It has come to my attention that I inadvertently turned on a digital recorder while taking a long car ride the other day.
Apparently, this happened when I was driving to California, because the device fell into the hands of Neil Young’s record label. They asked me to come pick it up, but I never got around to it.
Now, the entire recording has been mistakenly released as part of the new “Neil Young Archives: Volume 1” boxed set. This as not as strange as it might seem, since when I drive I’m in the habit of talking to myself disjointedly in a thin, reedy voice while listening to country music on the car radio, and the recorded combination does sound a great deal like Mr. Young’s more promising early demo tapes.
In any case, I feel that before the contents are discovered and revealed by others, I should come clean. I have said things I regret.
For example, in one unguarded moment I am heard to muse about one of my colleagues, “He is a fine fellow. I’m so impressed. Too honest and gentle for this helter-skelter life in Ottawa, maybe. Still, I wish him well, and I sure hope he doesn’t encounter any difficulties in the near future.”
Naturally, I am now mortified by my harsh words, and I have contacted him to apologize.
Some hours later, I mutter something about thinking that certain topics I’m working on—I mention monetary policy—are “quite interesting” and, if I play my cards right, I might “gain deserved credit for handling them well.”
I apologize to anyone who might be left with the impression that I regard interest rate fluctuations as fodder for my own vaulting ambitions.
