Laserdisc Spotlight: Falling Down

The year was 1993. Gas was $1.07 per gallon, I was in the second grade, and Falling Down was duped en masse onto 12" reflective platters known as Laserdiscs. Fast forward twenty one years and gas prices have tripled, I am eleven years removed from high school, and nobody knows what the fuck a Laserdisc is. But what is this? A "fair condition" copy of Falling Down on Laserdisc? But how will I ever play such an antiquated piece of obsolete media? Load it into one of my three Laserdisc players, that's how. 

Hit play, wait for the disc to hit 1800 RPMs, and enjoy the show!

Laservision splash screen.

Hey, you know what? Let's all revisit Falling Down with low-res screengrabs from its 1993 Laserdisc release. Hey remember when:

William Foster gets stuck in LA construction traffic during the middle of summer with no A/C?

And when he abandoned his Chevy Chevette with ballin' vanity plates and said "Fuck it! I'm walking to my estranged ex-wife's house to stalk her mercilessly as a surprise for my daughter's birthday!"?

And when he helped Mr. Kim roll back prices by force? "Coca Cola: 12 oz. can, how much? 50 cents? Sold."

And when he stopped for a break in Gangland to patch his shoe with a chunk of the classifieds?

And these guys tried to make him pay a toll? Spoiler alert: he beats the shit out of them with a bat.

And when those same gangsters fuck-botched the retaliation drive-by by missing him with their entire arsenal and crashing the low-rider into a parked car?

And when he responded by kindly taking time out of his busy ex-wife stalking schedule to teach these misguided youths how to properly use the sights on an Uzi? Oh man, you crashed your low rider AND took a bullet to the leg? "Like a good neighbor: State Farm is there!"

And when he stopped to get himself some fast food breakfast?

But they stopped serving breakfast at 11:30 AM?

And then he proceeded to address his qualms with their lack of customer service? 

And then when we waited patiently for the A side to B side switch?

And when he tried to buy some Vietnam jungle boots from a xenophobic, homophobic, racist, misogynistic, and abusive military surplus store owner?

And when this kid showed him how to use a shoulder fired rocket launcher?

And when he tried to walk the golf course but got assaulted with golf balls by some punk-ass golfers so he blasted their cart into oblivion with a sawed-off shotgun?

And when he told the old fart having a heart attack that it was a shame that he was going to die in that silly little hat?

Yeah, that's 7/8ths of the movie right there in crap-grade screengrabs. I left out the very end in case you haven't seen Falling Down yet. If you haven't seen it, you can borrow my Laserdisc copy and one of my Laserdisc players. But let's be honest, living under a rock, you probably don't have a wall outlet or a TV. Boom! See what I did there? I implied that if you haven't seen Falling Down, you aren't a real human being.  

A Cassette Addendum: Let's Fix Those Warbled And Wonky Tunes

So you've delved into the wonderful world of audio cassettes but were welcomed with warbled and wonky tunes? Don't fret. There might be an easy fix. Before you blame your antiquated tape deck, check your cassette tape for the absence of the felt pressure pad. This pressure pad helps hold the tape securely against the tape head in your player. Without proper contact pressure your playback might be distorted and a bit on the crappy side. It should be noted, however, that some higher-end players bypass the pressure pad and can function without them. Cheaper players like boom boxes and Walkmans seem more susceptible to pressure pad related distortion. But if your felt pad is missing, good news, it's an easy fix!

This little felt dude should be chillin' right about here.

If not, you'll have a naked bit of copper like this.

What I normally use for this repair is a T-pin, some glue (craft glue, Elmer's White, or even wood glue will work), a paper match stick, and felt pressure pads sourced new online or robbed from a donor cassette.

Carefully extract a length of tape from the cassette to gain access to the copper strip to which the felt pad is normally attached. I use a T-pin to get behind the tape and pull a good loop out. This might not be the best method, but in true Idiotic Anecdotes fashion, it gets the job done so I continue to repeat the stupidity.

To apply the glue to the felt pads, I use a paper matchstick. An old car painter taught me that trick. Paper match sticks work great for paint touch-up, glue application, and all kinds of detail work.

