Monday, November 08, 2004
ON THE LIMITS OF TECHNOLOGY
I've been slowly working my way through the iTunes music store, downloading a song here and a song there, concentrating on ones that appear on cd's I know I'll never buy. I did the same thing when I was a kid, pawing through the singles at Woolworth's, even then looking for transcendence for less than a buck. Thirty plus years later and I'm at the same place, only without the turtle tank.
"Girls, listen to this one," I say.
It's Clarence "Frogman" Henry's "Ain't Got A Home." I put it on so loud that they are forced to turn from the tv and listen.
It ends. "Did you like it?" I ask.
"Yes. Can you play it again?"
"Sure," I say. "And try to listen to the words this time."
They listen enough to sense that something unusual is going on.
"Play it again!"
"Listen, he's singing like a girl!"
"Now he's singing like a frog!"
General hilarity ensues. The girls dance wildly, then drop down and hop around the floor like frogs.
"Again!"
I afraid I'm losing control of the situation. If LZ comes down and finds me whipping up the girls (once again) "right before bedtime," there will be heck to pay.
"Last time," I say.
The wild rumpus continues, but mercifully winds down as the song ends. The girls are on the floor, still half-laughing, but mostly gasping for air. Two crawls over to me.
"Now make him sing like a pig, Daddy."
I've been slowly working my way through the iTunes music store, downloading a song here and a song there, concentrating on ones that appear on cd's I know I'll never buy. I did the same thing when I was a kid, pawing through the singles at Woolworth's, even then looking for transcendence for less than a buck. Thirty plus years later and I'm at the same place, only without the turtle tank.
"Girls, listen to this one," I say.
It's Clarence "Frogman" Henry's "Ain't Got A Home." I put it on so loud that they are forced to turn from the tv and listen.
It ends. "Did you like it?" I ask.
"Yes. Can you play it again?"
"Sure," I say. "And try to listen to the words this time."
They listen enough to sense that something unusual is going on.
"Play it again!"
"Listen, he's singing like a girl!"
"Now he's singing like a frog!"
General hilarity ensues. The girls dance wildly, then drop down and hop around the floor like frogs.
"Again!"
I afraid I'm losing control of the situation. If LZ comes down and finds me whipping up the girls (once again) "right before bedtime," there will be heck to pay.
"Last time," I say.
The wild rumpus continues, but mercifully winds down as the song ends. The girls are on the floor, still half-laughing, but mostly gasping for air. Two crawls over to me.
"Now make him sing like a pig, Daddy."
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