"My current GPS system consists of a yellow highlighter and a semi-torn 1990 Thomas Bros. fold up map." That is my reply to the question "Why don't you get a GPS?" or, better yet... "What is your Artistic Statement?" I have no gripe or ill-will towards Gadgets of Convenience or technical gizmos that seem to out-perform simple tasks faster than tradition... that's not for me to decide. What IS for me to decide, is what I allow 'into' my life, and to let 'rule' my life and 'how & when' I do things.

 The word 'process' comes to mind, and if thats an indication of "how we do things in the New Millenium, Thomas", then I really can't argue with that. I walk alot, and so I tend to see & observe alot more than the average person.  Yes, communication is important: people run late, people arrive early, cars break down, cars accidentally run into each other, rain happens, temptation happens, instincts happen, so on and so on...

Here's a 'process' that I recently shared with a friend, as it relates to Music...

Back in the day, there were these establishments called Record Stores.  And within these stores, there were these 'bins & stands' of what was commonly referred to as 'records' or albums.  Now, if one knew what they were looking for, it was pretty much easy to track down, simply cuz these albums were kinda big and hard to miss (roughly 12.75" by 12.75"... I'm too tired to look up the exact dimensions).  If one had no clue what they were looking for, and had an hour or two to kill rummaging thru these bins, then that's another ceremony for another article.

Consequently, one would find their album(s) and stand in line to pay. On occassion, if you were fortunate enough, you would get an enlightening comment from the salesperson / clerk acknowledging, maybe praising your purchase, or just simply have your whole niche / genre condemned to hell by a sly remark or smirk. Either way, there was no avoiding the checkout process without a salesperson chasing you thru the parking lot screaming "Stop Him!! He just stole an album!" as you're running & wondering why the hell your buddy's car isn't where it's supposed to be.

So, let's say you finally make it home, with your new, nicely wrapped in celophane album. From here on out, the process or ceremonial unveiling differs from person to person, town to town, vice to vice.  Some rip & shred wrappings with the ferociousness of a hungry tiger mauling a gazelle, while others do not remove wrappings, but slice "that one end" with the precision of a surgeon performing a cesarean (God forbid if it was a double album).. to each his or her own. 

Once the celophane is removed or the package is opened, here's where all the interesting stuff begins to happen.  For me, music has always been a world of awe and wonder, and it continues to this very day.  I would usually study the artwork carefully looking for some insight as to what I might expect to hear, then briefly read thru liner notes and what-not. Before pulling out an album, there was always a 50/50 chance that there would be more artwork with lyrics (yay) OR a generic white record sleeve, maybe a cheesy thin plastic sleeve (boo). Once the record and the sleeve were out, then came the ceremonious, almost divine unveiling of the record itself from its cover (insert angelic choir of choice here).

A manufactured album is probably one of the most mysterious & fragile objects ever created by mankind.  Round and reflective, an LP has no visible signs of life... but the magic is there, contained within the Grooves, grouped as tracks.  A label, right smack dab in the center of the LP, usually lists the artists name, album title, tracks for each side, legal mumbo-jumbo, and anything else they can fit in there, but most importantly, it surrounds a hole.  For the faint of heart, two hands are usually required for placing, or navigating an album onto a spindle.  If you were like me, then holding a popsicle with one hand while quickly navigating an album onto the spindle was a sure sign of a BMF in-training.

Once placed on a turntable, the last and final step is, as always... "Gently Place the Needle Onto the Inside Rim of the Album!".  I have no idea how many times this has gone incredibly well without a hitch, but I tend to remember all the times that it went horribly wrong.  Little brothers, other siblings, parents, caffeine, tremors, arguments, turntable arm automation, liquor, drugs, girlfriends,  etc... all have a way of turning one little event into what can only be equated as the sound of fingernails slowly grinding down a chalkboard.  Only, instead of covering your ears pleading for mercy, one's heart tends to skip a beat, almost with the same instincts as that moment you rush into the street to save a child from an approaching car, you snatch the arm off the album, inspecting the vinyl for damages in the form of one long scratch. Sighs of relief or tears of failure would immediately follow.  Life was rough back then. Even funnier would be the occassional "Oh shit, wrong speed!!" as the new KISS album would sound like it was recorded by The Chipmunks.

It is that euphoric, near orgasmic, first 2 or 3 seconds of the vinyl welcoming the needle that one immediately recognizes as Success, akin to the sound of one jumping into water, or starting a brand new car for the first time.  Oooooh... as the music begins, radiating frequencies thru speakers and you slowly step away from the turntable to meet and share in an artists vision... or lack of. 

In conclusion, when asked "Why don't you like iPod's Thomas?", the answer is very very simple...