It was while forcing my friend Shayne to listen to this tape on the way back from Fort Worth in 1990 that I realized that our friendship had an expiration date. Or at least the person I was—the kind who would practically force one of my oldest friends to listen to the kind of music that I was obsessed with at the time but who had no interest in this type of music at all—thought, perhaps too easily, that if we couldn’t share a common taste in music, then my friendship with her was hanging by a thread.

I realize now that I was probably being the kind of jerk who in his infernal enthusiasm for arty music of the early 90s (as well as other periods) insisted on listening to this tape whenever anyone else might be listening (or should be listening). How would the masses know how sophisticated and intelligent I was if they didn’t hear the kind of music that would let them know?

Of course, I wasn’t that self-conscious about it. I was probably just too enthusiastic for my own good. I still really like this tape. Listening to these songs this past week made me want to run home to paint and write poetry. I never got around to dragging the paints out, but I did sit down to work on some writing that I’ve been neglecting far too long.

I’m sure Shayne doesn’t remember this “event” from eighteen years ago. That’s the kind of friend she is. And even if she did remember, she probably wouldn’t hold it over me too badly.

So, in honor of Yom Kippur 5769, which I missed a few days ago, I just wanted to apologize for making everyone listen to my kind of music. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time. I’m certain it won’t be the last. But I really do love music. Too much. Even some of the shitty pop music that probably rots my mind the way saltwater taffy from the state fair rots your teeth. I’m addicted. And when good stuff comes out, I’m even more fanatical about it—to the point of pushing it on all my friends. At least it’s not crack cocaine.

It was while forcing my friend Shayne to listen to this tape on the way back from Fort Worth in 1990 that I realized that our friendship had an expiration date. Or at least the person I was—the kind who would practically force one of my oldest friends to listen to the kind of music that I was obsessed with at the time but who had no interest in this type of music at all—thought, perhaps too easily, that if we couldn’t share a common taste in music, then my friendship with her was hanging by a thread.

I realize now that I was probably being the kind of jerk who in his infernal enthusiasm for arty music of the early 90s (as well as other periods) insisted on listening to this tape whenever anyone else might be listening (or should be listening). How would the masses know how sophisticated and intelligent I was if they didn’t hear the kind of music that would let them know?

Of course, I wasn’t that self-conscious about it. I was probably just too enthusiastic for my own good. I still really like this tape. Listening to these songs this past week made me want to run home to paint and write poetry. I never got around to dragging the paints out, but I did sit down to work on some writing that I’ve been neglecting far too long.

I’m sure Shayne doesn’t remember this “event” from eighteen years ago. That’s the kind of friend she is. And even if she did remember, she probably wouldn’t hold it over me too badly.

So, in honor of Yom Kippur 5769, which I missed a few days ago, I just wanted to apologize for making everyone listen to my kind of music. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time. I’m certain it won’t be the last. But I really do love music. Too much. Even some of the shitty pop music that probably rots my mind the way saltwater taffy from the state fair rots your teeth. I’m addicted. And when good stuff comes out, I’m even more fanatical about it—to the point of pushing it on all my friends. At least it’s not crack cocaine.