I Would Love For Someone To Explain To Me...
How it is that I...how I...or, rather, why it is that I, that I seem to keep...or, really, that I do keep, that I keep ending up...that every single night I look at the clock, I look at the clock and it's two o'clock in the morning, it's three o'clock in the morning and I...I keep ending up at two or three in the morning, I keep ending up sitting here with...I don't know, I keep ending up sitting here with all this shit, surrounded by all this shit, night after night I'm sitting here, I'm sitting here night after night on the floor with my back against these racks of records, surrounded by these shelves full of shit, shelves full of anthropomorphized potatoes and carrots and hamburgers even, all of them with hats on their heads and pipes in their mouths, shelves full of dead baseball players and plastic astronauts in baby bottles and coconut-headed pirates. I'm sitting here with my legs crossed and my back up against all this shit...I'm sitting here in this ridiculous and uncomfortable position, night after night, and what the fuck is this I'm listening to? Honest to God, explain to me if you can why I am sitting here like this, trying to read about the Donner party and poor Lewis Keseberg, who was driven by madness and the most desperate of circumstances to eat a woman named Mrs. Murphy --"The flesh of starved beings contains little nutriment," the cannibal Keseberg assures me. "It is like feeding straw to horses. I can not describe the unutterable repugnance with which I tasted the first mouthful of flesh. There is an instinct in our nature that revolts at the thought of touching, much less eating, a corpse...It has been told that I boasted of my shame --said that I enjoyed this horrid food, and that I remarked that human flesh was more palatable than California beef. This is a falsehood. It is a horrible, revolting falsehood. This food was never otherwise than loathsome, insipid, and disgusting." Explain to me why I would continue to read as this poor man was asked by his interrogator, Did you boil the flesh? And as he responded, "Yes! But to go into the details --to relate the minutiae-- is too agonizing! I can not do it! Imagination can supply these. The necessary mutilation of the bodies of those who had been my friends rendered the ghastliness of my situation more frightful." I mean, seriously, holy shit, every fucking night, what is this? Why am I sitting here listening to...George Crumb? What the hell is this? Listening to Morton Feldman? Listening to Lou Reed, the idiot prince of rock and roll, listening to that jackass Lou Reed, listening to this lunatic Lou Reed reduce Edgar Allan Poe to the most wrenching and painful sort of comedy. Are there even one thousand other misguided people on the planet who have paid to be thusly abused? What in God's name is wrong with me that I would drive through the icy streets at eight o'clock at night and pay good money for a CD on which Lou Reed makes a muddled mockery of "The Raven"? This is almost certainly the sort of severe judgment error that should rightfully cost me both my job and my marriage.
5:00:41 PM 
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