Submarine: A Review, But More, The Wall That I Keep On Hitting
Yesterday, I spent the day on my front stoop with a few friends, trying to sell off some of Caleb’s things to make room for my own. These things included a fancy cassette player and an ASR drum synthesizer, both outmoded objects that in Williamsburg—where a generation of people raised on Wes Anderson are still trying to figure out ways in which they, too, can appropriate from the past in order to be original in the present—would have sold like wildfire. In Carroll Gardens, adult Brooklyn, people didn’t even know what they were.
“Dude, that’s for the garbage,” my friend’s boyfriend said, pointing to the cassette player.
“People still use cassette players!” Caleb protested. “Bands are starting to release their records on them again.”
“Bands that you should be ashamed of listening to,” I reminded Caleb.
