The old crank and vinyl where like the social network and youth. Coupled but dead and one does not even know it yet. Bits of this and that of his past feats surface and sprinkle his sharp witted mind in symphonic and operatic forms.
The crank sits propped by his nurse on the old worn out smoke stained recliner, covered by a tattered blanket. He lives with ALS and invites young men from the college to play his albums for him in the evenings after the nurse retires to her room. He drools with a stick hanging from his mouth. He uses it to turn pages of the book he reads. Every so often he will grunt and slur words together. This was quite annoying if one was a self important undergrad deep in the throng of notes and harmonies manufactured by a twentieth century genius.
A student’s utterance about the peculiarity of Shostakovich leads to the uncomfortable sustained glottal drone of anecdote after anecdote by the self absorbed old man. One can almost hear him in his boastful prime touting his excellence. Now he sits and one can only imagine the chemical transubstantiation evolving between his skin and that old vinyl recliner. The young student sends out up to date status quips to an adoring crowd.