Handling the tiny felt pads can be pretty tricky if you have stupid cumbersome fingers like mine. I find that sticking the bugger with a pin works well for getting it properly placed. Tweezers would probably be a good solution as well. Either way, plop the gluey pad into place, apply a bit of pressure to ensure good adhesion, and let the glue dry. Once the glue sets, you are once again ready to enjoy the mediocre sounds of cassette tapes! 

Two happy tapes, repaired and ready to play.

And that's it! You now have the knowledge to do minor repairs on your cassettes. If they are still playing like junk after the repair it may be time to start looking at your player as a suspect. Giving the tape head a good rub down with some high grade isopropyl alcohol on a cotton swab might help. Beyond that, you'll have to find a blogger with more smarts than me to confer with. An easy feat no doubt. Holla atcha boy!

In Defense of Cassette Tapes

In this ever changing landscape of media storage and distribution, one would certainly like to think that things don't fade into the shadows of obsolescence for nothing. When a format goes the way of the dinosaurs there is usually solid reasoning behind its extinction. When people look to a format for their audio and video reproduction needs they are generally looking for a balance of quality, convenience, portability, and cost effectiveness. So why then, in this age of instantly available, cloud-stored, zero-physical-footprint, magic digital media are people still clinging to cassettes? NPR recently explored this conundrum in a blog post entitled The Good Listener: Does The World Still Need Cassettes? In a nutshell, for the author, aside from handmade mixtapes oozing with sentiment, the answer was a resounding no. But can a case be made for this obsolete technology?

Defending cassettes has recently become one of my favorite hobbies. Although my bulletproof retort to the constant barrage of "WHY?" is simply a shrug of the shoulders and a "why not?". I know, I should have been a lawyer, right? In all reality I can't really make any objective arguments for the superiority of tape based media. Cassette tapes in any form are bulky, fickle at times, they (as well as the equipment they require for playback) need occasional physical maintenance, and the quality from aging tapes can often be sub-par. You have to remember that these formats are carried over from the days when an analog sine wave ruled supreme over a land of infant binary ones and zeros. In this land, dubbing media to magnetic cassette tape was much more cost effective and netted higher quality than early digital alternatives. But as our binary babies grew and computer processing power became better and cheaper, sampling rates increased, digital file sizes shrunk, and lasers (fuckin' LASERS!) were able to store and read digital media with high capacity optical discs. With the dawning of the age of CD's, LD's, MP3s, and FLVs, cassettes were forced into the shadows. The very shadows in which I lie in wait to comfort them. But again, why? The only argument I can make for cassettes is not a rational or scientific one, but rather an emotional one. I will contend that cassette based media will always offer current and subsequent generations novelty and nostalgia. As you know, novelty and nostalgia can overcome reason nine times out of ten.

When you hold a cassette, whether it be a VHS tape or an audio cassette, it is like holding a slice of history. If you are old enough to have lived with these formats it brings you back to earlier times and the memories they hold. Maybe you can remember those puffy white Disney VHS cases that were distinctively different and harder to store than their cardboard sleeved brethren. Or maybe you remember the mixtapes that took you forever to make; listening patiently to your favorite radio station for hours on end with your finger hovering over the REC button in case your favorite song aired so that you might capture it on tape forever. If you weren't old enough to live it perhaps you find novelty in trying to imagine what it would be like before the days of direct track access and perfect picture quality. Either way, it is emotion that keeps us tethered to these plastic-encased spools of tape. When you pop in a VHS tape and cue up that grainy low def picture you aren't doing it for the quality, you are doing it because it is fun. You watch the outdated previews, you remember how elated you were that the Feature Presentation was about to start, and how sometimes you had to stay put until after the credits for Special Features. The same can said of audio cassette tapes. Although cassette tapes COULD, under the best of circumstances, potentially rival other formats in sound quality I only listen to them now because it's fun and novel. Popping in a tape, watching the spools turn, having to fast forward and guess when your favorite track is cued up, it is just fun.

