I've found myself falling down Steely Dan rabbit holes every other week or so. It all started off innocently enough, with the sort of behavior that the average person might call "normal." Aja would be on in the background while I went about my weekend, its once chilly-seeming perfection warmer with every listen; Katy Lied, which I'd tried and discarded as a teenager, worked its way into regular rotation, not least because I'd attached myself to "Bad Sneakers" and its shameless New York romanticism.
But before long we were all self-isolating, filling hours usually reserved for socializing with activities that might have seemed abhorrent in peacetime.
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