Monday August 27, 2001 |

Arizona Daily Wildcat

I've got a confession to make - I've committed a serious infidelity, a heartless betrayal of one of my truest companions. A few weeks ago, just before returning to Arizona, I bought a portable CD player, complete with adapters and headphones and a remote control, should I ever find myself at the gym (yeah, right). Most importantly, my shiny new toy connects right to my car stereo. And that's where the betrayal comes in.

I've never been exactly what you'd call "high-tech": I was the last person in my freshman dorm to own a CD player, and spent most of that year trying to complete my homework assignments on a 1988 Macintosh Classic, one of those boxy little old-school Macs best suited for use as a fishbowl. I'm doing slightly better these days, but my current computer is already hurtling toward obsolescence. And the telephone I use is a marvel of modern science purchased by my grandmother sometime back around 1986.

Some of this backwardness can probably be blamed on my upbringing. My parents didn't own an answering machine until I went to college, and didn't get a microwave until the mid-90s. Even today, my dad is still impressed by my ability to use advanced, complicated computer programs like Microsoft Word or Netscape, and insists that his 133-megahertz Pentium I is still as cutting-edge as it was when my brother and I talked him into replacing his IBM 386 in 1994.

But unlike my family, I'm no Luddite or Flat-Earther. I've got no problem with the newest and latest - I covet my friends' DSL connections and have wasted hours playing with the newest versions of Adobe Photoshop or Macromedia Flash in UA computer labs. I've even caught myself thinking favorably about cell phones lately. No, no technophobia here. No, my failure to "upgrade" is motivated not so much by fear of the new as it is by a nostalgic affection for the old. And there's no single object that motivates that nostalgia like the humble, much-maligned cassette tape.

Let me lead you on a guided tour of the battered blue tape box sitting in the back of my car. Right away, you'll notice the lack of organization, the cassettes scattered left and right. That faded one right on top? That's Fugazi's 13 Songs, the album that opened my eyes to punk rock. Right next to it is U2's The Joshua Tree, my favorite album since 1987 and the soundtrack to first dates, first kisses and first break-ups. Then there's Faith No More's Epic, bought the day after I saw them - my first rock concert ever. I haven't even mentioned mix tapes - this one with the torn label, for instance, was a gift from my first real girlfriend, a compilation of her favorite songs that would soon become our favorite songs.

And so it goes - each tape (OK, maybe not Europe's The Final Countdown - how did that get in here?) is a reminder, a soundtrack for some long-ago event that might otherwise be forgotten. Each battered cassette becomes a symbol, a signifier for the moments and memories that make me who I am.

Well, maybe that's a little too dramatic - there's actually quite a lot of crap in here too, so much that I've been feeling guilty lately for subjecting my friends to bad late-'80s metal and early-'90s punk. And tapes are bulky: my big cassette box can scarcely compete with the sleek efficiency of a CD travel case. The last straw was my vacation this summer - I almost drove off the interstate in northern Arizona while digging fruitlessly for something, anything, that wouldn't be embarrassing to share with my traveling companions.

So I bought the CD player, and have been quite happy with it. It sounds better, looks better, and there are no more tapes scattered everywhere. And it's nice to hear the music I actually like now, instead of feeling like every car trip is a time warp back to high school.

But I haven't forgotten my old friends. They still sit in my trunk, waiting patiently. They know that old favorites last forever, no matter how embarrassing they might be. One day soon, they'll get their chance to ride again. So if some day soon, you pull up next to a blue Subaru blaring Guns and Roses' November Rain, just look away. I promise I won't tell if you don't.