Fifty Years Later

Sebastian was mourning (once again) the death of radio.  He said radio was like the dodo, or the fan-tailed fluffernutter, or the casio gameboy - things that once may have existed but now surely never will again.

"Do you remember the last time you listened to radio?" he said as he threw himself upon the divan.

"I do not," I said.  "I was born as radio was dying.  I have always gotten music uploaded into my cranial hard drive by juice & pills."

"Also," he yawned, "we don't use our ears anymore.  Except for tattooing their piercings."

Another bridge exploded & fell in the distance.

"Do you know," he told me, "people like you and me - well, you know, not as enhanced by implantation - ha ha!"

"Ha ha!" I said.

"People used to do radio."

"Do radio?" I asked.

"Yes," Sebastian said saucily.

"Do," I repeated.  "You mean like one does Paris?"

"No, no, my dear boy," he said, waving me down with his electronic meth pipe.  "No, I mean do as one does a randy-loo."

"A randy-loo!" I said, feeling a blush come to my cheeks.  "Sebastian, you naughty stinkbug!"

"Oh yes," he said, delighted that he has caused me embarrassment, "there were people called deejays who would sequester themselves in little rooms and play music for anyone who might - well, in those days, it was called listening."

"But all the time they were...?"

"Yes! Yes!  All the time it was randy-loo!"

We collapsed in a heap of naughty laughter.

"Randy-loo!" he gasped.  "Randy-loo!  Randy-loo!"

Mother came in to readjust the oxygen.  "Stop talking, you two," she said.  "Our air rations for this week have been particularly diminished.  Use your virtual keyboards to chat."

We nodded, chastened.  She left.

"Oh but I love to talk," said Sebastian.  "It's so decadent."

"Me 2," I texted him.