So I guess my only real defense for video and audio cassettes is that they offer the one thing that digital media can't, novelty. They give you a break from the mundane and impersonal nature of the MP3s or streaming video and allow you to physically hold the media from which you derive so much pleasure. You can pass off your favorite love-to-hate cassette (see also: Vanilla Ice) to your friend or you can loan them that cheesy low-budget horror movie on VHS. The best part of sharing cassettes? You can't just beam them through the net or share them on Facebook, you have to place them in the hands of the recipient. You have to say "Hello, pal. How are you? Here is a tape I think you would enjoy." Face to face interaction, how's that for novelty?

Buying Stuff I Wanted When I Was A Kid: Rocket Powered Edition

The older I get, the more prone I am to intense bouts of nostalgia. I will often see things that will cause my brain to reach deep into the archives and trigger memories and sentiments of my "golden years of youth". This feeling of nostalgia is kind of like a drug, somehow triggering the release of chemicals in the brain that cause a nice, warm, fleeting feeling of euphoria. So lately to get my fix, I have been indulging that nostalgic part of my brain by buying back my childhood one piece at a time. This, my friends, has its ups and downs. Because reliving the excitement of viewing The Indian in the Cupboard on VHS or Ghostbusters on Laserdisc comes at the price of having to own and store VHS tapes, a VCR, Laserdiscs, and a Laserdisc player. But because my nostalgic brain can scan back and remember how I loved the mounds of out dated electronics I used to hoard as a kid, it's just a nice little two-fer. However, the downside to buying back all the electronics, vintage video games, books, and movies of yesteryear, is having to painfully recount all the awesome things that I always wanted as a kid, but foe whatever reason, never got to own. But I am an adult now and I have adult money with no real supervision to speak of. That means I get to track down some of that crap and experience the wonder and excitement two decades later. And for some crazy reason, owning all this crap as an adult is waaaaaaaay better! R/C cars are faster, the outdated electronics are cheap as dirt, the weaponry is more dangerous, and you can compound the excitement of all this stuff with alcohol for a more dramatic effect. Next on my list: ROCKETS.

BOOM! Since the is no one to tell me I'm gonna burn my own face off, I'm finally going to  play with rockets. Today I strolled into Michaels, grabbed this bad-ass rocket starter set, and plopped a twenty dollar bill and a 40% off coupon on the counter and walked out of there with slice of reclaimed childhood. 

Yeah, look at that launch pad! And that controller! I am so hyped about launching this rocket. Not only because it's a damn rocket, but also because a coworker bet me he could skeet shoot a launched rocket out of the sky with a 12 gauge shotgun. I can't wait to see the look on his face when that tube of cardboard screams right past him into the atmosphere, laughing at him as it does. And I'm going to be over in the tall grass giggling at that dude like the dog from Duck Hunt. But that's the long and short of it, folks. Being an adult sucks more than half the time and you have to work for the Man as another cog in the gears of the complex economic machine, but you can finally afford to buy toys without having to beg, borrow, or steal. Plus, guns and/or booze can make all the epic childhood adventures that you would have had back then that much better. Coming soon: Pictures and or videos of the rocket launch of the century.

My face when this dude gets skunked

The Right to Reasonable Redbox Access Act of 2013

I guess I missed this little gem. Everyone else in the free world got the memo, but I am still scratching my head. Pursuant to the Right to Reasonable Redbox Access Act of 2013, you are guaranteed in your freedom to access a Redbox machine unhindered by obstacle, social convention, or common decency. Here are some of the finer points.

-It shall be noted that Reasonable Access is defined in the context of this law as direct straight line access to a Redbox machine, not to exceed 20 paces from the nearest paved surface upon which a vehicle can be parked. 

-Under no circumstances should a consumer have to cross perpendicular to a lane of traffic when gaining access to a Redbox machine. This includes parking lot throughways even when posted speed limits are below 5mph and properly marked crosswalks are available.

-You may, in the act of accessing a Redbox station, drive in a manner oppositional to the regular flow of traffic. No summons may be issued for driving the wrong way or for parking in a manner that suggests that the driver was driving the wrong way at the time the vehicle was parked, so long as the driver was doing so to gain access to a Redbox station.

-Barriers that limit access to a Redbox machine or station will be deemed unlawful and no consumer shall be bound by such obstacles. Curbs and low barriers may be driven over to gain access should the consumer deem it necessary or when such obstacle puts the Redbox machine beyond the allowable 20 pace limit.

