This week's Washington City Paper cover story is about jukebox junkies in the machine's dying days:
That former ruling tribe that enjoyed a special kinship with the jukebox has seen its numbers scatter and begin to die off. They've been poached by MP3s and TV—but they're not extinct yet. There are still folk who bond with the machines, but, like the Mole People, they are hard to find. Their most sanctified gathering place, the malt shop, has like them experienced a sharp decline.
What are left of the jukebox junkies tend to accumulate in the darkest corners of town. And the torches they carry for their ancient, booming gods burn in strange ways.
1 comment:
There's a jukebox at my favourite local diner. I usually just avoid it warily, as if it were an ancient relic.
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