I can't remember the exact circumstances of why I was where I was on that day during the Summer of 1984 -- my former grade-school classmate Walt's father's apartment on Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village -- when I heard the song that became my favorite song of all time, but I can tell you what I was wearing; a black -- dare I confess it -- Motley Crue shirt -- a Too Fast for Love- era one that depicted a pair of handcuffs threaded through a crudely-rendered skull's eye-sockets.
That delightful garment was paired with an ill-considered pair of ratty, plaid shorts and a pair of black Chuck Taylor high-tops. Upon hearing the song, I immediately repaired directly across the street and down the stairs (above) into what was later called Subterranean Records on Cornelia Street (vanished circa 2008), but was -- at the time -- called Record Runner (not to be confused with the Record Runner that would later open up a block to the west) and feverishly purchased the 12" single of the song.
Now, as seismic a moment as that was for me, it's ultimately a ridiculously trivial instance, in the grand scheme of things. But consider how many details of that moment seared themselves into my memory.
To me, those incidental details feel absolutely indelible -- and they pertain to something as comparatively silly as entertainment. Imagine, if you will, then, how indelible the critical details of a *traumatic* experience --- like, say, attempted rape -- feel.
I continue to firmly believe the specifics of Dr. Ford's recollection.
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