Readers constantly barrage me with questions I can't answer. I don't know the meaning of life. I don't know the best way to end a relationship with someone you dislike. (Run them over?) I only know that when I listen to pop music I am constantly bewitched by its sentiments. I don't always comprehend what the singer is getting at. Are they happy? Do they wish for things to continue in the manner in which they are continuing? Should I care? Is it any of my business? Maybe if the songs were written differently, freed from the strictures and structures of popular song they would make more sense. The details that are left out to make them fit the melody would be rejoined and everything would make sense.
I ponder these things, so you don't have to.
Nothing Compares 2 U"--Sinead O'Connor: It's been seven hours and fifteen days, and yes this is taking into account daylight savings time and leap year, since you took your love away, not to mention your car, which was how I was getting to work and now I've got to find an alternate means of transportation, and actually I'm going to need a roommate because the rent in this place was not cheap to begin with and now with your half no longer coming through, I may be forced to place an ad in the paper unless I can think of someone who can move in under such short notice. Yeah, nothing compares to you. You're a real class act for jerking me around like this. Maybe I'll get to repay the favor someday.
"Rehab"--Amy Winehouse: They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no. And you can see how that's been working out for me. There's nothing more sad than a person that's in denial, who keeps spiraling down when there's so many reasons to be looking up. But that's how it is for some people. Brain chemistry's a weird thing and success isn't always what you think it will be and if you're a sad, confused person when nobody knows who you are, there's a good chance you'll be a sad, confused person once everyone wants to buy you a drink. Which is funny, since when you're rich and famous you can afford to buy your own drinks, which when you were poor, you would've welcomed the offer. Anyhow, don't cry for me Argentina, I got a tour to cancel.
Mr. Tambourine Man"--Bob Dylan: Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, you must be one untalented dude, since playing a tambourine is barely music. Any idiot can bang a tambourine. What's next? A kazoo? That would require something near singing, whereas now you can just bang out a song on your tambourine and pretend it's the one I requested. Everything you play sounds exactly the same anyhow. So, no, I won't be dropping any spare charge or dollars into your little "tambourine case." Which by the way, there's no such thing as a tambourine case. You think I'm stupid or something?
"Streets of Philadelphia"--Bruce Springsteen: I was lying in bed, lying awake, thinking I could really go for a Philly cheese steak on the streets of Philadelphia, though I cannot yell for ya, on the Streets of Philadelphia. Maybe that's why my clothes don't fit no more. They don't post calorie counts down at the lunch truck but from what I've read you don't want to know anyhow. Never mind what they actually make this stuff out of. The fat content alone is enough to scare the heck out of you. Never mind the trans-fats. But man, sometimes you just start thinking about it and since I'm already here in Philadelphia I might as well take advantage of the local cuisine.
Psychokiller"--Talking Heads: I can't seem to face up to the facts. I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax. They put me on 3 milligrams of Xanax and all it does is make me feel really tired all the time and I can barely make it up the stairs since my legs feel like they've been weighted down with lead. I'm told this is an improvement over the previous drugs they prescribed which really zombied you out and made you feel as if you weren't even really there. So, hey, if I turn out to be a psychokiller it won't really be my fault, but the fault of my psychiatrist who prescribed the medication. Maybe I'll sue him.