This text is printed inside the cover of Common Rotation's CD The Big Fear. I have no idea who wrote it, or what kind of narcotic haze it was created from, but I find it intriguing and I hope someday to find a deeper meaning behind this elaborate nonsense. (Feel free to contribute to the effort.)
DON’T be scared.
After all you purchased this record for a mere 19.99 plus tax. At the very least, the ideals you once subscribed to that cajoled you into buying this disc might eventually become a laughable memory. Always chasing the fleet foot of the past, are we? A nation under guaranteed overnight delivery, living in a dream of constant motion rounds the corner to the drugstore on main street for a bigger, more cost efficient sucker for it to let dissolve in its mouth. Too much sugar, too many carbohydrates, you are going to get fat you’re gonna get fat you’re gonna get fat you’re gonna get fat. Eat your supper before it gets cold. WE all want it. Our found out fathers who created art in heaven and their fathers before them wanted their lives, measured out in coffee spoons and stuck in designer gourmet coffee cups with sex on the side. Anxious no not I for another line of unattainable frontiers, a dream of lofty, waspy aspirations for over-paid, over-privileged white children, the pierced eardrum of middle management. Jacob’s ladder teetering on blades, skating across the pond hold it still for a second, could you hold it for me, hold it still damn it, I’m going up. Target your audience, tools on the wagon wheel, cleaver hooks or crescent moons, it’s all in the eye of the napkin, the pencil sharpener, the scantily clad volumes of mangled tourists with intimidating facial hair; sexy. (people that go in for long winded beatnik-type lists of unrelated metaphors conveying one central theme) The stars of the power plant twinkling to nursery rhymes while jukin, the split end fantasy straining to squint at the old knee high, the ol, light box, the ol, 78 trash talk between heaven and/or hell, blue and/or white collar. Extra starch please. Wait. No. No starch. I’m gonna get fat. I can’t get fat and happy. Well, happy; yes. Fat; no No, wait. YOU have to hand it over to the nuclear scientist and say, put wings on this. Proceed to chop your head off and frantically run about Chelsea inventing turmoil for advances in stomach ache and good times. Good times, great coffee. Trust someone to work in the fog of London, the dust of Beirut, in your kid sister’s view from the Brooklyn Bridge. Very much like a Hollywood movie, starring the action hero, your friend produced to make himself some money in order to fund the important low budget film, collaborating with the homeless African-American director awaiting the death row of hospital bed moves. Very much not a movie. This is a movie but it has to bat a thousand eye lashes. So fatten it up no wait. Well you’re right. You got me. A glossy move is not a movement. Yes you hear the choo-choo but no matter how far you travel it’s the same 3 and 2 pitch. It’s a late night infomercial with a new and improved, fool-proof way to masturbate. There, I hope you feel better about yourself. So let’s forget it and return to the sickeningly pretentious list that details the ideal. By omitting this last stanza from the short term and continuing fearlessly into the divine quark of a loophole, we breathe easier while burning more calories.
Inhale, exhale, inhale,
now hold it
It’s too late, you bought it.
All tales are told, all sales are final.
So what are you so afraid of?"
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