
Sundays, were how got I got over. Instead of waking up to the typical American Dream scenario, where the smell of bacon and eggs wafting into your room awakened you, I awoke to something a little more cultured. Growing up, it was common knowledge in my household of my fathers deeply rooted infatuation with music. It was a sort of catharsis for him. On Sunday mornings, starting from the crack of dawn, a rich sap of music would flood my dreams. My father would station himself in the living room, the epicenter of our household, dictionary in hand to get some extra reading in, and out from his carefully stationed speakers would the melodies of John Lenon, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, Earth Wind &Fire, and other artists of that variety caress me and my siblings from our sleep. Instead of the typical Hanna Barbera, electromagnetic syndications that brainwashed my culture into idolizing gargoyles, socially awkward pre pubescent girls named Pepper Ann, and indie chics with tongue twister names like Angela Anaconda, my father was busy refining my musical palate. John Lennon was to peace and imagination what Batman was to utility belts and cat suits. Tito Puente’s mambo anthems were to sex, lust and sweat what Sailor Moon was to talking cats and ditsy Japanese girls. Oh God.
I must admit, Sunday mornings taught me some things. Good music is the most soul wrenching. And some of the greatest musical citizens are the most conflicted.
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