There was an abrupt flash of memory when I saw you sitting on it–myself as a child watching television in the basement on Saturday morning, the last cartoon’s credits rolling past. I had a tendency to fidget while under the trance of the T.V. Sitting on that same worn oak chair, then beside it and eventually under it. When the first funk-fused baseline came through the speakers I knew something was wrong. Then as the hulking, animated train heaved across the screen I knew I was in trouble. In the throes of my unconscious fidgeting I’d managed to get my head stuck in the space between the seat and the back of the chair. My first reaction was to cry. Beautiful curvaceous women danced to the sounds of Heavy D, Monifah and my blubbering until my mother ran down and rescued me. I came back to the present when you asked me what was wrong. “Nothing” I said as the long, melting baritone of “Soul Train” echoed through my thoughts.