Well, it's kind of the same for me. Except I blast oldies. I swear, those bands will never die.
There are just some songs that are perfect. There are those songs that I listen to, real close, and in one line I'll think "Wow, what an unoriginal line" or "I wish she would have sung that a tad bit differently." But there are some, very few, songs that get the Bianca Stamp of Appeal. They are, by my subjective definition, perfect. I will start my list of perfect songs right now.
The Day the Music Died by Don McLean
Take Me On by A-Ha
Dusseldorf by Regina Spektor
Blackbird by The Beatles
She's Always a Woman by Billy Joel
I don't know what else yet. I will though!
So today I went to climb on a large rock. On the way there, I saw 3 old men standing on a bridge and watching the waters and waters of a lake. Those are the kind of strangers I love. It's those moments where the term "You must love everyone" seems possible. When we got to the rock, we were in the car listening to "Telephone" by Lady Gaga and Beyonce. A car in front of us was listening to it too, and dancing along. I could see the car back bob and bob, up, down, up, down. I watched them until the music stopped along with their bobbing. Then we entered the park and I saw a handsome, affable park ranger who reminded me of my friend and that made me almost smile. I was blasting "The Day The Music Died" and "Penny Lane." It's so refreshing to hear those songs on the radio. Then we climbed up the rock and it brought back so, so many memories from my early years. I would hike that mammoth rock for what seemed like a full day but in reality is only an hour. We'd picnic at the picnic tables and drop Cheeto's to watch ants snatch them up and carry them away. The world was amazing. It still is. Just with a dash of confusing now, though. At the top of the rock, my mother and I discussed the oddities of life to survive in conditions not meant for it. Nature is smart but self atrophying. It threw us an Antarctic wind, a Pacific ocean bottom, a desert where nothing and nothing seems to live. The stronger ones of us survived. I wish I were like that.
I tried German food.
I had a nice waiter who smiled at me but didn't give me my potato chips.
I met a dog named Arcadia of whom I took a picture.
I met a girl named Vianca, which is funny because Alex thought my name was Vianca. Funny, funny.
I had coconut fudge and thanked God that I'm not starving or dying and I can do what I can. And wondered why I can do what I can.
I miss the days when a song could last 6 minutes and nobody would mind. And it didn't need synthesizers and fake violins and fake fake fake everything. It was just a poet of chords and his/her guitar or piano on a stage, singing. And no one would interrupt his/her soul-spilling. They'd just let the soul spill and spill like soul soup. They'd let it carry around to every person in the entire venue until everyone had had their fill of connection and understanding and love and sorrow and for a moment, a corner of the world would just understand.
Nowadays, if the song is longer than 3 minutes and 30 seconds we get impatient. Especially if it's a bad one, and most are. And in the venues, we don't eat soul soup. No, no. We all starve ourselves with our jumping and loudness and fake fake fake everything.
Fake fake fake fake.
It's 10:00 pm. I should probably wrap this up.
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