The 45 twelve-pack from Korvettes spun in rotation on the family stereo and Sweet's "Little Willy" became as real as my real friends, until the day my older brother sat on the record on the living room couch, cracking the single for good, and then I learned the sadness of broken records — Fitzgerald compared his nervous breakdown to a cracked dinner plate; I'll call adolescent sadness a cracked 45, irreparable, for-good gone, and the analog era of snapped tape and busted 8-tracks and torn album covers crept forward, and not enough kitchen scotch tape in all of Wheaton could splice together the Dart Drug cassettes lost to mean feet or indifference or random tosses down the basement steps. Now I long for all of the moving parts of my past in a digital age of bits and bytes, where are my cracked 45s?
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