TELL ME A STORY ABOUT HOW YOU ADORE ME

My awareness of the Stones idled at a certain level of constancy throughout childhood, revving up a bit with Some Girls and maintaining some traction through Emotional Rescue.

The relationship deepened as I was transitioning out of an embarassing adolescent obsession with The Doors (Lions in the street and roaming/Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming...-- Christ, I can still knock that shit out in my sleep), and discovering punk. I developed a particular affection for Out of Our Heads and Aftermath.

The door of my cassette player was held closed with silver duct tape, and it emitted a slight click click click as the cassettes played. I would listen to I Am Waiting and Going Home late at night, with their quieter passages battling the native noise of the machine.

It was great, but something was wrong. It wasn't so much the calculated efforts to shock that began to trouble me, but rather the more casual misogyny. I had realized that a shitheel was not what I was, and this seemed to be the perfect soundtrack for being a shitheel...