Have you ever listened to a song so much that it became good? I don’t mean to imply that the song wasn’t good all along. Maybe it was just that you felt lukewarm about it. But there was something there, a je ne sais quoi that made you want to give it a second chance.
Maybe even this second chance left you tepid. Maybe you didn’t think about the song for months. But one day, over a plate of seafood pasta at a local bar and grill, the music returned to you, muffled, from the restaurant’s sound system. You thought you were merely enjoying some succulent scallops and fettuccine, but at work all around you were the song’s subtle tendrils of awesome, creeping into your brain between strained conversation, awakening within you a passion that must have lain dormant in your soul until this moment.
The next thing you know, you’re in your car wondering exactly how many times you can listen to Kelly Clarkson’s I Do Not Hook Up on repeat before your brain physically shuts down. And it’s crucial to know, because you will definitely be playing the song on repeat that number of times minus one.
/This post has been commandeered by guest blogger Don Bito/
In case you readers were wondering how on earth I got away with chronicling my extremely personal, unnecessarily loquacious journey from uninspired to the opposite of that last week, the answer is: I didn’t.
If you want to know the truth, the universe has, in no uncertain terms, registered its displeasure with my melodramatic biblical references and metaphorical tears by unleashing an all-too-literal flood upon my abode. Not even the whole house; just my room, where air conditioner evaporation-pan overflow (or some sh*t like that) filled two buckets with its constant dripping throughout the night.
That’s right, readers. You may think being subjected to my whims of verbiage is cruel and unusual, but the whole damn universe just went Dick Cheney on my ass. So, suck it up.
Anywayyyys…today’s pick peaked at #3 on the Hot 100 chart this week. Check out Keri Hilson’s Knock You Down featuring Kanye West and Ne-Yo here. I linked you in since you really ought to see the original video, which is unembeddable thanks to copyright laws and whatevah whatevah.
/This post commandeered by guest blogger Don Bito/
I drove into work today without the slightest idea of what I would write about this week. I hadn’t heard anything new and noteworthy, one way or the other, and I had my doubts about how many weeks I could get away with writing about not-necessarily-recent songs that I just happen to like, and still have you all believe this was a topical pop music review column.
Approaching my desk, a lone tear swelled and dropped from my eye, a single gleaming reminder that the illusion would soon be shattered, the velvet curtain pulled back, that my days as a member of the pop music intelligentsia were now numbered.
And their number…was one. I was sucked into a greased downward spiral of hopelessness and despair (even more so than I usually am at the start of my shifts).
BUT LO, FROM THE VILLAGE OF INBOX THERE SHON A DIM BUT CONSTANT LIGHT.
Could this be? No, surely it was a figment of my imagination, a momentary hallucination created by my reeling ego to engender false hope and eventually sharpen the pain of my inevitable failure.
YET STILL THERE SHON THE LIGHT.
Oh readers, it WAS true! Not only was I to avoid ruination (this week), but it was none other than the Philly Grrl who had thrown herself upon the seldom-bestowed mercy of my haphazard musical tastes.
A MERCY SHE WOULD NOT RECEIVE. And here’s why…