Still Making Sense

(image taken from LA Times)

(images taken from Tube Radio Land)

For the Christmas season, which also boasts my birthday and our anniversary, in a rather conveniently inconvenient clustering of important dates that connote the concept of memory making as well as gift giving, the filmmaker presented me with the infamous documentary film Stop Making Sense. Additionally, through a slight online ordering mishap, he offered forth the compact disc of the album. My general proclivity for nostalgia of eras in which I was not alive and thus did not participate viscerally, manifest by my affinity for vintage cocktail ware, for art deco aesthetics, for copious costume jewels, combined with my finding large appliances from the 1990s quaint and amusing, means I have kept my childhood boombox in my possession. Mostly, it sits on the floor of my apartment, adorned with a shimmering layer of inevitable dust. Lately though, I have been journeying into the musical recesses of my mind, listening to albums from high school that were played over and over, my repeating soundtracks of triumph and joy and frustration and angst. I am reminded immediately of that now distant anticipated desire of a new album, fresh from the record store, tearing into the glory with feverish speed as soon as possible in the car. Driving away to the beat and rhythm of new songs.

This evening, I finally extracted the precious Talking Heads disc from its taped packaged plastic catacomb. It has been years since I opened a new compact disc, years since I have had to rely on the nimble dexterity of the tips of my fingers to pick and scratch away relentless adhesive. At last, triumph, and a dance party while I cook dinner and tidy up for my weekend visitors. Boombox speakers still got it.