“Oh, What Do I Tell My Record Store Clerk?”

Amidst all the frustrations rampant in my life, I am however currently enjoying the fact that we at least HAVE a record store in South Bend, and I have a shi**y record player I got for $50 online. I’m pretty much the only person in there every time I frequent it, but for now it’s hanging on, and sometimes even finds a way to purchase record en masse, still sealed. Even when I don’t buy anything it’s a fairly interesting experience going in there and looking at all the old titles, and thinking about where these objects have been and what they’ve meant to people. 

Well, everyone wants a CRAZE, it seems. I never was one for that type of thing. I like for things to be plain and understandable. 

And really, the clerk at my record store is pretty cool, but I was just adhering to the general trend of humanity that when I’m in my Soul Coughing “El Oso” shirt, they’ll want a phenomenological event whereby El Oso is going to carry them into the sunset on a noble steed. 

But my favorite song, “Lazybones,” is about the exact opposite of said motif. It’s a song that superglues you to your seat in narcotic euphoria. It’s a misanthropic song (“If I could stay here under your light of caress / And not exit to the world and phoniness / And people”). It’s not a song for discussing. I’d envisioned relating to my record store clerk that it were my favorite song, that is, and then feeling an uprising of resentment, resentment of the fact that I now, upon broaching the topic of “Lazybones,” have to exit from my euphoric little bath of untoward, solitary righteousness, or my “misanthropic delusion of grandeur,” as the great Noah23 might be inclined to say (not sure if he’s dead yet). 

Radiohead provides an interesting reference point here. For they are, by and large, a band whose entire identity has always been based on, more or less, things not working. He’s a “creep.” He’s in love with this gay whore. He’s so neurotic that a girl’s hairdo drives him into a state of homicidal mania. But again, we’re all marketable commodities. The world turns, the sun comes up, and we’ve gotta get out there and sell something. We’ve gotta sell the dream as something that’s continually working, the cooperation between all of us, the amassing of humanity on this planet, as a commendable development. And so we get In Rainbows. We get Thom Yorke masquerading as someone with whom the concept of sex is associable and the results are regrettable beyond humanity’s wildest understanding, “House of Cards.” It’s like if Jamiroquai had really big ears and wore nothing but tight black t shirts. Eh. Half you motherfu*8ers would probably enjoy that. Maybe I’ll just say “St. Louise is Listening” and move on. 


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