Vintage Audio Porn

Technics SL-1600Mk2 (ca. 1979-1981)

I hated this series when it first came out. Now I'd almost kill for one.

While the tone arm was a definite improvement over the previous Mk2 series and the passing years have brought to light a few overall design issues, what I hated most about these tables (1600Mk2, 1700Mk2, 1800Mk2) was that the fully digital pitch control of the previous lineup had been discontinued for a continuously variable analog system. Of course, this pitch arrangement (via slider) became the de facto standard on the 1200Mk2 and its successors.

Thirty Years Ago

Because right now, I ain't got nothin'…

Journal

30 September 1988

It's been a busy month.  Shortly after my last journal entry, my phone was shut off because of a bounced check and some asshole smashed my car window just for the fun of it.  If I had a baseball bat I'd love to beat the motherfucker's head in.

The car is now being locked up at night, over in R&H Wholesale's parking lot.  It's only $25.00 a month, so it's a real bargain for the peace of mind and not having to hassle anymore with the midnight street cleaning.

I finally received money back from the IRS which I paid in for "self-employment tax" for my 1986 return.  It amounted to just over $1000—and believe me, it came just in time. I have intentions of using it for new tires for the car and miscellaneous other expenses, but for the moment, it just got me caught up on several outstanding bills and a few that weren't due until later in the month.  So, for all intents and purposes it's gone—for at least two weeks until I get paid again.  I'm not too upset over the sudden income and loss thereof; it did get rid of those few pesky bills that I could just never seem to get around to paying (Time-Life Mozart and the Astronomy Book Club to name about $110 worth).

I arranged to get cable TV yesterday.  They'll be out next Friday to turn it on.

I went with John Trapp last night to the George Michael concert at the Shoreline Amphitheater.  I'm still not that fond of G.M., but John doesn't have a whole lot of friends [with cars] so I agreed to go.  The light show was the best part of it, along with a hunky chunky lighting technician who I ended up paying more attention to than G.M.  There was a straight south-bay Hispanic couple sitting next to us who were on the point of copulating by mid-show.  It really ruined the rest of the  performance for me.

And if I never hear another screaming 14-year old girl, that would be just fine.

I've been feeling pretty down lately.  I can't put my finger on any one thing, but I know I'm just not my perky sociable self.  I've had my usual doses of hot impersonal sex, but I find what I'm really missing is being touched and caressed.  When I got my haircut the other day, Patrick gave me a really good scalp and shoulders massage, which made me realize just how long it's been since anyone has touched me.

The painting of the Magician still isn't finished, although it's a lot farther along than it was at my last entry.  I'm still not feeling especially creative, and though I've got a refrigerator full of slowly-desiccating paint,  I just can't seem to get up the gumption to finish it.  I'm not especially pleased with it (am I ever with any painting?), but his eyes are nice and I suppose I can always give it away. 

Ron has decided to move to L.A. for real.  I guess his love life is finally improving.  And I've decided to stay put on Folsom until further notice.  The thought of moving just makes me sick.  I'm so settled in here I can't imagine hauling it all out again.  And anyway, I've got better things to do with my money than pay another security deposit to some new strange landlord. At least I know Trish and Ron.

I may move upstairs if #12 becomes available though. It's got a view of Twin Peaks (from the Kitchen) and you can see up above the freeway.

I bought six CDs with some of that tax refund money:  two by Yanni (replacing his album from last year which I sold), one by Suzanne Vega "Solitude Standing", one by Sting "Blue Turtles", two by Dead or Alive and one by Curiosity Killed the Cat. The Cat CD is going to Streetlight Records at the earliest opportunity.

I guess that's enough for now.

It certainly is.

By Your Deeds Shall You Know Them

From John Pavlovitz:

To Young Men and Women of America,

Have you heard us?
Is our message getting through?

We've been talking to you this week, trying to make sure you understand who we are, what kind of America we're building here, the future nation we're dreaming of.

We think we've been clear and compelling in our declarations, and we've done our best not to leave any ambiguity as to our hearts or our plans or our intentions.

We think our tirades and our condescension and our insults and our sneering tantrums have spoken eloquently about us and about you.

We hope Lindsey and Donald and Chuck and Orrin and Mitch and Brett and Susan have made a strong case—but if not, let us be more explicit in these moments, so there can be no confusion. After all, November is coming and we want you to be certain…

To the Young Men of America,

You can do whatever you want to young women.

You can disregard their humanity,
force yourself on them physically,
ignore their pleas to stop,
proceed without consent,
hurt them,
humiliate them,
indulge your urges,
treat them as property,
and silence, slander, and intimidate them after the fact.

You can do this as often as you like, to as many young girls as opportunity and your desires allow.

We will have your back (providing you are white, wealthy, and one day vote Republican.)

We will marshal our every resource of finance and position and privilege in protecting and defending you.

You will receive sanctuary in our midst, regardless of the horrors you are responsible for or the recklessness and brazenness of your conduct.

We will help you in any way we can, to malign your accuser's character, destroy their credibility, and embarrass them further.

We will blame alcohol or her memory or her behavior in the past.
We will talk about your viciousness in ways designed to make it seem commonplace.
We will paint you in as flattering a portrait as we can, so that you actually come out looking like the victim, so that the accusations are actually a help.
We will have no loyalty to the truth or to goodness or decency, if such things pose a threat to either your narrative or our prosperity.
We'll use the invaluable resource of the Evangelical Church to even make supporting you, part of God's will.

If no other option is available, we will simply ignore what you've done. (After all we installed a President that way.)

We will never allow the violence you make young women endure, to prevent you from having opportunity and advancement and success.

We can promise you that.

