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Byline: Michael Halstead Commentary
THE LOCAL BEAT
For years, I was an addict.
My drug of choice was that slim, reflective, laser-activated circle of polycarbonate plastic: digital compact discs.
I bought CDs like Imelda Marcos bought shoes.
My obsessive-compulsive consumption had resulted in hundreds of CDs. Piled in great heaping stacks next to my sound system, their jewel cases littered my living room floor, wandering the rest of my home like a pack of restless juveniles.
Inexplicably, one rainy afternoon, I came home, boxed up all of my CDs and sold them to my neighborhood record store, promising myself I would never …