-Loading zones and fire lanes shall be renamed and re-marked as Multi-Use Fire Dept/Redbox Access Lanes, with Redbox access taking highest priority in the event of a double emergency. No emergency vehicle may attempt to disturb, molest, or relocate a vehicle which is being used for the expressed purpose of accessing a Redbox machine.

-Handicap parking zones may be used by consumers accessing a nearby Redbox station, as under the RRRAA2013, not having a desired movie in your hand has been classified a physical handicap.

-No establishment housing a Redbox machine on its premises may deny entry to a consumer based upon standards of dress or appearance. This includes any No Shoes/No Shirts policies. Such policies are considered unlawful when used to deny a consumer reasonable access to a Redbox machine.

And there you have it. In black and white. Go forth, park on curbs, drive the wrong way, stand in a Walmart lobby with no shirt or shoes, it is your right as a 'Murican.

At What Point Do You Stop Collecting Things?

I mean, really, at what point do you stop collecting things? Is it when you can't even rationalize it to yourself anymore, or is it when the A&E film crew comes banging on your front door? Shit, who is knocking on the door? False alarm. It was just my subconscious mind playing tricks on me in an attempt to make me see how dangerously close I hover to hoarder status. Screw you, subconscious, that ruse ain't gonna work. Right now I'm staring at four turntables in various states of disrepair, heaps of albums and laserdiscs, no less than three typewriters, and boxes upon boxes of comic books, most of which I have never and will never read. There might even be a flat cat under all this mess. *elbow nudge to all the Hoarders watchers (inside joke y'all). Ugh. I've fallen under the spell of the unwanted and forgotten. I have to remember that just because no one else wants this shit anymore, it's not my job to provide it safe quarters. But for realsies, this shit is pretty fucking cool. I got a German made Dual CS-431 turntable that just needed a needle for a measly five bucks. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Another Dual, a CS-1257 that is a fucking mechanical conundrum, for another five bucks. Aaaaand it has an intact Ortfon stylus, I might ad. Gimme that, too. And albums? Yep, tons of 'em. All cheap, all in fair condition, and mostly jazz and big band. I'm in a jazz and big band mood as of late, me thinks it's due to my love of trombones and stand up bass. Daaaaaaaaammmit. I forgot about the VHS tapes. Did you know that they are like $.75 apiece and on some straight up BOGO status most of the time? Yup, rocking some Ninja Turtles, Ghostbusters, Monty Python, all that back in the day shit on VHS. Fuck netflix. It's too instant. Analog4lyf, son! Anyways, I guess the point I was trying to make was that, to answer my own question from before, you never stop collecting. Never stop until you die beneath an avalanche of pointless garbage. On a related note, you want comics? I got you. Mountains of mid-eighties commons. You pay me for a flat rate box, I fill it with bagged and boarded comics, I send them to you. Free. Of. Charge. (other than flate rate shipping, that is) Holla atcha boy. I'll be in the junk dungeon poking the insides of this Dual turntable with a screwdriver.

Go ahead audiophiles, cry about it. I replaced an Ortofon cartridge with a NuMark. I'm a rebel. 

One day, I'll figure out how to fix this one. Stabbing its guts with a screwgie* ain't working.

I use this typewriter to keep my precious Laserdisc collection from toppling over.

Yeah. VHS. Killin' it with this shit. I'm always kind, and I always rewind.

Ninja Turtles #2-5. Mint. Jealous? Don't be. They could be yours for the cost of postage.

Boxes of this shit. C'mon man, just say you want some fucking comics!

*elbow nudge to all the No Country For Old Men watchers. 

A Good 'ol Craigslist Adventure

When you get a text message asking if you want to go cut up a tree, you shouldn't really think too hard about it. The only real response should be; "Gas up the saws, boys, it's adventure time." Now, I guess to preface this adventure and to explain why I was so hyped about it, I should say that my friend and I have been searching all summer for a tree to cut up and split. I couldn't really explain why though. I think it simply boils down to the desire to play with chainsaws, swing axes, and feel like a real goddamn lumberjack. In the end, doesn't everyone want to feel like a lumberjack? No? Explain the resurgence of flannel then. That's what I thought. Anyways, I grabbed my trusty Stihl MS-310 chainsaw, a ziplock back of shitty but useable chains, a forestry axe, a Nalgene full of water and hopped in the truck. I was off to Norfolk to meet up with my buddy so we could run this chainsaw through some lumber on a random undeveloped parcel of land in a very nice subdivision.

