In the winter of 1994 I bought an older model stereo and turntable from my uncle, along with a rectangular box filled with first class Rock and Roll LP's, which were in great condition. Later that Spring, in March to be precise, while in terrific, ceaseless emotional pain over the loss of my children to a malevolent divorce, I remember taking out the Car's Greatest Hits LP so I could play "Since You're Gone." It seemed to strike at a set of neurological chimes inside my head so precisely that I continued to play it over and over, replacing the stylus again and again and again over the tiny, blank, circumference that preceded the opening sequence.
"Since you're gone
[two three],
I've thrown it all away" . . . .
I remember sitting at my conference table, in the suit I'd worn to court the day before, held captive, trying to squeeze some kind of additional euphoria from the music so I would not interrupt my captivity.
The music ended later that morning as I panicked to hear the birds portending the impending sun, and the dreaded day that would follow.
At that moment I was confronted with Frost's metaphorical dilemma in The Road Not Taken,"
"And I,
I took the one less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference."
Absolutely.
