Return to Sender

You arrive from wherever - school, work, the grocery store - and you see it; the FedEx envelope. You have a vague idea what's inside: more of that jumbled, incomprehensible, and wholly unlistenable crap that Ty keeps sending.

Politely, over the years, you've provided generally supportive feedback on his so-called "record albums," not that you can stand listening to them, but he's a pretty good guy and you wouldn't want to crush such a fragile ego. But, another? Holy god!

You figure that as long as he keeps himself busy making these things, he stays fairly quiet, somewhat distant and out of your hair. What does some occasional feedback hurt: "Uh, yeah, hey...that's some...fucked-up shit there, uh,, eh, really made a...record there."

It's not like you've ever said the words I-like-it-send-more or anything. But, some people cannot take hints very well. And, somehow, "that's fucked-up" seems to encourage more; like somehow you've subscribed to Ty's crappy record spam list or some shit. What gives, huh?

But this year was the absolute worst! Two records?! Jesus! Inexplicable and unacceptable (hopefully he doesn't "tour" or anything). Doesn't he fucking have a job? Doesn't he spend time with Anne or B? And, I know Anne ain't listening to that garbage.

You consider moving, but where could you hide?

So after a week or so of guiltily walking past the opened FedEx envelope on a table or desk or magazine rack or something, the time arrives when you really feel the pangs of obligation. Not that Ty's waiting to hear back from you on how much you love the new record (like he listens - he's moved on the next "project")...but, oh god, it's time to actually listen to it (just once) so you can honestly say, "Hey big guy, yeah, I listened to that damn noise. Say, I'm moving to Botswana soon and I don't even know the address yet...but, hey, I'll call or something..."

And, they're usually so fucking long too; as in One Long Ride.

As you sure as hell wouldn't want to be caught dead listening to or overheard listening to crazy people music you dig out the good headphones ('cuz at least you know there'll be some buried stuff to pass the time - maybe even your voice or your dog's bark or something). And, since the only way to tolerate this made-up bullshit (what music school did he go to again? University of What the Fuck?!) you have to be fucked-up on something; whatever you've got will do.

After a drink or two and a bowl (or some random pills and snort of pocket lint) you finally steel yourself to 'do this shit!' If you're lucky, he'll have sent you a blank disc.

So, headphones? Check!

High? Check!

Comfy? Check!

Lettir rip, suckers. Oh god, why do I do this?