Taking a break. This guy was so thirsty, he was eyeballing a random half full Gatorade that someone abandoned on the lot.

The first order of business was to cut the twenty foot trunk in to manageable rounds. This feat is easier said than done. It took a few tanks of gas, a couple of sessions of file sharpening the blade, and an electric winch to finally subdue the nefarious gum trunk. Also, sidenote, cutting a 20" trunk with an 18" bar is not as easy as it sounds. Especially when you cut from the top, roll the trunk to finish the cut, and the two cuts never line up. I blame the saw. My calibrated eye never steers me wrong. Never. Had to be mechanical failure of some sort.

Rotating the tree with the winch

After all the hooplah, I can tell you with utmost certainty that the funnest part of being a lumber jack is running the saw. Splitting rounds with a maul is for the birds, man. Also, when you don't have the equipment to split 20" rounds, you have to get the rounds into the back of your truck. And when your truck is pointlessly lifted, it is very hard to get them into the truck. However, being the badasses that we are, we got that shit done. You never realize how heavy a tree is until you have it cut into segments and loaded into a truck. My truck has a payload capacity of 1.25 tons. I think my springs touched the frame today. Not good. Not good at all. All in all, I would call this adventure Great Success. One more thing to cross off the bucket list. But next time, we are gonna up the ante. I am gonna bring a tree down. That is the Holy Grail of lumberjacking. Mark my words, readers: I am going to fell a tree if it's the last thing I do. Hopefully it won't end up being the last thing I do.

Loaded up. Super sketchy. I don't think I've ever maxed out the suspension on this truck before.

That's a good angle for truck right? Looks fast, like it's gonna take off like a fucking rocketship. 

P.S. I just realized that this adventure isn't even over. I have a truck full of wood that needs to be split, stacked, and dried. Goddammit. Anyone want to split some wood? It's fun as shit. I'd go so far as to say it's even more fun than whitewashing a fence. Seriously. Grab an axe and come on down, we'll make it a party. All the water you can drink, too! Right out of the garden hose!

The Short Course Student Template

I think that we have all taken some kind of short course at some point in our lives. It's usually a course that you have no interest in, is scheduled on the two nicest weekend days of the perceivable future, is required by some kind of higher authority, and is generally regarded as a way to make you pay for some puppet to force feed you common sense information you should already know. I've taken SDV100 (College Success Skills), a course that took two days to teach me that I could kick failure in the nuts and ride the Pegasus of  Success as a prerequisite for graduation from TCC, I've taken court mandated driver improvement classes, I've attended HR crash courses on how to avoid slapping the asses of the unwilling and how to refrain from slur laden water cooler talk, and most recently, I took a motorcycle safety course which, although informative, was still a weekend of DMV required captivity. I have noticed that no matter the course, no matter the information being delivered, the classes always seem to be formed using some kind of magical universal student template. Almost as if when the classes were being assembled on the great cosmic chessboard, that Microsoft Office paperclip with googly eyes reared his stupid fucking head and said, "Hey! I see you are trying to assemble a dynamic group of students who are forced to participate in the same mundane course. May I help you with that?" Fuck you paper clip. Why you gotta do me like this? Googly-eyed Paperclip, explain to me why, aside from the regular Joe, these four students have to be in every course?

Front Row Teacher Talker: This person finds a comfy seat right at the front of the class and gets real chummy with the instructor. They attempt to delay class by forcing the teacher endure an empty and sad pseudo-friendship. During breaks, they cling to the teacher in hopes that their undying and instant adoration will be reciprocated. I'm sure that 93% of front row teacher talkers attempt to friend the teacher on Facebook before the class is even completed.

Story Guy: This guy has a story for EVERYTHING. It doesn't matter what it is, Story Guy will step up to the plate with a story that is barely relevant, not entertaining, and mildly brain numbing. I get it, in 1987, you drove to Pasadena on a Vespa and bought pistachios from a street vendor wearing a hat made from old Budweiser cans. Now can we get back to learning about motorcycle helmet construction? Thanks.

