Oh, man…

When I was a dorky little kid, 6 or 7 years old, I used to sit in front of my mother’s turn table on the floor and put on my favorite 2 records. Yeah, that’s right, I said “records”. Hell, I only owned 3, the last of which was Twisted Sister and not very appealing to a 6 year old ear.

I would sit and listen for hours on end as I stared at the album covers. I was always mesmerized by the brilliantly white socks on one, and the neon red sign on the other. I would daydream and the album I was listening to would have finished 5 minutes ago, but there I was, off in la-la land.

When I realized I’d been sitting in silence all that time, I’d flip the album or try to find my favorite song on the particular side I just left off on. This would go on for what seemed like hours at a time, although it was probably only about 1 to 2 hours at most.

Those were blissfully forgetful moments that I spent in front of the record player. You could forget that your parents were going to beat each other senseless later that night, that the kids down the street wanted to beat you up because of your color or weird demeanor, that you were hungry or bored or upset or anything. You could just lose yourself in the music and the pretty pictures in your head.

Several years later when I was 12, I used to listen to my best friend’s favorite album and choreograph dances with her. She was so slender and pretty, that you could just have her walk through a room really and it would be beautiful, but I used to come up with even more smooth, graceful motions for her to execute, and watching our work in her, I would again be taken back to those blissful moments of forgetfulness.

And so, to a certain extent, you gave me oblivion, Michael, and for that I thank you.

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