When I was eight, I snuck into this older kid’s room and spotted the Houses of the Holy album on a table next to a bong. The cover was folded out, with weed stems, buds, and seeds scattered on it, and the image hit me like a ton of bricks—a naked intersexual kid, copied over and over, crawling across these wild, alien-looking rocks. It was so weird and so cool at the same time, but it reinforced my irrational fear of hippies. That album cover–the terrain– was mesmerizing—it's still burned into my brain–