Our fifth-grade teacher, a psychotic harpy who fined students 25 cents if they dropped a pencil, directed us to elect a Class President and a Class Treasurer: positions of indeterminate powers, although it was generally understood that they did not include the ability to wage war or annex adjoining classrooms. In retrospect—I didn’t realize it at the time—the very loud nominating process was straight out of Lord of the Flies, and even before the day’s final votes were cast, it was clear that the winners would not be chosen on the basis of intelligence, problem-solving skills, or ability to lead. It was a popularity contest. The winners were the brawniest boy and the prettiest girl.
Already, a benevolent monarchy seemed more sensible.
I turned 18 at more or less the time that that became the legal voting age—finally, teenaged males were allowed to participate in choosing the people who would use them as cannon fodder—and on my first try, I failed to affect the changes for which I hoped. I wasn’t daunted. I realized by then that voting was serious stuff, a privilege, and grave responsibility, and I kept at it for many years to come.
Now, more than a half-century later, it’s my privilege and responsibility to preside over and report on some other grave and serious business: Yes, it’s a popularity contest—but it is also Stereophile’s 28th annual product of the year awards. I have come full circle, and the experience has left me with a longing for gingerbread cookies shaped like windmills and milk that’s warm from being left too near the radiator.
Now, let’s see which candidates were the prettiest and the brawniest . . .
HOW WE DID IT
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