Monday, July 10, 2006

i believe i'll dust my broom

Is it possible to be hungover without actually being hungover?

My weekend has me exploring such an idea. Had a busy couple of days highlighted by a friend's barbecue last night and my aunt and uncle's anniversary party saturday, and naturally today I'm feeling like I drank a six pack and a half and washed it down with a pound of Sominex. Not a good feeling, particularly when faced with the beginning of the workweek.

I don't want to have that quote from "Office Space," running through my head, I really don't, but there it is: "Someone has a case of the Mondays." Whenever someone asks how I'm doing at work I can never just disregard the question like I should, I can never take it for the conversational happytalk that it is.

"Great!" I'm supposed to reply, or "Pretty good, how are you?"

Inevitably, and unfortunately, I answer honestly.

"Gnng," I'll say with a half smile, or maybe I'll roll my eyes and shrug. What I don't say is what I should probably get more credit for. "I'm here, aren't I? How the hell are you?"

Someone has a case of the Mondays. But it's more than that, right? Is my body just that ill-accustomed to having to be somewhere that morning? I woke up at around the same time all weekend, my lethargy doesn't make much sense.

But, on the bright side, it was a good weekend. Wine, champagne, and our family celebratory beverage Sambuca was flowing at my uncle's house, which inevitably led to a talk outside between my brother and father and myself. One of those family bonding type times that given all of our ages somehow turns, well, a little morbid you can say but unfortunately realistic.

"We're Just Temporary, Ma'am," by White Whale

I don't generally post *new* music here, figuring that's better left to those bloggers with connections and time that exceed my own, but this song has stuck with me since yesterday afternoon when I gave it a test spin on the way to our barbecue. I can't say I'm terribly crazy about the album, despite the many bands namechecked in a rather icky manner in their press release ("Okkervil River cannot contain the enormity of the White Whale!"). In fact the whole album comes across as a more practiced and glossy version of their aforementioned influences. "You want Decemberistian literary content? Check! You want Arcade Flaming singalong choruses? You bet!"

However, this song comes up with something more anthemic, somehow more arena-ready than the above, and not in a revolting Journey kind of way (not that Journey's completely revolting--more on that another time). Jangly guitars glisten soar as the narrator comforts someone (a lover? A stranger in a supermarket?) by asking--no, demanding--to be held by his love before his time is through. His voice carries that sort of trumpet-blaring assuredness that only narrators of war hymns, sea shanties and, well, this song can pull off. It's manipulative, sure, but also as difficult to wash out of your head as roofing tar. We should all be as brave as our songs.


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