I blame it all on that damn little blue turntable. The kiddie one with the lid that closes and the pneumatic drill bit masquerading as a needle. Powder blue. Built in flip-up 45 adapter. I felt sorry for the kids who had to buy the disposable inserts from the record store or Radio Shack. It could play 78s but we didn't have any so why not speed things up into Chipmunk territory or down to 16 for some satanic Sabbath rumble. At least until Paranoid was added to the collection.
I guess the blame really should be on my oldest brother, Glenn. He was the one who bought The Cars' debut on Elektra and Live At Budokan and shared a bedroom with me and put his clock radio on 59 minutes of sleep so we could listen to the WLS-AM Top 40 countdown.
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