It was sometime during our last stay in Germany on one of those summer days that my dad's long list of house chores was staring me down. We were glowering at each other resentfully, this list and i, and i was mentally trying to figure out how much of my share i could foist off on my sister without risking my hide or having to suck up too much. Mentally cursing my dad (whom i was secretly accusing of only having children for the singular purpose of having his house cleaned for the next 20 years), I trudged into the living room and began idling flipping through his record collection, probably trying to decide between Kansas and ELO. Gabby would probably show up and tell us her little brother is sleeping (i used to frequently wonder if that kid was in some kind of easily-disturbed coma as often as his bossy sister enjoyed showing up on our doorstep to hissp, "Ssssh! Dennis schlaft!" at us in hushed tones as though that sentence alone was enough to shatter his delicate slumber), but i didn't much care that day. The list was long, and the music would make it more bearable. Flipping casually through the records again, i knew i was procrastinating, and that i was definitely going to pick ELO even though it meant i'd have to listen to Mr. Blue, because then i'd get to listen to The Jungle an equal number of ti. . . Hey, what's this?
I couldn't remember ever having listened to this one before. It was just a guy sitting on a stool with two fingers up his nose. That looked promising! I perused the song titles, trying to figure out what kind of music it was. Sometimes you got hold of a record with an awesome cover, and then the music sucked. Like that Steely Dan record. Sweet cover art, and crappy music to my elevenish eyes and ears. Figuring even if i hated it, it was another few minutes i could put off cleaning, i put the record on.
And in that moment, a life-long fan was born. I'm gonna miss you, George.
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