The Back Row Teacher: Back Row Teacher already knows the content. Back Row Teacher knows everything. Back Row Teacher knows everything but how to avoid court mandated courses and how to shut the fuck up. They live and breathe the phrase "well, in my experience..." Hmm. Fascinating. With credentials like that, you would think that you would be getting paid to be in this classroom rather than paying for the pleasure.

The Cryptic Bragger: Oh, you know the Cryptic Bragger. They are the ones who weave and intertwine self praise into seemingly benign questions or anecdotes. During a lecture in SDV100 about financial responsibility, one student raised her hand and said "I know that having a few credit accounts is good for your credit. I personally have a $2000 line of credit at Eddie Bauer." Congrats. You can now pay 23% interest on moccasins and flannel shirts. Idiot. They just don't have the foresight to know that we are all snickering at what they perceive to be accomplishments. "I ain't never took no motorcycle class. Taught myself. I'm pretty good on two wheels, mang. On my second bike now. The first one? Oh, I crashed it like a year ago. I'm just here 'cause I got caught with no license." Nice. You clearly don't need to be here.

Look, I know that we all can't be perfect human beings. I'm not asking for that. Just realize that when a group of adults is forced to give up a weekend to attend some form of short course, all they want to do is keep their heads down, press on, and get through the course as fast as possible. Personal anecdotes, arguing with the teacher, trying to pat yourself on the back though cleverly disguised stories and answers, and trying to engage the teacher in witty banter is just holding the whole class up. I can't speak for everyone in class but when you keep me in a short course longer than I need to be, I am mustering every bit of psychokinetic ability that I have in an attempt to make you spontaneously combust right where you sit. General rule for a short course: "Shut the fuck up, listen, and let's get through this." Easy. Goddammit stop talking to the fucking teacher!

Proper Short Course form. Heads down. Mouths closed. Don't be the ass-tard that ruins it for everyone.

The Seed of Doubt and the Fruit of Disappointment

Well folks, I fucked it up. Fucked it up royal. I had a Sony SL-5400 in my hands, felt its weight, caressed its faux wood panels, popped the tape mech a few times, then I choked. Unwilling to take a chance on this mechanized piece of happiness, I put it back on the shelf of the thrift store with the promise of return. Why? Still reeling from the $3 loss I took on the last Betamax I bought (which turned out to be DOA), I wanted to test the SL-5400 for proper playback prior to purchase lest I get burned again. I didn't have a test tape. I didn't have a test tape and I had the arrogance to think that I was the only dead format collector in town and that the SL-5400 would wait for me. Wrong. Fucking wrong. Now it's gone.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Betamax –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Betamax –
Nameless here for evermore.
~E.A Poe (from his lost book Lamentation of Dead Formats)

Never again will I hesitate when faced with the opportunity to own a Betamax player. Never again. I sowed the seed of doubt and harvested the fruit of disappointment. 

Oh, SL-5400 you made me feel whole now I exist as an empty husk again.

Sharpening Your Implements

I am certain that there once existed a core set of skills that were passed down generationally to ensure the survival and well being of all subsequent peoples. By my lifetime, most of the more practical core skills have been lost in translation. One such skill: sharpening implements. Axes, knives, chisels, and the like should require occasional sharpening. Should. I've generally regarded such things as disposable and I've been hucking them in the garbage as they see the end of their usable sharpness. That's what trickled down to my generation; use it, destroy it, pitch it. Nah, nah, nah, muthafucka, I'm breaking the cycle. So, filled with a sudden swell of DIY spirit, I picked up my trusty Harbor Freight axe, some files, a honing stone, and my 1955 copy of the Popular Mechanics DIY Encyclopedia Volume S and headed to the garage. The DIY Encyclopedias contain all the knowledge in the world. True story, bro.

