I was sitting at the table in one of our local libraries on a sunny Saturday in Northridge when my fourteen year old did the slump-walk over to me, dejected as all getout. He had just gone outside to see if perhaps he’d dropped his Apple earbuds in the parking lot or wherever, and sure enough, he had. He presented the mangled matter to me, dropping their lifeless, once-white now smudged with road soot bodies onto the table, wires dangling, smashed up, dislocated bud covers and all. For a moment I felt that all-too-familiar sinking feeling I get whenever my sons “share” the pain of their myriad losses with me. Like the beautiful orange bike with the black leather accents and orange stitching ($90), stolen right off our balcony that year we Lived in Lancaster. Like the beloved Play Station Portable ($179), swiped out of my baby son’s stroller at a gas station we had stopped at that year we lived in… Lancaster. Like the Play Station Portable that got dropped in the toilet less than 2 yrs prior to that by my son that year we lived in… South Carolina. Like the much coveted Beats by Dr. Dre ($300) … Continue reading..