I broke my bed to The Who back in the ’80s.

Wait. I can explain.

I was listening to “Who Are You” at full volume and bouncing up and down on the bed. After one particularly impressive bound — compete with a Pete Townshend-style windmill arm move and leg kick — I landed back down and cracked a number of slats under the mattress. Instead of informing my dad, I decided the best course was to keep mum on the situation and just sleep on that broken bed until I someday moved out. I was like 13 at the time, so that only meant waiting another five years or so.

As with most plans of my teenage years, this one didn’t work the way I hoped it would — and my dad eventually found out what happened.

The point I’m getting to, in a fashion that is way slower than my editor would probably like, is that

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