And to Young Women of America,

You don't matter.

Not your trauma or your pain,
not the innocence you lose,
not the damage you sustain,
not the scars you are marked by,
not the nightmares you are haunted by,
not the peace you no longer find,
not the confidence that leaves you,
not the fear that is ever present,
not the shame that you cannot shake,
not the silence you are imprisoned by.

We simply do not see you as valuable—at least not as valuable as the status quo we're protecting or the legislation we're coveting or the religion we're perpetuating or the votes we're needing.

You are the acceptable collateral damage of our misogyny and entitlement.

Your body, your emotional health, and your sense of safety—simply aren't worth more than a Supreme Court seat.

Of course, should a pregnancy somehow be created by your violation, we will vigorously demand that you be forced to carry it, even if it exacerbates your pain and magnifies your despair. After all, we urgently need to perpetuate the appearance that we are pro-life—just not your life.

We can imagine this is less than ideal for you, but we hope you understand that this is how it has always been, and we are counting on you to indulge us one last time, and we appreciate your cooperation.

After all, ee have a Patriarchy and a predatory President to protect.

So, young men and women of America, we hope you see us with clarity.
We hope that in these days, we are exposing ourselves fully.
We hope you know who we are now.

We'll see you in November.

Sincerely,

The Republican Party of 2018

#truth

https://twitter.com/andylassner/status/1045334890709835777

also…

https://twitter.com/andylassner/status/1045452340478660608

They Say You Can't Go Home Again

The other day I was on Zillow and for kicks went looking for the house my family lived in from 1972 through 1981. It was where I spent my "formative" years and I have many fond memories of the place. I may have in fact, written about it at some point on this here blog thingie.

It was up for sale a few years ago, and the few photos posted of it at the time showed that it had gone downhill. Very downhill—matching the rest of the neighborhood. I knew the pool my folks finally put in as I was just about to move out (how convenient!) had been ripped out years ago, but I was unprepared for exactly how rundown the place had become.

I was kind of surprised to actually see that the house was once again on the market, but this time it looked damn good. It was obvious it was a flip, and while not a complete remodel, it looked like all the basic amenities had been replaced or repaired. More importantly, it looked clean—unlike the last time I was able to vicariously peek inside via the internet. And this was the first time I'd been able to see multiple views of every room in the house (save one) since my folks moved out in 1981.

I almost cried.

Sadly, for some reason neither I or my family took many pictures of the inside of the house while we lived there, but I was able to find and post a few "then and now" comparisons.

1973
2018

Mom was an interior designer, so when we lived there the place had a definite…look…about it. I think the only room that managed to remain the original white walls all those years was my dad's study upstairs. I knew from the last time I saw inside the house everything had been stripped, but it was even sadder to see the place now, looking almost like it looked the day we moved in back in 1972.

Of course, it's now 46 years later and decorating sensibilities are different. Carpet in all the living areas has been replaced by ceramic tile and there are now ceiling fans in nearly every room (something we did not have back then but definitely could've used). Thankfully the popcorn ceilings have been removed. While they slapped up a ceramic tile backsplash in the kitchen and replaced the major appliances (the GE "Americana" range is gone), they didn't replace any of the cabinets or countertops except in the master bath. So the nasty faux butcher block Formica countertops that were original to the kitchen are still in place. So are the fiberglass one-piece tubs/showers in the bathrooms.

Kitchen, 2018
Kitchen, 2018
Kitchen, 2018
Master Bath, 2018
My old bathroom, 2018 (I remember helping my dad put in that sliding tub enclosure. I'm surprised it's still there.)

At some point since 1981 the wet bar (how 70s, am I right?) had been ripped out of the lower level family room as well, leaving a weird, empty, closet-like opening in one wall.

Family Room, 2018
Family Room, 2018
Family Room, 2018

My old bedroom is now being marketed as a "study" with a ceramic tile floor like the rest of the main living areas.

My room, 1978. The dark chocolate was the third or fourth color I'd painted it since we moved in. I think it would undergo 3 more changes before we moved out.
2018
2018

I suppose I should be grateful that they didn't simply reconfigure the whole first floor and knock out the wall between the kitchen and living room as has been done on countless other homes of the same model in the old neighborhood.

Out back, the wood deck and self-supporting "floating" lattice deck cover my dad built was long gone, replaced by a concrete slab and solid patio cover with posts to support it. All the landscaping was gone except for a couple palm trees that had been planted at some point after we vacated the property.

Rear yard, 1974. Mom loved her Dutch iris. Obviously.
Rear yard, 2018
Rear (side) yard, 1976. Your host (left)—DON'T LAUGH!—and his first and only college roommate (right), Christine Jorgensen's nephew David Miller, whom I'm sure I've written about at length here somewhere…
Rear (side) yard, 1981, and my sister the day of her high school graduation, about three months before my family moved out.
Rear (side) yard, 2018

I sent the listing to my sister. We're going to schedule a tour with the agent, since it's probably the last time we'll ever get the chance to step inside again…

Damn You Discogs

…for once again showing me something I never knew existed and then making it so easy for me to spend money I really don't have.

I've known of Just Blue—and have owned a copy of the Casablanca pressing on black vinyl since it came out in '79 (one of those that survived the purge)—but I never knew there was also a blue vinyl pressing available on the Vogue label for the European market until a couple weeks ago. Damn you, discogs.com!

And if anyone cares, the music itself is early electronic Euro-disco…

Quote of the Day

Mitch McConnell just stood on the Senate floor and called the women accusing Brett Kavanaugh liars. Somewhere in America a young woman was just sexually attacked. She hears him loud and clear: Vote. ~ Randi Mayem Singer