Thanks for everything, Tower Records

In case you haven't heard, a federal bankruptcy judge recently approved the sale of financially troubled, 46-year-old music retailer Tower Records to a liquidator, who plans to close all 89 stores in 20 states.
Blame it on the Wal-Marts of the world. Blame it on Amazon.com and iTunes and anything else that keeps people from walking into a record store.
I don't care who gets blamed. I just think it's a tragedy.
I wouldn't be the music fan(atic) I am today if it weren't for Tower Records.
The year is 1981.
An impressionable teenager has relocated to Phoenix, Ariz. to begin his freshman year at high school. He lives with his jazz-adoring father, who introduces him to a Tower Records store at Christown Mall, 19th Avenue and Bethany Home Road (Christown is now supposedly called "Phoenix Spectrum Mall" for some dumb reason, but that's another story).
I began making selective purchases at the place, returning with LPs and 45s in that distinctive yellow bag with red "TOWER RECORDS" lettering.
Tower Records' huge selection enabled me to experiment in music and cultivate a growing Anglophilia. I made many purchases of UK punk rock. I bought my first XTC records there. I even argued with a store clerk once about the merits of German electronic pioneers Kraftwerk. Dumb clerk. I have been proven CORRECT!
This sounds stupid, but sometimes at night I dream about living in Phoenix and I have even dreamt about the Christown Mall Tower Records (and then I wake up to discover I *DID NOT* make that ultracool purchase I just made in my subconscious, and the music geek in me is REALLY disappointed).
If every Kentucky Fried Chicken or Burger King or JC Penney closed tomorrow, I wouldn't bat an eyelash.
Tower Records closes down, and bit of who I am starts to fade as well.