Katy Tried. I was halfway crucified. I was on the other side of no tomorrow.—Dr. Wu, Steely Dan

September 1993. Just before sophomore year in college. That summer, I finally "got" Steely Dan, much to the chagrin of the G-man, with whom I spent an inordinate amount of time. G-man believed Steely Dan was okay for a dental visit, and the solo on "Reelin' In The Years" was without virtue because it had been rehearsed, refined, and probably written down. A few days before I left for year two at NYU, G-man, Nice Jean and I stopped in the local record store on RTE 9, the very one called The Record Store, the very one we shortened to The.

I picked up a few CDs paid for (unknowingly) with Dad's Visa. Among the CDs was Steely Dan's "Katy Lied."

June, 1996. I meet a beautiful young woman, meet her through a questionable connection, but I meet her nonetheless. At an outdoor café on Avenue A, we discuss music. She admits to being mad about Steely Dan. I am pleased, and I ask her which is her favorite album. She says, "Katy Lied," indeed, my favorite as well. I beam, reach into my backpack, and produce a copy of the very discussed (and somewhat ignored album amongst E.Vil hepsters such as ourselves ca. 1996) CD. I say something to the effect of, "you never know when you might need this." It's a moment. A real moment. The CD has a picture of a bug on it.

I don't think we shacked up that night, but it wasn't much later. We certainly didn't play "Katy Lied," whenever it did happen.

The next three and half years were a blur, as far as "Katy Lied" was concerned. No doubt I heard the album plenty of times.

March, 2000. Steely Dan, amid a maelstrom of publicity and Public Television specials, put out a new album. It is great, and very favorably reviewed by Y.T. Its release inspires me to revisit the work of Steely Dan. I play all their albums in chronological order, starting with their unreleased demos. Eventually I make way to my copy of "Katy Lied." It's not there.

I'm pretty strict with my CDs, as I have many, and it can easily become a chore not to lose them. I have a simple yet efficient system of keeping them in place. "Katy Lied" belongs between "Pretzel Logic" and "The Royal Scam." And, unless it's lent out or "in rotation," if it ain't there, there's been some sort of screw up.

In the last few months of the relationship with the girl, the very girl described earlier, a big point of contention was her borrowing things without asking. I'm in full support of mi casa es su casa, but I'm also real keen on just knowing where things are going. I would never disallow her to borrow a CD, but I demanded to know when she was taking something, so that if I went to look for it myself amid my gargantuan collection, and I came up empty, I wouldn't scratch my head wondering if I accidentally filed it in the wrong place. It seemed a simple request, to just know when something would be borrowed, but again and again and again (and again) my polite reminder was ignored. It led to the most petty of fights, and an eventual moratorium on lending. I wonder now if this was a brilliant play of passive-aggressive behavior. I almost hope it was--I'd like to think the headaches it caused were used for something.

So a few days back I find myself one copy of "Katy Lied" lighter. During the last correspondence with my former love (she who recently moved to Oregon) she said something to the extent of, "I have a number of your things, I'll send them out to you."

I don't know if "Katy Lied" is among them. The very day I discovered the disc missing I ordered a new copy online.

I've got some of her things laying around also. Some barrettes she used to wear. I offered them to some gal friend of mine (seemed a shame to waste them) but she turned up her nose and said they "weren't her style." I didn't know barrettes had style. I also found some maxi-pads. She hasn't been here for anything longer that an hour of awkwardness since September, and I just three days ago find maxi-pads. There're a few CDs of hers here, too, I won't deny it. Nothing as good as "Katy Lied."

So today the kid who delivers our mail at the office hands me the familiar cardboard package. "Katy Lied." I pop it in my computer and put on my headphones. I'm just amazed at the sly swagger of the opening track, "Black Friday." I play it at top volume, truly hurting my ears. With my fingers at my keyboard, I suddenly find myself grooving as though I'm at a piano. Not that I know how to play one.

When those dark harmonies come in, it's an indescribable mixture of pleasure and pain. Each note of the guitar solo is drenched in scorn. "When Black Friday comes, I'm gonna' dig myself a hole. I'm gonna' lay down in it til I satisfy my soul. Gonna' let the world pass by me, the Archbishop won't sanc-ti-fy me."

"Bad Sneakers" is next. "And I'm going insane, and I'm laughing at the frozen rain, well I'm so alone, honey when they gonna' send me home?" It ain't as maudlin as that, it's actually very funny, what with all the ridiculous harmonies and all. I'm swaying and singing along.

I listen to the entire CD right there at the office. I keep my eyes forward at my computer, in case anyone comes by it looks as though I'm working.

I'm really glad I have my album back. It's such a great album. It seems weird I was able to survive this long without it, whether it was borrowed, or whether it was just misplaced.