, he didn’t even want to put effort into the breakup, just 3 songs and then 33 minutes of dead air. I still can’t hear Nelson’s “After the Rain” without thinking of that jerk. Don’t be afraid to lose what was never meant to be. This from the same guy who once made me a tape that included Journey’s “Open Arms.” Where’d the love go? I guess we sailed on together, but drifted apart.

Sigh.

To return to the days of my double tape deck with double-speed dubbing, to bust out my Journey, Wham!, and Jack Wagner records, to once again play the role of teenage deejay in the nightclub of junior high life…would be to once again remember how tortuous young love was. Rock on, friends.

I'm 37, and I'm a Walkman

You know what really burns me? That little Asian girl on the Windows commercial, “my name is Kylie. I’m 4-1/2 and I’m a PC.”

What do you mean you’re a PC? You’re 4-1/2, you’re a Fisher Price. You’re a teddy bear. At best you’re a Magna Doodle. But you, my dear, are far too young to be a PC because I am 37 and I barely know how to edit the photo gallery on my computer, so you should not be using your tiny little fingers to “stick this thingy in here and make the picture better.”

Seriously, I just threw away my Sony Walkman last year, the same one I got for Christmas in 1988. I still don’t have an iPod. I just bought my second cell phone—ever-- last week and only finally mastered how to take a picture on that thing today, a week later and with my husband’s tutoring.

Today I came across a You Tube video posted by a family friend. It was shot by 7-year-old and 3-year-old sisters. BY THEMSELVES. Their 9-year-old sister happened to find it on the family computer. Not only were their on-air adlibbing skills far advanced for their ages, but the production quality of the clip was quite creative. I’m pretty sure they’re going to be the next Food Network comedy cooking duo.

My husband and I talk about having kids, and he has only one caveat: “They have to learn Photoshop right away.” Sigh…little Kylie is going to have to come tutor me first.