For the record: I really like my iPod.

It has this cool, funky touch-screen, wireless Internet, web and e-mail and — right now — it’s pregnant with about 900 of my favorite songs.

The coolness factor is huge.

And it is, simply, fun to use.

But I’ve decided I’m keeping my vinyl records.

They live there in my study, next to the printer. They smell “old.” They take up an entire bookcase — all 2,000 of them. They span my lifetime. Some are ancient; some were acquired at garage sales. A few were gifts. But most are reflections of my childhood and teenage years.

A few are famous.

There’s the Beatles (several, including a real Sgt. Pepper album) the Stones (the Sticky Fingers cover is a masterwork), the Hollies, Devo, and even Mannfred Mann.

They seem almost quaint by today’s standards — black plastic with one long, continuous groove. Some have scratches and almost all of them hiss and pop.

But I love them like my children.

And I still use them.

Last fall, during a rare weekend when the kids’ schedule didn’t include trips all over the metro area, we pulled out the records, dusted off the stereo (yes, it has a turntable) and my kids experienced real records.

It was a blast.

Sara had never heard of SuperTramp, but she had heard some of their songs covered by different artists. Needless to say she was impressed when we went “old school” and she heard the original version of “Breakfast in America.”

Ethan grooved on the Eagles, and Clayton is still begging for a repeat of Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell.”