Sniff Out Dotard-age

I spent most of my life, as I recall, trying to find time to write.  Wondering when I’d begin to write. Writing this morning I note that I am grateful for my ritual of simply rendering thought.  Not for any other reason but that it coordinates knowledge and forms a webbing for greater memory. 

My nephew’s birthday came and went.  I found out from my dad biking home the other morning.  He’s a new address and I quietly asked my mom to forward it so I could send him some rock and roll vinyl.  I know he has a record player.  I can’t say if he prefers to listen to music that way, when he can yell out to Alexa and have her serve up whatever he’s in the mood for without taking a record out of a record sleeve.  But rock albums shouldn’t be four by six inch rectangles or simply a play list of titles.  You should get something big that you can stare at and touch and wonder about. 

I sent on the Small Faces “Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake” and the Kinks “Arthur.” Two “concept” albums from 1968 and 1969 respectively.  Perhaps my nephew will enjoy them.  But wait, have I sent him any of these before?

I thought of the aspersion Kim Jong Un’s cast upon Trump: “Old Dotard”.  (I am certain he learned that word watching the Lord of the Rings, when Saruman calls Gandalf a “dotard.”)  Am I a dotard?  Have I sent one of these over to them before?  I searched my extended memory webbing – Gmail and for “ogden” and “amazon” and indeed, It would be rather embarrassing to send the same gift twice. I’d sent my sister and her ex a copy for some reason nearly ten years ago.  Did they get it?  I don’t know.  But that wasn’t for nephew and it wasn’t vinyl.   Dotard’s must do these things:  Have the same epiphany over and over at decade intervals. 

My nephew is only eleven and his ability to sniff out Dotard-age is likely still, mercifully modest.  My great aunt brought me an album back when I was fifteen or so, from a visit of hers to San Francisco.   The poor woman must have valiantly gone into hip record store and said: “I want something groovy for my nephew.  He’s fifteen.”  They presented her with the Jefferson Starship album “Spitfire.” With what must have seemed cool, boasting, as it did of Grace Slick smoking something, sitting astride a dragon. 

As I recall I half smiled, almost politely and walked off, down to my basement room, with the album under my arm, repulsed.  I am certain I never opened it, never played it, nor ever looked at it again.  A zealot, this was the enemy’s music.  I had no interest.  No respect.  And my aunt had really tried.  I wish I could hug her now and laugh about it.  But she’s gone.  Like the Jefferson Starship, and the Small Faces.  I’m not a dotard yet.  I don’t think so anyway.      

Saturday 11/10/18