He was in his 70s, thinking about the 1970s. Playing albums. With friends. He had friends then. The promiscuous sociability of youth, he thought, smugly but sadly. Get stoned, have a cup of tea. Put a record on. Jackson Browne. Frank Zappa. The Carpenters. Get up and turn it over. Get up, take it off, put it away, choose another one. It was pretty active, he thought. Now it was on the smart speakers. It was all on his phone. All on his own. His wife didn’t like ‘his’ music. Fair enough, he thought. There’s no accounting for taste. Or the complete lack of it. (If his wife read this, he’d say, ‘Sorry, Dear, didn’t mean it. David Cassidy is God.’ To be fair, she shared his love of the Carpenters.)
Diary of an old boomer 