There was no way I could have explained my chronic moroseness to the head counselor, no way I could tell her how I had already alienated most of my bunkmates- who were themselves into Donna Summer and Sister Sledge and arguing over who got to be John Travolta and who got to be Olivia Newton-John in their lip-sync renditions of Grease- by playing Velvet Underground on my crappy little tape recorder late into the night. How could they possibly understand why it made no sense to me to listen to disco music and dance around the cabin when I could lie on the concrete floor with just the single bulb of bathroom light while Lou Reed's voice would lure me into a life of nihilism?
Sist sett
