Go on. Plug in your little tinny-ass iPod headphones and keep shuffling through life one bass-starved Skrillex remix at a time. I own a turntable, therefore I am better than you.
Yeah, I used to think those 256 kbps AAC files sounded pretty thick. Then I learned how to shave with a straight-edge razor and change a tire by myself. Then I purchased fine musk and raised herds of steer, which I personally slaughtered with a solemn embrace and the deepest respect, because steer live a rough life. And that’s what I eat every day for dinner with a vintage chianti as I listen to The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People on audiobook, because I am a man, and real men own turntables.
What bands do you like? Oh. I used to listen to them in college. And by college, I mean junior college. And by junior college, I mean prep school. And even then, I only listened to them for irony’s sake, and so I could post their lyrics to a secret Tumblr account that your current girlfriend thought was really deep and insightful. You should ask her about that. Also, I own a fucking turntable.
It cannot convert old records to MP3s. Its 25-karat gold needle – which, you will notice, is one more than 24 — is not built to handle the type of “sick transitions” championed by DJ Pauly D. It is built to caress the grooves of classic French disco LPs, lowercase, spacesynth and other foreign genres you frankly wouldn’t have heard of. I’d love to tell you about them, but then they would become instantly passé and detestable.
One time I saw you at Best Buy checking out a plastic minisystem. I was on my way to the high-end Magnolia department – not to buy anything, of course, but merely to laugh at it. All in all, I considered the trip to be a rather amusing safari into the world of big-box retail and mass consumerism. I learned much about your kind. I learned that you do not have a turntable, and I do.
If you’d like, I can pencil you in for a tour of my apartment, where you will be treated to the richest low-end frequencies – subtle vibrations your ears are not refined enough to detect. Please wear something presentable in case a postmodern author or fashion model decides to drop by, which is highly likely. You can leave your “dope new albums” in the back of your aging economy car, because I know the difference between an album and a CD.
I do not harbor lossy audio in my home. I own a turntable.