Walkmans and the Art of Ignoring Everyone - The 80's #3

 I don't know what kind of gadgets kids are grafting to their skulls or shoving into their earholes these days.

Some kind of cybernetic mysticism is going on in the world around me, creating teenaged zombies attached to their devices.

But we had the Walkman.

It was 'compact' in an age when gargantuan Boom Boxes were a thing and caused semi-permanent spinal injuries. It weighed in at the low, low poundage of a mid-sized ham.

It also provided an answer to a universal problem of the 80's:

Other people existed, and sometimes they wanted to talk to you.

Like, totally gross.

The Walkman was liberation! Walk down the street and listen to your own soundtrack, pretending you were both star and way under-appreciated extra in your own  music video.

Pop in a cassette, hit the play button, and suddenly for the next 90 minutes you were as emotionally unavailable as Mom during her afternoon soaps. Either that, or you burned through your third set of "value pack" AA-batteries, which usually happened first.

When you clipped your Walkman to your waistband, your pants immediately developed a desire to ride half-mast.

Jogging became an extreme sport in the 80's thanks to the 'portable' cassette player.

A sport that involved a working knowledge of physics, determination, and a deep seated - almost spiritual - acceptance that at some point you were going to deliver a half-moon to any unsuspecting neighbor standing too close to a picture window.

The headphones were thin metal prongs held together by a tiny plastic slide mechanism with orange sponges on the ends that began to disintegrate on a molecular level the moment they made contact with skin. 

And because they sat ON your ears rather than IN them, they created a unique sound best described as tin can inside an abandoned mine echo.

But We Didn't Care, Because We Were Free

The real enchantment was the social shield the Walkman provided. It allowed you to avoid totally bogus conversations without being rude. Technically.

People could yell your name, wave their arms, or whistle-hail you like a New York Yellow Cab, and you could simply pretend they weren't heard.

Ahh, the 80's... parents yelling "Hey, HEY!! HEY!!!!!" while their teens learned about the miracle of selective hearing.

We also learned about patience. Want to skip a song? Hold on, pal. All you had was fast forward and rewind. The kind of accuracy needed here was educated guess. Mash the button, hold for a few seconds, and hope you didn't miss your mark by fifteen minutes worth of tape.

True reflection came in those moments of plastic gear squealing.

But this brick-shaped music box gave us an important life lesson:

You're allowed to tune things out from time to time.

The world is demanding. People are loud. Sometimes we all need to do a mental moonwalk and back away graciously from our adult responsibilities while synth-pop floods over us at decibal levels that could be heard by our legwarmers.

So here's to the Walkman:

Thanks for being the clunky, butt-revealing, battery-munching escape room that allowed an entire generation to learn about the value of a rat's patootie - especially not giving one.

If only it had come with a totally rad rewind button for all our heinous decisions....