Knowledge. Raw and Unfettered

I chucked the axe in the vice and went to work. Following the book as best I could with what sharpening and honing tools I had on hand, I proudly brought my axe to an edge fine enough to easily cut paper drawn across it. I should also mention that sharpening axes in your garage at 5pm must not be a common activity. Most of my neighbors who enjoy afternoon walks seemed to look at me more strangely than they usually do when they saw me intently filing away at my axe blade. Waving while testing the blade edge with my thumb didn't seem to alleviate concerns. Oh, well. They'll see. When the world ends and I am standing proudly with my tinfoil hat, my axe, and a shopping cart full of antique DIY encyclopedias, they will beg to partake in the knowledge I have kept from the prying telepathic minds of invading alien overlords. 

Taking some swings at the test stump/ Stump Drinking Game arena

The Five Dollar Bill and How I Spent It

Five dollars. What does that get you these days? Two Monster energy drinks? A medium fast food combo? Like 53 Arby melts? What if I told you that five dollars bought me a chunk of history? Well believe it readers. Believe with all your heart. I present to you: The Realistic TR-822 8-Track Cassette Player and Recorder aka A Snapshot of the Seventies.

The TR-822 with her cover slipped off for inspection

A bargain if you ask me

Now, you might say to yourself: "Where is this idiot going to get 8-track tapes?". Would it surprise you if I told you I had a few NOS unopened 8-tracks in a box in my garage? Yeah, I know, seems like only something a hoarder would keep on hand but, by some miracle, a regular jamoke like me had such a box. So I unwrapped a James Gang tape, popped her in, and glued my eyes to the twin VU meters in anticipation of some jammin'-ass needle sweepage. Wrong. I heard some whirring from the cavernous recesses of the wooden cabinet but no audio output. Time to get the screwdrivers.

Yeah, right. Nice try.

So, it turned out that something very important was missing in here: the drive belt. This is not rare, rubber belts were never meant to last more than a decade or two. I don't have documentation, but style and build wise, I would guess that this piece of equipment was manufactured in the 1970's or early 1980's, putting it at around 40 years old. In that span of time, the rubber belt that turned the drive wheel inside the machine had become goo. Let me tell you in case you have never had the pleasure, removing the goo is a pain in the ass. Isopropyl alcohol is your best friend when cleaning belt goo from the drive wheel and the motor pulley.

There should be a belt somewhere in this picture. Can you guess where?

Belt goo is some nasty shit

Once cleaned, the pulleys were ready for a new belt. Problem is, I'm not going to order a belt for a five dollar 8-track player. Spending twice the amount you paid for an 8-track player for a single replacement part is idiotic. Even I have my limits. You see, even when they were mint, 8-track players sucked. They have terrible speed and pitch control, the tapes are built like shit, and whatever means of signal reproduction these things use is just terrible. The best case scenario with an 8-track is slightly warbled playback. I just bought the thing because it looked cool, not because it was some kind of audiophile wet dream. So the cheap and easy solution was to rig it up with a standard rubber band. However, the funny thing about rubber bands is that when you don't need one, they are everywhere. When you need one, they are nowhere. No matter, rubber bands are cheap, right? Wrong. I am not going to name names, but I went to a big box office supply store to buy a bag of rubber bands under the false assumption that one could buy rubber bands in units smaller than a one pound bag. Therein lies the rub, kids. This office supply store had only bulk quantities at ten dollars per bag. Conveniently, all of the small bags that would normally line the pegboard wall of rubber bands were out of stock. Note to office supply stores: DON'T PUT BULK MERCHANDISE IN RESEALABLE ZIPLOCK BAGS! So, after "finding" some stray rubber bands, I went back to the task at hand.

The liberated band stretched into place

After reassembling the case, I popped in that James Gang tape, plugged the player into my receiver, and fired this mutha up. Ahhhhhh. Just like I remembered. Pure shit. The James Gang never sounded so terrible. But, for some reason, those sweeping needles coupled with the loud echoing clunk of the track selector banging its way down to the next track still makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. For some people, these shitty tapes were a way of life. Jamming out in the car meant cranking up the volume on your in-dash 8-track player and just rocking out to the warbling sounds of your favorite band. Much respect if you lived through that era. I fixed this beast in your honor. I will subject my ears to this mangled mess of sound as a way of paying my dues just like you did. I won't take Hi-Fi sound reproduction for granted ever again.