Don't Hurt People And Don't Take Their Stuff: a Libertarian Manifesto
“I was thirteen. The title of the disc was 2112, and the foldout jacket had a very cool and ominous red star on the cover. As soon as I got it home from the store, I carefully placed that vinyl record onto the felt-padded turntable of my parents’ old Motorola console stereo. The moment I dropped the stylus, and that needle caught the groove, I became obsessed with Rush. I got obsessed with Rush like only thirteen-year-old boys can get obsessed. I turned up the volume as loud as I thought I could get away with, and I rocked.
Mom was not nearly as pleased as I was with my new discovery. I know it sounds cliché, but she was surely the most patient woman in the world. Barbara Kibbe’s youngest son was what the best peer-reviewed academic journals on parenting refer to as “a handful.”
My highly anticipated jam session didn’t last very long that day. Mom shut it down.
So I turned down the stereo, sat down, and began to read the liner notes inside the album’s cover jacket.
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