Luddite II

Preface to reader: This blog sounds incredibly materialistic. A dash of a whiny tone, repetitive rhythm and a word choice that has the effect-- reminiscent of the lulling cry of a teething baby *you know, the way in which you become accustomed to a certain sound, and don't recognize it anymore--I think this blog has the same effect*

I have no music. My Luddite tendencies are out in full force, stronger than anything physics can prove, including gravity, even in its simplest Newtonian theory. (Physics, pff!)

Let me paint the picture, with words (Imagery!!)

I was sitting in my room, on the floor. I have this amazing 'oriental' style carpet (1), the patterns a dream for anyone tripping on acid. A dream for me even when I'm not.
So as I was laying and thinking and thinking and then laying, I realized that it would be perfect timing for The Who's "Tommy." Note, because this album is largely, ( all) a concept, album, it is hard to find the right 'time' to listen to it.
I mean, some records you listen to just one or two songs, strictly side A or side B. I cannot do this with The Who's "Tommy."

I grab the vinyl, place it on the turntable and wait. Ok, I sound like a hipster douche- but I mean, you know when the music is just right with your mood. I was so excited to hear the opening of 'overture' and its blend into 'its a boy'. I wait. I wait. I wait some more. I look down at the strangely patterned carpet.

Silence.
I see the needle touch the record, I see the record spinning. More silence.

I get up. I look at the record. Again, I see it spinning, I see the needle touch the record. I don't know anything about my record player or why it's not working. I wonder why I continually hear nothing. (if nothing itself actually existed)

So, in a vain attempt to troubleshoot, I grab my computer. Not only to lull the silence, but to, somehow find the "lexmark" record player model on google.

I go to turn on my computer. My legs sitting criss-cross (jump jump!) ontop of the carpet, the computer in front. I press the power button. Nothing, not even a glimmer of technological screen. I spew a slew of expletives! My computer is dead! (dead implies it actually had to be living... but in this case, and after several late nights, my attachment to my computer, which I've dubbed, Toshiba, and characterized it in many of my essays, is so strong, I believe it is fair to say, it is dead. I mean for Christ's sake, this computer help me write my thesis!)

Now, this not only means that
a) I have no computer, thus no last-resort itunes music
b) No record player
which means,
c) no music. nada. sounds of silence? No, not even Simon or Art can save me.

And now, you might be thinking, "Why, how are you writing this blog?"
Magic.


And, yes, I might very well be sitting on my floor ontop of the oriental, drug tripping carpet.

(1) I hate the idea of calling anything Oriental, because that words is incredibly culturally loaded. I used it anyway just because its part of the greater cultural collective memory. And yes, that explanation makes me sound even more like a bigger hipster douche. But hey, my grandma still refers to anyone of asian descent Oriental and Said's ideas of the "Orient" and "Orientalism?"-- totally legit.