Right Round

A thin piece of plastic steadily spins. The lettering rights itself thirty-three times every minute. A tiny diamond vibrates in a microscopic chasm, releasing sound waves left unheard for more than thirty years. Amplified by modern technology, they fall on the ears of a person not old enough to remember the Berlin Wall, the Iron Curtain, the Yugo, or even the American Fiat. Too young. He should be listening to someone named 'Ga-Ga', or even one T. Swift, of whom he is particularly fond. However, he is engrossed in these sounds twice to three times as old as he is. Static pops and buzzes fill the air as the needle reaches the end of it's groove. The young man gently lifts the arm, flips the record over, and sets the turntable on another thirty three rotations a minute. Old School has never been so cool.